The Borrowers Afloat Page 8

  "There wouldn't be anything I'd fancy," said Homily, folding the last garment.

  "What about a gold ring? Many a gold ring, or so I've heard, gets lost down a drain ... and you wouldn't say no to a safety pin."

  "I'd sooner a safety pin," said Homily, "living as we do now."

  They carried the bundles round the bluff onto the beach by the kettle. Homily climbed on the smooth stone that wedged the kettle at an angle and peered in through the rust hole. A cold light shone down from above where the lid was raised by its string: the interior smelled of rust and looked very uninviting.

  "What we want now, before sundown," said Pod, "is some good clean dried grass to sleep on. We've got the piece of blanket..."

  He looked about for some way of climbing the bank. There was a perfect place, as though invented for borrowers, where a cluster of tangled roots hung down from the lip of the cliff that curved deeply in behind them. At some time the stream had risen and washed the roots clean of earth, and they hung in festoons and clusters, elastic but safely anchored. Pod and Arrietty went up, hand over hand; there were handholds and footholds, seats, swings, ladders, ropes.... It was a borrowers' gymnasium and almost a disappointment to Arrietty when—so soon—they reached the top.

  Here among the jadelike spears of new spring growth were pale clumps of hairlike grasses bleached to the color of tow.... Pod reaped these down with his razor blade and Arrietty tied them into sheaves. Homily, below, collected these bundles as they pushed them over the cliff edge and carried them up to the kettle.

  When the floor of the kettle was well and truly lined, Pod and Arrietty climbed down. Arrietty peered in through the rust hole: the kettle now smelled of hay. The sun was sinking and the air felt slightly colder. "What we all need now," remarked Homily, "is a good hot drink before bed...." But there was no means of making one, so they got out the egg instead. There was plenty left: they each had a thickish slice, topped up by a leaf of sorrel.

  Pod unpacked his length of tarred string, knotted one end securely, and passed the other through the center of the cork. He pulled it tight.

  "What's that for?" asked Homily, coming beside him, wiping her hands on her apron (...no washing up, thank goodness: she had carried the egg shells down to the water's edge and had thrown them into the stream).

  "Can't you guess?" asked Pod. He was trimming the cork now, breathing hard, and beveling the edges.

  "To block up the rust hole?"

  "That's right," said Pod. "We can pull it tight like some kind of stopper once we're all safely inside...."

  Arrietty had climbed up the roots again. They could see her on top of the bank. It was breezier up there and her hair was stirring slightly in the wind. Around her the great grass blades, in gentle motion, crossed and recrossed against the darkening sky.

  "She likes it out of doors..." said Homily fondly.

  "What about you?" asked Pod.

  "Well," said Homily after a moment, "I'm not one for insects, Pod, never was. Nor for the simple life—if there is such a thing. But tonight"—she gazed about her at the peaceful scene—"tonight, I feel kind of all right."

  "That's the way to talk," said Pod, scraping away with his razor blade.

  "Or, it might," said Homily, watching him, "be partly due to that cork."

  An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, on a hollow, wobbling note ... a liquid note, it seemed, falling musically on the dusk. But Homily's eyes widened. "Arrietty—" she called shrilly. "Quickly! Come on down."

  They felt snug enough in the kettle—snug and secure, with the cork pulled in and the lid let down. Homily had insisted on the latter precaution. "We won't need to see" she explained to Pod and Arrietty, "and we get enough air down the spout."

  When they woke in the morning, the sun was up and the kettle felt rather hot. But it was exciting to lift off the lid, hand over hand on the twine, and to see a cloudless sky. Pod kicked out the cork, and they crawled through the rust hole and there again was the beach....

  They breakfasted out-of-doors. The egg was wearing down, but there was two-thirds left to go. "And sunshine feeds," said Pod. After breakfast Pod went off with his hatpin to see what had come down the drain; Homily busied herself about the kettle and laid out the blanket to air; Arrietty climbed the roots again to explore the top of the bank. "Keep within earshot," Pod had warned them, "and call out now and again. We don't want accidents at this stage—not before Spiller arrives."

