Bed-Knob and Broomstick (8 page)

   
"Well-" said Elizabeth slowly, "I never!" Then she shut
her mouth with a snap. Her eyes glared. Color mounted slowly to her pallid cheeks.
"This," said Elizabeth, "is the end."
Deliberately she looked round once more. She picked up a corner of the eiderdown.
It was dark red instead of pale pink. It hung heavily between her thumb and
forefinger. Regular clocklike drips drummed gently on the polished
floor. She let it fall. She stared at it a moment unbelievingly, and then once
more she looked at Paul and Carey. She smiled, a grim, menacing little smile
that did not reach her eyes. "All right," she said calmly and, turning,
left the room.

   
The three children stood quiet. In silence and misery they stood while the puddles
deepened round their feet and the drips from the eiderdown ticked off the heavy
seconds. At last Carey moved. She pushed back her wet hair.

   
"Come, Paul," she said huskily. "Let's go to the bathroom and
wash."
"What I don't understand," said Aunt Beatrice for the fourth time,
"is from where you got the water. The bathroom's right down the passage,
and there isn't a jug."
The children gazed back at her. They were in the study. Aunt Beatrice sat at
her desk turning a little sideways so that she could face them as they stood
in a row on the carpet. There was a closed look in their faces, though their
eyes were round and candid. "Whatever happens" Carey had warned them,
"we mustn't give away Miss Price. Except for that, it doesn't matter what
we say because nothing could be worse."
Carey cleared her throat. She did not reply but stood staring unwaveringly at
her aunt's face.

   
"The charitable attitude to adopt, Carey," said Aunt Beatrice in her
precise, cutting voice, "is that you are not quite right in your head.
This story about a South Sea island, cannibals . . . lagoons. ... If it were
necessary to lie, a child of three could do better."
Carey swallowed. -•"A magic bed. . . ." Aunt Beatrice smiled
acidly. "It
might interest you to know, Carey, that I bought that bed myself in 1903, quite
new, from Baring & Willow's-a most reputable firm," she added, "and
not given to innovations."
Carey changed her weight from her left foot to her right.

   
"What I still don't understand," reiterated Aunt Beatrice, "is
from where you got the water."
"From the sea," said Paul suddenly. "Carey told you." Aunt
Beatrice raised her almost hairless eyebrows. She
picked up her pen and turned back to her desk. Her thin
smile was far from reassuring.

   
"No matter," she said. "I have wired your mother, and
Elizabeth is packing your things-the last service Elizabeth
will perform for me. After all these years she has given me
notice."
"But it's true, Aunt Beatrice," Carey burst out. "It was the
sea. You can prove it."
Aunt Beatrice half turned, the pen delicately suspended in her birdlike hand.

   
"How, may I ask?" she inquired ironically.

   
"By licking the blanket, Aunt Beatrice," said Carey politely.

   
Aunt Beatrice's pink-rimmed eyes became like agates.

   
"You are not my children," she said coldly, "and I am not as
young as I was; there is no reason at all why I should put up with this sort
of thing! Your mother, job or no job, must make other arrangements for you.
I have finished. You may go."
They crept to the door. At the threshold they paused; Aunt Beatrice was speaking
again. "As there are no taxis," she was saying, "Mr. Bisselthwaite,
the milkman, has very kindly consented to pick you up at eleven forty-five at
the end of the lane. Your train leaves at twelve."
Gently, gently they closed the door.

   
1O FAREWELL
The milkman was late. "Perhaps," said Carey, as they stood in the
grass by the side of the lane, "we could just run in and say good-by to
Miss Price."
"One of us had better stay," said Charles, "to look after the
bags and wait for the milk cart. You and Paul go."
Carey hesitated. "All right," she said, after a moment. "And
you can come along in the cart."
Miss Price was in her front garden. When she saw Carey and Paul in coats and
hats, she looked surprised. She set down her wheelbarrow and waited between
the shafts. Carey ran up to her.

   
"Miss Price," she said, "we're going."
"Going where?" asked Miss Price. Her face looked tired and rather
pale except for the sunburn on her long thin nose.

