Summer at the Haven by Katharine Moore Page A

crouched a black cat watching the sparrows and in the cottage doorway sat old Mrs Hobb stirring something in a basin. She was noted in the hamlet for her herb potions and her homemade wines and was held to be very ancient and crafty. “A hundred years or so ago she would certainly have been the village witch,” thought the vicar, as he propped his bicycle against the hedge, and indeed she looked the part, with her black cat and her pot. The village children were a bit frightened of her, though they all liked Tom. She had had a husband once, it was supposed, and children and other grandchildren, but Tom now seemed to be the only one left. He had always lived with his grandmother and no one could remember his parents being around.
    “Good morning, Mrs Hobb,” shouted the vicar, coming up the path, “what a lovely day at last.”
    “And so it be, sir,” said the old woman looking up at him with eyes surprisingly bright in a face as brown and crumpled as a winter leaf. “And what can I do for you today?”
    It was, as a greeting, the other way round from those he was used to, and took him a little aback.
    “Well, it’s about Tom. He’s been helping me with my bee swarms after school, you know, and now he’s finished his schooling, he tells me you’d like him to find a regular job away from home, but not too far away, and I think I’ve found just the place for him.” He paused, she had not taken her eyes from his face and now she nodded vigorously.
    “T’would be best for the lad to see a little more of the world,” she said.
    “I’m afraid you may miss him and the help he is to you,” said the vicar. He had thought of this before and wondered if the old woman would be all right on her own, but her gaze did not falter.
    “I can manage, sir, and if you have somewhere in mind that is not too far, perhaps he can come and see me of a Sunday.”
    “It’s at The Haven,” said the vicar. “Miss Blackett, who is warden there, needs help now, though it may be only temporary.”
    “The Haven,” said the old woman slowly, “that’s what they calls the New House that was raised where the Old Farmhouse stood.”
    “Well, it’s scarcely new now,” said the vicar smiling.
    “Why, no to be sure, but my Mammy, she allays called it the Old Farm when she were a slip of a girl. She’d be pleased for Tom to go there, I expect, even though it is the New House now.”
    “Miss Blackett wants to see him first,” said the vicar, and felt bound to add: “Of course, she may not think him suitable.”
    “My Tom will suit all right, there’ll be no need to be wary of him – there’s more corn than chaff in Tom,” said the old woman quietly.
    “She’s as proud of him as if he had left school top of the class instead of not knowing how to read or write and only counting on his fingers,” thought the vicar, but aloud hesaid: “I know he’s a good boy and will do his best. Miss Blackett would like to see him this evening. Where is he, by the way? I’d better have a word with him if I can.”
    “He be gone to gather a bit o’ fire wood, sir, and I can’t say exactly when he’ll be home again.” Then, “Ah yes, but I can,” she added smiling, for the black cat had suddenly leapt to the ground and streaked round the corner of the cottage. “Sweep allays knows afore I do. Tom’ll be here in a moment, you’ll see.”
    Sure enough, the boy came up almost at once with Sweep on his shoulders and a bundle of wood under one arm. He was small for his age but with a big head, and his large ears standing out from it made it look even bigger. His arms seemed too long for his body. His hair was straw-coloured, coarse and thick, he had a snub nose, freckles, greenish eyes set wide apart and a large cheerful mouth. Those eyes did not appear at all vacant, yet there was something not quite usual in the way they looked at you: they turned the same intent disinterested gaze on everything alike. It always reminded the vicar of