Saffron & Bruno and Farmer Filbert's Cows

The yellow and red leaves whirled and twisted in the whistling wind.  They swept along the road and collected in quiet corners.  Piles and heaps of leaves were here and there and roundabout, all along the lane.   Even though the sun shone brightly, the wind was a cold one.  The people Saffron watched from the window were snuggly wrapped up in bobble hats, scarves and gloves.  The scarves flapped and flew in the gusts, if they were tied tightly.  They looked like woolly flags.  Saffron smiled and pulled Bruno closer so he too could see the patterns the leaves were making and the head down scurry of the people from the village.

Saffron sighed a contented sigh and pulled herself away from the window.  It could be as windy and as cold as it liked, out there, she thought.  In here, it’s all cosy and warm.  She jumped onto her bed and carried on with the picture she was drawing.  It was of a large custard pie hitting a ghost in the face.  The picture had a caption.  The caption had two words: food fight.

Saffron's Mum makes marvellous muffins!

 The thought of food made Saffron’s belly rumble and she wandered downstairs to see whether there were any muffins or biscuits in the kitchen.  She had timed it perfectly.  Just out of the oven and sat on the table was a mound of muffins.  Saffron picked up one of the warm cakes, said thank you to her mum, and sat at the kitchen table to eat.  She looked up at the sound of the kitchen door opening and the sight of a growing number of faces poking around the door.  There were up to sixteen faces, in fact, and all of them had eyes for just one thing: the muffins.  An unsightly pool of drool was growing on the kitchen floor.

“You’d better come in and help yourself, then,” smiled Saffron.  The Sixteen Stephens did not need asking twice.  Before you could say, “there’s a number of ghosts sat around the table eating cakes”, the Sixteen Stephens were gorging on the gorgeous muffins.  Soon, splodges of blueberry marked their mouths and contented burps and bulging bellies abounded.  The muffins were so delicious that, for once, even Stephen Number Ten hadn’t even thought about throwing one.  Saffron’s mum was going to have to make a new batch if anyone else wanted feeding.

“Hey, greedy-guts!”  Saffron’s mum ruffled Saffron’s hair and swiped the last of the muffins for herself.  “I’m glad you enjoyed the muffins.”

“They were delicious, Mum,” said Saffron, “We loved them!”

“We?”  Her mother asked.

“Me and Bruno, of course,” said Saffron, hurriedly.

“Of course,” replied her mum, “You two are inseparable!”

“Bruno’s my best friend, of course I shared the muffins with him,” Saffron declared, and then seeing the disbelieving looks of the Stephens all around her, added, “Well, amongst the best of all my friends.”  The ghosts smiled.

“Naturally, he is,” Saffron’s mum agreed.  “We would be lost without him!”  She looked in the fridge and tutted, “Oh, we’re out of milk,” she sighed.  “I was going to make you a hot chocolate but we can’t have hot chocolate without some milk.”  There was a pause.  “I know,” Saffron’s mum said, “Let’s head down to Farmer Filbert’s farm and pick up a pail.”  The sentence had hardly been spoken before Saffron had her coat and wellies on and was pulling on her mittens.

“Come on, Mum!”  was Saffron’s excited call, “Let’s go!”

*

The wind wrapped Saffron’s face up in a cold blanket but she didn’t mind one little bit.  Bruno swung her right hand and her left hand was dug deeply into her coat pocket: the coat being a blue duffle coat in honour of a Peruvian bear she had a liking for.  Her sunshine yellow wellies walloped and crashed through the piles of leaves in the lane and the deep brown puddles from yesterday’s rain were stamped in and splashed about the place.  Saffron shrieked in delight and her Mum joined in the kicking of leaves and sploshing of puddles.  The pair of them laughed like drains.

Saffron’s laughter was partially directed at the escapades of the Sixteen Stephens and Andrew, who had also decided a walk down the lane to Farmer Filbert’s Farm was a jolly good idea.  She giggled as she watched Stephens Number Four and Eight try and run through a pile of leaves, forgetting, of course, that they didn’t have any feet!  The looks on their faces when they realised they couldn’t kick the leaves about was hilarious; the end result was just the same, however, as the ghostly gusts they created as they flapped and flew over the leaves sent the red and yellow and orange leaves all about, floating like confetti.  Saffron guffawed at the sight of Stephen Number Three jumping in the air and not landing in a puddle, while Stephen Number Fourteen held a pair of lime green wellies in his hands and looked forlornly about for some feet upon which to wear such a glorious pair of boots!

