Chapter 4

Catherine woke to a small arm around her neck and a kiss on her cheek. Jacob had burrowed under their blanket and come up between them. She looked over at Vincent, and saw his eyes twinkle. Jacob must have woken him first. There were worst ways to be awakened, she thought, and hugged their son.

"Well, good morning, sport. And what have you got to say for yourself today?"

"Mumma," he replied and launched into a string of very clear but completely original words.

Vincent laughed and joined the hug.

Catherine looked around. It was still dark outside, but the eastern horizon was lighter than the rest of the sky.

"I think we’d better get some breakfast in us," she remarked as her stomach growled.

She extracted herself from the blanket and realized it was chilly outside.

"Last one in the bathroom’s a rotten egg," she declared and ran inside, trailing a blanket and followed closely by Vincent, who had scooped up Jacob.

"Hey, no fair," she protested. as they all piled into the shower stall. Before she could say anything more, Vincent had turned on the water and picked up the sponge and soap. He scrubbed Jacob and himself with great economy and then eyed Catherine. She saw the suggestion in his eyes but shook her head. They didn’t have time for that! She took the sponge and quickly cleaned herself. The water was getting cold, so they made a quick rinse and turned it off. Catherine extracted two huge, but ragged towels and dried Jacob. She tried not to look at Vincent as he dried himself, then took Jacob’s hand to find them both some clothes. She heard her husband sigh.

Catherine finished her own drying and went back into the main room. Vincent had slipped on his boiler suit from the day before and a pair of rubber boots. Jacob was wearing a miniature version of the coverall, in red. Good, she thought, they should be able to spot him a mile away. She put on her outfit from the previous day too. She’d have to inquire about laundry facilities. They had not brought many changes of clothes.

"Where’d you find the boots?" she asked.

"Over there in the cupboard are a few pairs. I don’t think there is anything quite small enough for you, but maybe if you use a pair of my thick socks …"

Catherine looked where he indicated and found a pair small enough. Yes, a pair of socks would be necessary. Thank goodness it was not too hot yet.

As for Jacob, she rooted in their luggage and found the pair of small rubber boots she had packed. He chuckled happily when she put them on.

"Now for some food," she pronounced.

They rooted in the kitchen cupboard and found the container of granola, and another of currants. Vincent extracted the milk from the cooler and they were soon all crunching away on the homemade cereal. It didn’t seem like enough to any of them, so Vincent went back to the kitchen for the rolls, goat cheese and butter from the hamper.

"Tea!" Vincent groaned and got up to put the kettle on the propane stove. A few minutes later, they were waiting for it to steep. Jacob was running around the cabin, peeking under bunks and sticking his fingers through cracks in the floor. Catherine looked at Vincent.

"How are we going to keep him under our eyes? We can’t let him stick his fingers into everything."

Vincent gave her a grin which told her he had already come up with a solution.

"There’s some fine cord in the drawer in the kitchen. I found it looking for the tea strainer. I’ll tie one end to his coverall and the other to whichever one of us is convenient. These coveralls have that handy loop. Once we learn how, we can teach Jacob to feed the livestock."

Well fortified with tea, the three of them put on their sun hats, gathered up the mail and walked down the path to Agatha’s house, just as the sun rose above the horizon. It was a little early, but they were eager to see the working portion of the farm. As they reached the steps, Agatha came out and looked down on them, her hands on her hips.

"Well, aren’t we the eager ones? That’s good. We can get done before the sun is high and I can take you on a tour of the farm. Come with me. The barn and the dairy are where most of the work is done."

She took them into the dairy first, and they watched as she hooked up the dozen or so cows, which had been waiting patiently outside the door, their dugs heavy with milk. The machinery rumbled and Agatha poured water into the long drinking trough and gave each cow some hay.

Then she showed them the dairy, where the milk was collected from the milking machines and pasteurized in large stainless steel vats.

"I don’t homogenize the milk, partly because it takes a lot more electricity to heat it up to that temperature, but mostly because this allows me to separate out the cream the old-fashioned way and keep the milk digestible to everyone. Homogenization destroys the natural enzymes."

She showed them the cream skimmer and the cold room where she kept all the milk and made cheese and butter. She also had a large ice-cream maker. The smell was wonderful, Catherine thought. She had always loved cheese, an addiction she shared with Vincent, who loved anything creamy.

"What do you do with all the ice cream," Catherine asked. She could sense Vincent’s interest in the buckets of it, which judging from the colours, were many different flavours.

"Oh, William arranges for a helper to drive out here with a refrigerated truck once a month. I can’t supply him with as much as he’d like, but at least you get it. I make it over the winter from the fruit I harvest. I should make some more soon. I’ll show you how. That’s a job that no one minds doing."

Against one sunny wall of the dairy was a long narrow greenhouse. Inside, Catherine could see small tomatoes on tall vines.

"I grow a lot of early tomatoes here. Out in the fields, I’ll have the big beefsteak ones in a few weeks."

Next she took them into the big barn to show them where she kept the feed and buckets, and show them the stalls and the grooming equipment. There were a few well-worn saddles.

"Do you have horses?" Catherine asked.

