Home Cooking
The smell was tantalizing. No child could resist it and Mrs. Underwood made sure that they didn’t. Her window opened right on to the street and it was impossible to pass by her house without being assailed by warm golden kitchen aromas.
She was busy all day. She could quite easily have sold her produce but emphatically resisted any kind of persuasion to do so. No, her great delight was to fill the open mouth of any village child who passed her window. There were many children whose homes lay in quite the opposite direction but who made extraordinary diversions to include Mrs. Underwood’s cottage on their route back from school. And what temptations they were! Dark brown ginger biscuits, crunchy on the outside and chewy in the middle, honey coloured oatmeal fingers, slabs of incredibly soft and gooey chocolate cake, wedges of golden shortbread topped with sugar crystals, her imagination and inventiveness enchanted the minds and stomachs of her devotees. She had such a way with children. As they approached the open window they would slow down their pace. Some would bend down to fiddle with a perfectly tied shoelace, others would idly fondle the tall grasses growing by her garden wall but all of them with ears tuned for the gentle “co-ee” that was sure to emanate from the open lattice at any moment.
Though unceasing in her generosity Mrs. Underwood would, under no circumstances allow anyone to take more than one biscuit at any one time – and woe betide the child who attempted to do so. She was not unknown to whip out of the house and snatch the pilfered item from the sneak thief’s mouth. Through fear of this frightful scenario and fear of losing their haven of delight, the children were closely vigilant of each other.
Running down the side of her cottage was the lane that lead to the church. It was a pretty place set on a slight hill that overlooked the steam and beyond to the centre of the village. It had its share of weddings and baptisms but, to the great sadness of the villagers, more than its fair share of funerals. Some put it down to the uncommonly damp conditions of the valley, others to less than adequate diets while some even conjectured the possibility of malignant forces. Whatever the cause, nothing could allay the painfully regular sight of a funeral cortege making its way up the little lane with the pathetic coffin of yet another village child. Mrs. Underwood would stand by her door and look solemnly onto the doleful scene, her oven lying cold on such a day.
Dr. Mortimer was baffled. He had consulted colleagues in town but nothing concrete could be deduced. The symptoms, if any existed, were a slight sluggishness and maybe paleness about the cheeks. In many cases it were as though the unfortunate victim had simply given up living. Secretly, among the children, they suspected that the sleep sickness was coming when a boy or girl lost interest in paying a visit to Mrs. Underwood’s house.
One sad evening, little Emily Anderson lay crying in her bed. The empty one of her sister, May, was gleaming white in the moonlight. Why hadn’t she wanted to stay? Emily had tried everything. She had given her her most prized possession: a cloth Japanese doll with real silk pyjamas – but to no avail. She had even saved her every biscuit she had been given from Mrs. Underwood. May ate them readily enough at first but her health diminished evermore rapidly. No, May had simply lost interest in everything and had now gone and left her younger sister to play alone.
“How could we leave her all by herself up on the hill?” she sobbed.
“She must be feeling so cold and lonely”. And at that moment she pushed back the bed covers, pulled on her clothes and slipped out of the house.
“I will stay with you tonight, May” she whispered. “I’m sorry, I left you, I’m sorry. But I’m coming and I’m not afraid”. She made her way silently down the street and turned left into the lane leading to the church. Mrs Underwood’s cottage was wrapped in darkness.
Water dripped off the lilac bushes that flourished on either side. There were other noises: strange crackles and sounds of things dropping. She was afraid, very afraid but she wasn’t going to leave her sister alone.
In a little while the grey stone church came into view. It stood stark against the dark yew trees behind. She gently clicked open the gate and walked across the soft wet grass. Just ahead she could see the white headstone of her own dear sister and posies of flowers now reflecting tones of grey in the moonlight, but something else caught her eye. She stopped and bent down a little. There, almost at the edge of the graveyard there was a figure. It was huddled over something and rocking steadily to and fro. She listened. The person was speaking to someone. It was a woman. She had a soft gentle voice, the kind you can trust, a familiar voice. Surely, it couldn’t be… but? – Yes, it was, it was Mrs. Underwood!
Emily wanted to turn and run but she had to know more. She was drawn to the crouching figure. She darted between the tombstones and then, shielding herself behind an angel with wings outstretched, trained her ear to the low murmurings.
“Oh, my pet, my angel. Mam hasn’t forgotten you. My dear Susan. Surely you’re not angry with Mam now? Look, I’ve brought you a new friend to keep you company. So many playmates for my baby girl. I tried to save you, I did my pet but now you’re not alone. There’s Mary and Lizzie and the two Walker
Emily let out a cry of horror. The sleep sickness. It was all Mrs.Underwood’s doing. The biscuits, the irresistible biscuits!
Mrs. Underwood looked up in alarm. Her secret vigil shattered by the intruder. But Emily was already running, running away down the hill, up the main street and straight to the house of Dr. Mortimer.
