Here is that story as it is still recounted in the parish, with slight variation and embellishment, according to the nature of the narrator and the perceived susceptibility of the auditor. Be advised, it is not a tale for the faint-hearted…

Then her view of the book was interrupted by a large plate and Mrs. Appledore’s voice said, “There we go, dear. Tuck in.”

Sam smiled her thanks at the woman, then lowered her eyes to the plate and felt the full force of the Reverend’s warning. Here was something else definitely not for the faint-hearted. Reminding her of the Wolf-Head Cross carving of Jormungand, the fabled Midgard serpent coiled around the world, on her plate a single monstrous sausage, uninterrupted by twist or crimp, curled around a mountain of chips topped by a fried egg. There had to be enough cholesterol here to give a god or a hero a heart attack. She took a long pull at her beer while she contemplated how to get to grips with it.

Another pint glass was set before her. She looked up to see the old Viking again.

“Thanks, but I’ve got plenty.”

“Perhaps. But I think you’ll need a lot more to wash that down,” he said. “As we say round here, best way is to pick an end and press on till tha meets tha own behind.”

This seemed an impossible journey but she was very hungry and after the first visual shock, she found it smelled quite delicious, so she sawed half an inch off the sausage’s tail and put it into her mouth. Fifteen minutes later she was wiping up the last of the egg yolk with the last of the chips. She’d even essayed the merest fork-point of flavoring from a jar of the mordant mustard and found it not displeasing.

She was also nearly at the bottom of her third pint. It really was good beer. It was also beer she hadn’t paid for and by the strict rules of the society she’d grown up in, girls who didn’t stand their round were signifying their willingness to make some other form of payment. She looked toward the shady corner but there was no sign of Mr. Melton. Winander was still there between the duplicated gravediggers.

She emptied her glass, stood up and went to the bar.

“Ready for pudding?” said Mrs. Appledore.

Shuddering to think how big her puddings might be, Sam said, “No. I’m a bit knackered after all that driving so I think I’ll hit the hay. Mr. Melton’s gone, has he?”

“Only to the Gents. Why?”

“I just wanted to buy him a drink, that’s all. And Mr. Winander too. Put one in the till for them both, will you? And stick it on my bill.”

“Of course, dear,” said the landlady approvingly. “Us girls need to stand our corner these days.”

“We surely do. Talking of which, don’t us girls come out to drink round here?”

“Sometimes, but tonight they’ll be sitting with Lorna – that’s the mam of young Billy Knipp that we buried today. The men leave ’em to it. Sorry if it bothered you, dear.”

“Men don’t bother me, Mrs. Appledore,” said Sam.

“That’s all right then,” said the landlady. “I never asked you, did you find anything out at the church? About your family, I mean?”

Was this a good moment to ask about the inscription? No, Sam decided. But it might be a good moment to give everyone here the chance to volunteer information.

She said, “No, nothing. Look, as a final fling, would it be all right if I spoke to this lot in the bar, asked them if anyone recalled a family called Flood in these parts?”

Mrs. Appledore glanced assessingly at the assembled drinkers then said, “Why not? It’ll make a change from the price of sheep.”

She reached up and rang the bell dangling over the end of the bar.

“Listen in, you lot. Let’s have a bit of order. This young lady from Australia who’s staying with us tonight, she’d like to ask a question about her family. Miss Flood…”

Suddenly, looking at all those expectant faces, this didn’t seem such a good idea, but if you’re stupid enough to go surfing on a shark, you don’t let go.

“Hi. Sorry to disturb your drinking, but my name’s Sam Flood and it could be that my grandmother who was also called Sam, that’s Samantha, Flood came from Illthwaite. It would be back in the spring of 1960 she left. I just wondered if any of you who were around back then could recall anyone of that name round here.”

There. Cue for deluge of information. Long pause.

Then a voice, upstage, left. “Weren’t there a Larry Flood up Egremont way, used to win the gurning at the Crab Fair wi’out needing to pull a face?”

Second voice, upstage right. “Nay, tha’s thinkin’ of Harry Hood.”

Chorus. “Aye, Harry Hood. That were Harry Hood.”

Why was she thinking of this in terms of theater? Sam asked herself.

Because that’s how it felt. Like a performance.

“If any of you do recall owt, let me know to pass it on,” declared Mrs. Appledore.

The hubbub resumed as she turned to Sam and said, “Sorry, dear.”

“No problem,” said Sam. “What’s gurning?”

“It’s making ugly faces through a horse’s collar. There’s a competition for it at the Egremont Crab Fair. Thought everyone knew that.”

“I must have forgotten,” said Sam. “A prize for being ugly? Is that where they give prizes for telling lies too?”

“No,” said the landlady indignantly. “That’s not Egremont. That’s at Santon Bridge. Thought everyone knew that too.”

“My memory!” said Sam. “I’m off to bed now.”

“Hope you sleep well. Don’t worry about laying over. The way these boards creak, I’ll hear you when you’re up.”

“Great. By the way, Mrs. Appledore, I don’t think I’ll be wanting anything cooked in the morning. Way I feel now, a fox’s breakfast will do me fine.”

“A fox’s breakfast? And that ’ud be…?”

“A piss and a good look round. Thought everyone knew that.”

Be polite to the Poms. But don’t let the buggers get on top of you. Pa’s last words at the airport.

We’re keeping our end up so far, Pa, she thought as she headed out of the door.

Mr. Melton, presumably just returned from the Gents, was in the hallway.

“Goodnight,” she said. “Thanks for the beer. I’ve left you one in the till.”

“No need,” he said. “But kind. I understand you are seeking for some local connection with your family.”

“That’s right. I thought my gran might be from these parts, but I’m beginning to think I might have got it wrong.”

He said, “And when did she leave England?”

“March 1960. She was still a kid.”

“A kid? In 1960?” He looked at her doubtfully.

He might be dotty but he could still do arithmetic, she thought approvingly.

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “She got pregnant not long after she arrived in Oz. My dad was born in September 1961.”

“I see,” he said. “Interesting. But I’m keeping you from your bed, and this isn’t the place to talk. If you care to drop in on me tomorrow, Miss Flood, perhaps I can assist you with your inquiries.”

For some reason the phrase seemed to amuse him and he repeated it.

“Yes, assist you with your inquiries. I have… connections. I live at Candle Cottage, beyond the church. I’m at home most of the time. Goodnight to you now.”

He went back into the bar.

Funny folk! thought Sam as she climbed the stairs. Two invites in a night. Maybe that was the automatic next step if you survived being pushed off a ladder! Anything was possible in a place where Death had his own door, the sausages were six feet long, and they held competitions for telling lies and making faces through a horse’s collar…

She pushed open her bedroom door and all thought of funny folk fled from her mind.

Someone had been poking around her things. This wasn’t feeling but fact. Her eidetic memory didn’t only work with the printed page. A postcard home she’d been scribbling was a couple of inches to the left of where she’d set it down on the dressing table, one of the drawers which had protruded slightly was now completely flush, and her rucksack leaned against the wall at an altered angle. And it wasn’t just Mrs. Appledore tidying up. The intruder had clearly been inside the rucksack as well as out.