"Oh yes, just two. You can ride them, but they’re pretty mellow beasts, plow horses really. No fancy stuff. I use them sometimes to harrow the fields and cut the hay. I hate using machinery unless I have to."

Then she led them out another door to where a small fenced off area was noisy with hens and geese. "Just toss a handful …"

Agatha stopped and caught her breath. Catherine couldn’t at first see anything wrong, then she saw a pile of feathers on the ground outside the fence.

"Stupid bird." Agatha raged. "I keep their wings clipped and make the fence high, but one always manages to go exploring."

She marched over to the feathers and grunted. "Not much left of this one. The fox took everything edible."

Vincent had followed Agatha and now bent down to look more closely at the feathers. His sensitive nose could smell the musk of the fox and wrinkled in disgust. He looked at the fence.

"How did the bird get out?"

"Oh, there’ll be a hole somewhere. The fox is smart. He’ll dig a hole and wait for one of the silly birds to find it. He won’t have to go in the enclosure – they’ll go to him."

Vincent walked around the fence line and, sure enough, next to the barn, a small dip in the ground extended under the wire.

"Have you got more chicken wire?" he asked Agatha. "I can bury a strip of it just below the fence, all around. It won’t have to be very deep to discourage the fox, I think. Maybe six inches or so. I can add a few rocks as well."

Agatha looked at him. "I have a big roll of wire in the barn. That’s a terrific idea, Vincent, but a lot of work – which is why I haven’t done it."

He smiled at her.

"Catherine and Jacob can help feed the livestock, while I do this. I should be finished by lunch. I assume you have some rocks somewhere."

Agatha pointed at a large pile in a corner of a nearby paddock.

"There. That’s where we put the ones that emerge from the harrowing every spring. They might be a little big though."

"Have you a sledge hammer?" Vincent asked and Catherine could feel his humour.

"Of course – ah, I see. You’re determined to do some rock-breaking. Feeling homesick?" Agatha broke out into gales of laughter, which Vincent joined.

"Well, I think Catherine and I had better get on with the rest of the chores before my animals riot."

Vincent gave Catherine the cord they had attached to Jacob and she tied it to her coverall loop. Jacob had not noticed. In this strange place, he seemed willing to stay close. Wait until he saw the animals, she thought. She hoped they would not be a liability to Agatha. Their son had all of Vincent’s curiosity and none of his caution.

"Lead on," she told Agatha and they followed her into the barn. It was a large structure, and dim. Half of it seemed to be devoted to animal stables. The smell nearly knocked her over and she gasped. Agatha laughed.

"Don’t worry, you won’t notice the smell after a day or so.

"All the animals, except the pigs, are out in the fields already. They only come in here when the weather is bad.

"This is what we feed the pigs. It’s kitchen scraps, mostly. I give the soured cream and milk to the sow."

Catherine was amazed by the huge sow and her crowd of little piglets. Jacob crowed in delight and reached through the fence. He was able to touch one piglet, and his face took on an expression she had never seen before. He was ecstatic. Of course, he had never touched an animal before. They didn’t have a pet and there were none Below except Arthur the raccoon. She had not let Jacob get near him yet.

A large paddock out the back door had goats and sheep browsing the much-cropped grass.

"They eat the grass faster than it can grow," Agatha remarked. "I open up the gate to the next paddock, so this one can recover. We have a few calves this year, so I may retire one of the older cows and have her converted into steaks and roasts for William. I keep a few heifers for meat as well. William sends me an apprentice butcher when I give him the word. That will probably been in a few weeks. I’ll have some capons and chickens for him too. I have a cold storage for anything he can’t take right away.

"I guess we’d better feed the chickens and geese."

She gave Catherine a wide pan and with a wink, gave a lid to little Jacob and showed them to the grain bin. Jacob watched his mother then stood on a block of wood to reach in and scoop some up. He followed them back to the chicken run, moving carefully so as not to spill any. Catherine and Agatha threw the grain around in a wide arc and were rewarded with a cacophony of clucks and hisses as the birds rushed to the grain. Jacob crowed in delight. He got the idea of feeding one of the geese by hand and stood quietly while a big orange beak daintily took grain off his palm through the chicken wire.

Catherine looked over at Vincent, now half way down the fence line, digging, placing the wire, twisting it with pliers to the old fence and planting rocks from a pile he had collected in a wheelbarrow. He looked completely absorbed – and was. Their bond was quiet.

Agatha shook her head in wonder.

"That man is efficient, like a well-oiled machine. All you tunnel folk are like that. No wasted movements. Best field hands I could have. Must be part of the training."

Catherine looked at Vincent. She had never really thought of hard labour in those terms, but Agatha was right. Without unions and of necessity, the community had learned to be as constructive and efficient as possible. Now she thought about it, the men in the tunnels made above-ground road crews look like they were on holiday. Below, they worked until the job was done, then allowed themselves just enough leisure time to wind down. They worked hard individually, but they were also a team – no matter what they did.

"Let’s continue the tour," Agatha suggested. "We don’t have much more to do in the way of chores, just check on the youngsters."

