It was the year 1990. Exactly three centuries had passed since Gilly’s untimely end, yet the ragged boy still waited. Over the years he had caught glimpses of strange new things in the lonely rural backwater. The path was now a gravelled walk provided by the National Heritage Trust: it had been designated as part of a Nature and History walk, though few people bothered to use it. Local folk knew of tales attached to Bodkin Lane; the place was spoken of in hushed whispers, especially by the old ones. Gypsies and their caravans had long avoided the place; animals were fearful of it—that was always a good indicator that something was amiss. Gilly often heard young girls on horseback from a local riding school; their horses reared and snorted protestingly until the riders decided to take another route. Gilly would dance about in rage, cursing them for a mizzuble little herd, shouting his desire for a sugar stick to the surrounding countryside.
One spring day an enthusiastic teacher led a party of uniformed schoolgirls along the lane on a nature ramble. They were forced to abandon the project after thirteen-year-old Priscilla Long screamed and fainted at the sight of a ragged boy who materialized out of thin air. Pale and anxious Gilly had pranced around her shouting, “Where be your coach? Ha, Missie, ain’t you or one o’ your great herd got a sugar stick for Gilly, all dressed up in your strange finery like maypoles. Come on, out wi’ your sugar sticks an’ sweetmeats afore I goes mad!”
Priscilla had been nervously reaching for a packet of peppermints which she carried in her pocket when all nerve and senses deserted her. She shrieked and swooned away on the gravel path. One or two of the other girls were certain they had heard something and seen a dim shape. Their teacher took no chances; she swept Priscilla’s limp form up and began hurriedly shepherding her charges back to school.
“Girls! Girls! Stop acting silly this instant! Form up into your groups. Jane, Mary, help me with Priscilla. Right, about turn and walk quietly back to the coach. Hurry up at the back there!”
Gilly followed them as far as he could, bellowing and shaking his fist. “Garn, I knew ‘ee had a coach somewheres, fine ladies don’t go afoot in these parts. Aye, an’ I’ll wager your coach is full of sweetmeats an’ sugar sticks an’ all. Mizzuble great herd, ‘nuff to give a pore boy a worse ‘eadache!”
When they had gone he went back to his boulder and ruminated darkly. “Huh, swoonin’ an’ screamin’ females. I b’aint never goin’ to get me a sugar stick at this rate.”
But this time his pleas did not go unheeded. That day fate took a hand on Gilly Bodkin’s side and wrought a small miracle.
Wayne Manfield Lee with his wife Tammy and their four daughters came driving along Bodkin Lane. Tammy Manfield Lee was studying an ordnance survey map which she had spread across the dashboard of their “cute little English rental automobile, with a stickshift too.” On the backseat their four overweight teenage daughters stuffed themselves with English candies from the airport shop. Wayne kept his eyes on the narrow gravelled path as he drove slowly along, debating with his wife.
“Honey, I’m not too sure they allow cars along this road. Are you sure this is the place?”
“I surely am. Look here, it says on the map: ‘Site of Manfield Hall, seventeenth-century country manor.’ We must be nearly there. Did your folks actually live here once?”
“Sweetie, they not only lived here, they owned the whole shebang, musta bin a couple hundred acres. Granmaw Manfield sure was right, my ancestors never hailed from the Panhandle in Texas; this was all Manfield country three hundred years back, lock, stock ‘n’ barrel.”
One of the Manfield brood piped up from the rear seat.
“Is that why we’re called Manfield Lee, Pop?”
Wayne shifted down to second gear as the car crunched along the gravel.
“Sure is, Connie. Granmaw looked up the records and it said that although Agnes Manfield came from England and married Hubert Lee, it was her one desire that the name Manfield be included in the family title. I guess that’s why we’re still called Manfield Lee. Hey, you guys in back there, don’t make yourselves sick and poorly with all that English candy, y’hear.”
Wayne’s youngest daughter Agnes (named after her illustrious ancestor) poked something sticky over the front seat.
“This candy’s called barley sugar. It sure is neat. Have some, Daddy.”
Wayne shook his head.
“Nope, kitten, I’ll pass on that one. Candies are out with my cholesterol level. Say, see that old rock over there, I’ll bet there’s something carved on it like, ‘One mile to Manfield Hall’ C’mon, let’s stop and take a look.”
Gilly had seen these horseless carriages before, but this was the first that had ever driven up his path since it had been gravelled by the workmen. The car halted. Gently rubbing his headache Gilly got off the boulder and went to investigate the curious conveyance.
The Manfield Lee family emerged. They stretched their legs and wandered over to the big boulder. Tammy was not very impressed.
“Hmm, it don’t say nothing, Wayne. It’s just an old rock, I guess.”
“Right, honey, but it’s a nice old rock, sorta homey looking. Say, look at all these old fields. I bet the Manfields used to grow squash and pumpkins and kale here.”
The Manfield Lee girls were beginning to get bored.
“Oh, Poppa, come on. Let’s go back to the hotel and watch English TV. Who wants to walk around some old field all day.”
But Wayne led them further afield.
“Hey now, ladies, you’re walking on history here. Wait’ll I tell the folks back home about this. You got the camera, honey?”
“It’s in the trunk. Hand me the keys, Poppa, I’ll go get it.”
Agnes walked back to the car. She was opening the trunk when she became aware she was not alone. A strange ragged barefoot boy was peering over her shoulder.
“You got any sweetmeats in there, Missie? Gilly wants a sugar stick.”
Agnes was not surprised by anything in this strange country.
“Hi, I’m Agnes. Gilly? What sorta name’s that, and what’s a sugar stick? Don’t they have sugar cubes or sachets over here?”
Gilly became quite excited.
“Sugar stick’s a sweetmeat, Miss Agnes. Mercy me, I never thought you’d come back thisaways again. I never did.”
“Silly, I’ve never been here before. Say, this sweetmeat or sugar stick or whatever you call it, is it some kinda candy? We’ve got a whole heap of English candies with us. You should try one. The barley sugar sticks are really neat. Would you like one, Gilly?”
Gilly Bodkin could not find the words to say. He stood on the gravel path, nodding dumbly, with great tears welling on to his cheeks. Agnes took a barley sugar stick from the car; she unwrapped it and offered it to her new-found friend.
“Gee, it’s only an old barley sugar stick, Gilly. Don’t get so upset; you can have lots of them if you like. We can always pick up more back at the hotel shop.”
Gilly stretched out his hand. Amazingly he found he could touch the barley sugar stick. The first object he had been able to really feel in three hundred years, now he actually held it in his grimy hand. Gilly’s eyes shone as he spoke in an awkward stammer.
“Thankee kindly, Missie Agnes, though I be afeared now. I ain’t never tasted no sugar stick. Be it sweeter’n apples? I tasted one of them once, long time ago.”
Agnes laughed and clapped her hands.
“You bet it’s sweeter than an apple. Go for it, Gilly, eat it.”
Gilly took a bite. With an apprehensive look on his face he crunched and sucked at the sweetmeat it had taken him three hundred years to have. Agnes watched him, giggling with merriment at his grimaces. Gilly screwed up his face, squinted his eyes, pursed his lips and sucked his cheeks inward. Then he spat the barley sugar out on the gravel.
“Guuurrrhhhgg! ‘Tis far sweeter’n apples be, lack a day, mercy me! It be far too ‘orrible sweet, ‘tis enough to drive a poor lad to madness, all that sweetling. Harrgh! ‘tis an ‘ateful thing. My father were right, sweet things is only for gentryfolk an’ beasts.”