"Oh, that all? Mouse, most like. Maybe a rat."
"A rat! You have rats in here?" Brianna's agitation was noticeable.
"Well, I hope not, because if so, they'll have been chewing up the records we're looking for," Roger replied. He handed her the torch. "Here, shine this in any dark places; at least you won't be taken by surprise."
"Thanks a lot." Brianna accepted the torch, but still eyed the stacks of cartons with some reluctance.
"Well, go on then," Roger said. "Or did you want me to do you a rat satire on the spot?"
Brianna's face split in a wide grin. "A rat satire? What's that?"
Roger delayed his answer, long enough for another try at the window. He pushed until he could feel his biceps straining against the fabric of his shirt, but at last, with a rending screech, the window gave way, and a reviving draft of cool air whooshed in through the six-inch gap he'd created.
"God, that's better." He fanned himself exaggeratedly, grinning at Brianna. "Now, shall we get on with it?"
She handed him the torch, and stepped back. "How about you find the boxes, and I'll sort through them? And what's a rat satire?"
"Coward," he said, bending to rummage beneath the tarpaulin. "A rat satire is an old Scottish custom; if you had rats or mice in your house or your barn, you could make them go away by composing a poem—or you could sing it—telling the rats how poor the eating was where they were, and how good it was elsewhere. You told them where to go, and how to get there, and presumably, if the satire was good enough—they'd go."
He pulled out a carton labeled JACOBITES, MISCELLANEOUS, and carried it to the table, singing,
"Ye rats, ye are too many,
If ye would dine in plenty,
Ye mun go, ye mun go."
Lowering the box with a thump, he bowed in response to Brianna's giggling and turned back to the stacks, continuing in stentorian voice.
"Go to Campbell's garden,
Where nae cat stands warden,
And the kale, it grows green.
Go and fill your bellies,
Dinna stay and gnaw my wellies—
Go, ye rats, go!"
Brianna snorted appreciatively. "Did you just make that up?"
"Of course." Roger deposited another box on the table with a flourish. "A good rat satire must always be original." He cast a glance at the serried ranks of cartons. "After that performance, there shouldn't be a rat within miles of this place."
"Good." Brianna pulled a jackknife from her pocket and slit the tape that sealed the topmost carton. "You should come do one at the bed-and-breakfast place; Mama says she's sure there's mice in the bathroom. Something chewed on her soap case."
"God knows what it would take to dislodge a mouse capable of eating bars of soap; far beyond my feeble powers, I expect." He rolled a tattered round hassock out from behind a teetering stack of obsolete encyclopedias, and plumped down next to Brianna. "Here, you take the parish registers, they're a bit easier to read."
They worked through the morning in amiable companionship, turning up occasional interesting passages, the odd silverfish, and recurrent clouds of dust, but little of value to the project at hand.
"We'd better stop for lunch soon," Roger said at last. He felt a strong reluctance to go back into the house, where he would once more be at Fiona's mercy, but Brianna's stomach had begun to growl almost as loudly as his own.
"Okay. We can do some more after we eat, if you're not worn out." Brianna stood and stretched herself, her curled fists almost reaching the rafters of the old garage. She wiped her hands on the legs of her jeans, and ducked between the stacks of boxes.
"Hey!" She stopped short, near the door. Roger, following her, was brought up sharp, his nose almost touching, the back of her head.
"What is it?" he asked. "Not another rat?" He noted with approval that the sun lit her thick single braid with glints of copper and gold. With a small golden nimbus of dust surrounding her, and the light of noon silhouetting her long-nosed profile, he thought she looked quite medieval; Our Lady of the Archives.
"No. Look at this, Roger!" She pointed at a cardboard carton near the middle of a stack. On the side, in the Reverend's strong black hand, was a label with the single word "Randall."
Roger felt a stab of mingled excitement and apprehension. Brianna's excitement was unalloyed.
"Maybe that's got the stuff we're looking for!" she exclaimed. "Mama said it was something my father was interested in; maybe he'd already asked the Reverend about it."
"Could be." Roger forced down the sudden feeling of dread that had struck him at sight of the name. He knelt to extract the box from its resting place. "Let's take it in the house; we can look in it after lunch."