Catherine extracted Jacob from his admiring flock, and they followed Agatha past Vincent and around another corner of the barn to a green paddock with a few shade trees. Under one of them, Catherine could see a mare and a long-legged foal. It was nursing with great pulls, forcing the mare to brace herself. She wondered if it hurt. Further down the field, a group of cows were laying down, their calves butting and playing not far away. It was probably the most beautifully bucolic scene she could have imagined. Jacob wanted to get closer, so she let him pull her to close to the mare.

The horse looked up as they approached, but did no more than flick an ear. The colt, though, was curious and walked closer, stilt-legged. It came close to the fence then paused. Agatha pulled up a few stalks of wild grass and handed them to Jacob. He reached them through the fence and one curious foal approached. It ignored the grass, however, and nuzzled Jacob’s hand. He chortled, causing the foal to put its ears back, but it continued the examination with soft lips, licking the small boy’s hand. Salt, Catherine guessed. Her son’s happiness flowed down the bond like clear water. He was a little disappointed when the foal lost interest and bounded away to rejoin its mother, but watched intently.

Catherine went to him and kneeled down beside him.

"Horses," she said, stroking his hair, which was long and golden and probably should be cut one day. It was so much like Vincent’s she hated to do it.

"Orss," Jacob repeated and turned to give her a kiss. "Mumma."

Agatha laughed as Catherine hugged her son. He was always affectionate, like his father.

"We’ll have him talking before he leaves," Agatha predicted. "He just needs to get his sounds sorted out.

"Would you like to see the pond? There might be few ducks there still. Then I’ll make us all some lunch."

"That would be lovely," Catherine said, her stomach already rumbling to the thought of food.

They retraced their steps past the barn and then walked past the house and the cabins. Catherine let Jacob off the leash and he ran ahead of them. By the time they reached the pond, he was tottering down the boardwalk. Catherine ran to him and captured him before he reached the end. She scooped him up and carried him back to Agatha, then re-attached the leash. She rolled her eyes at the older woman. They continued around the pond and a few ducks did indeed leave their bulrush hiding places and swim away, leaving bright V’s behind them.

Catherine looked up at the sky, realizing for the first time that the sun had disappeared and grey clouds were rolling in. Agatha looked up too.

"There’ll be a bit of rain later, I shouldn’t wonder. It’s been a few days since we had any, so we need it. Cooling off too. We should get back to the house and start on lunch. We’ll gather some eggs from the chickens on the way in. That’s the last of the chores."

Catherine turned and was about to follow her, when she gasped. A short distance behind them, the apple orchard trees were a cloud of pink blossom. Too bad the sun had disappeared, she thought, but the sight was still lovely.

Agatha followed her eyes. "That’s our orchard. We have some heritage apples and a couple of crabs – and over there are some cherry trees, including two sour cherry. I usually send William a bushel of those. They’ll be ripe in a month or so. Make great pies."

"Cherry pie! Oh, I can’t wait. But getting my share is difficult in my household. If I get one piece, I never get a second. Last year William made me a small one to hide. I ate it in secret. Delicious."

"Well, you’ll never go without here," Agatha declared. "I have some preserved cherries from last year. I’ll make a couple of pies. One for the men and one for us girls."

Catherine laughed.

"Now that sounds like a plan."

They headed back to the house, Jacob again running in front of them, but only to the limit of the leash. He didn’t seem to mind. They stopped by the chicken run so that Agatha could lift the flap behind the henhouse and extract some eggs. She put them in a bowl she kept under the run. By the time they reached Agatha’s doorstep, Catherine sensed Jacob was both tired and hungry.

"I think we’ve worn our boy out," she told Agatha. "I didn’t think that was possible."

"I know exactly how he feels," came Vincent’s voice behind them. He looked a little bedraggled and was covered in dust.

"I need a shower. I have to and wash up and change for lunch."

"You don’t have to go back to the cabin, Vincent. Use my shower. It’s got hot water and all the necessaries. I’ve even got clean coveralls. I keep a few up here for the hands, in case they need a spare. They’re always generously-sized. And I do the laundry. I’ll wash yours later."

She led him to the bathroom and found him a faded green coverall and extra towels. He thanked her and Catherine soon heard water running.

Agatha returned to the kitchen and immediately began preparing lunch. She pulled out a large container from the fridge and emptied the contents into a pot. Then she turned on two ovens and reached up to lift down a tray of rising bread. She melted butter to baste it and then turned to making pastry.

To Catherine, never a cook, Agatha’s efficiency was nothing short of miraculous. By the time Vincent re-appeared, his hair damp and his face shining, the bread was in one oven, two cherry pies in the other and a pot of soup was filling the kitchen with smells which made her stomach rumble. Jacob was sitting on a chair, enthralled by all the activity.

Vincent gathered Catherine to him and kissed the top of her head.

"Well, the fox will have to find another source of food," he declared.

Agatha laughed. "There are plenty of mice around here. He’ll have to revert to his normal fare."

"Mice?" Catherine asked. "Don’t you have one of those big old farm cats around here somewhere?"

"Oh yes, there’s Boots and Turtle and One-eye, but they’re getting fat and lazy. They’re good mousers when they want to be, but they don’t bother much, except in the barn. I’m grateful for that, since I store the grain for the animals there."

"Where are they? We didn’t get introduced," Catherine remarked.

