Bedknob and Broomstick Page 8

  Miss Price glanced at him swiftly. It was a strange look, almost startled; she seemed struck by a sudden idea.

  "Lent is over," she said, but seemed to hesitate. Then once more she became firm. "No," she went on. "Forever and ever. If we do things, it shouldn't be by halves."

  "But anything's all right," said Charles, "in moderation."

  "Not magic," said Miss Price.

  "You once said even magic."

  "Did I?" asked Miss Price. "Did I really say that?"

  "Yes, you did. I remember quite well."

  "Did I really?" said Miss Price pensively. "Well. Anyway," she added quickly, "come along now. It's nearly Paul's bedtime. Careful of the step."

  Charles wandered out into the garden while Carey bathed Paul. He leaned over the back fence and stared at Tinker's Hill. So she had given up magic! That was what came of looking forward to something too much—a feeling of flatness and disappointment. Finding the bed-knob, which at the time had almost seemed a "sign," now only added to the sense of loss. He thought of Cornwall, and of mackerel fishing; of rocks and coves and beaches at low tide. Oh, well, he told himself, we're in the country anyway. There would be walks and explorations, and there was always the river. There might even be a boat. And then he felt something move under his shoe. It was a mole, diving upward through the soft earth and hitting the exact spot where he had placed his foot. In a minute he was on his knees, pulling up the coarse sods of grass that grew down there beside the fence. He dug with his hands into the soft earth, throwing it aside as a dog does, and did not notice Carey until she stood beside him.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Digging for a mole." He sat back on his heels. "I say, Carey—" He looked up at her face and paused. "What's the matter?"

  Carey's expression was odd. She looked half afraid. "I want you to come and look at something," she said.

  "Let me just finish this!"

  "You'll never catch it now." She paused. "This is important."

  "What is it?" asked Charles, half getting up.

  "Come and see."

  "Can't you tell me what it is?"

  Carey turned away and began walking toward the house. Charles followed her. As they reached the front door, he said: "You might tell me—"

  Carey turned right round, putting her finger to her lips.

  "Ssh—" she said.

  "Where's Miss Price?" asked Charles in a loud whisper.

  "Ssh—" said Carey again. "She's in the kitchen. Making macaroni cheese. Come on."

  He followed her up the stairs.

  "It's in here," said Carey, "where Paul sleeps." She threw open a door.

  It was Miss Price's bedroom. Very clean, very neat, very fragrant. A large photograph of a military gentleman hung over the mantel. There were silver brushes on the dressing table and a porcelain "tree" for rings. Paul was tucked up in a bed on the sofa, a small Victorian couch with a curved back that just fitted him.

  "Well, it's all right," said Charles, staring at Paul, who looked unusually clean and round-eyed.

  "What's all right?" asked Carey.

  "Paul's bed."

  "I wasn't looking at Paul's bed," said Carey.

  Charles followed the direction of her eyes. Miss Price's bed had a white embroidered spread, and a black silk nightdress case lay on the pillow. It was an exciting nightdress case, closely related to a tea cozy, trimmed with satin blobs like colored fruit.

  "You are dense," said Carey. "The bed itself!"

  Charles stared.

  It was a very ordinary brass bed—a bed like a hundred others. But where at its head there should have been a second bed-knob, the right-hand post ended in a piece of rusty screw.

  "Yes," said Charles. He sat down rather suddenly on the foot of Paul's sofa.

  "Is it, do you think?" asked Carey anxiously.

  Charles cleared his throat. "Yes," he said soberly, "yes, it must be!"

  "There are hundreds of beds like that. She may have had it for years. She may have bought it at the same time as Aunt Beatrice bought hers."

  "Yes," said Charles. He seemed dazed. "But the screw. I think it is. It must be it. She must have bought it at the sale." He turned to Carey. "We can easily tell. Go and get the bed-knob."

  "That's just it," said Carey. "The bed-knob's gone!"

  "Gone?"

  "Yes. When I'd finished bathing Paul, Miss Price had done the unpacking. I've been through everything. You can look yourself. It's gone."

  "She's taken it," said Charles.

  "Yes, she's taken it."

  "Oh, gosh!" said Charles. There was a world of disillusion and sadness in his voice.