  "And we don't want them then," retorted Homily. But she seemed curiously relaxed: there was nothing to do but wait—no housework, no cooking, no borrowing, no planning. "Might as well enjoy ourselves," she reflected and settled herself in the sun on the piece of red blanket. To Pod and Arrietty she seemed to be dozing, but this was not the case at all. Homily was busy daydreaming about a house with front door and windows—a home of their very own. Sometimes it was small and compact, sometimes four stories high. And what about the castle she wondered?

  For some reason the thought of the castle reminded her of Lupy. What would they be thinking now—back there in that shuttered house? That we've vanished into thin air—that's what it will seem like to them. Homily imagined Lupy's surprise, the excitement, the conjectures.... And, smiling to herself, she half closed her eyes: never would they think of the drain. And never, in their wildest dreams, would they think of Little Fordham....

  Two halcyon days went by, but on the third day it rained. Clouds gathered in the morning and by afternoon there was a downpour. At first, Arrietty—avid to stay outdoors—took shelter among the roots under the overhanging bank, but soon the rain drove in on the wind and leaked down from the bank above. The roots became slippery and greasy with mud—so all three of them fled to the drain. "I mean," said Homily as they crouched in the entrance, "at least from here we can see out, which is more than you can say for the kettle."

  They moved from the drain, however, when Pod heard a drumming in the distance. "Holmcroft," he exclaimed after listening a moment. "Come on, get moving...." Homily, staring at the gray veil of rain outside, protested that, if they were in for a soaking, they might just as well have it hot as cold.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was a good thing they moved, however: the stream had risen almost to the base of the bluff round which they must pass to get to the kettle. Even as it was, they had to wade. The water looked thick and brownish. The delicate ripples had become muscular and fierce, and as they hurried across the second beach, they saw great branches borne on the flood, sinking and rising as the water galloped past.

  "Spiller can't travel in this..." moaned Homily as they changed their clothes in the kettle. She had to raise her voice against the drumming of the raindrops on the lid. Below them, almost as it might be in their cellar, they heard the thunder of the stream. But the kettle perched on its stone and wedged against the bank felt steady as a citadel. The spout was turned away from the wind and no drop got in through the lid. "Double rim," explained Pod. "Well made, these old fashioned kettles...."

  Banking on Spiller's arrival, they had eaten the last of the egg. They felt very hungry and stared with tragic eyes through the rust hole when, just below them, a half loaf went by on the flood.

  At last it grew dark and they pulled in the cork and prepared to go to sleep. "Anyway," said Pod, "we're warm and dry. And it's bound to clear up soon...."

  But it rained all the next day. And the next. "He'll never come in this," moaned Homily.

  "I wouldn't put it past him," said Pod. "That's a good solid craft that knife box, and well covered in. The current flows in close here under those brambles. That's why he chose this corner. You mark my words, Homily, he might fetch up here any moment. Spiller's not one to be frightened by a drop of rain...."

  That was the day of the banana. Pod had gone out to reconnoiter, climbing gingerly along the slippery shelf of mud beneath the brambles. The current, twisting in, was pouring steadily through Spiller's boathouse, pulling the trailing brambles in its wake. Caught up i
n the branches where they touched the water, Pod had found half a packet of sodden cigarettes, a strip of water-logged sacking, and a whole, rather overripe banana.

  Homily had screamed when he pushed it in inch by inch through the rust hole. She did not recognize it at first, and later, as she saw what it was, she began to laugh and cry at the same time.

  "Steady, Homily," said Pod, after the final push, as he peered in, grave-faced, through the rust hole. "Get a hold on yourself."

  Homily did—almost at once. "You should have warned us," she protested, still gasping a little and wiping her eyes on her apron.

  "I did call out," said Pod, "but what with the noise of the rain..."

  They ate their fill of the banana—it was overripe already and would not last for long. Pod sliced it across, skin and all; he thus kept it decently covered. The sound of the rain made talking difficult. "Coming down faster," said Pod. Homily leaned forward, mouthing the words. "Do you think he's met with an accident?"

  Pod shook his head. "He'll come when it stops. We got to have patience," he added.

  "Have what?" shouted Homily above the downpour.

  "Patience," repeated Pod.

  "I can't hear you...."