"They’re probably waiting outside the door right now. They know my schedule. I make them wait to be fed until the chores are done. If they get really hungry, they’ll do their job," she laughed.

Nevertheless, she opened up the back door and three black cats paraded in, to sit by the pantry. They meowed at Agatha and she sighed and pulled a carton from the fridge. She filled three bowls and put them outside. The cats followed her.

"Good heavens," remarked Catherine. "All black too."

"Yes, one is the mother and the other two brother and sister. I don’t know who the father was – but he might have been black too. I feed them fish from the pond, stretched with grain and cooked eggs. They love it. I don’t believe in wasting my money on cat food."

"Father would approve," Vincent said. "We’ve never had pets in the tunnels – well, except for Mouse’s raccoon, Arthur. He’s enough trouble – and probably the reason no one dares ask for any other pets."

Agatha laughed. "Oh yes, William has told me stories about Arthur. Even his kitchen has not escaped the depredations.

"Which reminds me. Lunch is served, folks!"

They each had second helpings of the wonderfully fragrant soup and Vincent had thirds and Catherine knew he was considering fourths. Agatha caught the look he gave the pot and dished him out another bowl. Vincent sighed in happiness as he finished and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his stomach.

"Agatha, that was a soup that rivaled anything William has made. What was it?"

"Mulligatawny," she told him. "That’s short for something of everything, with curry powder."

Catherine laughed. "William tries to accommodate all tastes, so he might not want to make something quite so spicy. But it was wonderful. Best Indian soup I’ve ever had."

"Is that what it was?" Agatha asked innocently. "Well, the recipe is one that changes with every attempt. I always feel that’s the sign of a winner, as long as it’s edible.

"So what would you folks like to do this afternoon – if Vincent can do anything after four bowls of soup and enough bread to feed a scout troop. I bet you still have a corner for cherry pie, though."

Vincent sat up and grinned.

"Always."

Agatha gave them all a slice with homemade ice cream. Vincent and Jacob made short work of theirs. Catherine had a hard time finishing it, but was determined to do so. She wondered if she was going to be able to walk.

"I think we’ll have to have a rest, Agatha," Catherine said, looking at Jacob, who looked very tired now. "Then maybe you can show us what field work needs doing and we can get to some of that tomorrow."

"Oh, there’s not much field work, as I said. But I have a kitchen garden that needs some attention. I’d appreciate help with that. And I’ll take Vincent off to help me with some work in the barn tomorrow. I think you should take the rest of the day off and I’ll make you another hamper for later – with more cherry pie, of course."

They made their good-byes and Vincent carried Jacob back to the cabin. Catherine almost wished he would carry her too. They put their son to bed and sat in the porch on one of the rattan couches.

"I think we need a proper mattress out here," Catherine commented.

Vincent gave her a look and went into the cabin, emerging with a couple of bunk bed mattresses, which quickly became an improved love nest on the floor. They lay down and both were asleep in minutes.

Catherine woke up in late afternoon. Vincent was still asleep and she contented herself with watching him for a while. He had worked hard – but what was her excuse? Well, she planned to do her share the next day in the garden. Jacob might be a nuisance, but perhaps she could find him some way to keep him amused.

She had no idea what time it was, and didn’t care. Clocks had not been of much concern since she joined the tunnel community. They kept fairly regular mealtimes, but the time was measured in terms of classes, job rosters, special events. A lot of people had clocks, but mostly for decoration. Pascal made sure everyone knew what was happening and when – and sent out time signals when needed. Vincent had an old grandfather clock in his chamber, but she suspected it had not been wound until she appeared on the scene. Here on the farm, time didn’t matter. It was wonderful to join the natural cycle of the days.

It must be near supper time, she guessed. Extracting herself from the bed, she went into the bathroom for a quick wash and then put on a clean coverall. She might as well go up for their hamper now. If it wasn’t ready, she could talk to Agatha for a while. Jacob was still asleep and when she passed through the porch, so was Vincent. He had spread out over the bed. He looked very contented and she could feel his happiness. She wondered if he was dreaming.

Walking up to Agatha’s house, Catherine breathed deeply. She had never realized how many smells were missing in New York. The winds carried the smell of sun-warmed grass and dusty roads – and farm manure. The latter was not a smell she would have thought pleasant, normally, but now it seemed to fit. She wondered what Vincent thought of it.

She knocked on the door and heard Agatha yell from inside. She went in and found their hostess in the boot room ministering to a huge dog which seemed mostly St Bernard. She stopped in amazement. Agatha was using a comb to remove burrs and detritus from the dog’s coat. It lay patiently while she did so, its tongue hanging out, head on its front paws.

Agatha looked up.

"Goodness, is it that time already? I’m sorry, Catherine. Bo here has returned after one of his love excursions and brought the back-forty with him. Never have a dog with long hair on a farm! This one was a gift – a mutt, as you can see. He’s a sweetie, though. No one minds if he impregnates one of their bitches in heat. Just as well, since keeping him inside would be almost impossible."

Catherine laughed.

"I’m early, Agatha, I think. I left the men sleeping. I haven’t worked as hard, so I decided to do the food run. What a lovely dog. I can see him playing the role of Nurse in Peter Pan!"