Leaves and puddles and lime green wellies!

Saffron shook the last laughter out of herself, held her mum’s hand and walked with her up the lane to the gate of Farmer Filbert’s Farm.

“Now, remember,” said Saffron’s Mum, “When we go through the paddock, what must we do?”
“We must always shut the gate so that the cows can’t get out on to the road,” said Saffrom.

“Exactly right,” said Saffron’s Mum and nodded her head.

“We don’t want any cows loose in the village, that’s for certain,” Agreed Saffron.  Carefully they opened the gate to the paddock, walked through and shut it behind them; taking care to fasten the chain over the hook and leave the gate secure.

The Sixteen Stephens and Andrew looked at the gate.  Now, they all knew they could fly over it and leave it well enough alone but Stephen Number Two simply could not resist the opportunity to cause a little chaos.

“It would be an awful moooostake to leave this gate open, wouldn’t it?”
 He chuckled.

“Unmooooostakeably!”  Agreed Stephen Number Seven.

“I think I might just moooooove this chain,” Stephen Number Two went on, “And swing it open.”

“I think we should mooooove out of the way,” Said Stephen Number Fifteen, as the herd began to saunter towards the mysteriously opening gate.  The Sixteen Stephens giggled and tittered as, one by one, the cows mooched out of the paddock, down the lane and toward the village.

“This could be a cowtastrophe!”  Sniggered Stephen Number Five.  The Sixteen Stephens smiled big smiles and Andrew shook his head.

*

Saffron and Bruno and Saffron’s Mum thanked Farmer Filbert for the milk and started to walk back home.  They’d only gone a few feet when they realised that the field in which the cows were herded had all gone quite quiet.  It had also gone quite empty.

“’Ere,” Said Farmer Filbert, who had followed them to the field, “Where’s me cows gawn?”

The three of them, and Bruno, looked around.  Sure enough, there were the cows – gone.

“’Ere,” said Farmer Filbert, “You did shut the gate back up affer you came through it, didnya?”

“Absolutely,” said Saffron, “We locked it up proper, didn’t we Mum?”  Saffron’s Mum nodded in agreement.

“I just don’t udderstand it,” said a suddenly spritely Stephen Number Eleven, floating at Saffron’s shoulder, “Where could they have gone?”

“It’s udderscribable!”  Laughed Stephen Number Two, floating at Saffron’s other shoulder, “They’re nowhere to be seen!”  Saffron glared at the ghosts and rushed across the field.

“Oh no!”  She yelled, as she reached the far side, the cows were out and all over the place.

The cows were all over the place!

The Sixteen Stephens could not have been happier with their work.  Mrs Anderson looked out of her kitchen window to see a cow in her garden.  The cow had managed to get into Mrs Anderson’s geraniums and had somehow plaited a gorgeous garland out of the blooms and was wearing it about its neck whilst munching on whatever was left over.  Cedric Stevenson stood frozen to the spot, just behind the counter of his café.  A cow had made it into his café and was licking all the buns.  Mr Waiting and Mr Nudge were stood at one of the bowling green wondering what that big black and white blob was at the other end?  Their eyesight wasn’t as good as it had once been.  The cow that had got on the bowling green and was giving the grass a bit more of a trim, gave a loud moo, and then gave the grass a pat.  Mr Waiting and Mr Nudge were quiet startled.  More unusually, two cows had liberated a tandem from the bicycle shop and were pedalling down the high street, much to the amusement of the villagers there.  One cow was sat on a park bench reading a newspaper and, lastly, one of the cows had got on to the railway line and was currently engaged in a staring competition with the driver of the 2:45 from Town.  The cow appeared to be winning,

Saffron, Saffron’s Mum and Farmer Filbert looked at the cows; then they looked at each other, and then they looked at the cows again.

“How are we going to get them back?”  Asked Saffron’s Mum.

“’Ere,” said, Farmer Filbert, “I’m not too sure ‘baht that.”

Saffron turned to Andrew and stared at him.  Andrew shrugged.

“Cows don’t udderstand finger clicks, I’m afraid,” he said and shrugged again.  Saffron humphed a bit and then, seizing Bruno’s hand just a little bit tighter, she walked off into the village to start to round the cows up.

