The Tale of Holly How by Susan Wittig Albert Read Free Book Online Page A

the direction of Anvil Cottage, she saw the sinister green bicycle leaning against the fence. Concluding that its owner was at home, she went through the gate between their two gardens and down the path, and knocked.
    “Yoo-hoo, Sarah!” she called. “It’s Dimity. I’m in dire need of some tea and talk. Are you free?”
    “Oh, bother,” said a very cross voice.
    Dimity sighed. “Well, of course, it can wait, if you’re busy. I’ll come back later.”
    Sarah had her own bakery business at Anvil Cottage, and she was usually busy with something or another—making scones and Cumberland sausage rolls or baking bread or experimenting with this or that new recipe. But baking was the sort of thing one did with one’s hands whilst one talked, and Dimity and her friend had enjoyed a great many conversations and pleasant cups of tea whilst Sarah mixed and kneaded and stirred and stoked the stove and wielded her rolling pin.
    “Oh, BLAST!” the voice roared. This was followed by a loud clattering noise, as if something had fallen from a height and rolled across the floor. “No, not later, ” the voice said. “Now. And of course, you’re not a bother, Dim. Or a blast, either—that’s just my tongue talking. But do mind your feet as you come in. There’s treacle and milk all over the floor.”
    “Treacle!” Dimity exclaimed, standing on the threshold. “And milk?”
    “Yes, treacle and milk,” Sarah said grimly. “Puddles of it.” She was on her hands and knees with a scrub brush and a bucket of soapy water. “And sugar. And flour.”
    “Sugar and flour,” Dimity said in a wondering tone. She looked down at a spreading patch of brown treacle, which was streaked with milk, dotted with several volcanic islands of sugar, and dusted with flour. Sarah’s kitchen was never spotless, far from it, but Dimity didn’t remember ever seeing such a catastrophe as this. “I don’t suppose I should ask what happened,” she remarked tentatively.
    “It’s these damned thunderflies,” Sarah replied through her teeth. “ They did it. What I need is some flypaper strips, but Lydia Dowling says she’s sold all they had.” She scrambled to her feet and brushed her hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand.
    No one could call Sarah Barwick handsome, for she had a horsey face, a freckled nose, and a square, determined jaw—attributes rarely considered beautiful in a woman. But her dark hair was thick and shining and her eyes revealed both intelligence and humor. She was wearing a skirt today, tucked up and showing a trim ankle, and Dimity saw treacle smeared on her cheek, treacle dribbled on her white apron, and white flour dusting her hair.
    “And if it’s not completely cleaned up,” Sarah went on grimly, “the treacle will get into all the cracks, and then there will be ants. And if thunderflies aren’t evil enough,” she added, dropping to her knees again and applying her scrub brush fiercely, “ants are positively diabolical.”
    “But I don’t see how the thunderflies managed to—”
    “Oh, you don’t, do you?” Sarah looked up with a dark scowl. “Well, I wouldn’t have upset the treacle pot if I hadn’t been trying to slap the flies out of my eyes. And when I tried to catch the pot before it rolled off the table, the milk jug flew off. And when the milk went, the sugar canister fell over and the lid came off and it spilt. And just now, when you came to the door, I hit the table leg with my elbow and down came the flour bin.” She bit her lip and her mouth twisted. “Don’t look, Dim. I’m going to cry, and I’m an awful sight when I cry.”
    “I won’t look,” Dim said compassionately. “Stay where you are, Sarah, and I’ll get another bucket. This is a job for two.”
    Sarah sighed and rubbed her nose. “It’s a job for ten, or—better yet—a team of floor-cleaning fairies. But thanks, Dim. I’m desperate. I’ll take all the help I can get.”
    So for the next half hour, the