The Borrowers Avenged Page 8

  "Not really—" began Homily excitedly. "You remember those ones in the morning room at Firbank? They—"

  Pod raised a quiet hand to silence her. "Does he live alone?" he asked Arrietty.

  "Yes, I think so. Yes, I'm sure he does. You see, it's like this..." And she told him, perhaps a little too eagerly, of Peagreen's accident, his early life, all the troubles and dangers and hunger and loneliness she had imagined for him (not that he had ever mentioned these himself)..."It must have been too awful!" she finished breathlessly.

  Homily had listened silently: she had not known quite what to think. To feel pity for an Overmantel—that would be a development for which she would need time.

  "You don't know where he lives?" asked Pod.

  "No," said Arrietty, "he's just moved house."

  "Oh, well," said Pod, "he's a grown man now: it's none of our business. We've more important things of our own to go into now—Spiller and me, we was talking late last night: we got decisions to make, and we've got to make them quickly." He pulled out a piece of tile and sat down on it. "What about that bit of breakfast, Homily? We can talk as we eat..."

  "It's like this," said Pod, when they were all seated and had opened up the dock leaf. "With this weather and a full moon, we could unload the boat tonight."

  "Oh, Pod," groaned Homily, "not across that lawn again! Not so soon!" She was holding up a piece of limp ham, which during the long night had become a good deal paler.

  "Who said anything about walking across lawns?" Pod retorted. "Just you listen quietly, Homily, and I'll tell you Spiller's idea." He broke off a corner of dry bread and laid a sliver of ham across it. "You know that pond? Well, you might call it a lake..." They waited anxiously until he had finished his first mouthful. At last, he swallowed. "That lake, as you might have noticed, comes nigh up to the steps. If you didn't notice, it was because we cut away from it, through those bushes, to the bank, remember?"

  Homily nodded. Arrietty, her eyes fixed on her father, stretched out her hand for a grape. She had begun to feel excited and was more thirsty than hungry. "Now," Pod went on, "Spiller, with his punt pole and with the help of the paddle—"

  "What paddle?" asked Homily.

  "The butter knife," whispered Arrietty.

  "...can turn his boat into the stream and take it into the main lake, across the lake, and right up to the steps. Once on the lake, the going is smooth as silk, no currents there once he's out of the stream..."

  "Then why didn't he do it yesterday," complained Homily, "instead of all that walking?"

  "Because," said Pod patiently, "it was broad daylight. What sort of cover, I ask you, could you expect to find in the middle of a lake? No, Homily, moving our stuff by boat is a nighttime job. Though I wouldn't say no to a bit of a moon..."

  "That lake doesn't come right up to the bank, Pod," said Homily after a moment.

  "Near enough for us to unload and bring the stuff up the bank."

  "That'll take us all night," said Homily, "if all we've got to help us is Spiller's soapbox."

  "The first things I'll need out of that boat is me tools and the ball of twine."

  "What about my cooking pots? Say we wanted a drink now, with our breakfast? There's that tap in the corner, dripping away, but we've nothing to put under it."

  "You must use your cupped hands," said Pod, in the same patient voice, "for the time being."

  They were not quarreling, Arrietty realized; this was a discussion. Later on, even she might venture to join in.

  "There's an awful lot of stuff, Pod," Homily pointed out, "tables, chairs, beds..."

  Was Pod going to remind her, Arrietty wondered, of his repeated warnings not to bring too much? No, she realized, he wasn't: he was too kind (and what good would it do now?).

  "This move," he said, "must be done in two operations: everything up the bank and onto the gravel. And then, piece by piece, we bring it along here."

  There was a short silence. Then Arrietty swallowed nervously. "Papa..." she began.

  "Yes, Arrietty?"

  "Where are we going to put all this stuff when we get it along here?"

  Homily looked about her at the vast, empty conservatory. Then she looked back at Pod. "The child's got a point, Pod. Where are we going to put it? Seeing as we have to put every tile back just where it was, so nothing should look out of place..."

  Pod was silent a moment. Then he said gravely, "You're right; that is a bit of a problem."

  They were all silent. After a while, Homily said, "Seems like we have to find some sort of place first." She looked towards the library.