"Well, Bo is very serene. We might put him to work doing exactly that tomorrow, now that you mention it. I imagine your Jacob will be a handful otherwise. We can leave Bo to watch him. He’s better than a babysitter, because he can take a lot of abuse. I used to give donkey rides and he was good at keeping the littlest ones from mischief. That’s why his puppies are popular. They all seem to have his temperament. There are still a few hobby farms with kids hereabouts.

"How would you like to finish combing him, while I get a food basket prepared?"

"Sure," Catherine said, and took the comb from Agatha. She sat down next to the big dog, who raised his head to give her a curious glance, then rested his head on his paws again. She began to pull the comb, which had wide teeth, through the long coat. She noticed that a lot of undercoat was coming away too. The dog was still shedding his winter coat. She tried to be gentle, but soon found that some of the burrs needed more pulling. The dog did not seem to mind. He must be used to this procedure, she guessed.

She put the results of her combing into a pile, then noticed that Agatha had left a bag, already with a lot of hair and dried vegetation in it. She pushed the dog a little and he obligingly rolled onto his side so she could tackle his belly. Fortunately the hair was shorter there, but the job was no easier. She finished finally and gave the dog’s belly a rub. He stretched his head out along the floor, whined and wagged his tail, obviously happy.

"You remind me of someone," Catherine whispered, thinking that someone would probably like a rub himself, later. The thought made her warm and she felt Vincent’s matching ardour along the bond. Jacob was awake too, she realized, and both were hungry. She carried the bag of hair to the door and left it with a knot in the top. Bo followed her into the kitchen. Catherine washed her hands and Agatha thanked her.

"Well now, I guess Bo is his handsome self again, although he needs a bath. But not now. We’ll take him down to the pond one day, if he doesn’t make his way there himself. He likes to swim. I don’t believe in washing dogs. He just needs a good drenching and a grooming.

"And here’s your basket, Catherine. I think there’s enough in there for your hungry men – and yourself. Here’s a couple of quarts of home-made beer for you two as well. I have a few cases in the cellar, as well as cider and wine, so let me know if you’d like anything. The field hands will get some of it when they come, but no reason you shouldn’t too."

Catherine took the basket and noticed the heft.

"Thank you, Agatha. This feels like plenty – and smells delicious! We’ll see you bright and early tomorrow."

"Don’t forget to pick up the mail."

"We won’t. Thanks for the reminder."

Catherine hauled the basket back to the cabin, glad when she reached it. She found Vincent waiting for her and looking beyond her. She turned around to see Bo, who sat down and regarded them with a doggy smile.

"Gosh, I hope Bo doesn’t expect to be fed from this."

"I don’t think he’s hungry," Vincent said.

He took the basket from Catherine, put it on the table and then went back outside. Catherine watched as he bent over the dog and rubbed its ears. Bo put his head against Vincent’s thigh and looked up at him. They seemed to come to some understanding, because Bo rose and moved away, to lay under a nearby tree. Vincent returned and washed his hands before joining the other two at the table.

"What was that all about?" Catherine asked. She had not felt anything except calm along their bond.

"Bo’s curious. I think we have a new friend."

"Well, I’m glad. Agatha says he’s a good nursemaid too."

Vincent laughed then. "I thought that only happened in Peter Pan."

"Well, apparently not," Catherine told him. "I hope he and Jacob get along, otherwise I’ll spend more time chasing our son than weeding tomorrow."

"I think they will be friends," Vincent predicted.

They tucked into the food hamper, which had a container full of devilled eggs, home-made bread, cream cheese, slabs of ham and several apples of a type Catherine couldn’t identify. But they were wonderful – despite being last year’s crop. Jacob ate everything put in front of him and downed a large glass of milk. The beer was wonderful too. Vincent and Catherine shared a quart, deciding to leave the other for later. They sat back and groaned in unison.

"I think it’s a good thing we have to collect the mail every evening," Catherine remarked, looking at the now-empty hamper.

They cleaned up their supper dishes and then made their way to the mailbox again. The buzz of the crickets was soporific, the air as warm as a caress. Bo, she noticed, had not followed them. He had moved into the shade of the cabin and was sound asleep.

Jacob ran ahead of them, stopping here and there to examine something of interest. Vincent flung his head back and breathed deeply. He stopped and drew Catherine into a hug.

"I will not like going back into the tunnels after this," he declared. "Maybe we can bottle some of this air to take back with us."

"Well, maybe not the air, but we can take some of the stuff that produces the smells," Catherine told him. "There are a few flowers and grasses I could dry. But I draw the line at manure."

Vincent laughed. "Remember this?"

"Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs

About the lilting house and happy the grass was green,

The night above the dingle starry …"

Catherine looked at him. He didn’t seem to find it a bad memory, so she relaxed.

"I do indeed. You were reading Fern Hill, just before I talked you into going to Connecticut with me. The trip that never was. Three years ago, at least."

Vincent looked down at her and sensed her unease.

"Yes. But you didn’t talk me into anything, Catherine, and I talked myself out of it, later, after Pascal and the others made me feel guilty for wanting to get away. Then, I had that terrible dream. That was my guilt speaking too. I don’t feel at all guilty now. I wonder how they’re doing?"