  Paul lay staring at them glumly over his neatly turned-down sheet.

  3. In for a Penny

  Yes, now they were there "the cupboard was bare!" Oh, it wasn't that she wasn't glad to see them; it wasn't that she wasn't very kind and had made up that lovely bed for Paul on the sofa in her room. It wasn't that she didn't plan delightful picnics to Pepperinge Eye and Lowbody Farm, and the Roman Remains; and read to them at night, and teach them croquet. It was just that she had given up magic. She seemed to have given up for good and all. She seemed to have forgotten that she ever knew it. Right behind the bottled fruits in the larder Paul did once see some pink and blue, which he thought might be the chart of the zodiac, but he didn't get a chance to look properly as the door was nearly always kept locked.

  All their excitement, all their planning, seemed to have gone for nothing until one day—

  It was Carey's job to put the cleaned shoes by each person's bed at night all ready for morning. About a week after they had arrived, when she had forgotten them the night before, she had to creep down before breakfast to fetch Paul's shoes from the scullery. As Paul slept on the sofa in Miss Price's room, it meant that Carey had to open that door very, very quietly so she could slip in without waking Miss Price. Well, that was the morning when she found Miss Price's bed had gone.

  A faint (the very faintest) film of dust and a pair of quilted slippers marked the place where it had stood. The coverlet was neatly folded on the chest of drawers, and not another thing was out of place. Paul's clothes lay tidily upon his chair, his sofa stood in its usual corner, but Paul himself was nowhere to be seen.

  Carey ran down to the passage to call Charles, and he came with her, slowly and sleepily, to see the empty room. They talked it over. They could hardly believe it.

  "I told you it was the bed," Charles reminded Carey. "I knew it by that piece of rusty screw."

  "But behind our backs!" exclaimed Carey. "To have pretended to have given up magic, and then to go and do a thing like this—behind our backs."

  As Carey dressed, she grew angrier and angrier. She cleaned her teeth so viciously that she made the gums bleed. She nearly exploded when she heard the bump in Miss Price's room, and Paul's cheerful voice asking if there were raspberries for breakfast.

  But barely had she and Charles sat down at table when Miss Price appeared, followed by Paul. Miss Price, looking brisk and neat, and not at all out of the ordinary, went straight to the sideboard to serve the porridge. Paul, who looked as if he had dressed hurriedly, sidled into his place. Except for his un-brushed hair and pullover back to front, he, too, looked quite normal. When Miss Price came to the table with the porridge, there was a look of exhilaration about her as if she had had a cold bath. "A lovely day," she said cheerfully as she poured out the coffee. She smiled round the table at the children. "What are we going to do with it?"

  Carey's face became wooden. "We haven't thought," she said coldly.

  "What about a picnic lunch on the Roman Remains?" suggested Miss Price, undaunted.

  "I don't think people should picnic on Roman remains," said Carey.

  Miss Price gave her a curious look, and then she turned to Charles. "Have you any suggestions, Charles?"

  "What is Paul going to do?" asked Charles suspiciously.

  Miss Price looked a little taken aback. "Why, go
with you. Unless, perhaps, you go to the Roman Remains. That is a little far—"

  "I think," said Charles, "we should go somewhere where Paul can come too."

  Miss Price looked surprised. "Well, of course, that would be nicer. I just thought—that sometimes you and Carey like to do things on your own—"

  "No," said Carey firmly, "we like Paul with us. Always."

  Miss Price looked really surprised at this. And so did Paul. He sat with his porridge spoon aslant, dripping milk down the front of his jersey.

  "Paul!" said Miss Price sharply. Paul came to and swallowed the porridge, and Miss Price wiped off the drips.

  "Well, children," said Miss Price at the end of breakfast, "you must make your own plans. I have my music lessons, but I shall be free by lunchtime. Go to the bathroom, please, Paul."

  Carey and Charles went out in the garden to wait for Paul.

  He emerged with a burst almost immediately, his voice raised in a tuneless rendering of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing." Quickly and silently Charles and Carey took him each by an arm and pulled him through the hedge into the meadow. They walked him out of earshot of the house, and then they sat him down in the long grass, still holding him.