  "Patience!" roared Pod.

  Rain began to come in down the spout. There was nothing for it but to sacrifice the blanket. Homily stuffed it in as tightly as she could, and the kettle became very airless. "Might go on for a month," she grumbled.

  "What?" shouted Pod.

  "For a month," repeated Homily.

  "What about it?"

  "The rain," shouted Homily.

  After that they gave up talking: the effort seemed hardly worthwhile. Instead, they lay down in the layers of dried grasses and tried to go to sleep. Full-fed and in that airless warmth, it did not take them long. Arrietty dreamed she was at sea in Spiller's boat: there was a gentle rocking motion, which at first seemed rather pleasant, and then in her dream the boat began to spin. The spinning increased and the boat became a wheel, turning ... turning.... She clung to the spokes, which became like straw and broke away in her grasp. She clung to the rim, which opened outwards and seemed to fling her off, and a voice was calling again and again, "Wake up, Arrietty, wake up...."

  Dizzily she opened her eyes, and the kettle seemed full of a whirling half-light. It was morning, she realized, and someone had pulled the blanket from the spout. Close behind her she made out the outline of Pod; he seemed in some strange way to be glued to the side of the kettle. Opposite her she perceived the form of her mother, spreadeagled likewise in the same fixed, curious manner. She herself, half sitting, half lying, felt gripped by some dreamlike force.

  "We're afloat," cried Pod, "and spinning." And Arrietty, besides the kettle's spin, was aware of a dipping and swaying. "We've come adrift. We're in the current," he went on, "and going downstream fast...."

  "Oh, my..." moaned Homily, casting up her eyes. It was the only gesture she could make, stuck as she was like a fly to flypaper. But even as she spoke, the speed slackened and the spinning turns slowed down, and Arrietty watched her mother slide slowly down to a sitting position on the squelching, waterlogged floor. "Oh, my goodness..." Homily muttered again.

  Her voice, Arrietty noticed, sounded strangely audible: the rain had stopped at last.

  "I'm going to get the lid off," said Pod. He, too, as the kettle ceased twisting, had fallen forward to his knees and now rose slowly, steadying himself by a hand on the wall, against the swaying half-turns. "Give me a hand with the twine, Arrietty,"

  They pulled together. Water had seeped in past the cork in the rust hole and the floor was awash with sodden grass. As they pulled, they slid and slithered, but gradually the lid rose and above them they saw, at last, a circle of bright sky.

  "Oh, my goodness," Homily kept saying, and sometimes she changed it to, "Oh, my goodness me...." But she helped them stack up Pod's bundles. "We got to get out on deck like," Pod had insisted. "We don't stand a chance down below."

  It was a scramble: they used the twine, they used the hatpin, they used the banana, they used the bundles, and somehow—the kettle listing steeply—they climbed out on the rim to hot sunshine and a cloudless sky. Homily sat crouched, her arms gripped rightly round the stem of the arched handle, her legs dangling below. Arrietty sat beside her holding onto the rim. To lighten the weight, Pod cut the lid free and cast it overboard: they watched it float away.

  "...seems a waste," said Homily.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The kettle turned slowly as it drifted—more gently now—downstream. The sun stood high in a brilliant sky: it was later than they had thought. The water looked muddy and yellowish after the recent storm, and in some places had overflowed the banks. To the right of them lay open fields and to the left a scrub of stunted willows and taller hazels. Above their heads golden lamb's tails trembled against the sky and armies of rushes marched down into the water.

  "Fetch up against the bank any minute now," said Pod hopefully, watching the flow of the stream. "One side or another," he added, "a kettle like this don't drift on forever...."

  "I should sincerely hope not," said Homily. She had slightly relaxed her grip on the handle and, interested in spite of herself, was gazing about her.

  Once they heard a bicycle bell, and some seconds later a policeman's helmet sailed past just above the level of the bushes. "Oh, my goodness," muttered Homily, "that means a footpath...."

  "Don't worry," said Pod. But Arrietty, glancing quickly at her father's face, saw he seemed perturbed.

  "He'd only have to glance sideways," Homily pointed out.

  "It's all right," said Pod, "he's gone now. And he didn't."