Getting the cows out of people’s gardens and out of the bowling club was pretty straightforward.  Convincing the two cows to return the tandem and head back toward the paddock was a touch harder but Saffron, using one of her sterner voices, managed to do it (especially when the cow at the front realised the cow at the back hadn’t been pedalling for the last fifteen minutes and had, in fact, been sat with her hooves up, taking in the view).  Next Saffron turned her attention to cow on the park bench.  She simply wouldn’t be moved.  Saffron realised why once she had looked over the cow’s shoulder; she was in the middle of the crossword.  Saffron patiently waited, helped out with seven down (the clue: muscles in the lower part of the leg…the answer: calves).  Once she had finished the cow folded the newspaper and tucked it behind her ear and merrily made her way back to the farmer’s field.

The cow staring down the train was something else.  Saffron tried shooing the cow.  It didn’t work.  Saffron tried pushing the cow.  It didn’t work.  Saffron tried rustling some delicious hay in the direction of the obstinate cow in an attempt to tempt her with some bovine cuisine.  It didn’t work.  Saffron could hear Farmer Filbert getting restless.  He was saying “’ere” again and she knew she had to do something to get the cow back to the paddock.  All of a sudden, she knew exactly what to do.  She needed a stare, not just any old stare, of course, but a stare for the ages.  A stare that was steady.  A stare that was sure.  A stare that could outstare a staring cow.  And the answer was right there in her hands.

Saffron put Bruno right in front of the errant cow.  The cow met Bruno’s stare.  The cow stared at Bruno.  Bruno stared at the cow.  The cow mooed, and continued to stare at Bruno.  Bruno didn’t moo but continued to stare at the cow.  Slowly and steadily, Saffron moved Bruno; always making sure her eyes met the cows.  The cow followed.  The cow mooed and stared at Bruno.  Bruno didn’t moo but stared at the cow.  Saffron guided the cow back toward the paddock and Farmer Filbert stopped saying “’ere” and, as he saw the cow and the toy frog eye to eye, in fierce staring competition, said, “Well, I never!” instead.  Saffron closed and chained up the gate and all the cows were home.  They all started to munch on the clover, as if nothing had happened at all.

The Sixteen Stephens all stood looking a bit guilty; desperately wishing they had feet to stare at instead of having to every now and then catch Saffron’s eye.  The air was tense.  The Sixteen Stephens could feel a bit of a warranted tongue-lashing was about to take place.  It wasn’t a very nice feeling, at all!  It was at this point that Stephen Number Ten decided to take matters into his own hands.  He didn’t enjoy feeling guilty…especially when he had actually done the thing he was being made to feel guilty for!  He could see the look in Andrew’s eyes and he could see the look in Saffron’s eyes…and he could see the look in Bruno’s eyes, although to be fair, this was the same look Bruno always had.  He was a toy frog.  Stephen Number Ten could feel beads of sweat breaking out on his brow.  His cheeks were beginning to glow from pink to red.  Two words were building up from inside his head and he just knew they were going to burst out pretty jolly soon!  In preparation for these two words, two custard pies appeared in his hands.

“FOOD FIGHT!”

He flung the flans.

SPLAT!  Custard pies collided with faces, with tummies, with arms, with the backs of heads, with everything!  The yellow gloop was flying everywhere.  Stephen Number Ten furiously threw pie after pie, a grim look of determination on his face.  He seemed to have a sixth sense about him, he avoided, dodged and ducked from all and any custardy comestible heading his way.  He managed to make the trifle miss him.  The éclairs did no damage to this spectral visage.  And Saffron noticed this.  And so Saffron took careful aim and Saffron threw her custard tart.  Bullseye – which seemed quite appropriate given the nature of things! – The pie landed slap bang in the middle of Stephen Number Ten’s face.  He didn’t see it coming.  Underneath the crust and custard there was a look of extreme surprise on the ghost’s face.

Stephen Number Ten looked just like the picture Saffron had been drawing!

Stephen Number Eight had been transformed.  He had gone through staring at the ground and picking at his fingernails, swathed in guilt, to trying to sneak away from the group of ghouls at the back, to running around desperately trying to cram more and more of the custard pies into his ever expanding mouth.  He looked like a sweet, yellow ghost of a hamster.  His cheeks were puffed out so much he was in danger of not fitting through doorways.  Globs of custard dribbled from his stuffed full mouth.  His mouth turned up in the form of a smiley smile!

