Bed-Knob and Broomstick Page 7

  "Magic may be just a weakness," he said, "but it's better than some weaknesses."

  "I know," agreed Carey.

  "If we still had the bed, I think I'd use it," Charles went on. "Sometimes."

  "Yes," said Carey. "Just sometimes."

  "The bed wasn't magic," put in Paul consolingly. "It was only the bed-knob that was magic."

  "Well, it's the same thing," said Carey, turning irritably from Paul, who, kneeling up on his seat, was breathing in her face. "One thing's no good without the other."

  "Couldn't you use a magic bed-knob on another bed the same make?"

  "Oh, I don't know, Paul." Carey edged away from him, closer to the window. "What's the good of talking about it if we haven't got either? Do sit down properly!"

  Paul meekly put his legs down, so that they dangled just above the floor. He leaned back, sucking his cheeks in. One hand was in his pocket, fidgeting. He looked worried. "But," he protested, after some moments of silent thought, "I did bring the bed-knob."

  II. BONFIRES AND BROOMSTICKS

  1. Lost and Found

  Two years went by. Aunt Beatrice died and the house was sold, so they did not go back to Much Frensham. The memory of that summer became a secret thing, seldom spoken of—and never with Paul. "He might tell, you see," Carey pointed out. "We must let him just think it's a dream..."

  Sometimes in company Paul could become a menace. "When we were in prison—" he would exclaim, and Carey, blushing, would correct him quickly with, "When you dreamed you were in prison, Paul!" After a while, Paul grew confused; he would say—one eye on Carey—things like: "Yesterday, when I dreamed I had an egg for tea—"

  "But you did have an egg for tea," his mother would point out.

  "Oh," he would say, becoming suddenly thoughtful, "and did I see the cannonballs?"

  "What cannonballs?"

  "Cannibals, he means," Carey would explain quickly. "No, you didn't, Paul. You dreamed those," and would quickly change the subject.

  Even to Charles, the thing became unreal. Back among his school friends, just the word became embarrassing. Magic? One didn't ... one couldn't ... I mean, the whole thing was rather ... He took up boxing, started on First Year Latin, and began a stamp collection. He pushed other events to the back of his mind and pretended they had not happened.

  One cannot do this successfully. It seldom works; sooner or later Fate takes a hand, and back comes the past like a bombshell. It came to Carey and Charles, some two years later, on a cold, dull winter's morning, in the form of a daily paper. It came in innocently with the bacon and porridge, disguised as the London Times.

  "Look," said Carey faintly. She was leaning over, spoon in hand, reading the personal column.

  Charles glanced up. They were alone in the room at the time. Mrs. Wilson, their mother, had left for her office, and Paul was not yet down. There was a strange expression on Carey's face; she seemed more than a little scared. "What's the matter?" asked Charles.

  Carey pushed the paper across. "See," she said, pointing with her finger.

  He did not see at first. "Mink coat," he read aloud, "scarcely worn..."

  "No, below that."

  "Pale hands, my heart is singing..."

  "No, here." She leaned over him, her braids snaking on the table. "Lady with small house..."

  "Lady with small house in country willing accommodate two schoolchildren summer holidays. Moderate terms. Highest references. Reply E. Price, Much Frensham..." Charles's voice grew slower. "...Beds."

  There was silence.

  "Now do you see?" asked Carey.

  Charles nodded. They were silent again.

  "Little Alders?" said Charles after a moment. "Was that the name of the house?"

  "Something like that. I can't quite remember."

  "There must be lots of Prices in Much Frensham," protested Charles.

  "But E. Price," said Carey. "Miss Price's name was Eglantine."

  "Was it?" said Charles. He, too, had become a shade paler.

  "Yes. Eglantine Price," repeated Carey firmly.

  They stared at each other without speaking. Then once more they leaned over the paper.

  "It says only two children," Charles pointed out.

  "Oh, Paul can sleep anywhere, if she knows it's us, don't you think?"

  Both minds were working furiously. With a mother who was tied to her office, there was always this problem of the long summer holiday. Last year, they had gone to a farm in Cornwall and had enjoyed it very much; there seemed no reason why they should not be sent there again.

