Bedknob and Broomstick Part 8

"We all have," said Carey. The train had gone, and the station was quiet. The gra.s.s 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 gra.s.s-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 hoof 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 cl.u.s.ter 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 rea.s.suring 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 s.h.i.+llings 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 s.p.a.ce and the chairs nearly 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 suns.h.i.+ne, 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 bra.s.s 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 hourgla.s.s, 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 of 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt 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 embarra.s.sed 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 round 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 pa.s.sage 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 huskily.

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?"

AND LOST AGAINIII.

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.

"For ever?" persisted Paul."

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

"Or just for Lent?" put in Paul.

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. "For ever 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-k.n.o.b, which at the time had almost seemed a "sign," now only added to the sense of loss. He thought of Cornwall, and of mackerel-fis.h.i.+ng; 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 some-thing move under his shoe. It was a mole, diving upwards 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 coa.r.s.e sods of gra.s.s 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.