Tarts and pies zoomed through the air.  The Sixteen Stephens were absolutely smothered in cream and custard and hundreds and thousands and jelly and bits of fruit and chocolate and gloop and goo and mess and laughter.  The cows looked over the hedge of their paddock and slowly chewed the cud.  Nothing seemed to faze the cows.  One of them reached out, grabbed a pie, popped it in her mouth and slowly started chewing that instead.  The cow moo’d her appreciation of the creaminess of the custard.

Saffron looked at the complete contrast between the unhurried and slow chewing bovines and the gloop encrusted ghouls and she giggled.

“What on earth did you start a food fight for?”  She asked.

“FOOD FIGHT!”  Yelled Stephen Number Ten again and each of the ghosts readied a pie in each hand.

“Stop!”  Exclaimed Andrew, “Enough pie throwing for one day.  There’s hot chocolate to be had, remember?”  There was much licking of lips and putting away of custardy missiles.  “Well?”  He asked, staring straight at Stephen Number Ten.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time?”  was the best Stephen Number Ten could manage.   There was a pause and the pause was broken by the sound of Saffron’s laughter.

“Fancy a cow doing a crossword,” Saffron laughed, “Or cows riding a tandem,” She sniggered, “Or a cow and train driver in a staring competition,” she snorted.

“What was that, darling?” Asked Saffron’s Mum.

“Oh, I was just laughing at how much fun it was getting those cows back in the field,” said Saffron.  She clutched Bruno in one hand and helped her mother carry the pail of milk back home.

The Sixteen Stephens, now a giggling gaggle of ghouls, trailed along behind Saffron and her Mum.  A yellow river of custard ran after them too.  The wind was still biting cold and the thought of hot chocolate seemed like one of the best ideas ever.  Andrew paused and looked about the village and at the Sixteen Stephens.  He sighed.  And then he gave a sharp click of his fingers and all returned it all to however it once was.  Fortunately, bicycle shops, 2:45s from Town, gardens and newspapers (and custard) all understand finger clicks.  One of the cow’s stomachs was slightly emptier than it had been moments before.  The cow hardly noticed and carried on chewing the cud…slowly.

Back in her kitchen, Saffron’s mother got going with warming the milk.  The Sixteen Stephens and Andrew and Saffron and Bruno sat and licked their lips in anticipation.  The hot chocolate was the creamiest, most chocolaty and most delicious they’d all had in a long time.  A contented sigh swam in the cosy kitchen and the red and yellow leaves swirled and swept about in the wicked wind outside.

Gorgeous, delicious, creamy hot chocolate!

Saffron & Bruno and the Sixteen Stephens and Andrew and the Thousands Normans and William

Saffron waved bye-bye to her mother, and to the Sixteen Stephens and Andrew

With a giggle and a smile, Saffron turned and waved goodbye to her mother, and to the Sixteen Stephens and Andrew.  She was off to school and the Sixteen Stephens and Andrew were still immensely fascinated by the place.  As she waved she could see their faces pushed up against the window of the attic.  Their noses were the most interesting of shapes and – even though they were ghosts – the glass was fogged up from their breath.  Saffron giggled again and wondered why on earth were they so fascinated by such a simple place as her school?

Saffron got on the bus and sat on her seat, next to Rachel.

“Hi, Saffron,” said Rachel, “Hi, Bruno.”  Saffron still sometimes took Bruno to school with her.  He seemed to enjoy it so much and all the other classmates, apart from two of course, all seemed to enjoy him being part of their games.

“Hi, Rachel,” Saffron replied.  She could not help notice how happy Rachel seemed.  “You look especially happy, today,” she said, “Why’s that then?”

“We start a new topic in class, today,” Rachel said and beamed with excitement.

“Oh, yeah,” said Saffron as she remembered Mr Dressing’s words from the previous day, “we’re starting a History project, aren’t we?”
“Yes we are,” said Rachel with unconcealed joy, “I love History.  I can’t wait!”  Saffron giggled yet again.  Her friend’s enthusiasm was infectious!

“Huh!”  Came a disparaging voice from the seat behind the two girls, “Stupid History and its boring books.  What are we ever going to need History for?  I won’t need History when I’m the most famous wrestler in the world, that’s for certain!”  The two girls shrugged and chose to ignore the comments coming from Agatha Bartholomew, who was sitting with her round friend in the row behind them.

“Hur hur,” went her round friend.  Saffron tutted and the two girls went back to their conversation.

