The Borrowers Read online

  "They're bad and they're good," said Pod; "they're honest and they're artful—it's just as it takes them at the moment. And animals, if they could talk, would say the same. Steer clear of them—that's what I've always been told. No matter what they promise you. No good never really came to no one from any human bean."

  Chapter Fifteen

  THAT night, while Arrietty lay straight and still under her cigar-box ceiling, Homily and Pod talked for hours. They talked in the sitting room, they talked in the kitchen, and later, much later, she heard them talk in their bedroom. She heard drawers shutting and opening, doors creaking, and boxes being pulled out from under beds. "What are they doing?" she wondered. "What will happen next?" Very still she lay in her soft little bed with her familiar belongings about her: her postage stamp view of Rio harbor; her silver pig off a charm bracelet; her turquoise ring which sometimes, for fun, she would wear as a crown, and, dearest of all, her floating ladies with the golden trumpets, tooting above their peaceful town. She did not want to lose these, she realized suddenly, lying there straight and still in bed, but to have all the other things as well, adventure and safety mixed—that's what she wanted. And that (the restless hangings and whisperings told her) is just what you couldn't do.

  As it happened, Homily was only fidgeting: opening drawers and shutting them, unable to be still. And she ended up, when Pod was already in bed, by deciding to curl her hair. "Now, Homily," Pod protested wearily, lying there in his night-shirt, "there's really no call for that. Who's going to see you?"

  "That's just it," exclaimed Homily, searching in a drawer for her curl-rags; "in times like these one never knows. I'm not going to be caught out," she said irritably, turning the drawer upside-down and picking over the spilled contents, "with me hair like this!"

  She came to bed at last, looking spiky, like a washed-out golliwog, and Pod with a sigh turned over at last and closed his eyes.

  Homily lay for a long time staring at the oil lamp; it was the silver cap of a perfume bottle with a tiny, floating wick. She felt unwilling, for some reason, to blow it out. There were movements upstairs in the kitchen and it was late for movements—the household should be asleep—and the lumpy curlers pressed uncomfortably against her neck. She gazed—just as Arrietty had done—about the familiar room (too full, she realized, with little bags and boxes and makeshift cupboards) and thought: "What now? Perhaps nothing will happen after all; the child perhaps is right, and we are making a good deal of fuss about nothing very much; this boy, when all's said and done, is only a guest; perhaps," thought Homily, "he'll go away again quite soon, and that," she told herself drowsily, "will be that."

  Later (as she realized afterwards) she must have dozed off because it seemed she was crossing Parkin's Beck; it was night and the wind was blowing and the field seemed very steep; she was scrambling up it, along the ridge by the gas-pipe, sliding and falling in the wet grass. The trees, it seemed to Homily, were threshing and clashing, their branches waving and sawing against the sky. Then (as she told them many weeks later) there was a sound of splintering wood....

  And Homily woke up. She saw the room again and the oil lamp flickering, but something, she knew at once, was different: there was a strange draught and her mouth felt dry and full of grit. Then she looked up at the ceiling: "Pod!" she shrieked, clutching his shoulder.

  Pod rolled over and sat up. They both stared at the ceiling: the whole surface was on a steep slant and one side of it had come right away from the wall—this was what had caused the draught—and down into the room, to within an inch of the foot of the bed, protruded a curious object: a huge bar of gray steel with a flattened, shining edge.

  "It's a screwdriver," said Pod.

  They stared at it, fascinated, unable to move, and for a moment all was still. Then slowly the huge object swayed upward until the sharp edge lay against their ceiling and Homily heard a scrape on the floor above and a sudden human gasp. "Oh, my knees," cried Homily, "oh, my feeling—" as, with a splintering wrench, their whole roof flew off and fell down with a clatter, somewhere out of sight.

  Homily screamed then. But this time it was a real scream, loud and shrill and hearty; she seemed almost to settle down in her scream, while her eyes stared up, half interested, into empty lighted space. There was another ceiling, she realized, away up above them—higher, it seemed, than the sky; a ham hung from it and two strings of onions. Arrietty appeared in the doorway, scared and trembling, clutching her nightgown. And Pod slapped Homily's back. "Have done," he said, "that's enough," and Homily, suddenly, was quiet.

