The Borrowers Afloat Page 6

  Homily turned to Spiller. "What sort of boat?" she asked nervously. "I mean, if I could picture it like..."

  Spiller thought a moment. "Well," he said, "it's wooden."

  "Yes?" said Homily.

  Spiller tried again. "Well, it's like ... you might say it was something like a knife box."

  "How much like?" asked Pod.

  "Very like," said Spiller.

  "In fact," declared Homily triumphantly, "it is a knife box?"

  Spiller nodded. "That's right," he admitted.

  "Flat-bottomed?" asked Pod.

  "With divisions, like, for spoons, forks, and so on?" put in Homily.

  "That's right," agreed Spiller, replying to both.

  "Tarred and waxed at the seams?"

  "Waxed," said Spiller.

  "Sounds all right to me," said Pod. "What do you say, Homily?" It sounded better to her too, Pod realized, but he saw she was not quite ready to commit herself. He turned again to Spiller. "What do you do for power?"

  "Power?"

  "Got some kind of sail?"

  Spiller shook his head. "Take her downstream, loaded—with a paddle; pole her back upstream in ballast...."

  "I see," said Pod. He sounded rather impressed. "You go often to Little Fordham?"

  "Pretty regular," said Spiller.

  "I see," said Pod again. "Sure you could give us a lift?"

  "Call back for you," said Spiller, "at the kettle, say. Got to go upstream to load."

  "Load what?" asked Homily bluntly.

  "The boat," said Spiller.

  "I know that," said Homily, "but with what?"

  "Now, Homily," put in Pod, "that's Spiller's business. No concern of ours. Does a bit of trading up and down the river I shouldn't wonder. Mixed cargo, eh, Spiller? Nuts, birds' eggs, meat, minnows ... that sort of tackle—more or less what he brings Lupy."

  "Depends what they're short of," said Spiller.

  "They?" exclaimed Homily.

  "Now, Homily," Pod admonished her, "Spiller's got his customers. Stands to reason. We're not the only borrowers in the world, remember. Not by a long chalk...."

  "But these ones at Little Fordham," Homily pointed out, "they say they're made of plaster?"

  "That's right," said Spiller, "painted over. All of a piece ... except one," he added.

  "One live one?" asked Pod.

  "That's right," said Spiller.

  "Oh, I wouldn't like that," exclaimed Homily, "I wouldn't like that at all: not to be the one live borrower among a lot of dummy waxworks or whatever they call themselves. Get on my nerves that would...."

  "They don't bother him," said Spiller. "Leastways not as much, he says, as a whole lot of live ones might."

  "Well, that's a nice friendly attitude, I must say," snapped Homily. "Nice kind of welcome we'll get, I can see, when we turn up there unexpected...."

  "Plenty of houses," said Spiller, "no sort of need to live close...."

  "And he doesn't own the places," Pod reminded her.

  "That's true," said Homily.

  "What about it, Homily?" said Pod.

  "I don't mind," said Homily, "providing we live near the shops..."

  "There's nothing in the shops," explained Pod in a patient voice, "or so I've heard tell, but bananas and such-like made of plaster and all stuck down in a lump."

  "No, but it sounds nice," said Homily. "Say you were talking to Lupy—"

  "But you won't be talking to Lupy," said Pod. "Lupy won't even know we're gone until she wakes up tomorrow morning thinking that she's got to get us breakfast. No, Homily," he went on earnestly, "you don't want to make for shopping centers and all that sort of caper; better some quiet little place down by the water's edge. You won't want to be everlastingly carting water. And, say Spiller comes down pretty regular with a nice bit of cargo, you want somewhere he can tie up and unload.... Plenty of time, once we get there, to have a look round and take our pick."

  "Take our pick..." Suddenly Homily felt the magic of these words: they began to work inside her—champagne bubbles of excitement welling up and up—until, at last, she flung her hands together in a sudden joyful clap. "Oh Pod," she breathed, her eyes brimming, as, startled by the noise, he turned sharply toward her. "Think of it—all those houses ... We could try them all out if we wanted, one after another. What's to prevent us?"