   
"Home. To London."
"Oh, dear," said Miss Price. She looked distressed. She began to pull
off her gardening gloves.

   
"It was the bed and the water and everything. We're being sent away. But
we did keep our promise, Miss Price. We never told about you."
"Oh, dear," said Miss Price again. She sat down on the edge of the
wheelbarrow.

   
Paul, very subdued, began to collect dead flower heads from the rubbish.

   
"We came to say good-by," went on Carey.

   
"Oh, dear," said Miss Price for the third time. "I feel very
much to blame. We shouldn't have gone to that island, but," she went on,
"I thought a nice quiet day, a breath of sea air . . ." She paused.

   
"Look," Paul broke in. "A pink cabbage."
Carey looked down. There it lay among the rubbish, Miss Price's giant rosebud!
"Oh, Miss Price-" exclaimed Carey, staring at it. It must have weighed
a couple of pounds.

   
Miss Price colored. "I have done a lot of thinking since yesterday, Carey.
I've been thinking about last night and what you said about the flower show-"
She glanced at Paul as if to include him in her observations. "I've been
thinking that magic may be a kind of cheating. It looks good to start with,
but perhaps it doesn't bring good results in the end."
Paul frowned. "I've had wonderful results from cheating," he said
stubbornly.

   
"I don't suppose I'll give it up altogether," went on Miss Price,
ignoring Paul and holding on to her gentle smile. "But I thought I'd try
to give it up for a while."
They were all silent. "Oh, Miss Price," murmured Carey rather sadly.
She shared Paul's disappointment.

   
"It gets such a hold on one," said Miss Price.

   
There was an awful pause. Paul had turned back the leaves of the pink cabbage.
A sweet dry smell of sun-warmed deadness rose from the barrow.

   
"I have decided," went on Miss Price, watching Paul's fingers, "in
future to regard witchcraft-not as a hobby" -she paused-"but as a
weakness."
"Darling Miss Price," cried Carey suddenly, "you're such a good
sport." She flung her arms round Miss Price's neck. She felt the wetness
of a tear on Miss Price's long nose. "Thank you, Miss Price, for everything,
even the cannibals."
It was a moving moment. Paul looked glum, a little bewildered. He had an uneasy
feeling that Miss Price was turning over a new leaf before he had finished with
the old one. It was almost a relief when the milk cart rattled up to the gate.
Miss Price wiped her eyes.

   
"Now you must go," she said, straightening her hat as Charles jumped
down off the milk cart to shake her hand. She tried to smile. "Good luck,
dear children, and good-by. Keep your warm hearts, your gentleness, and your
courage. These will do," said Miss Price, sniffing audibly, "just
as well as magic."
She turned away hurriedly; squaring her shoulders, she picked up the handles
of the wheelbarrow and trundled it off toward the rubbish heap.

   
The milkman cracked his whip, and they clattered away amid the cheerful jangle
of empty cans.

   
"She won't keep it up," said Paul, who, unobserved, had edged himself
into the place nearest the pony.

   
In the train, Charles frowned through the narrow square of window. Carey had
told him of the conversation with Miss Price.

   
"Magic may be just a weakness," he said, "but it's better than
some weaknesses."
"I know," agreed Carey.

   
"If we still had the bed, I think I'd use it," Charles went on. "Sometimes."
"Yes," said Carey. "Just sometimes."
"The bed wasn't magic," put in Paul consolingly. "It was only
the bed-knob that was magic."
"Well, it's the same thing," said Carey, turning irritably from Paul,
who, kneeling up on his seat, was breathing in her face. "One thing's no
good without the other."
"Couldn't you use a magic bed-knob on another bed the same make?"
"Oh, I don't know, Paul." Carey edged away from him, closer to the
window. "What's the good of talking about it if we haven't got either.
Do sit down properly!"
Paul meekly put his legs down, so that they dangled just above the floor. He
leaned back, sucking his cheeks in. One hand was in his pocket, fidgeting. He
looked worried. "But," he protested, after some moments of silent
thought, "I did bring the bed-knob."
II
BONFIRES AND BROOMSTICKS
LOST AND FOUND
Two years went by. Aunt Beatrice died and the house was sold, so they did not
go back to Much Frensham. The memory of that summer became a secret thing, seldom
spoken of-and never with Paul. "He might tell, you see," Carey pointed
out. "We must let him just think it's a dream. . . ."
Sometimes in company Paul could become a menace. "When we were in prison-"
he would exclaim, and Carey, blushing, would correct him quickly with "When
you dreamed you were in prison, Paul!" After a while, Paul grew confused;
he would say-one eye on Carey-things like: "Yesterday, when I dreamed I
had an egg for tea-"
"But you did have an egg for tea," his mother would point out.