  "But Much Frensham's much nearer London," Carey pointed out. "Mother could get down to see us. And when we tell her that Miss Price was a friend of Aunt Beatrice's—"

  "Not a friend exactly."

  "Yes. Remember the peaches?"

  Charles was silent. "What about the bed-knob?" he said at last.

  "What about it?"

  "Where is it?"

  Carey's face fell. "I don't know." She thought a moment. "It must be somewhere."

  "Why? Heaps of things in this house aren't anywhere. I'd as soon go to Cornwall," Charles went on, "as go to Miss Price's without the bed-knob."

  "Well, I would too," admitted Carey—at least there were beaches in Cornwall ... and caves, and rock climbing. She thought a moment. "Once it was in the knife box."

  "It isn't now."

  "Or was it the tool drawer?"

  "Yes, it was in the tool drawer for ages. After they redid the nursery cupboards, remember? It isn't now."

  "I don't know," mused Carey. "I've seen it somewhere—in a box or something. There were some old door handles, and some screws..."

  "Old door handles?" exclaimed Charles. "I know where those are."

  "Where?"

  Charles jumped to his feet. "That canvas bag on a nail in the broom cupboard..."

  That was just where it was—a little rusty and spotted with whitewash. They took it as a "sign."

  Mrs. Wilson was puzzled. Bedfordshire instead of Cornwall? And why this undercurrent of excitement about so very un-exciting a maiden lady? There was more in this, she suspected uneasily, than appeared on the surface. But to all her questions, they gave the most satisfactory replies. Miss Price, as a holiday chaperone, sounded almost too good to be true. Letters were exchanged and a meeting was arranged.

  The children mooned about in a torment of suspense. They need not have worried, however. Over tea and cakes with Miss Price at Fuller's, their mother's fears were laid. Although unable to discover the secret of Miss Price's peculiar charm, Mrs. Wilson found her just as Carey had described her—quiet, reserved, a little fussy. Dignified but friendly, she expressed a guarded fondness for the children and her willingness to accommodate all three, provided they would be careful of her belongings and would help a little in the house.

  "How wonderful ... how wonderful!" sang Carey when she heard the news. She went on singing and dancing about the room, and even Charles felt impelled to try a handstand. Only Paul remained stolid. He sat on the hearth rug, watching them curiously.

  "Will we sleep there?" he asked his mother, at last.

  Mrs. Wilson turned to look at him—too bland, his face seemed, almost too candid. "Yes, Paul," she said, in a puzzled voice, "of course you will sleep there..." Again, for some reason, she began to feel uneasy. "Why?"

  Paul began to smile. It was a slow smile, which spread gradually over all his face. He turned away and began plucking at the carpet. "Oh, nothing," he said lightly.

  2. And Lost Again

  When they arrived at the station, it looked at first as though there was no one to meet them. Then Carey saw the milk cart on the far side of the level crossing. "Come on," she said, "there's Mr.—Bisselthwaite." She was surprised when the name came so easily to her tongue. Mr. Bisselthwaite the milkman ... of course.

  "She ordered an extra two pints," Mr. Bisselthwaite told them, as they climbed on the cart. "And she said it was you. Growed, hasn't he?" he added, nod
ding at Paul.

  "We all have," said Carey. The train had gone, and the station was quiet. The grass by the roadside smelled of clover, and high up in the sky a lark sang. "Oh, it's lovely to be back in the country!"

  Clop-clop-clop went the pony. The scent of horse mingled with the scent of fields, and deep country stillness spread away on all sides.

  "There's Tinker's Hill," said Charles. Tinker's Hill? How oddly these names came back. And the Roman Remains. "Look, Paul, that grass-covered sort of wall—that was a Roman fortress once."

  Paul gazed at the hazy green of the rounded hillside. It seemed to him far away and, at the same time, quite close. It was part of the lovely dream of riding in a milk cart instead of in a taxi, part of the clip-clop of the pony's hooves on the flinty road, part of the rhythmic rise and fall of the dusty piebald back and the light swift rattle of the wheels.

  "Miss Price's house is there, Paul," said Carey, "under that hill. You can't see it yet. Oh, you see that lane? That goes to—to Body-something Farm."

  "Lowbody Farm," said Mr. Bisselthwaite.

