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.