  A great face appeared then between them and that distant height. It wavered above them, smiling and terrible: there was silence and Homily sat bolt upright, her mouth open. "Is that your mother?" asked a surprised voice after a moment, and Arrietty from the doorway whispered: "Yes."

  It was the boy.

  Pod got out of bed and stood beside it, shivering in his night-shirt. "Come on," he said to Homily, "you can't stay there!"

  But Homily could. She had her old nightdress on with the patch in the back and nothing was going to move her. A slow anger was rising up in Homily: she had been caught in her hair-curlers; Pod had raised his hand to her; and she remembered that, in the general turmoil and for once in her life, she had left the supper washing-up for morning, and there it would be, on the kitchen table, for all the world to see!

  She glared at the boy—he was only a child after all. "Put it back!" she said, "put it back at once!" Her eyes flashed and her curlers seemed to quiver.

  He knelt down then, but Homily did not flinch as the great face came slowly closer. She saw his under hp, pink and full—like an enormous exaggeration of Arrietty's—and she saw it wobble slightly. "But I've got something for you," he said.

  Homily's expression did not change and Arrietty called out from her place in the doorway: "What is it?"

  The boy reached behind him and very gingerly, careful to keep it upright, he held a wooden object above their heads. "It's this," he said, and very carefully, his tongue out and breathing heavily, he lowered the object slowly into their hole: it was a doll's dresser, complete with plates. It had two drawers in it and a cupboard below; he adjusted its position at the foot of Homily's bed. Arrietty ran round to see better.

  "Oh," she cried ecstatically. "Mother, look!"

  Homily threw the dresser a glance—it was dark oak and the plates were hand-painted—and then she looked quickly away again. "Yes," she said coldly, "it's very nice."

  There was a short silence which no one knew how to break.

  "The cupboard really opens," said the boy at last, and the great hand came down all amongst them, smelling of bath soap. Arrietty flattened herself against the wall and Pod exclaimed, nervous: "Now then!"

  "Yes," agreed Homily after a moment, "I see it does."

  Pod drew a long breath—a sigh of relief as the hand went back.

  "There, Homily," he said placatingly, "you've always wanted something like that!"

  "Yes," said Homily—she still sat bolt upright, her hands clasped in her lap. "Thank you very much. And now," she went on coldly, "will you please put back the roof?"

  "Wait a minute," pleaded the boy. Again he reached behind him; again the hand came down; and there, beside the dresser, where there was barely room for it, was a very small doll's chair; it was a Victorian chair, upholstered in red velvet. "Oh!" Arrietty exclaimed again and Pod said shyly: "Just about fit me, that would."

  "Try it," begged the boy, and Pod threw him a nervous glance. "Go on!" said Arrietty, and Pod sat down—in his night-shirt, his bare feet showing. "That's nice," he said after a moment.

  "It would go by the fire in the sitting room," cried Arrietty; "it would look lovely on red blotting paper!"

  "Let's try it," said the boy, and the hand came down again. Pod sprang up just in time to steady the dresser as the red velvet chair was whisked away above his head and placed presumably in the next room but one. Arrietty ran out of the door and alon
g the passage to see. "Oh," she called out to her parents, "come and see. It's lovely!"

  But Pod and Homily did not move. The boy was leaning over them, breathing hard, and they could see the middle buttons of his night-shirt. He seemed to be examining the farther room.

  "What do you keep in that mustard-pot?" he asked.

  "Coal," said Arrietty's voice. "And I helped to borrow this new carpet. Here's the watch I told you about, and the pictures...."

  "I could get you some better stamps than those," the boy said. "I've got some jubilee ones with the Taj Mahal."

  "Look," cried Arrietty's voice again, and Pod took Homily's hand, "these are my books—"

  Homily clutched Pod as the great hand came down once more in the direction of Arrietty. "Quiet," he whispered; "sit still...." The boy, it seemed, was touching the books.

  "What are they called?" he asked, and Arrietty reeled off the names.

  "Pod," whispered Homily, "I'm going to scream—"

  "No," whispered Pod. "You mustn't. Not again."

