again. Then he started as a hand clamped down on his shoulder. He looked up into the stern features of Mrs Beesley.
‘We’re all set,’ she said. ‘Let’s be on our way.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Peter had hoped there would be a motorcar waiting for them, but he was disappointed when Mrs Beesley directed them to a shabby-looking pony and cart, waiting on the road outside the hall. A huge, bearded man sat up in the seat, holding the reins. Despite the warmth of the day, he was wearing a thick tweed overcoat with the collar turned up and a filthy flat cap. He studied the two children as they approached and watched in silence as Mrs Beesley directed them to climb into the back of the cart and make themselves as comfortable as they could.
‘Two of ’em?’ he muttered, as she clambered heavily up beside him. ‘Dunno what Mr Sheldon will have to say about that.’
She directed a withering glare at him. ‘You let me worry about that,’ she growled. ‘If certain people had hurried ’emselves up, there might have been more choice. I had to take what I could get.’
‘It’s not
my
fault,’ he told her. ‘Bessie’s not gettin’ any younger and I’ve told Mr Sheldon, I don’t know ’ow many times, her near hind fetlock needs lookin’ at. There’s summin’ not quite right with it.’
‘None of us is gettin’ any younger,’ said Mrs Beesley. ‘And there’ll be something not quite right with you if we don’t get to the Grange by nightfall. We don’t want to be out after dark, do we?’ She gave him a meaningful look and he reacted instantly, slapping the reins against the pony’s flanks and telling her to ‘giddy up’.
The cart lurched forward and the driver urged Bessie into a brisk trot. They turned left off the street and followed a road which seemed to be leaving the outskirts of town and heading into open country. Sitting behind his hosts in the clattering, juddering cart, Peter studied the backs of their heads for a few moments, hoping that one of them might say something; but when after several minutes neither of them had bothered, he felt moved to break the silence. ‘Is it far to where we’re going?’ he asked.
Mrs Beesley turned her head to look back at him, as though she’d forgotten that he was there. ‘It’s a good distance,’ she admitted. ‘But we’ll be there in an hour or so.’
Peter heard a soft groan emerge from Daisy’s lips at this news. They’d been on the move since early morning and were both desperate to sit still for a moment. ‘And … what is this Grange place?’ he asked.
‘It’s a farm,’ said Mrs Beesley. ‘I expect you two won’t have much idea about farms, eh, what with coming from Lunnen and all?’
‘Lunnen?’ Peter frowned. ‘Do you mean … London?’
Now the driver turned his head, an amused smile on his potato-like face. ‘Cheeky young rip, ain’tcha?’ he said. ‘Aye, London is what she meant, right enough. I’m Adam, by the way.’ He removed one huge calloused hand from the reins and shook Peter’s hand warmly.
‘I’m Peter. This is Daisy. And I didn’t mean to sound cheeky, sir, I’ve just never heard it said like that before.’
‘That’s just my accent,’ said Mrs Beesley. ‘Everyone talks like this round these parts. You’ll soon get used to it.’
‘You’ll get used to
all
our funny ways,’ said Adam and he winked.
‘Will there be animals on the farm?’ asked Daisy hopefully.
Adam smiled. ‘Aye, we’ve animals right enough. You fond of ’em, miss?’
Daisy nodded. ‘I’ve got books with pictures of them,’ she said.
This seemed to amuse Adam. ‘Why, bless thee, pictures she says! We’ve got the real thing at the Grange, don’t you worry about that. There’s sheep mostly. Romney Marsh sheep, I expect you’ve ’eard of ’em. Them’s famous all around the world, them is.’
‘They’re not famous in Dagenham,’ Peter assured him. ‘At least … I don’t think they are.’
Adam guffawed, as if
‘We’re all set,’ she said. ‘Let’s be on our way.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Peter had hoped there would be a motorcar waiting for them, but he was disappointed when Mrs Beesley directed them to a shabby-looking pony and cart, waiting on the road outside the hall. A huge, bearded man sat up in the seat, holding the reins. Despite the warmth of the day, he was wearing a thick tweed overcoat with the collar turned up and a filthy flat cap. He studied the two children as they approached and watched in silence as Mrs Beesley directed them to climb into the back of the cart and make themselves as comfortable as they could.
‘Two of ’em?’ he muttered, as she clambered heavily up beside him. ‘Dunno what Mr Sheldon will have to say about that.’
She directed a withering glare at him. ‘You let me worry about that,’ she growled. ‘If certain people had hurried ’emselves up, there might have been more choice. I had to take what I could get.’
‘It’s not
my
fault,’ he told her. ‘Bessie’s not gettin’ any younger and I’ve told Mr Sheldon, I don’t know ’ow many times, her near hind fetlock needs lookin’ at. There’s summin’ not quite right with it.’
‘None of us is gettin’ any younger,’ said Mrs Beesley. ‘And there’ll be something not quite right with you if we don’t get to the Grange by nightfall. We don’t want to be out after dark, do we?’ She gave him a meaningful look and he reacted instantly, slapping the reins against the pony’s flanks and telling her to ‘giddy up’.
The cart lurched forward and the driver urged Bessie into a brisk trot. They turned left off the street and followed a road which seemed to be leaving the outskirts of town and heading into open country. Sitting behind his hosts in the clattering, juddering cart, Peter studied the backs of their heads for a few moments, hoping that one of them might say something; but when after several minutes neither of them had bothered, he felt moved to break the silence. ‘Is it far to where we’re going?’ he asked.
Mrs Beesley turned her head to look back at him, as though she’d forgotten that he was there. ‘It’s a good distance,’ she admitted. ‘But we’ll be there in an hour or so.’
Peter heard a soft groan emerge from Daisy’s lips at this news. They’d been on the move since early morning and were both desperate to sit still for a moment. ‘And … what is this Grange place?’ he asked.
‘It’s a farm,’ said Mrs Beesley. ‘I expect you two won’t have much idea about farms, eh, what with coming from Lunnen and all?’
‘Lunnen?’ Peter frowned. ‘Do you mean … London?’
Now the driver turned his head, an amused smile on his potato-like face. ‘Cheeky young rip, ain’tcha?’ he said. ‘Aye, London is what she meant, right enough. I’m Adam, by the way.’ He removed one huge calloused hand from the reins and shook Peter’s hand warmly.
‘I’m Peter. This is Daisy. And I didn’t mean to sound cheeky, sir, I’ve just never heard it said like that before.’
‘That’s just my accent,’ said Mrs Beesley. ‘Everyone talks like this round these parts. You’ll soon get used to it.’
‘You’ll get used to
all
our funny ways,’ said Adam and he winked.
‘Will there be animals on the farm?’ asked Daisy hopefully.
Adam smiled. ‘Aye, we’ve animals right enough. You fond of ’em, miss?’
Daisy nodded. ‘I’ve got books with pictures of them,’ she said.
This seemed to amuse Adam. ‘Why, bless thee, pictures she says! We’ve got the real thing at the Grange, don’t you worry about that. There’s sheep mostly. Romney Marsh sheep, I expect you’ve ’eard of ’em. Them’s famous all around the world, them is.’
‘They’re not famous in Dagenham,’ Peter assured him. ‘At least … I don’t think they are.’
Adam guffawed, as if
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