  "Paul," said Carey sternly, in a fair imitation of Aunt Beatrice's voice, "it's no good hedging. Charles and I know all."

  Paul looked bewildered and tried to pull his arms free.

  "You and Miss Price," went on Carey, "have been off on the bed. It's no good lying. Charles and I saw."

  Paul looked unperturbed. "Did you see us go?" he asked.

  "Never mind," said Carey darkly.

  Paul, sensing their mood, sat still. He just looked bored like a pony tied to a stall.

  "Well?" said Carey. "What have you to say?"

  It seemed Paul had nothing to say. He fidgeted with his feet and did not look even interested.

  "Have you been often?"

  "No," said Paul, making a not very determined effort to pull his wrist free, "we were only trying it."

  "Is this the first time you've tried it?"

  "Yes."

  "Did it work all right?" asked Charles. He sounded more friendly suddenly.

  "Yes."

  Carey let go Paul's wrist. "Where did you go, Paul?"

  Paul smiled.

  "Tell us, Paul," urged Carey. "We're sure to find out."

  "Guess," said Paul.

  "All right. You must answer 'yes' or 'no,' and you can say 'sort of.'"

  "Was it in the western hemisphere?" asked Charles.

  "No," said Paul.

  "Was it the eastern hemisphere?" asked Carey.

  "No," said Paul.

  "Then it wasn't in the world!" exclaimed Charles.

  "Yes. It was in the world," said Paul.

  "Well, then it must have been in the western or the eastern hemisphere."

  "No," said Paul. "It wasn't anywhere like that."

  "He doesn't know what hemisphere means," Charles suggested.

  Paul looked stubborn. "Yes, I know what it means."

  "What does it mean?"

  "Well—it means—It doesn't mean Blowditch."

  "Is that where you went?"

  "Yes."

  "You only went as far as Blowditch?"

  "Yes."

  "Why, you could walk there," exclaimed Charles.

  "It was only to see if it worked," explained Paul.

  "Did you ask Miss Price if you could try it?"

  "No. She asked me. She said, 'Let's give it a little twist. I don't suppose it still works.'"

  "Spells don't wear out," said Carey.

  "How do you know?" asked Charles.

  "Well, it stands to reason," replied Carey.

  They were silent awhile. Then Carey said tolerantly, "I can understand how it happened. But I don't think it's at all fair. And I never have thought it fair that Paul was the only one who could work it."

  "Well, it was his knob," said Charles. "We mustn't grumble. There are people who would give anything for a magic bed-knob, whoever had to work it."

  "Yes," agreed Carey, "I know. But, as they've had a turn, I think we ought to have a turn too. Miss Price can do as she likes for herself, but we never said we'd give up magic."

  "I don't see how we could manage it," said Charles, "not with the bed in Miss Price's room."

  Carey tossed back her braids. "I shall just go to Miss Price in a straightforward way and ask her right out."

  Charles, slightly awed, was silent.

  "And there's another thing," Carey went on. "Do you remember that when Miss Price gave us the spell, she said that if we turned the knob backward the bed would take us into the past? Well, I think she ought to let us have one go at the past. After that, we could give it up—for a bit," she added, "though I don't see what all this giving up of magic does for anybody. You'd think it might be used for the defense scheme or something."

  "Carey!" exclaimed Charles, deeply shocked.

  Carey, a little subdued, broke off a stalk of sorrel and chewed it pensively. "I suppose you're right," she admitted after a moment. She had sudden visions of dragons breathing fire and mustard gas and whole armies turning into white mice. It would be terrible, unthinkable, to have one's brother, say, invalided out of the army as a white mouse, kept for the rest of his life in a cage on the drawing room table. And where would you pin the medals on a mouse?

  "You see," said Charles, "Miss Price is quite right in some ways. You can overdo things."

  "I know," Carey admitted. "But I don't see how it would hurt anybody if we just had a little trip into the past."

  "Well, there's no harm in asking," said Charles.

  They cornered Miss Price after supper. She listened to their argument; she saw the justice of what they said; but she threw up her hands and said, "Oh dear, oh dear!"

  They tried to reassure her; they were very reasonable and very moderate. "Just one more go, Miss Price, and after that we'll give it up. It's a pity to waste the past."