  "Lowbody Farm. Oh, and there's Farr Wood—"

  "Look, Paul," broke in Charles. "You see those cedars—those dark trees just beyond the church spire? Well, Aunt Beatrice's house is in there. Where we stayed last time."

  "The Water Board took it over," said Mr. Bisselthwaite.

  "Oh," said Carey. "When?"

  "About a twelvemonth after your aunt died."

  "Oh," said Carey again. She was silent for a while, trying to imagine the dark old house without Aunt Beatrice; without the high sideboards and the heavy curtains; without the rugs and the tables and the palms in pots; without the...

  "Mr. Bisselthwaite!" she said suddenly.

  "Well?"

  "Did the Water Board take the furniture?"

  "No, the furniture was sold."

  "Who to?"

  "Well, there was a sale like. Dealers from London came down. And the village bought a bit. My old woman bought a roll of linoleum and a couple of chairs."

  "Oh," said Carey.

  So the furniture had been sold. Someone, somewhere, all unknowing, had bought Paul's bed, was sleeping on it at night, making it in the morning, stripping back the sheets, turning the mattress...

  "Was everything sold?" Carey asked. "Beds and all?"

  "I reckon so," said Mr. Bisselthwaite. "The Water Board wouldn't want no beds. Whoa, there," he called, bringing the pony to a walk. "Know where you are now?"

  It was the lane—Miss Price's lane that ran along the bottom of Aunt Beatrice's garden. Carey's heart began to beat as she saw a bright cluster of rambler roses among the hawthorns of the hedge, Miss Price's Dorothy Perkins—the ones that twined across her gate. They were thicker, higher, more full of bloom than they had been before. And here was the gate with LITTLE ALDERS painted on it in white. She glanced at Charles. He, too, looked slightly nervous.

  "Well," said Mr. Bisselthwaite as the pony came to a standstill, "here we are. I'll give ye a hand with the bags."

  The gate squeaked a little as they opened it, and the latch clanged. They walked as if in a dream down the straight paved path between the flower beds, which led to the front door. It was silly, Carey told herself, to feel afraid.

  The door opened before they touched the knocker, and there before them was Miss Price. It was almost a shock. Miss Price—fresh and smiling, and rather flushed. "I heard the gate," she explained, taking Carey's bag. "Well, well, well. This is nice! Careful of the step, Paul; it's just been cleaned." She was as they remembered her, and yet, as people do when you have not seen them for a long time, she seemed somehow different. But something about her long pink nose comforted Carey suddenly. It was a kind nose, a shy nose, a nose that had had a tear on the tip of it once (so long ago it seemed); it was a reassuring nose; it was Miss Price.

  A delicious smell of hot scones filled the little hall. Miss Price was saying things like: "Wait a minute while I get my purse ... Paul, how you've grown ... Put it down there, Mr. Bisselthwaite, please, just by the clock ... Three and six from ten shillings is ... Paul, don't touch the barometer, dear. The nail's loose ... Now let me see..."

  And then Mr. Bisselthwaite was gone, and the front door was closed, and there was tea in the dining room, where the square table took up all the space and the chairs neatly touched the walls. There were scones and jelly and potted meat. And there, through the lace curtain, beyond the window, was Tinker's Hill, steeped rich and gold in the afternoon sunshine, and Carey suddenly felt rested and happy and full of peace.

  After tea Miss Price showed them their rooms.

  It was a small house, neither old nor new. There were brass stair rods on a Turkey carpet, and at the top of the stairs a picture of "Cherry Ripe." Carey's room was very neat, but there were a lot of things stored there as well as the bedroom furniture. Cardboard boxes were stacked on top of the wardrobe, and a dressmaker's dummy, shaped like an hourglass, stood behind the mahogany towel rack. But there was a little jar of mignonette on the dressing table, and a spray of dog roses in a vase on the mantelshelf. Charles's room was neat too—and barer. It had an iron bed and cream-painted furniture. It had probably been a maid's room.

  "Paul, I'm afraid," said Miss Price, "must sleep on the sofa in my bedroom. You see, I only said two children in my advertisement, but"—she smiled round at them quickly and made a little nervous movement with her bony hands—"I never thought—I never dreamed it would be you."

