The Reverend and Miss Blackhat by Jackie Penticost

Reverend Foster stooped into the small parlour, warm and welcoming as a grandmother’s hug.

He sank gratefully into to a large overstuffed tapestry chair, raising clouds of dust as he did so.   It was safer to stay in one place and let the room recover its composure. 

Whiskers and tails vanished, and small black eyes peeped out of holes in the wainscot.  A nest of bluetits in the Brown Betty teapot peeped frantically before subsiding.  The old leather-bound books on the dresser growled and jostled with each other, but they were safely chained.  The vicar had been bitten last week.

A thousand small treasures filled every surface and formed tottering piles on the carpet.  Keepsakes, things that might come in useful one day, stuff that had to be saved to prevent waste, objects that had meaning and power, charms that worked and many that didn’t, instruments scientific and magical, animals needing care, and those who would kill with a glance.   

On the mantelpiece over the small fireplace, souvenirs and keepsakes jostled for attention.   A shell sculpture from Margate and an Isle of Wight lighthouse nestled against a lustre jug showing the siege of Mafeking.  Two black candles in sconces hid behind a novelty cow creamer and a ceramic terrier struggled to keep its place.

Pictures of different sizes hung from the dado to no decorative effect. The Coronation of Edward VII sat alongside a framed letter on portcullis headed paper, signed ‘from a grateful nation, Winston’.   A picture of comedy gambling dogs sat alongside a woman stabbing herself,  entitled ‘A Broken Vow’.  A yard of ale in a wooden frame  had ‘E Blackhat, South East regional winner, 1903’ engraved on a brass plate.

Something tugged at his hair, and he turned to see a large bright-eyed jackdaw regarding him from the chair back.   ‘Checking for nits’  it said, and shrugged as much as a bird can shrug.

‘ I’m all out of insect life today, Diogenes’ 

‘I can wait’.   The bird flew to the top of the dresser and dislodged part of last years’ nest, showering twigs onto the large apothecary jars which lined the shelves.  Belladonna and henbane were interspersed with liniments and rosemary oil, and the labels were torn and faded. 

‘What kind of mood is she in?’

The jackdaw stopped preening its wing feathers and gestured at the old barometer on the wall.  It was set to ‘Fair’. The other settings were ‘Evil’, ‘Tempestuous’, ‘Grumpy’ and ‘Cheerful’.  So he stood a decent chance of getting his way.

A Huntley and Palmers tin on the dining table started to shake in anticipation, and in the next room the kettle began a rising whistle.  The fine bone china was already laid out, so he took the lid off the biscuits and let the Bath Olivers arrange themselves on a plate.

The old lady tottered in with a large teapot, and looked at him expectantly.

‘Miss Blackhat, we have work to do’  said the Reverend Foster, and held out the letter.