“What do you think Mr Dressing will have for us to study?”  Saffron said,

“Well,” Rachel replied, giving her answer some thought, “There is quite a lot of History, and we have done some learning about Egypt and Greece and Queen Elizabeths One and Two…” Rachel paused; she was obviously rapt in this subject.  Saffron enjoyed seeing her friend so very happy.  “…hmmm, it’s so hard to think….There’s just too much History to go round,’ she said with a laugh.  Saffron laughed too.  This time, the tut came from a voice in the row behind the girls.

*

After the hustle and bustle of the classroom settled, Mr Dressing told the class what their new History topic was going to be.  To a puzzled silence, he announced that the students were going to be able to research and study any aspect of local history they would like to.

“Oh, no,” groaned Agatha Bartholomew, “not ‘local history’!”  She wailed and flung her head down on the desk and lurched back up again, announcing to the class, “That’s like the worst most boring of all the History!  We’re going to have to go to the local String Museum or the Roman Trench, again!”  Agatha Bartholomew’s round friend pinched her nose at the mention of the Roman Trench, one of the stinkiest of all the historical sites the surrounding area had to offer.  At least it was better though than the Saxon Settlement, once you got passed the smell.  At least there were proper Roman things at the Roman Trench, not like the Saxon Settlement, which was a round shape of round pole holes in the ground, cut-off from the rest of the world by being in a glass case and having only one sign that read “The Saxon Settlement”.  That was a boring place to visit.

The class was a cacophony of noise.  Much discussion was going on as to the topics the students wanted to study.  Some of the noise constituted the continuing groans and moans of Agatha Bartholomew and her round friend but the majority were excited at the prospect of finding out about the history of the village and the surrounding countryside.  One boy put his hand up.

“Yes, Simon,” said Mr Dressing.

“Please, sir,” said Simon, “can I do like an investigation about my family, please, sir?  They’ve lived in the area for years and Mum’s always on about doing a family tree.”

“Family tree!?”  Interjected Agatha Bartholomew, “How booooo-ring,” she said.  Simon ruffled his nose and tried to ignore her.

“Of course, you can, Simon,’ said Mr Dressing, “I’m sure that would be a fine present for your mother, when it’s complete.”

“A boring present for your mother, more like,” said Agatha Bartholomew.

“Hur hur,” went her round friend.

Saffron and Rachel sat staring at empty pages and thought very hard about what they would like to study.  Brows were furrowed and lips pursed.  Every so often a tongue would poke out of the side of a mouth.  A sparkle appeared in Saffron’s eye.  She looked over at her friend.

“I know,” she said, “Filbert’s farm.”

“Huh?” Said Rachel, she was a little confused.

“The farm that Farmer Filbert has got…”

“Yes…?”

“Well,” said Saffron, “There’s been a farm around here for centuries.  We could look into the history of the farm and see how it’s changed and how farming has changed and how the people that own the farm have changed through history.”

“Hmmm,” said Rachel, “That won’t have any battles or royalty involved, you know?”
“I know,” said Saffron, “but,” she said with glee, “it may tell us where the Sixteen Stephens and Andrew come from!”

“And who,” asked Rachel, “are the ‘Sixteen Stephens and Andrew’ when they’re at home?”  Saffron blushed a little, her mouth had got ahead of her brain for a moment.

“Oh, they’re some friends of mine,” said Saffron, “I’m desperate to find out a bit more about them.”

“OK,” Rachel agreed with a hint of hesitancy in her voice, “Shall we work together?”  Saffron nodded and the girls put their hand up to attract Mr Dressing’s attention.

“Yes,” said the teacher.

“Mr Dressing,” said Saffron, “Would it be alright for me and Rachel to work together on a project?  We’d like to investigate the history of Filbert’s Farm.  We’ll do a presentation for the class, sir.”  Mr Dressing smiled in agreement.

“Absolutely, girls.” He said, “The local farm is a treasure trove of historical facts and figures.  I think you’ll be amazed by what you find out.”

“I know there was a fire there, once,” said Saffron, “hundreds of years ago.”

“Really?” Said Mr Dressing, sounding a little impressed.

“Yes,” said Saffron, “and the farmer’s daughter wasn’t killed in the fire but two farmhands were when they rescued her.”  Rachel looked amazed and Mr Dressing looked a little more impressed.

“Well,” he said, “it sounds like you have a head-start from which to commence your research!”  And off he went to speak with some other students about the projects they would like to do.