  "Common sense," said Pod; he smiled at Arrietty. "What do you say, lass? Shops or water?"

  Arrietty cleared her throat. "Down by water," she whispered huskily, her eyes shining and her face tremulous in the dancing light of the dip, "at least to start with...."

  There was a short pause. Pod glanced down at his tackle strapped to the hatpin and up at the clock on the wall. "Getting on for half-past one," he said. "Time we had a look at this drain. What do you say, Spiller? Could you spare us a minute? And show us the ropes like?"

  "Oh," exclaimed Homily, dismayed, "I thought Spiller was coming with us."

  "Now, Homily," explained Pod, "it's a long trek and he's only just arrived; he won't want to go back right away."

  "I don't see why not if his clothes aren't ready—that's what you came for, isn't it, Spiller?"

  "That and other things," said Pod. "Daresay he's brought a few oddments for Lupy."

  "That's all right," said Spiller. "I can tip 'em out on the floor."

  "And you will come?" cried Homily.

  Spiller nodded. "Might as well."

  Even Pod seemed slightly relieved. "That's very civil of you, Spiller," he said, "very civil indeed." He turned to Arrietty. "Now, Arrietty, take a dip and go and fetch the egg."

  "Oh, don't let's bother with the egg," said Homily.

  Pod gave her a look. "You go and get that egg, Arrietty. Just roll it along in front of you into the washhouse, but be careful with the light near those shavings. Homily, you bring the other two dips and I'll get the tackle...."

  Chapter Eleven

  As they filed through the crack of the door onto the stone flags of the washhouse, they heard the ferret again. But Homily now felt brave. "Scratch away," she dared it happily, secure in their prospect of escape. But when they stood at last, grouped beneath the mangle and staring down at the drain, her new-found courage ebbed a little and she murmured, "Oh, my goodness...." Very deep and dark and well-like it seemed, sunk below the level of the floor. The square grating that usually covered it lay beside it at an angle, and in the yawning blackness she could see the reflections of their dips. A dank draft quivered round the candle flames, and there was a sour smell of yellow soap, stale disinfectant, and tea leaves.

  "What's that at the bottom?" she asked, peering down. "Water?"

  "Slime," said Spiller.

  "Jellied soap," put in Pod quickly.

  "And we've got to wade through that?"

  "It isn't deep," said Spiller.

  "Not as though this drain was a sewer," said Pod, trying to sound comforting and hearty. "Beats me though," he went on to Spiller, "how you manage to move this grating."

  Spiller showed him. Lowering the dip, he pointed out a short length of what looked like brass curtain rod, strong but hollow, perched on a stone at the bottom of the well and leaning against the side. The top of this rod protruded slightly above the mouth of the drain. The grating, when in place, lay loosely on its worn rim of cement. Spiller explained how, by exerting all his strength on the rod from below, he could raise one corner of the grating—as a washerwoman with a prop can raise up a clothesline. He would then slide the base of the prop onto the raised stone in the base of the shaft, thus holding the contraption in place. Spiller would then swing himself up to the mouth of the drain on a piece of twine tied to a rung of the grating. "Only about twice my height," he explained. The twine, Pod gathered, was a fixture. The double twist round the light iron rung was hardly noticeable from above, and the length of the twine, when not in use, hung downwards into the drain. Should Spiller want to remove the grating entirely, as was the case today, after scrambling through the
aperture raised by the rod, he would pull the twine after him, fling it around one of the stays of the mangle above his head, and would drag and pull on the end. Sometimes, Spiller explained, the grating slid easily; at other times it stuck on an angle. In which event, Spiller would produce a small but heavy bolt, kept specially for the purpose, which he would wind into the free end of his halyard and, climbing into the girder-like structure at the base of the mangle, would swing himself out on the bolt, which, sinking under his weight, exerted a pull on the grating.

  "Very ingenious," said Pod. Dip in hand he went deeper under the mangle, examined the wet twine, pulled on the knots, and finally, as though to test its weight, gave the grating a shove. It slid smoothly on the worn flagstones. "Easier to shove than to lift," he remarked. Arrietty, glancing upwards, saw vast shadows on the washhouse ceiling—moving and melting, advancing and receding—in the flickering light from their dips: great wheels, handles, rollers, shifting spokes ... as though, she thought, the mangle under which they stood was silently and magically turning....

