Step into the Rainbow by Colin R Brookfield (little red riding hood read aloud .TXT) 📖

odd guest stay ‘ere over the years, although not a posh London gent like yourself. But there you are, whatever way you want to do things, we would be obliging.”

“Thank you. You really are so kind. I’d love to stay for the week, that’s if your husband doesn’t mind. I think the people that were supposed to arrange all this, will have it sorted out by then. Incidentally, I’m hoping to be out fishing from dawn to dusk, so I wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“Oh, don’t worry yourself ‘bout that, we’ll manage. Now can I get some more for you to eat or drink?”

“No I’m quite full thank you.”

“Well then, if you’d just like to follow me sir, I’ll show you where things are, so as you’ll know your way around.”

“By the way,” he added, “people usually call me Peter.”

“Oh I couldn’t do that, it wouldn’t be proper, you being a city gentleman and all that,” she added.

Peter followed her, but said no more as she opened the door to the left of the curtained stair entrance. It led into a small utility room where food was presumably prepared prior to cooking. They then passed through another door and out into the open.

“We ‘ave another little room,” she said, “but we can only get to it through this other door on the outside. There you are; ‘ave a look inside. It’s the coldest place that we ‘ave, as the sun never reaches this wall of the cottage, so it’s where we keep our perishables, not that we keep too much in ‘ere in the warmer months.”

Hanging up inside were several joints of cooked meat, some rather high pheasants, and a side of bacon that was covered in a muslin-like material to protect it. Various covered dishes lay on the shelves.

“Well that’s our main food store; all the rest of our needs we grow in our vegetable garden. Now then, I don’t suppose that really interests you. What I really brung you out for, is to show you where the pump is, in case you be in need of water anytime, but when you want a wash in the morning, there’ll be a jug of water and a bowl on the wash-stand in your bedroom.”

Peter couldn’t help but remark on the water pump, because its extravagant design seemed so out of place.

“Oh, that was father’s work,” she replied, “he replaced the old one that used to be here with another that he found lying abandoned in a nearby field. It must ‘ave belonged to the great house that used to be somewhere ‘ere-abouts afore it were burnt down and then demolished.”

She led on further down the pathway until they came to a small building, which due to its isolation and particular size and shape, needed no explanation – even to a ‘city gent’.

“This be the small room,” she said, “in case you need it, if you know what I mean.”

He nodded his head enthusiastically, hoping that by doing so, they might move a little faster away from the cowshed midden that was steamily marinating close-by in the late afternoon sun.

‘Barney’ was the next port of call. “We be very proud of our Barney,” she said. Peter noticed the udders beneath Barney, but decided not to ask the obvious question. “She gives lovely creamy milk.” Barney swung her head around as if in appreciation, and her large brown eyes surveyed Peter for a second, before she turned her attention back to the large chunk of brown-coloured salt she had been licking.

Peter noted how clean Barney’s stall was. The floor was thickly covered with, what he took to be straw. Up in one corner, stood a small three leggèd stool and several spotless containers with handles. Milking equipment, how charming, he thought, but like Mrs. Persill and her house, they seem like relics from the past.

Sounds of activity from outside the cowshed, sent Mrs. Persill hurriedly away, having first excused herself. Peter followed at a much slower rate, examining each area before putting a foot down. He thought it best to be prudent when cows were around.

Outside, Mrs. Persill was standing there chattering away to a man, who Peter assumed was her husband. Surprisingly, he was dressed like a farmer who had just stepped out of a Dickens’ novel. They certainly go in for hand-me-down clothes in a serious way, thought Peter.

Unlike his wife, the man had a lean build. His face and hands were weathered to a deep brown. His moustache had points that projected out a couple of inches either side of his upper lip; they had been waxed and given a twist or two, to provide the sort of military appearance of a bygone age.

He was holding the bridle of a very large draft horse, which was scuffing impatiently at the ground with one of its gigantic hair-covered hooves. With a nod of the head in Peter’s direction and a touch of his hand to his forelock, the man and horse moved off, as if they had just bidden ‘Good Evening’ to the Squire.

That evening, they all sat down to a meal. It was one of the tastiest Peter had ever eaten, and the quietest. Apart from the occasional “Can I get you some more sir?” or “I’ve packed some lunch for your fishing trip in the morning,” that was about it.

Strangely enough, there was no sense of inhibition, just a comfortable feeling that idle chatter was surplus to their needs, or perhaps Peter thought, surplus to Mr. Persill’s, especially when he suddenly murmured, “Stop blathering at the table woman!” She smiled at Peter as if to say ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

Her husband must have exhausted himself with that diatribe. It was the last word he mentioned that evening and very nearly for the rest of the week.