“A project about a farm!?”  Agatha Bartholomew sounded incredulous, “That’s even more boring than a family tree!”

“Hur hur,” went her round friend.

“At least with a family tree you might find out one of your great-great-great-great-great-uncles was a pirate or a king of a really small country,” Agatha Bartholomew went on, enjoying the sound of her own voice, “what are you going to research about a farm? How sheep’s wool has got woollier through the ages?  The evolution of ploughing!  The history of cowpats?”

“Hur hur,” went her round friend, again.  Saffron and Rachel hunkered down over their desks.  They had work to do.

*

Saffron and Rachel were sat with their work all over the table.  It was a table in the school canteen and it was lunchtime.  They had managed to find out quite a lot of information about the farm.  Farmer Filbert had been very helpful and had been able to show the girls that some of the buildings he now owned dated back to the 11^th century!  That would have meant that the farm had been around for nearly a thousand years!  Saffron and Rachel were amazed.

“Ooooh,” said a voice over the girls’ shoulders, “Look, Glo, the girls are doing Filbert’s Farm!”

“Well I never did,” said Gloria Waynor, one of the dinner-ladies, “I ‘aven’t been out there for years!  Years and years and years and years, and years.”

“Me neither,” agreed Gladys Wight, the other of the dinner-ladies.  “Years and years and years.  Not since that mysterious man turned up a fair while ago now, said he was on the run and going into hiding…”

“Dick Turpin?”  Gloria prompted.

“No, older than that,” said Gladys, “That Welsh fella…”

“The one with the accent…”

“Never seen hide nor hair of him ever again…Owing Glandular or something or other…”
“Anyway,” said Gloria, cutting the reminiscence short, “we’ve not been out to Filbert’s for centuries.”  Rachel didn’t hear because it’s not the sort of sentence that you expect to hear in every day conversation but Saffron could not but help overhear.  She looked up at the two tabard-wearing women.

“Centuries?”  The two women looked at her and smiled.  “What do you know about a fire at the farm?”

“What’s not to know,” winked Gloria, “young girl saved and new friends made.”  Rachel looked up from her work and saw Saffron staring, open-mouthed, at the two dinner-ladies.

“You know who you should go and see,” said Gladys, “you should go and see The Librarian.  She’ll tell you all you need to know.”  The two girls looked at each other and shrugged.

“We’ve been to the library and the librarian has been very helpful, yes.”

“No,” said Gladys portentously, “The village Librarian.  The keeper of all the knowledge about the village!”

“Is there something wrong with your voice?”  Asked Rachel.

“Cheeky thing,” said Gladys.

“Come on, Glad,” said Gloria, “These tables won’t clean themselves, you know.”  The dinner-ladies left the girls to their work.  Saffron was very intrigued.  As they walked away, Gloria looked back over her shoulder and said, “And say hello to that lovely Andrew for us, won’t you?”  Saffron’s mouth dropped open once again.

*

The door to the village library creaked open.  There was a subdued atmosphere in the building and everything was being done in hushed tones.  Saffron and Rachel approached the desk of the library.  Saffron paused and looked around.  The shelves seemed ever so tall and the books seemed ever so old and large.  This was crazy, she thought, Saffron loved books; she had hundreds of them at home.  This was different, though, the books here looked to be bursting with knowledge.  They looked to be “important” books and, perhaps most curiously, they looked to be books that had never been touched in a long, long time.  Another word that could be used to describe the atmosphere in the library was dust.  Saffron could feel a layer forming over her skin as she stood at the desk.  She could feel the dust coating her lips and tongue as she breathed in.  It wasn’t annoying dust.  Tiny specks of knowledge rested on her; and whilst, none of it could be absorbed in just being in the library being covered in a layer of knowledge made Saffron feel a hundred times more intelligent that she had been when she walked in just a few moments ago.  She squeezed Bruno and was glad she’d brought him along with her and Rachel.

An “ahem” drew Saffron back to reality and she stared into the eyes of The Librarian.

“Is there something I can help you with?”  Whispered The Librarian.  The two girls looked at each other and gulped.  Saffron spoke.

“Um, please would you be able to help us find some information about the history of Filbert’s Farm?”  The Librarian looked at Saffron and at Rachel.  She had grey hair, two strands of which hung down by the side of her face; she wore flat, rimmed glasses she could look over and a brooch on the right hand side of her collar.  The brooch was a jewel-encrusted book, the spine of which seemed to be a row of small rubies.  There were lines in her face and the dust of the library seemed to settle there as if by choice.  Perhaps there was someone in here who could absorb knowledge?