"Probably nursing sore backs from hauling all those laundry baskets," Catherine remarked. "I don’t think Father had really considered all the implications of your being unavailable. But I’ll bet he has now."

Vincent grunted. "Much as I hate to say it, you are right. They are all too used to me being there - or within easy call."

There was a whoop ahead of them and they both ran to Jacob, who had captured a large toad.

Vincent kneeled down and loosened his sons hands a little.

"Careful now," he told the boy. "You don’t want to hurt him. He has to breathe, just like you.

"Ahmaaa," Jacob said softly, looking at Catherine. Then he shrieked and the toad would have dropped, if Vincent hadn’t caught it. Jacob’s hand was wet. The toad had peed on it.

Catherine giggled.

"I remember they always did that when I picked one up too, as a child. I guess they’re frightened, Jacob."

Vincent looked at Catherine and raised his eyebrows.

"You …you caught toads?"

She laughed and took the toad from him, then walked to the field and put it down carefully. It disappeared into the tall grass. She turned and smiled.

"Yes. I wasn’t always wearing pink tulle and black patent leather pumps, you know. I didn’t do this kind of thing where my mother could see, but I had boy cousins who liked to explore ponds and such. I went with them when no one was looking. I washed up carefully afterwards. My father knew, just as he knew I liked to climb trees, but we let my mother keep her fantasies about her daughter. I only had one doll in my life. She’s in my trunk. A silly thing with almost no nose, but I pretended she was a pixie and could take me to a magic kingdom. Little did I know that a man from a magic kingdom would find me."

She reached up and kissed Vincent. Jacob put his arms around her legs.

"Ummm," Vincent grunted, at last. "We’re not getting any closer to that mailbox. We’d better hurry. It’s getting very dark."

They marched onwards to the mailbox, pulled out the few envelopes and walked back quickly. Jacob was tiring and when they returned, Catherine gave him a quick sponge bath and put him to bed. She and Vincent undressed and returned to their love nest on the porch and made slow careful love as the moon rose. Both went to sleep relaxed and happy.

Vincent woke in darkness and once again felt the urge to run. He was tempted to go for a swim in the pond, but decided he needed at least a towel and he couldn’t be bothered to find one. He left the porch and stood looking down the pathway, shining a little in the moonlight. He sighed and started to run. He had not gone far when he realized he had company and slowed to look behind. It was Bo, running with his tongue hanging out in a doggy smile. Vincent sped up and ran as fast as he could, the dog keeping easy pace beside him.

They reached the pond and Vincent turned to the right, wanting to see the trees in the woodlot this time. He slowed down, then stopped and took a deep breath. The smell of apple blossom was strong. He walked through the orchard, looking at the moon through the trees. He found himself suddenly in a dense patch of tall straight trunks. Some were rough, others smooth. He guessed one was a walnut, but was at a loss to identify one with a very smooth light-coloured trunk. He ran his hands down it, then on impulse hugged it to him. He fancied he could almost feel its life pulsing under his naked body. He turned and sat on the ground with his back to it, sighing. Bo came up to him and laid his head in his lap. Vincent scratched the soft floppy ears with both hands and looked at the moon. He was beyond happy. There were no words. He felt as placid as that silvery orb, as if he had been transported to a primal time, a world where he fit without question or explanation. It was a priceless sensation and one he knew he would remember forever.

Vincent reached over to rub the dog’s ribs and Bo obligingly lay on his back. Vincent rubbed and scratched him gently. The dog rumbled in pleasure and stretched out, his head back and tongue lolling out. Dogs didn’t purr, but Vincent guessed the noise was the canine equivalent.

When he stopped, a few minutes later, Bo sat up and licked Vincent’s face.

"I guess we’re friends now," he whispered, hugging the big soft head to him. "And it is time we returned."

He got to his feet and began the run back, Bo running beside him. When he went into the porch, Bo turned away and flopped under a tree. Vincent slid back into their makeshift porch bed. Catherine immediately spooned herself against his back and put an arm over him. He fell asleep without a word.

…

Father found himself counting the number of days since Vincent had left. Five, wasn’t it? Three in the journey and two at Agatha’s farm. It was now the sixth day. There had been no word, but then how could there be? If anything had gone wrong, a message would have been relayed, somehow. Agatha would have contacted a helper. She had a telephone. They tended to forget such things existed, reliant as they were on verbal and pipe communication.

Yesterday, they had all enjoyed a rare day of rest and leisure. Father liked to think that he was amenable to such days, but had to admit he had not scheduled them in recent memory. They had their special occasions, of course, but he found he rather liked not having to do anything at all. He slept in, pottered around his chamber and the library, found a book he had started and then mislaid, then joined the casual brunch buffet William had prepared. Afterwards he had treated himself to a long warm soak in the bathing chamber.

The rest of the community had been similarly quiet. Even the pipes were almost silent, except for the sentry reports. Thanks to Mouse’s early warning systems, they did not have to keep sentries a long way from the hub, but he had insisted that the nearby posts be manned at all times, as they always had, and vigilantly. However, because it was a rest day, the watches had been shortened to three hours, so that the task was spread around and everyone had time to enjoy a rest.