  On the ground, beside the drain, she saw an object she recognized: the lid of an aluminum soapbox, the one in which the summer before last Spiller had spun her down the river, and from which he used to fish. It was packed now with some kind of cargo and covered with a piece of worn hide—possibly a rat skin—strapped over lid and all with lengths of knotted twine. From a hole bored in one end of the rim a second piece of twine protruded. "I pull her up by that," explained Spiller, following the direction of her eyes.

  "I see how you get up," said Homily unhappily, peering into the slime, "but it's how you get down that worries me."

  "Oh, you just drop," said Spiller. He took hold of the twine as he spoke and began to drag the tin lid away toward the door.

  "It's all right, Homily," Pod promised hurriedly, "we'll let you down on the bolt," and he turned quickly to Spiller. "Where you going with that?" he asked.

  Spiller, it seemed, not wishing to draw attention to the drain, was going to unpack next door. The house being free of humans and the log box pulled out, there was no need to go upstairs. He could dump what he'd brought beside the hole in the skirting.

  While he was gone, Pod outlined a method of procedure. "...if Spiller agrees," he kept saying, courteously conceding the leadership.

  Spiller did agree, or rather he raised no objections. The empty soapbox lid, lightly dangling, was lowered onto the mud; into this they dropped the egg—rolling it to the edge of the drain as though it were a giant rugby football, with a final kick from Pod to send it spinning and keep it clear of the sides. It plopped into the soapbox lid with an ominous crack. This did not matter, however, the egg being hard-boiled.

  Homily, with not a few nervous exclamations, was lowered next, seated astride the bolt; with one hand she clung to the twine, in the other she carried a lighted dip. When she climbed off the bolt into the lid of the soapbox, the latter slid swiftly away on the slime, and Homily, for an anxious moment, disappeared along the drain. Spiller drew her back, however, hand over hand. And there she sat behind the egg, grumbling a little, but with her candle still alight. "Two can go in the lid," Spiller had announced, and Arrietty (who secretly had longed to try the drop) was lowered considerately, dip in hand, in the same respectful way. She settled herself opposite her mother with the egg wobbling between them.

  "You two are the light-bearers," said Pod. "All you've got to do is to sit quite still and steady the egg—move the lights as we say..."

  There was a little shuffling about in the lid and some slightly perilous balancing as Homily, who had never liked traveling—as human beings would say—back to the engine, stood up to change seats with Arrietty. "Keep a good hold on that string," she kept imploring Spiller as she completed this maneuver, but soon she and Arrietty were seated again face to face, each with their candle and the egg between their knees. Arrietty was laughing.

  "Now I'm going to let you go a little ways," warned Spiller and paid out a few inches of twine. Arrietty and Homily slid smoothly under the roof of their arched tunnel, which gleamed wetly in the candlelight. Arrietty put out a finger and touched the gleaming surface: it seemed to be made of baked clay.

  "Don't touch anything," hissed Homily, shudderingly, "and don't breathe either—not unless you have to."

  Arrietty, lowering her dip, peered over the side at the mud. "There's a fishbone," she remarked, "and a tin bottle top. And a hairpin..." she added on a pleased note.

  "Don't even look," shuddered Homily.

  "A hairpin would be useful," Arrietty pointed out.

  Homily closed her eyes. "All right," she said, her face drawn with the effort not to mind. "Pick it out quickly and drop it, sharp, in the bottom of the boat. And wipe your hands on my apron."

  "We can wash it in the river," Arrietty pointed out.

  Homily nodded; she was trying not to breathe.

  Over Homily's shoulder Arrietty could see into the well of the drain; a bulky object was coming down the shaft: it was Pod's tackle, waterproof-wrapped and strapped securely to his hatpin. It wobbled on the mud with a slight squelch. Pod, after a while, came after it. Then came Spiller. For a moment the surface seemed to bear their weight then, knee-deep, they sank in slime.