  "There's nowhere in there," said Pod, turning his head to follow her gaze, "barring the shelves, and they're all open to view, as you might say." He turned back and linked his hands together across his bent knees. He stared down at them thoughtfully. "Yes, now I come to think of it, this is more than a bit of a problem."

  "You've been in the hall, Pod. What about those other rooms, as you go along the passage?"

  "They keep them locked," said Pod.

  "What do you come to when you get to the end of the passage?"

  "The old kitchen," said Pod.

  "What's that like?"

  "Empty," said Pod. "They don't use it. Except for the cooking stove in the corner. They keep that alight for hot water. And she simmers on it, Spiller says. They've got their own little kitchen beyond—well, not a kitchen, exactly. It's a little place with a small sink and gas stove. The gas stove is very small—only takes one dish, Spiller says, and boils a kettle. And they get the hot water for the sink from the stove in the old kitchen. That they do keep alight—or so Spiller tells me. As I say, she simmers things on it, and it keeps the place warm."

  "Might be useful for us," said Homily thoughtfully.

  "Might be," said Pod.

  "That old kitchen—there wouldn't be a place for us? To live in, like?"

  "There could be," said Pod, "but say you've got a choice, better not choose a room where human beans are always coming in and out, bringing coal, carrying dishes ... She cooks a lot for other people," he added. "Takes it on as a job."

  Again there was silence: all were thinking hard.

  "Are there any cupboards in the old kitchen?" Homily asked after a while.

  "Plenty," said Pod, "and down at floor level underneath the dressers."

  "Suppose," suggested Homily, "we just stored the stuff in one of those? For the time being, say, till we found somewhere permanent?"

  Pod thought this over. "No," he said after a moment, "it wouldn't do. Who's to say someone might not open that cupboard door? And that stuff—though it's safe enough now down in Spiller's boat—is all we've got in the world, Homily. Furthermore," he went on (rather pleased with the word), "there's so much of it. More than we need," he sighed. "But we'll let that pass now. As I see it, it's against the law of..." he paused.

  "Averages?" suggested Arrietty.

  "That's the word: it's against the law of averages that we could cart all that stuff all the way down that long passage, across the old kitchen, and stack it in an empty cupboard—and mind you, Homily, that kitchen is just below the place where they sleep, those Witlesses—without making a sound!"

  "I suppose you're right," said Homily, after a moment.

  "I know I'm right," said Pod. "You can picture it: this house is dead quiet at night. One of them, him or her, would wake up, think it was rats or something, and there we'd be—caught red-handed!"

  Homily was quiet for a moment, and then she said, "Yes, I—I see what you mean." Her voice sounded rather faint.

  "And not only us," Pod went on, "all our possessions!"

  A kind of burglary in reverse, Arrietty thought to herself, but she felt sorry to have had to be the one to point out all these difficulties. But difficulties they certainly were, and very grave ones.

  "Then what are we going to do?" Homily said at last, after a long, unhappy silence.

  Pod stood up. "It's obvious," he said. He took
a few restless steps across the tiles and then came back and sat down again. "Go on as we are for the time being," he announced firmly.

  "What, live in that stove!" exclaimed Homily. But Arrietty felt a wave of relief: she had thought he might say that they must go away again. Suddenly she realized that she loved this house, the garden, the sense of freedom, and she felt that somehow, by some means yet to be discovered, they would find happiness here.

  "Our stuff is safe enough where it is," Pod went on, "in Spiller's boat under that bank. And there it can stay until we find some corner for ourselves..."

  "But there doesn't seem to be one," said Homily, "not here on the ground floor. And I can't go climbing vines at my age." She was thinking of the rooms upstairs.

  "Give me a few days," said Pod.

  Once Homily had made up their bed, there seemed nothing much else to do. Pod went off to make another exploration of the library but came back just as frustrated. They were waiting for Spiller, who at some point was bound to appear, but time dragged very heavily. Once the telephone rang. It rang three times, and they all rushed under the stove at the sound of scurrying footsteps in the passage. They heard Mrs. Whitlace say "Hello!" Then there was a pause, and she said, "Yes, yes." There was another pause, and they heard her say "I will, of course!" in her cheerful, ringing voice. There was a click, and the footsteps scurried away again.