Today it was back to work. After the debacle on laundry day, Father had been much more careful with the work schedules, trying to anticipate problems before they happened. Vincent had often organized them and Jacob began to see that the younger man had a better grasp of the minutiae.

That floor tiling, for instance. No one Below had any experience in laying tile, but he had looked up a reference book and read up on the technique. It had surprised him that floor tiles had to be laid from the middle of the room to the sides. It did not make sense at first, until he read further. He sighed. He had decided that they would practice on the laundry tunnel hallway first. If it worked, they could graduate to the laundry room and finally the kitchen. He decided the dining chamber did not really need a tiled floor. Better they be used where they would actually be useful, not just for decoration. The tiles were rough-topped, which made them perfect for places where they were likely to get wet.

Kanin had mixed up some grouting compound and all went reasonably well, at first. They had all looked at the tunnel floor and decided that the accepted way of laying the tiles would not work in such a narrow space. So they had begun at the drying chamber and gradually worked their way back to the laundry room. Laying the tiles in sheets diagonally. It turned out that three sheets gave them almost the perfect width and they had moved quickly, Zach wetting and pressing down and smoothing the sand they had spread on the floor, Kanin laying the tile sheets and spreading the grout and lastly, Cullen carefully wiping off the excess grout with a sponge. They were not worried about ragged edges at the walls, and filled in the gaps with some loose or broken tiles as far as they could. They had reached the laundry room with the end in sight when Zach jumped at a noise behind him and a ring-tailed body zoomed past, making Kanin put his elbow up and knock over pail of grout. Cullen had moved to catch Arthur, caught him by the tail and then turned and bashed his nose against Mouse’s leg, letting go of the raccoon. As he yelled in pain, his foot upset the pail of water. There had been a universal growl from the three men that would have done Vincent proud. Cullen captured Mouse by the scruff, carried him to the laundry room and tossed him into the dirty laundry bin. Zach and Kanin had quickly saved as much of the grout as they could and mopped up the spilled water. Just as they were ready to start again, Arthur had re-appeared. Cullen, with a swift movement, had scooped him up and tossed him at Mouse, who stood in the laundry room entry dancing from foot to foot, uncertain if he should try and sneak past the men. Father, who had heard some of the ruckus echoing down the tunnels, had arrived just in time to hear Cullen shout.

"Mouse, you keep that beast out of our way or I’ll turn him into a coonskin cap!"

Father immediately took charge of Mouse and Arthur and led them away.

"Mouse, you know you aren’t allowed to let Arthur run around. I think you’d better put that harness and leash on him – and keep him in your chamber."

"He won’t like that," Mouse had protested, but had complied. Cullen’s threat, while even Mouse knew he would not carry it out, was an indication of the man’s anger. Father had been reading a selection from James Fennimore Cooper during his literature class, and Mouse had become agitated when the coonskin cap was mentioned. Father had been forced to manufacture an explanation as to why Daniel Boone had worn such a hat. Mouse had quieted but had afterwards paid more attention than usual. The suspicion that he was being mollified had been all over his face. Father was sure Vincent would have known the exact history of the coonskin cap.

The tunnel tiling was finished and after a break, they examined the laundry chamber. Immediately, it was obvious that the job would not be straightforward. The floor was not even remotely even and they would have to move all the machines, some of which were lug-bolted to the stone floor to prevent them dancing around as they were cranked.

Father abruptly decided that only the entry way really needed to be tiled, to give them a place to put the laundry baskets going in or out. That left William’s kitchen, a logical place for the tiles, and after some discussion with the big cook, they decided to do the job after lunch. It would have to be done quickly, but the floor area was nice and flat. This floor they would have to do the traditional way, from the middle.

William gladly took a break from his kitchen and retired to the music chamber to listen to the children practice for an upcoming concert. Since losing Miss Kendrick, the community had drawn on several other helpers, including Sebastian, whose talents encompassed much more than magic tricks, and an elderly jazz street musician who was often their messenger. He had been convinced to stay Below on those days when he was teaching, but refused to live there permanently. Rolley always played the piano accompaniment.

The three men managed to tile the kitchen chamber floor in the accepted manner and filled in the gaps around the stove and cupboards so that William wouldn’t trip. They stood up and examined their handiwork.

"This should make cleaning a lot easier for the work parties," Cullen commented. While William oversaw all cleanups in his kitchen, he never helped. It was his one condition, in exchange for which he cooked three meals a day and catered countless special occasions. It was a long job doing dishes for 70 some people a meal, but no one minded much. William always made sure there was some treat for his helpers when they were done. A little sugar to ease the medicine, he rationalized.

When he returned and saw the new kitchen floor, he ran his foot along the tiles.

"Not slippery. Good, but a little water or fat might make them treacherous. I’ll have to find some proper scrub brushes for my floor crew. We can ask Sebastian. He brought a couple of brushes down for the percussion section."

Father was pleased. William was sometimes awkward about changes to his kitchen.

"I’ll ask him," Father offered and went to the music room to deliver the message.

Sebastian laughed when he was told of William’s requirement.

"Well now, I think I can do that – on one condition. That you give me a couple of those ceramic tiles for the brushes here. We could brush up an orchestral windstorm with those."