  "I feel it coming on," said Homily.

  Pod looked worried. "Hold your breath," he said, "and count ten."

  The boy was saying to Arrietty: "Why couldn't you read me those?"

  "Well, I could," said Arrietty, "but I'd rather read something new."

  "But you never come," complained the boy.

  "I know," said Arrietty, "but I will."

  "Pod," whispered Homily, "did you hear that? Did you hear what she said?"

  "Yes, yes," Pod whispered; "keep quiet—"

  "Do you want to see the storerooms?" Arrietty suggested next and Homily clapped a hand to her mouth as though to stifle a cry.

  Pod looked up at the boy. "Hey," he called, trying to attract his attention. The boy looked down. "Put the roof back now," Pod begged him, trying to sound matter of fact and reasonable; "we're getting cold."

  "All right," agreed the boy, but he seemed to hesitate: he reached across them for the piece of board which formed their roof. "Shall I nail you down?" he asked, and they saw him pick up the hammer; it swayed above them, very dangerous looking.

  "Of course nail us down," said Pod irritably.

  "I mean," said the boy, "I've got some more things upstairs—"

  Pod looked uncertain and Homily nudged him. "Ask him," she whispered, "what kind of things?"

  "What kind of things?" asked Pod.

  "Things from an old doll's house there is on the top shelf of the cupboard by the fireplace in the schoolroom."

  "I've never seen no doll's house," said Pod.

  "Well, it's in the cupboard," said the boy, "right up by the ceiling; you can't see it—you've got to climb on the lower shelves to get to it."

  "What sort of things are there in the doll's house?" asked Arrietty from the sitting room.

  "Oh, everything," the boy told her; "carpets and rugs and beds with mattresses, and there's a bird in a cage—not a real one—of course, and cooking pans and tables and five gilt chairs and a pot with a palm in it—a dish of plaster tarts and an imitation leg of mutton—"

  Homily leaned across to Pod. "Tell him to nail us down lightly," she whispered. Pod stared at her and she nodded vigorously, clasping her hands.

  Pod turned to the boy. "All right," he said, "you nail us down. But lightly, if you see what I mean. Just a tap or two here and there...."

  Chapter Sixteen

  THEN began a curious phase in their lives: borrowings beyond all dreams of borrowing—a golden age. Every night the floor was opened and treasures would appear: a real carpet for the sitting room, a tiny coal-scuttle, a stiff little sofa with damask cushions, a double bed with a round bolster, a single ditto with a striped mattress, framed pictures instead of stamps, a kitchen stove which didn't work but which looked "lovely" in the kitchen; there were oval tables and square tables and a little desk with one drawer; there were two maple wardrobes (one with a looking-glass) and a bureau with curved legs. Homily grew not only accustomed to the roof coming off but even went so far as to suggest to Pod that he put the board on hinges. "It's just the hammering I don't care for " she explained— "it brings down the dirt."

  When the boy brought them a grand piano Homily begged Pod to build a drawing room. "Next to the sitting room," she said, "and we could move the storerooms farther down. Then we could have those gilt chairs he talks about and the palm in a pot...." Pod, however, was a little tired of furniture removing; he was looking forward to the quiet evenings when he could doze at last beside the fire in his new red velvet chair. No sooner had he put a chest of drawers in one place when Homily, coming in and out at the door—"to get the effect"—made him "try" it somewhere else. And every evening, at about his usual bedtime, the roof would fly up and more stuff would arrive. But Homily was tireless; bright-eyed and pink-cheeked, after a long day's pushing and pulling, she still would leave nothing until morning. "Let's just try it," she would beg, lifting up one end of a large doll's sideboard, so that Pod would have to lift the other; "it won't take a minute!" But as Pod well knew, in actual fact it would be several hours before, disheveled and aching, they finally dropped into bed. Even then Homily would sometimes hop out "to have one last look."