  "What about Spiller?" Homily went on.

  "What about him?"

  "He'll never find us now."

  "Why not?" said Pod. "He'll see the kettle's gone. As far as Spiller's concerned, all we've got to do is bide our time, wait quietly—wherever we happen to fetch up."

  "Suppose we don't fetch up and go on past Little Fordham?"

  "Spiller'll come on past looking for us."

  "Suppose we fetch up amongst all those people...?"

  "What people?" asked Pod a trifle wearily. "The plaster ones?"

  "No, those human beings who swarm about on the paths..."

  "Now, Homily," said Pod, "no good meeting trouble halfway."

  "Trouble?" exclaimed Homily. "What are we in now, I'd like to know?" She glanced down past her knees at the sodden straw below. "And I suppose this kettle'll fill up in no time..."

  "Not with the cork swollen up like it is," said Pod. "The wetter it gets, the tighter it holds. All you got to do, Homily, is to sit there and hold on tight; and, say, we come near land, get yourself ready to jump." As he spoke, he was busy making a grappling hook out of his hatpin, twisting and knotting a length of twine about the head of the pin.

  Arrietty, meanwhile, lay flat on her stomach gazing into the water below. She was perfectly happy: the cracked enamel was warm from the sun and with one elbow crooked round the base of the handle she felt curiously safe. Once in the turgid water she saw the ghostly outline of a large fish, fanning its shadowy fins and standing backwards against the current. Sometimes there were little forests of water weeds, where blackish minnows flicked and darted. Once a water rat swam swiftly past the kettle, almost under her nose: she called out then excitedly—as though she had seen a whale. Even Homily craned over to watch it pass, admiring the tiny air bubbles that clung like moonstones among the misted fur. They all stood up to watch it climb out on the bank and shake itself hurriedly into a cloud of spray before it scampered away into the grasses. "Well I never," remarked Homily. "...natural history," she added reflectively.

  Then, raising her eyes, she saw the cow. It stood quite motionless above its own vast shadow, hock deep and silent in the fragrant mud. Homily stared aghast and even Arrietty felt grateful for a smoothly floating kettle and a stretch of water between. Almost impertinently safe

>   she felt—so near and yet so far—until a sudden eddy in the current swung them in toward the bank.

  "It's all right," called Pod as Arrietty started back. "It won't hurt you...."

  "Oh, my goodness..." exclaimed Homily, making as though to climb down inside the rim. The kettle lurched.

  "Steady," cried Pod, alarmed, "keep her trimmed!" And, as the kettle slid swiftly shoreward, he flung his weight sideways, leaning out from the handle. "Stand by..." he shouted as with a vicious twist they veered round sharply, gliding against the mud. "Hold fast!" The great cow backed two paces as they careered up under her nose. She lowered her head and swayed slightly as though embarrassed, and then, sniffing the air, she clumsily backed again.

  The kettle teetered against the walls and craters of the cow tracks, pressed by the current's flow; a faint vibration of drumming water quivered through the iron. Then Pod, leaning outwards, clinging with one hand to the rim, shoved his hatpin against a stone; the kettle bounced slightly, turning into the current, and, in a series of bumps and quivers, began to turn away.

  "Thank goodness for that, Pod..." cried Homily, "thank goodness ... thank goodness ... oh my, oh my, oh my!" She sat clinging to the base of the handle, white-faced and shaking.

  "It would never hurt you," said Pod as they glided out to midstream, "not a cow wouldn't..."

  "Might tread on us," gasped Homily.

  "Not once it's seen you, it wouldn't."

  "And it did see us," cried Arrietty gazing backward. "It's looking at us still..."

  Watching the cow, relaxed and relieved, they were none of them prepared for the bump. Homily, thrown off balance, slid forward with a cry—down through the lid hole onto the straw below. Pod just in time caught hold of the handle rail, and Arrietty caught hold of Pod. Steadying Arrietty, Pod turned his head; the kettle, he saw, had fetched up against an island of sticks and branches, plumb in the middle of the stream. Again the kettle thrummed, banging and trembling against the obstructing sticks; little ripples rose up and broke like waves among and around the weed-strewn, trembling mass.