"Right," Father said and hobbled back to find Kanin and see if any more tiles remained. He found the stonemason in his workshop and was given a couple of the tiles. Father returned to the music room with them and handed them to Sebastian, who was now leading the musicians in a rousing rendition of ‘They Call the Wind, Mariah’. He took the tiles from Father and demonstrated to his musicians how to make the wind noise.

Despite the fact that the practice was going well, Father found himself too tired to really enjoy it. He retreated to his chamber for a nap.

He needed an assistant, he decided – someone to step and fetch it. He was no longer capable of so much exercise. His hip felt like it was ready to shatter. He went over the roster of children in his head and thought of Eric. He was the most curious of the children and adept at getting into trouble. Having never had a formal education for any length of time, he was often disruptive in class – asking questions at inappropriate times. The other children were much more polite and cautious, having grown up Below. Since his sister, Ellie, had died, no one seemed to be able to control Eric. He was small and seemed to be able to wriggle out of sight as soon as a whiff of adult disapproval neared him. Father was sure he could find plenty to keep the boy busy – and he would take on his education personally, since disruptions in class could not be tolerated.

Father fell asleep thinking of all the things that still needed doing. He would have to take another look at the work roster in the morning.

The next day, Father called Eric to him and watched with concern as the boy shuffled in and hung about the door, head bowed and shoulders hunched, as if expecting a tongue lashing. Father immediately wondered what he had been up to this time. The boy was obviously feeling guilty about something – and supposed he had been found out. Jacob decided now was not the time to delve into that. He would be informed in due course, almost certainly. Without Vincent around, all the community’s little problems came directly to him. He had never realized how many there were in the average day.

"Come here, Eric. I have something I need your help with." Father spoke calmly but firmly.

Eric looked at Father and straightened his back. Now 10 years old, he was still small for his age and his glasses still looked too large for his face. He spoke quickly and often without thinking. Father wondered what he would have been like if Ellie had lived. He was very much a loner – seemed to glory in it. Except with Vincent. The boy almost revered Vincent. He had been sullen since Vincent had left, now that Father thought about it. Did he feel abandoned?

Having obviously concluded that he wasn’t in trouble, Eric walked down the steps and stood in front of the patriarch. Father tried to soften his voice a little.

"Now, Eric, as you can see, I am an old man. I can’t move around as well as everyone else, and …"

"What happened to your leg?" Eric broke in.

Father sighed. The boy was insatiable.

"There was a bad accident a long time ago, Eric. I was caught in a tunnel collapse. My hip was injured and now, because I’m older, it has become arthritic."

"What’s arthritic?"

"The bones have lost their padding, Eric, and are grating against each other and the nerves.

"Now, young man, I didn’t call you in here to give you a lecture about my disability. But I do need your help because of it. Do you understand?"

"Sure. You want me to get you some salve or something? Help you dress?"

"No, Eric. I want you to be my assistant – a kind of personal secretary."

Eric was quiet for some moments, his eyes behind the big glasses thoughtful.

"Does that mean I’ll be helping you write letters? Isn’t that what a secretary does?"

"In the world Above, that is exactly what a secretary does, Eric, but I need someone very special. You won’t have to write letters. There’s nothing wrong with my hands or arms."

Father sighed. The boy could be incredibly dense at times. He’d have to be direct. Vincent had warned him about this with Eric. He was very literal.

"Eric, the community here relies on me to make decisions, but I can’t be everywhere at once. Vincent used to do a lot of the legwork, but he’s on vacation, and I need someone fit and clever to take messages and carry reports and my clipboard, and keep an eye on things in general."

"Why can’t you just tap on the pipes?" Eric asked.

"Because, Eric, the pipes can tell only half the story. Can you eat a pipe message? Can you look at a water leak? Of course not. Pipe messages can tell us much, but they are no substitute for a sharp pair of eyes and a good brain. I know you have both."

Eric looked at him, his eyes bright.

"You mean you want me to be like Mouse, listening, exploring, finding things?"

"Well, not exactly, Eric. Mouse has lived with us for a long time. He explores, but he is very careful. This is a dangerous place. We don’t want anyone getting hurt. Mouse checks out new areas, talks to the sentries and reports to me when he sees something dangerous.

"I’ll have different jobs for you to do – small ones at first. If you do those well, I’ll have more important ones. What do you think about that?"

"I guess that’s fair," Eric said. "You want to know if I have the right stuff."

The children had been learning about the history of flight. The boy had a good mind, Father reminded himself.

"That’s very true, Eric, but I wouldn’t have chosen you if I didn’t think you had ‘the right stuff’. It’s just that everyone on a new job has to be given some time to learn how to do it. If you learn quickly, as I think you will, you’ll be a very great help to me and everyone."

"All right," Eric said. "When do I start?"

"We’ll have breakfast now, and then I’ll see what needs to be done after I read out the work roster."

"Okay."

Eric ran out without so much as a goodbye. Father sighed and heaved himself out of his chair to hobble to the dining chamber. It made sense to have Eric occupied. However, Jacob knew that he himself had considerably less patience than Vincent in such matters. Well, it would be a salutary exercise. He should be more concerned with the minutiae of their existence. He had let Vincent take on too much of that load.