  In the meantime, in payment for these riches, Arrietty would read to the boy—every afternoon in the long grass beyond the cherry tree. He would lie on his back and she would stand beside his shoulder and tell him when to turn the page. They were happy days to look back on afterwards, with the blue sky beyond the cherry boughs, the grasses softly stirring, and the boy's great ear listening beside her. She grew to know that ear quite well, with its curves and shadows and sunlit pinks and golds. Sometimes, as she grew bolder, she would lean against his shoulder. He was very still while she read to him and always grateful. What worlds they would explore together—strange worlds to Arrietty. She learned a lot and some of the things she learned were hard to accept. She was made to realize once and for all that this earth on which they lived turning about in space did not revolve, as she had believed, for the sake of little people. "Nor for big people either," she reminded the boy when she saw his secret smile.

  In the cool of the evening Pod would come for her—a rather weary Pod, disheveled and dusty—to take her back for tea. And at home there would be an excited Homily and fresh delights to discover. "Shut your eyes!" Homily would cry. "Now open them!" and Arrietty, in a dream of joy, would see her home transformed. Ail kinds of surprises there were—even, one day, lace curtains at the grating, looped up with pink string.

  Their only sadness was that there was no one there to see: no visitors, no casual droppers-in, no admiring cries and envious glances! What would Homily have not given for an Overmantel or a Harpsichord? Even a Rain-Barrel would have been better than no one at all. "You write to your Uncle Hendreary," Homily suggested, "and tell him. A nice long letter, mind, and don't leave anything out!" Arrietty began the letter on the back of one of the discarded pieces of blotting-paper, but it became as she wrote it just a dull list, far too long, like a sale catalogue or the inventory of a house to let; she would have to keep jumping up to count spoons or to look up words in the dictionary, and after a while she laid it aside: there was so much else to do, so many new books to read, and so much, now, that she could talk of with the boy.

  "He's been ill," she told her mother and father; "he's been here for the quiet and the country air. But soon he'll go back to India. Did you know," she asked the amazed Homily, "that the Arctic night lasts six months, and that the distance between the two poles is less than that between the two extremities of a diameter drawn through the equator?"

  Yes, they were happy days and all would have been well, as Pod said afterwards, if they had stuck to borrowing from the doll's house. No one in the human household seemed to remember it was there and consequently nothing was missed. The drawing room, however, could not help but be a temptation: it was so seldom used nowadays; there were so many knick-knack tables which had been out of Pod's reach, and the boy, of course, co
uld turn the key in the glass doors of the cabinet.

  The silver violin he brought them first and then the silver harp; it stood no higher than Pod's shoulder and Pod restrung it with horse-hair from the sofa in the morning room. "A musical conversazione, that's what we could have!" cried the exulting Homily as Arrietty struck a tiny, tuneless note on a horse-hair string. "If only," she went on fervently, clasping her hands, "your father would start on the drawing room!" (She curled her hair nearly every evening nowadays and, since the house was more or less straight, she would occasionally change for dinner into a satin dress; it hung like a sack, but Homily called it "Grecian.") "We could use your painted ceiling," she explained to Arrietty, "and there are quite enough of those toy builders' bricks to make a parquet floor." ("Parkay," she would say. "Par-r-r-kay...," just like a Harpsichord.)

  Even Great-Aunt Sophy, right away upstairs in the littered grandeur of her bedroom, seemed distantly affected by a spirit of endeavor which seemed to flow, in gleeful whorls and eddies, about the staid old house. Several times lately Pod, when he went to her room, had found her out of bed. He went there nowadays not to borrow, but to rest: the room, one might almost say, had become his, club; a place to which he could go "to get away from things." Pod was a little irked by his riches; he had never visualized, not in his wildest dreams, borrowing such as this. Homily, he felt, should call a halt; surely, now, then—home was grand enough; these jeweled snuffboxes and diamond-encrusted miniatures, these filigree vanity cases and Dresden figurines—all, as he knew, from the drawing-room cabinet—were not really necessary: what was the good of a shepherdess nearly as tall as Arrietty or an outsize candle-snuffer? Sitting just inside the fender, where he could warm his hands at the fire, he watched Aunt Sophy hobble slowly round the room on her two sticks. "She'll be downstairs soon, I shouldn't wonder," he thought glumly, hardly listening to her oft-told tale about a royal luncheon aboard a Russian yacht, "then she'll miss these things...."