“Please do remember to keep you voices down,” The Librarian whispered, “This is a library.  It is a place of quiet and quietness.”  The girls gulped again, “Come with me,” said The Librarian and she moved toward the reference section.  To say she walked would not be accurate.  It was impossible to see her legs move under her skirts.  It would be ludicrous to say she floated but she certainly gave the impression of simply moving by sheer force of will, rather than being propelled by mere legs.  Perhaps she let the pull of the books move her.  The girls gulped and then followed.  As they walked they continued to stare around the building.  Leather bound tomes crested each and every shelf.  The labels on the bookcases were fixed brass and had the numbers of the Dewy Decimal System engraved into them.  They looked original, like they’d never been moved.  They had greened over in places, age oxidising them.  A cobweb waved in a draught and still the tiny gobbets of grit and knowledge attached themselves to Saffron; she just knew that this library had the smartest spiders in the village.  The dust hung in the air, catching light and dancing in small winds.  It was like the lightest of grey snowfalls.

The girls absorbed the knowledge floating in the air...

 The Librarian opened a glass cabinet door and took out an old, very old, large, very large book.  She placed it on a table in the Reference Section and she carefully turned the parchment paper to the frontispiece.  She beckoned the girls over and indicated the book’s title to them: The Doomsday Book.  She turned a few more pages and stood back to let the girls in closer.  The text on the page was indecipherable.  Small scratched letter in language older than them looked out from the page.  The Librarian hovered behind the girls.  Her presence seemed to make the book behave.  The text swam and formed into clearer English.  The girls leaned in closer.  They frowned over the pages as they took in the book’s words; and then they smiled.  And then Saffron smiled a smile that threatened to stretch her cheeks all the way to Tuesday.

*

Saffron sat on her bed and rehearsed her lines in her head.  At the foot of her bed sat her poster.  She knew, right at this moment, Rachel was sat on her bed with her poster, rehearsing her lines too.  Tomorrow was their presentation day and they knew they had to get everything right.  Saffron looked up at the ceiling.  She heard her first bump of the evening.  She grabbed Bruno by the hand, picked up her poster, smiled and went upstairs to the attic.

*

The Sixteen Stephens were gobsmacked.  Andrew was very impressed.  Saffron had finished her presentation and the seventeen ghosts were gathered around her poster looking at all the pictures and taking in all that she had just told them.  Every now and again one of the Sixteen Stephens would point at a picture and whisper something to another of the Sixteen Stephens.  There would be a short exchange of more whispers and then a “well I never” and a nod of the head and then more pointing and whispering.

“Do you think we’ve got it all right?”  Saffron asked Andrew.  Andrew smiled and nodded his head.

“You’ve done a terrific job.  Pretty much as I remember it.  Plus, what you’ve discovered about how the farm came to be is pretty astounding.”

“I wanted to ask you a question,” Saffron said.

“Oh yes,” Andrew was intrigued.

“How come our two dinner-ladies at school know who you are?”  There was a pause and Andrew looked a little bit bashful.  His face took on the appearance of a thoughtful face and he seemed about to speak when there was a clearing of the throat by Stephen Number Twelve (and a filling of the throat by Stephen Number Eight, which was on the way to being a filling of the belly, as a pancake roll was munched and swallowed).

“So, if I’ve got this straight,” started Stephen Number Twelve, “This presentation of yours tells the story of Filbert’s Farm all the way through history?”

“That’s right,” said Saffron, “What do you think?”

“Well,’ Stephen Number Twelve snorted through his nose, “I find it highly suspicious that all these men called Norman arrived in the country – and all on the same day, you seem to be saying – and then they take over the farms and the country after they win a battle at Battle, which can’t be a thing, surely; and then they get a man called William to be their king because he’s great at conkers and he get’s a crown for a present on Christmas Day, which seems highly unlikely to me.  Then he writes a best-selling book about how ‘we’re all doomed!’ and that book is in fact not a story but a huge list about what’s in the country and one of the things in the country is Filbert’s Farm which is actually owned by a man called Norman who is also called Philippe Bert and his two right-hand men who are also called Norman but are also called Stefan Du Tarte À La Crème Anglaise and Andre Le Propre.  Frankly,” said Stephen Number Twelve, pausing to catch his breath, “I find this all a bit hard to believe.”  He folded his arms as if to indicate a full stop.