  Spiller removed the length of curtain rod from the stone and set it up inconspicuously in the corner of the shaft. Before their descent he and Pod must have placed the grating above more conveniently in position: a deft pull by Spiller on the twine and they heard it clamp down into place—a dull metallic sound that echoed hollowly along the length of their tunnel. Homily gazed into the blackness ahead as though following its flight. "Oh, my goodness," she breathed as the sound died; she felt suddenly shut in.

  "Well," announced Pod in a cheerful voice, coming up behind them, and he placed a hand on the rim of their lid, "we're off!"

  Chapter Twelve

  Spiller they saw, to control them on a shorter length, was rolling up the towline. Not that towline was quite the right expression under the circumstances; the drain ran ahead on a slight downwards incline and Spiller functioned more as a sea anchor and used the twine as a brake.

  "Here we go," said Pod, and gave the lid a slight push. They slid ahead on the slippery scum, to be lightly checked by Spiller. The candlelight danced and shivered on the arched roof and about the dripping walls. So thick and soapy was the scum on which they rode that Pod, behind them, seemed more to be leading his bundle than dragging it behind him. Sometimes, even, it seemed to be leading him.

  "Whoa, there!" he would cry on such occasions. He was in very good spirits, and had been, Arrietty noticed, from the moment he set foot in the drain. She, too, felt strangely happy. Here they were, the two she held most dear, with Spiller added, making their way toward the dawn. The drain held no fears for Arrietty, leading as it did toward a life to be lived away from dust and candlelight and confining shadows—a life on which the sun would shine by day and the moon by night.

  She twisted round in her seat in order to see ahead, and as she did so, a great aperture opened to her left and a dank draft flattened the flame of her candle. She shielded it quickly with her hand and Homily did the same.

  "That's where the pipe from the sink comes in," said Spiller, "and the overflow from the copper...."

  There were other openings as they went along, drains that branched into darkness and ran away uphill. Where these joined the main drain a curious collection of flotsam and jetsam piled up over which they had to drag the soap lid. Arrietty and Homily got out for this to make less weight for the men. Spiller knew all these branch drains by name and the exact position of each cottage or house concerned. Arrietty began, at last, to understand the vast resources of Spiller's trading. "Not that you get up into all of 'em," he explained. "I don't mind an's' bend, but where you get an's' bend, you're apt to get a brass grille or suchlike in the plug hole."

  Once he said, jerking his head toward the mouth of a circular cavern, "Holmcroft, that is.... Nothing but bat
h water from now on...." And, indeed, this cavern, as they slid past it, had looked cleaner than most—a shining cream-colored porcelain—and the air from that point onwards, Arrietty noticed, smelled far less strongly of tea leaves.

  Every now and again they came across small branches—of ash or holly—rammed so securely into place that they would have difficulty maneuvering round them. They were set, Arrietty noticed, at almost regular intervals. "I can't think how these tree things get down drains, anyway," Homily exclaimed irritably when, for about the fifth time, the soapbox lid was turned up sideways and eased past and she and Arrietty stood ankle-deep in jetsam, shielding their dips with their hands.

  "I put them there," said Spiller, holding the boat for them to get in again. The drain at this point dropped more steeply. As Homily stepped in opposite Arrietty, the soapbox lid suddenly slid away, dragging Spiller after. He slipped and skidded on the surface of the mud, but miraculously he kept his balance. They fetched up in a tangle against the trunk of one of Spiller's treelike erections and Arrietty's dip went overboard. "So that's what they're for," exclaimed Homily as she coaxed her own flattened wick back to brightness to give Arrietty a light.

  But Spiller did not answer straight away. He pushed past the obstruction, and as they waited for Pod to catch up, he said suddenly, "Could be..."

  Pod looked weary when he came up to them. He was panting a little and had stripped off his jacket and slung it round his shoulders. "The last lap's always the longest," he pointed out.

  "Would you care for a ride in the lid?" asked Homily. "Do, Pod!"

  "No, I'm better walking," said Pod.

  "Then give me your jacket," said Homily. She folded it gently across her knees and patted it soberly as though (thought Arrietty, watching) it were tired, like Pod.