  "I wonder what that was about," said Homily, as they came out from under the stove. She was brushing herself down. "Pod," she went on, "we've got to do something about these ashes."

  "I'll get you a wisp of box. You can sweep them to the side, like."

  "And how are we going to wash, I'd like to know. Drip by drip under that tap?"

  "It may only be for a few days," said Pod.

  "How do we know?"

  "Now, Homily, you be your old self: we've been through a lot worse than this, remember?"

  "I was only asking," said Homily as Pod turned towards the garden door. Arrietty jumped up and forestalled him. She held him back by clinging to his arm. "Oh, Papa, could I go? It needn't be box: I saw a thistle head—a thistle head makes a lovely broom. Please, Papa!"

  He let her go, rather unwillingly, but remembering his promise that very soon now he would teach her to borrow. All the same, he watched her anxiously through the dim glass panes as she darted about among the weeds and grasses. Soon she was back with two dried-up thistle heads, both a little damp with dew, but as she told Homily, they would sweep all the better for that. "Are there any crumbs?" she asked her mother. "There's a robin in that bush..."

  "Plenty," said Homily, and handed her the crumpled dock leaf.

  "Now, Homily—" warned Pod.

  But Homily said, "Oh, let her go, Pod. It's a lovely day, and we can watch her from here."

  Alas, as she crossed the path, the rot in flew away. But she scattered the crumbs all the same and threw away the dock leaf. She went on to the untidy box hedge on the far side of the path and looked up into the branches. Very dark it looked up there, hemmed in by the thick chimps of leaves at the outer edges. It was a hollow kind of darkness but crisscrossed with a myriad of sinewy twigs and brunches. It was an easy climb and a hidden one. Arrietty barely hesitated: such a climb was beyond resistance ... It was wonderful—no thorns, no scratchy pieces, only here and there soft curls of paper-thin bark. Up and up she went: this climb was child's play, she thought, and, what was more, completely secure and hidden. Perhaps the leaves on the outside might rustle a little, but what did that matter? Bushes were apt to rustle a little—birds could cause it, or even a puff of wind. But there was no wind today, and as she got higher, the surroundings became lighter until, at last, on a topmost branch, she found herself in sunshine.

  Oh, the view! There was the stable yard, with its mellowed roofs, and beyond that the walled garden—the kitchen garden, Pod had called it. The walls were too high to see very far inside, but she could see the iron gate with its upright bars: just wide enough, that gate, to take a wheelbarrow. It appeared to be padlocked.

  On the other side, so close that it surprised her, was the squat tower of the church, with its thick, low parapet and, just below that, the clock face. Around the church, obscured here and there by trees and bushes, the churchyard lay dreaming in the sunshine. Very peaceful it looked, with its medley of gravestones. Some graves looked carefully tended, others old and forgotten, but they did not lie in rows. If anyone had asked her about the layout of the churchyard, she would have described it as higgledy-piggledy, but somehow, she thought, this made it seem beautiful. It made her long to explore it, to read the names on the headstones, and learn something of those who, when their time had come, had

  been so gently laid to rest. She had not quite realized how near the church was to the rectory: barely a step for a human being, and not many more for a borrower.

  Gazing at the church, she found herself comparing it with Mr. Pott's miniature counterpart in his model village. Looking at it now (as she swayed rather dreamily on a little seat she had found for herself between two upcurving boughs), she realized with what loving care Mr. Pott had copied the original—almost, it seemed to her now, stone by stone. Was it true that her cousins, the Hendrearys, were living there? Spiller had said so, but her father had not seen them. Perhaps because he had not yet been inside the church? She had never liked Aunt Lupy, with her stout, important figure and her heavy, plummy voice. Nor for that matter had she particularly cared for her uncle Hendreary, with his wispy beard and rather shifty eyes. She had never got to know the elder boys very well during those uncomfortable months she and her parents had stayed in their home: they were always out borrowing and seldom spoke at meals. And Eggletina had always seemed strange and withdrawn ("Never been the same, poor child," Aunt Lupy would say, "since that adventure with the cat..."). But she had liked Timmus, their youngest child.