The box, once opened in the Reverend's study, held an odd assortment of things. There were old photostats of pages from several parish registers, two or three army muster lists, a number of letters and scattered papers, a small, thin notebook, bound in gray cardboard covers, a packet of elderly photographs, curling at the edges, and a stiff folder, with the name "Randall" printed on the cover.
Brianna picked up the folder and opened it. "Why, it's daddy's family tree!" she exclaimed. "Look." She passed the folder to Roger. Inside were two sheets of thick parchment, with lines of descent neatly ruled across and down. The beginning date was 1633; the final entry, at the foot of the second page, showed
Frank Wolverton Randall m. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp, 1937
"Done before you were born," Roger murmured.
Brianna peered over his shoulder as his finger passed slowly down the lines of the genealogical table. "I've seen it before; daddy had a copy in his study. He used to show it to me all the time. His had me at the bottom, though; this must be an early copy."
"Maybe the Reverend did some of the research for him." Roger handed Brianna back the folder, and picked up one of the papers from the stack on the desk.
"Now here's an heirloom for you," he said. He traced the coat of arms embossed at the head of the sheet. "A letter of commission in the army, signed by His Royal Majesty, King George II."
"George the Second? Jeez, that's even before the American Revolution."
"Considerably before. It's dated 1735. In the name of Jonathan Wolverton Randall. Know that name?"
"Yeah." Brianna nodded, stray wisps of hair falling in her face. She wiped them back carelessly and took the letter. "daddy used to talk about him every now and then; one of the few ancestors he knew much about. He was a captain in the army that fought Bonnie Prince Charlie at Culloden." She looked up at Roger, blinking. "I think maybe he was killed in that battle, in fact. He wouldn't have been buried there, would he?"
Roger shook his head. "I shouldn't think so. It was the English who cleared up after the battle. They shipped most of their own dead back home for burial—the officers, anyway."
He was prevented from further observation by the sudden appearance in the doorway of Fiona, bearing a feather duster like a battle standard.
"Mr. Wakefield," she called. "There's the man come to take awa' the Reverend's truck, but he canna get it started. He says will ye be givin' him a hand, like?"
Roger started guiltily. He had taken the battery to a garage for testing, and it was still sitting in the backseat of his own Morris. No wonder the Reverend's truck wasn't starting.
"I'll have to go sort this out," he told Brianna. "I'm afraid it might take a while."
"That's okay." She smiled at him, blue eyes narrowing to triangles. "I should go too. Mama will be back by now; we thought we might go out to the Clava Cairns, if there was time. Thanks for the lunch."
"My pleasure—and Fiona's." Roger felt a stab of regret at being unable to offer to go with her, but duty called. He glanced at the papers spread out on the desk, then scooped them up and deposited them back in the box.
"Here," he said. "This is all your family records. You take it. Maybe your mother would be interested."
"Really? Well, thanks, Roger. Are you sure?"
"Absolutely," he said, carefully laying the folder with the genealogical chart on top. "Oh, wait. Maybe not all of it." The corner of the gray notebook stuck out from under the letter of commission; he pulled it free, and tidied the disturbed papers back into the box. "This looks like one of the Reverend's journals. Can't think what it's doing in there, but I suppose I'd better put it with the others; the historical society says they want the whole lot."
"Oh, sure." Brianna had risen to go, clutching the box to her chest, but hesitated, looking at him. "Do you—would you like me to come back?"
Roger smiled at her. There were cobwebs in her hair, and a long streak of dirt down the bridge of her nose.
"Nothing I'd like better," he said. "See you tomorrow, eh?"
The thought of the Reverend's journal stayed with Roger, all during the tedious business of getting the ancient truck started, and the subsequent visit of the furniture appraiser who came to sort the valuable antiques from the rubbish, and set a value on the Reverend's furnishings for auction.
This disposition of the Reverend's effects gave Roger a sense of restless melancholy. It was, after all, a dismantling of his own youth, as much as the clearing away of useless bric-a-brac. By the time he sat down in the study after dinner, he could not have said whether it was curiosity about the Randalls that compelled him to pick up the journal, or simply the urge somehow to regain a tenuous connection with the man who had been his father for so many years.