“Do you?” I asked warily. Honey wasn’t easy to get these days. He brushed down his rather tatty shorts and then pointed out his arm. “Step this way, young ladies.”
We collected our things and followed him up the bank, giving the basket to him to carry since my arm hurt and Silvie is too small. He led us back along the side of the orchard to Peasepotter Wood, and at the cusp of the wood, he turned, glanced around furtively, then headed in. We hurried in after him.
After a short walk, he pushed his way into a massive bush, the type that is hollow on the inside and packed with tiny close leaves around the edge. After a minute or so of rummaging in the shrubbery, he reversed back out.
In his hand was a jar of honey. It must have been home produced as it had a blue gingham cover and a white label saying Allicot Farm—I couldn’t help wondering where I’d heard that name before. He took off the top and stuck a grubby finger in, stuffing the yellow fingerful in his mouth. I wanted to stop him. He was tainting all that honey. It was disgusting!
“It’s honey all right.” He chomped his mouth about, savoring the flavor. “Try some.”
Silvie stuck her finger in and tentatively put it in her mouth, and the look of pleasure on her face finally made me give in and try it, too.
It was the most divine honey I’d ever tasted, all rose petals and syrupy sweetness. We all took another fingerful, and I smeared a little on my sting.
“What’s it doing in the bush?”
“I’ve seen Old George put it there,” Tom said. “He’s an old crook who stays in one of the hop huts. We don’t bother him much.” He bit his lip awkwardly. “He’s got a knife and things. Threatened our Charlie, so we leave him well alone.”
“Should we be taking his things?”
“S’pose not,” Tom said, with a small lilt of a skinny shoulder. “It’s black market, of course. I only take a few bits at a time. Nothing he would notice.”
A noise in the bracken startled us. We looked around, but there was nothing there. It could have been a fox, but the trees were so dense it was hard to see.
“Should we go?” I whispered.
The rustling became louder—it was definitely a person—and we crept quietly behind a broad tree. When I turned, I saw a fat, angry-looking bald man stalk into the clearing, his whiskers gray and scraggy, a greenish stain on his shirt. With him was Mr. Slater, of all people. I always suspected he was up to no good. I wonder if Venetia knows about this.
“It’s Old George. Let’s get out of here,” Tom said urgently, pulling me away.
As we turned, I saw Mr. Slater’s face look round to us. Did he see us?
We fled, our legs pounding the ground like a whirl, the bracken and dead leaves crackling under our feet, darting deeper into the wood, nipping around heavy trunks and tucking between dense bushes until all we could hear was the sound of our own rhythmic footsteps in the silent surroundings.
Suddenly, as if a heavy curtain had been swept open, we tumbled out of the wood, and the vast expanse of English countryside lay before us, a colossal spread of multicolored hues bathed magnificently in the brilliant golden sunshine.
We fell down, gasping for breath, laughing, checking behind us for the shadow of Old George on our trail, but there was nothing, only the light whisper of the leaves as a breeze lifted them to and fro, and the songs of the birds flitting busily around the edge of the greeny-gold field of wheat before us.
“We’d better go home,” I said.
“You know where to find me,” Tom said, helping us up. “At the hop pickers’ huts.” And with that he turned and began a wide-strided walk down the hill to the river.
“Bye,” Silvie said quietly, which meant that she liked him, and I had to admit, as we picked up our picnic basket and headed home, that it was rather fun having an adventure of our own.
As we trotted around the edge of the wood, I asked Silvie if she’d ever seen anyone sneaking around the wood.
“Proggett,” she replied.
“Proggett? Where?”
“In Peasepotter, behind trees, in the Pixie Ring, down by Bullsend Brook,” she said quietly in her taut Czech voice. I know she disappears off by herself quite a lot, but I never knew she’d been wandering all over the countryside. “He meets men,” she added.
“What kind of men?”
“Just men.” She glanced away. “Boring men.”
“Were you scared?”
She shook herself up, running ahead of me with bravado. “No.”
As I sped up behind her, I remembered where I had heard the name Allicot Farm. It’s a place on the other side of Litchfield. Mrs. Gibbs started selling their honey in the shop last month. I wonder how Old George came across his assortment of goodies—how Mrs. Gibbs got her hands on it. And how exactly Mr. Slater was involved. I have decided not to inform Venetia quite yet. Let her come crawling to me. Or, better still, keep it tucked away for a time when it might be put to good use.