Nov 3, 20175 min read

Garden Grove: 3 Mrs. Crampchet’s Pastries – Mrs. Crampchet by LV Gaudet

Garden Grove Cover - McNally - front cover

The construction site was abuzz with activity. Already behind schedule due to a calamity of errors, and then from the site being shut down temporarily to investigate the discovery of the human skull, the workers were now scrambling to play catch up. Their boss, Bruce Copeland, was riding them, pushing them hard. He was even offering bonuses for meeting progress milestones, and Bruce Copeland never gave bonuses.

It was determined that the skull was old, but fortunately it was also determined from the lack of other artefacts found nearby and by its bone structure that it was likely the skull of an early settler and not that of a native inhabitant, and the location to have no significance. The other bone was determined to be part of a cow leg.

With no likelihood of an old burial ground, village, or other important find, the construction could continue around that one small section. They were keeping an area around where the skull was discovered off limits to the crew for now just in case there were more remains of that person to be found.

The area of the discovery is staked off into squares, a group of archaeology students from the local university and their professor having been given permission to continue excavating the site in search of any more discoveries as part of the agreement to allow the construction to begin again.

Bruce Copeland, owner of Copeland & Howe Construction, Excavation and Land Development, the company contracted to build the development, had argued against the archaeology dig and lost.

Noticing movement near the worksite entrance, a few of the construction workers gave a quick glance up the roughed in road that leads into the site and continued with their labour. Someone else would deal with their visitor.

Not far from the trailer that served as an onsite office, a group of men stood around talking.

A little old lady was very slowly shuffling up the dirt road. She had just passed the large billboard sign at the entrance announcing to the world:

GARDEN GROVE MEADOWS

Where Families Come to Live.

A couple of men standing by the trucks parked near the entrance glanced up curiously, wondering why this little old lady would be walking into a construction area. Not really caring, they went back to their conversation.

The old lady shuffles on past them, carrying a large heavily laden tray with both hands.

A big tractor drove out from between a couple parked tractors, swerving to miss the old lady that the driver saw almost too late, narrowly missing grinding her beneath its massive wheels.

The old lady shuffles on as if the tractor wasn’t there, even as the driver stares down in shock at the little woman he’d almost ran over.

If it had been anyone else that stepped out in front of him he would have gestured rudely, yelled, and swore at them. But you don’t gesture rudely, yell, and swear at elderly women.

As the old lady slowly draws closer to the group standing by the office, more men stop to stare, watching her painfully slow progress.

Dave comes out of the trailer office. Seeing them all standing around staring towards the road, he turns and spots the old woman with surprise. He pauses to stand with the men, curiously watching the old woman approach.

“What’s this about,” he asks.

One of the guys shrugs. “No idea.”

The closer she got, the tinier and frailer the old lady looked. Her thin white hair was tied beneath a sheer flowered headscarf, her threadbare coat had seen much better days, and her shawl looked downright tattered. She was working on crocheting another, but her arthritic hands made the task difficult.

In her tiny hands, wrinkled and knotted like the old oak trees from age and arthritis, she carried a surprisingly large tray.

At last, she made it to the group of men who seemed to be doing little but standing around visiting outside the small trailer office.

She stopped before the first man, who towered over her shrunken stooped little frame, looking up at him solemnly with age-paled eyes.

Dave McCormick looked back down at her, unsure what to do. He knew he should be quickly escorting the little old lady safely off the jobsite. It had also taken her such a painfully long time to walk up the road that he honestly didn’t think he could do it without breaking down in frustration and impatiently scooping her up to carry her off. He estimated her frail little frame wouldn’t weigh much more than a child.

“You boys are working so hard,” she croaked in her old lady’s voice. “You look like you could use some nourishment. I made these myself.”

She held the large tray out to him.

Dave glanced at the other guys, who smirked and tried not to snigger at him in front of the old woman.

He took the tray awkwardly.

The old lady’s hands had the age tremble as she carefully peeled away the tin foil covering the tray to reveal its contents.

It was piled high with delicate little pastries that were hand made with great care.

Staring at the woman’s trembling hands, Dave marvelled at how such twisted and shaky arthritic-looking old fingers could have possibly created such delicate little treats.

He looked from her hands to the old woman’s face, still feeling startled. It took a moment for his mind to register what she was saying.

She was angry about something.

“I said, your manners young man,” she scolded, her face even more wrinkled with scorn, if it was even possible for it to be more wrinkled that it already was.

“Huh?”

The old woman looked like she was about to take him by the ear to go cut a switch out behind the old woodshed. At least, that’s what went through Dave’s mind that she was about to do right at that moment.

“Say thank you.”

“Uh – thank you,” he stammered.

“And don’t forget to say your graces,” she lectured, eying each man meaningfully with her rheumy eyes.

Without another word, the little woman turned and began the slow shuffle back down the uneven roughed-in road, humming happily to herself.

Dave stared after her in confusion.

The other guys couldn’t hold it any longer and began sniggering at Dave, sharing a few good natured elbow jabs to the ribs with each other.

“Um, what about your tray?” Dave called after her.

She waved a hand noncommittally in the air.

She said something that sounded like, “Oh, you’ll find me,” her voice just as frail and shaky as her body. She continued her slow shuffle down the road, finally turning the corner and disappearing from sight.

The men eyed the tray of goodies hungrily.

Treats!

Ten minutes later, the first ambulance arrived.