  "Weren't you surprised?" asked Carey, coming up to her. They were standing beside Charles's bed.

  "Yes, yes, I was surprised. You see, I'm not very fond of strangers. I had to have someone."

  "Why?" asked Paul.

  "The rising cost of living," explained Miss Price vaguely. Then, in a sudden burst of frankness: "It was putting in the new kitchen sink, really. Stainless steel, you know. And what with the plumbing ... well, anyway, that's how it was. And, on the whole, I prefer children to adults. Through the Times, I thought I might get two well-brought-up ones..."

  "And you got us," said Carey.

  "Yes," agreed Miss Price, "I got you. Had we only known," she went on brightly, "we could have done it all without advertising at all. Now you two had better unpack. Where are Paul's things?"

  "They're mostly in with Charles's," said Carey. "Miss Price."

  "Yes?"

  "Could we—could we see the rest of the house?" A watchful look came over Miss Price's face. She folded her hands together and glanced down at them.

  "You mean the kitchen and the bathroom?"

  "I mean—" said Carey. She took a deep breath. "I mean—your workroom."

  "Yes," said Paul eagerly, "could we see the stuffed crocodile?"

  Miss Price raised her eyes. There was an odd trembling look around her mouth, but her glance was quite steady.

  "There is no stuffed crocodile," she said.

  "Alligator, he means," put in Charles.

  "Nor alligator," said Miss Price.

  There was a moment's embarrassed silence. All three pairs of eyes were fixed on Miss Price's face, which remained tight and stern.

  "Oh," said Carey in a weak voice.

  Miss Price cleared her throat. She looked around at them as if making up her mind. "I think," she said in a thin kind of voice, "it would be better if you did see my workroom." She felt in the pocket of her skirt and brought out a bunch of keys. "Come along," she said rather grimly.

  Once more, after two long years, they were in the dark passage by the kitchen; once again Miss Price was putting a key in a well-oiled lock, and, as if in memory of that other time, Carey's heart began to beat harder and she clasped her hands together as if to stop them trembling.

  Miss Price stood aside on the threshold. "Come in," she said. "Go right in."

  The children filed past her and then they stood silent, gazing at the shelves.

  "Well?" exclaimed Miss Price sharply. "It's very nice, isn't it?"

  "Yes," said Carey huski
ly.

  There was no alligator; no chart of the zodiac; no exercise books; no newts' eyes; no boxes that might have held dried mice. Instead there was row upon row of bottled fruits and vegetables in every shade of color, from the pale jade of gooseberries to the dusky carmine of pickled cabbage.

  Miss Price ran her finger along the labels: "Tomatoes, apple pulp, plums, greengages, elderberries—they mix very well with black currants. Do you know that?"

  "No," said Carey, "I didn't."

  "Red currants, sliced pears, tarragon in vinegar, green tomato chutney ... What's this? Oh, I know—mushroom catchup. The label's come off." She held the jar to the light. "Looks a bit mottled—" She pushed the jar back out of sight. "Some of these are last year's," she explained hastily. "Red currants, loganberries, and rose-hip cordial." She rubbed her hands together. "Well?" she said again, as if waiting for praise.

  "It's—" Carey swallowed. "It's very nice."

  Paul's eyes were round and his face unhappy. "Where's the crocodile?" he asked bluntly.

  Miss Price colored. "You see, Paul, I—"

  Carey came quickly to her rescue. "People don't keep things for always, Paul." She glanced at the shelves. "Think of the puddings! Think of the lovely, lovely puddings."

  "Yes," said Paul.

  "You see, Paul," said Miss Price more calmly, "sometimes people do things for a bit and then they give them up. Smoking, for instance. People often give up smoking."

  Paul looked bewildered.

  "And drink. People give up drink."

  Paul looked still more puzzled. Miss Price smiled at him very kindly. "Haven't you ever given up sugar in your tea for Lent?"

  Paul blinked his eyes. "Yes, but—"

  "You see, Paul," interrupted Carey sharply, "Miss Price has given up alligators. Come on, now." She began to pull him toward the door.

  "Forever?" persisted Paul.

  Miss Price nodded her head. "Forever and ever," she said.

  "Or just for Lent?" put in Paul.