  "I don't like it," Miss Price kept saying. "I don't like it. If you were stuck or anything, I couldn't get you out. I've burned the books."

  "Oh, no—" cried Carey, aghast.

  "Yes, yes, I burned them," cried poor Miss Price. "They were very confidential."

  "Can't you remember anything by heart?"

  "Nothing to speak of. One or two little things ... Oh dear, this is all my fault. I just wanted to see—out of simple curiosity—if spells wore out. I never dreamed it would start all this up again—"

  "Please let us try, Miss Price," urged Carey. "Just this once, and we'll never ask again. We did keep our word, and you're not really keeping yours if you don't let us just try the past. We never told anyone about your being a witch, and now, if you won't let us use the spell again anyway, it wouldn't matter if we did tell—"

  "Carey!" exclaimed Miss Price. She stood up. Her eyes gleamed strangely. Her long thin nose suddenly seemed longer and thinner. Her chin looked sharper. Carey drew away alarmed.

  "Oh, Miss Price," she muttered nervously.

  "If I thought"—went on Miss Price, leaning her face closer as Carey backed away—"if, for a minute, I thought—"

  "You needn't think," cried Carey agitatedly. "We wouldn't ever tell. Ever. Because we promised and we like you. But," she added bravely, "fair's fair."

  Miss Price stared at Carey a moment or two longer; then, limply, she sat down again in her chair. Her hands lay open on her lap. Tired, she seemed suddenly, and sad. "Professionally speaking," she said, "I'm no good. I should have put a rattling good spell on all three of you and shut you up once and for all." She sighed. "Now it's too late."

  Nervously Carey took Miss Price's limp hand in hers. "You needn't worry about us," she said reassuringly, "you really needn't."

  "And you were wonderful," exclaimed Charles warmly, "professionally speaking."

  "Do you really think so?" asked Miss Price uncertainly.

  "Yes, Miss Price, we do," affirmed Carey. "Don't be disc
ouraged. You'll pick it all up again, easy as pie, once you set your mind to it."

  "You think I will?" asked Miss Price wanly. "You're not just saying that?"

  "I know it," said Carey, nodding her head.

  Miss Price patted her hair as if she felt it had come out of place. "I hope you're right," she said, in her usual voice. "And in the meantime, as you have had some experience, and providing you went somewhere really educational and took every precaution and were very, very careful, I don't see"—she looked at them gravely, almost speculatively, and she drew in her breath—"how one little trip into the past could hurt anyone."

  4. The "Past"

  In London, during the reign of King Charles II, there lived a necromancer. (******These six stars are to give you time to ask what is a necromancer. Now you know, we will go on.) He lived in a little house in Cripplegate in a largish room at the top of a narrow flight of stairs. He was a very nervous man and disliked the light of day. There were two good reasons for this; I will tell you the first.

  When he was a boy, he had been apprenticed to another necromancer, an old man from whom he had inherited the business. The old necromancer, in private life, was fat and jolly, but in the presence of his clients he became solemn as an owl and clothed his fat whiteness in a long dark robe edged with fur so that he could fill them with respect and awe. Without his smile, and in his long dark robe, he looked as important as a mayor and as gloomy as a lawyer's clerk.

  The young necromancer, whose name was Emelius Jones, worked very hard to learn his trade. It was he who had to turn out at ten to twelve on cold moonlit nights to collect cats from graveyards and walk the lonely beaches in the gray dawn seeking seven white stones of equal size wet by the last wave of the neap tide. It was he who had to mash up herbs with pestle and mortar and crawl down drains after rats.

  The old necromancer would sit by the fire, with his feet on a footstool, drinking hot sack with a dash of cinnamon, and nod his head saying: "Well done, my boy, well done..."

  The young necromancer would work for hours by candlelight, studying the chart of the heavens and learning to read the stars. He would twist the globe on the ebony stand until his brain, too, rotated on its own axis. On sweltering afternoons he would be sent out to the country on foot to trudge through the fading heather, seeking blindworms and adders and striped snails. He had to climb belfries after bats, rob churches for tallow, and blow down glass tubes at green slime till the blood sang in his ears and his eyes bulged.