After dinner, the farmer settled down by the fire, having first brought down a gigantic pipe from the mantle shelf. Its bowl was about three inches in diameter and about four inches deep, with a stem some twelve inches long. It was curved at the end towards the smoker’s mouth. He deposited what seemed like an ounce of tobacco into its gaping maw, and applied a light to it. He sat there for half an hour or so, with both hands cupped in his lap supporting the bowl of the pipe, as it threw out great puffs of smoke like the chimney of a locomotive.

It wasn’t until the locomotive finally ran out of fuel that he decided there were other things to be done, and disappeared out of the door.

“I noticed that Mr. Persill is very quiet,” Peter observed, “I do hope my presence isn’t offending him.”

“Not at all,” she said, “father never could string more than three or four words together at one time. ‘Is father was just the same. Anyway, who is there to talk to out there in the fields all day ‘cept the ‘orse and, ‘ees got even less to say.”

He took the opportunity to change the subject. “What happened to William? Why didn’t he have dinner with us?”

“Oh, he wasn’t feeling too good, so I gave him a little to eat and put him to bed. ‘Ee’ll be right enough upon the morrow. Now, you’ll be feeling rather tired I expect. Perhaps I should show you to your room. I start cooking breakfast at six every morning, but you get up when it suits you. One little thing I should mention though, if you go out passed the cowshed in the morning, pr’aps you could make sure to close the wicket behind you or we might ‘ave the animals at the vegetables.”

“Certainly, and six in the morning will do me fine. I’m not sure whether I mentioned it before, but I expect to be back rather late each day, if that’s alright with you.”

Having nodded her approval, Mrs. Persill reached up to the mantle shelf to bring down a candle holder. “Follow me,” she said, “and I’ll show you to your room.” The candle wick was lit and she proceeded through the curtained opening and up the steep stairs. The stair handrail turned out to be rather a surprise; it was just a tree branch, about two inches in diameter, still with its original bark on it, which he found rather amusing. At the top of the stairs, they came to a small landing with three rooms leading off it.

“Ere we are,” she said opening the first door. The room was quite a good size, or it would have been had it not been for the large double-size iron-framed bedstead that in turn, was almost swamped by its high mattress and overlapping quilt.

Peter looked out of the window while she checked that all was well. In the dim light he could make out the form of Mr. Persill, digging a long trench across the vegetable garden.

“Doesn’t your husband ever stop work?” he asked.

“Ee ‘as to keep busy sir, we ‘ave to get all our vegetables in whilst the weather is suitable, because come winter, if we’ve not enough to get us through, then we go ‘ungry. You see we only rent this farm; what we grow in the lower field must pay the rent and feed the animals. Then there are things like oil for the lamps, candles and peat for the range. It don’t leave much to spare even in a good year.”

Next, Mrs. Persill pointed to where her husband was working.

“Now that long trench that father’s digging, is for next year’s prize carrots and parsnips. It’ll be almost as deep as I am by the time ‘ee ‘as finished. Then he fetches our ‘orse and cart to the spinney for leaf mould, and that’s laid through the bottom of the trench. Then father sieves all of the soil back in the trench. That way, his prize parsnips and carrots grow downwards nice and straight, ‘cos there’s no stones in their way.”

Peter was amused by her animations and chatter.

“Ee always gets first prize at shows. They call father ‘The Carrot and Parsnip King of Salop’. The worst part of the whole business for me, is when it’s time to dig ‘em up. You see it’s my job to sit on the ground and hang on to the vegetable, whilst father burrows down like a rabbit ‘till he comes to the very last whiskery point. It all counts when it’s measured by the judges, but believe me, father is very touchy at these times because, if I move one little bit, it might ruin the vegetable. But you want to see them when they’re all cleaned up! Most of them are taller than William when they’re stood on end.”

“It sounds very interesting,” Peter replied.

“Now, you see those tiny little hillock-like heaps in a row across the bottom end of the vegetable patch? Well, that’s what we call ‘clamps’. They’re full of potatoes that have been layered in, and covered with straw with a thick layer of earth over the top, so as the frost can’t get to ‘em in the winter. What I do, is open up the side of one of ‘em when I need potatoes, then I take what I want and block the hole up till the next time.”

“What a great idea,” he replied

“Rabbits are a problem, so we let our dog Gyp off the chain at night so as he can patrol the vegetables, otherwise the varmints gobble them up. Father is usually out at first light to get us a few rabbits, but ‘ee’s run clear out of black powder.”

“Black powder? What on earth is that?” Peter enquired.

“Well, I can see you don’t know much about guns in the city. Black powder is what you pour down the muzzle, then you put some wadding in, followed by the lead shot, then more wadding is pushed in to stop the lead pellets falling out of the end of the barrel while you’re hunting the rabbit. When the trigger is squeezed, the hammer