“But it’s all true, at least a something like what you’ve said is the truth, yes,” giggled Saffron, cwtching Bruno to her.  Andrew smiled.

“And you learned all this at this school you keep going to?”  Stephen Number Twelve sounded baffled.

“That’s right.  And, from the library.”

“Library?  That’s a place with lots of books and dust, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Saffron.  Stephen Number Twelve shook his head in wonderment.

“Whatever will they think of next?”  He asked.  Saffron turned back to Andrew.

“You were going to say…?”  Andrew looked thoughtful again.  Saffron could see the words forming behind his mouth.  Andrew opened his mouth to speak.

“Well, we first…”

“And the book was a list of everything in the country, you say?”  Butted in Stephen Number Twelve again, “Everything?  Like a list of all the sausages and hat-pins?  A list of all the shoes?”

“And custard pies,” added Stephen Number Ten.

“Yes, and all the custard pies?”  Stephen Number Twelve shook his head in astonishment.  Saffron looked back at Andrew and waited for him to carry on with his story.

“And then,” continued Stephen Number Twelve, “at a later date, the Bubbling Play infected the whole country and Farmer Fill-Berte, who owned the farm at the time, noted in his diary that some actors came and performed the Bubbling Play and no one caught the play because they were locked in two houses in the village for safety.”

“No,” Saffron explained patiently, “There was an outbreak of bubonic plague in the country and the villagers locked themselves in two of the houses they knew were safe when some travelling actors came to the village to perform a play.”
“Oh, right,” said Stephen Number Twelve, “The actors can’t have been too happy that their audience wouldn’t come out and see them act.”

“No, but as Farmer Fill-Berte’s diary said,” said Saffron, “’One of the actors, a man from the Midlands so his accent would indicate, knocked on the door.  We told him to go away because there was no plague in both these houses and the troupe of actors tutted and left the village alone.’”

“Right, gotcha.”  Said Stephen Number Twelve, “So there was not a play about bubbles?”

“No.”

“Right.”  Saffron turned from Stephen Number Twelve and look expectantly back at Andrew.

“And all this happened at the farm in the village?”  There was general sighing from all around the attic.  Saffron giggled and gave up.  She went back down to her bedroom and did a final practice of her presentation before she went to bed.

*

The presentation was a roaring success!

The presentation was a resounding success, once Mr Dressing had sent Agatha Bartholomew and her round friend to see the Head Mistress for continual disruption and the blowing of raspberries.  Saffron and Rachel were able to tell the story of Filbert’s Farm right from its creation during the time of the Normans, all the way through to the present day.  Farmer Filbert was bowled over to discover it was an ancestor of his who had founded the farm.  He was even more bowled over to discover his family were originally from Normandy, in France, and he immediately set out investigating the price of garlic and snail crops and holiday homes.  The class had been particularly moved by the story of the fire in the barn and how the farmer’s daughter had been rescued.  Farmer Filbert in particular was moved by this part of the story.  The girl in question had been his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great…he’d lost count, but she’d have been one of his great, great, etcetera grandmothers.  He wouldn’t have been here if it hadn’t been for those two brave farmhands who had gone to the girl’s rescue.  How lucky he was.  The class had applauded and Saffron and Rachel had taken a bow.  The posters had taken their place on the classroom wall and all was well.

At the back of the room, Saffron noted, Gloria Waynor and Gladys Wight had a tear in their eye and a smile in their hearts.  They loved hearing the story Filbert’s Farm.  Over the centuries they must’ve heard it hundreds of times.  It never got old.  They remembered they must give those two young girls extra helping of jam-roly-poly…if ever they’d come and ask for some.

*

Back in the attic, Sixteen Stephens were practising walking through walls, well, Stephen Number Ten was practising throwing pies and Stephen Number Eight was practising catching them with his mouth and gobbling them up as fast as he could.  As they practised, Stephen Number Twelve was still desperately trying to get his head around the story.

“…So, (ouch!) they weren’t all called Norman, then?”

“No,” laughed Saffron.

“…and the book (ouch!) wasn’t a story about us all being doomed?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Hmmm,” Said Stephen Number Twelve, still finding it hard to believe.  It seemed a shame that they would all forget the story of the farm after a few days.  He walked into the wall once more and said, “Ouch!” once again.  Saffron giggled and gave Bruno a squeeze.  These were definitely her favourite ghosts in all the world.  Ever.