  Little Timmus, with his rosy cheeks and great, round, wondering eyes. Liked? No, that was not the word: she had loved Timmus! During those dull, long winter evenings in Aunt Lupy's house, she had kept him happy telling him stories (many of them the same stories she had read aloud to the boy at Firbank). "Quite the little mother, aren't you?" Aunt Lupy used to say, with her patronizing laugh. But Aunt Lupy, after all, had been kind enough to take them in when they were homeless and what Homily called "dessitute." But after the first rapturous reunion between Aunt Lupy and her mother, the kindness had soon worn off. When danger threatened all of them, they had been made to feel unwelcome. Perhaps, Arrietty thought now, that was understandable. Too many mouths to feed, that had been the trouble...

  Oh, well...

  Yes, perhaps she had been "a little mother" to Timmus; perhaps she had made his dull, young life a little less dull? Curled up together on the foot of her uncomfortable bed, she had carried him into other worlds and strange made-up adventures. But she had taken herself off, too. The chilly, twilit room had no longer contained them: they had flown away into fairy places and mysterious realms unknown. Yes, this was what she was realizing now: if perhaps she had helped Timmus, Timmus—with his loving, grateful ways—had certainly helped her.

  And how seldom she had thought of him since. Imprisoned in the Platters' attic, they had been too busy planning their escape. And now they had this journey, the business of packing up for it, this exciting arrival at the rectory, the meeting this morning with Peagreen. In all this time, it had never once occurred to her how Timmus must have missed her in his shut-up, lonely life. How old would he be now? She tried to think, but all she could think of was that she must see Timmus again.

  She looked back again towards the kitchen garden. It would, Pod had told them, be filled with good things in summer: they would never want for fruit or vegetables. And herbs for Homily's cooking—not just the wild ones from the hedgerows (as had been the case so often before) but rarer kinds of greater variety. But where would poor Homily do her cooking? Where, in the end, would they make their permanent home?

  A sudden whirri
ng from the church tower announced that the clock was about to strike. She turned quickly, swaying slightly on her slender branch. The clock struck two. Two o'clock! It couldn't be! Where had the morning gone? Her parents must be out of their minds with worry. And Spiller must have arrived by now to bring them their luncheon. And, what was worse, she had forgotten to tell her parents that Peagreen might appear.

  Down she went in careless haste, sliding, dropping, missing footholds. Why had she thought there was nothing scratchy in this bush? There seemed plenty of scratchy things now.

  Once on the ground, she dashed across the path, too hurried to notice that not one robin but two were feasting on her crumbs. They flew away into the bushes at her approach. She hardly bothered to avoid the nettles and nearly got stung several times (and a nettle sting is a big sting to a borrower) before she reached the hole under the door; dashing through it in her dew-wet boots, she came to a sliding stop and looked around wonderingly at the silent, seated group.

  Chapter Eleven

  Her entrance did not cause the stir she had expected. Homily only said, "No need to come in like a thunderbolt," but her voice sounded dispirited, as though she had other matters on her mind. Arrietty had a feeling that, when she entered, they had all been sitting in silence. No, Spiller was not sitting exactly—he was lounging against the wall, idly running a lump of beeswax along the string of his bow.

  She prized out a bit of tile and sat down facing them, her back towards the garden. A little tray of food lay, untouched, on the ground between them: why had nobody eaten? The tray, she realized, was a rather battered tin ashtray. No one spoke, and no one seemed to notice her disheveled appearance. What had been happening? she wondered. To what decision had they come?

  At last Pod said, "Well, that's how I see it," and gave a great sigh.

  "I suppose you're right," said Homily glumly.

  "I don't see what else there is to do. We can't keep on holding up Spiller's boat forever ... He'll be needing it soon. It's his livelihood, as you might say, borrowing for others." Homily did not reply, and Spiller, having raised his eyes for a moment, looked down again at his bow. "And there should be a good bright moon tonight," Pod added, as though to introduce a more cheerful note, "and we've practically nothing to pack."