   
"Oh," he would say, becoming suddenly thoughtful, "and did I
see the cannon balls?"
"What cannon balls?"
"Cannibals, he means," Carey would explain quickly. "No, you
didn't, Paul. You dreamed those," and would quickly change the subject.

   
Even to Charles, the thing became unreal. Back among
his school friends, just the word became embarrassing. Magic? One didn't . .
. one couldn't ... I mean, the whole thing was rather. . . . He took up boxing,
started on First Year Latin, and began a stamp collection. He pushed other events
to the back of his mind and pretended they had not happened.

   
One cannot do this successfully. It seldom works; sooner or later Fate takes
a hand, and back comes the past like a bombshell. It came to Carey and Charles,
some two years later, on a cold, dull winter's morning, in the form of a daily
paper. It came in innocently with the bacon and porridge, disguised as the London
Times.

   
"Look," said Carey faintly. She was leaning over, spoon in hand, reading
the personal column.

   
Charles glanced up. They were alone in the room at the time. Mrs. Wilson, their
mother, had left for her office, and Paul was not yet down. There was a strange
expression on Carey's face; she seemed more than a little scared. "What's
the matter?" asked Charles.

   
Carey pushed the paper across. "See," she said, pointing with her
finger.

   
He did not see at first. "Mink coat," he read aloud, "scarcely
worn . . ."
"No, below that."
"Pale hands, my heart is singing . . ."
"No, here." She leaned over him, her braids snaking on the table.
"Lady with small house . . ."
"Lady with small house in country willing accommodate two school children
summer holidays. Moderate terms. Highest references. Reply E. Price, Much Frensham
. . ." Charles's voice grew slower. ". . . Beds."
There was silence.

   
LOST AND FOUND 99
"Now do you see?" asked Carey.

   
Charles nodded. They were silent again.

   
"Little Alders?" said Charles after a moment. "Was that the name
of the house?"
"Something like that. I can't quite remember."
"There must be lots of Prices in Much Frensham," protested Charles.

   
"But E. Price," said Carey. "Miss Price's name was Eglan-
tine."
"Was it?" said Charles. He, too, had become a shade paler.

   
"Yes. Eglantine Price," repeated Carey firmly.

   
They stared at each other without speaking. Then once more they leaned over
the paper.

   
"It says only two children," Charles pointed out.

   
"Oh, Paul can sleep anywhere, if she knows it's us, don't you think?"
Both minds were working furiously. With a mother who was tied to her office,
there was always this problem of the long summer holiday. Last year, they had
gone to a farm in Cornwall and had enjoyed it very much; there seemed no reason
why they should not be sent there again.

   
"But Much Frensham's much nearer London," Carey pointed out. "Mother
could get down to see us. And when we tell her that Miss Price was a friend
of Aunt Beatrice's-"
"Not a friend exactly."
"Yes. Remember the peaches?"
Charles was silent. "What about the bed-knob?" he said at last.

   
"What about it?"
"Where is it?"
Carey's face fell. "I don't know." She thought a moment. "It
must be somewhere."
"Why? Heaps of things in this house aren't anywhere. I'd as soon go to
Cornwall," Charles went on, "as go to Miss Price's without the bed-knob."
"Well, I would too," admitted Carey-at least there were beaches in
Cornwall . . . and caves, and rock-climbing. She thought a moment. "Once
it was in the knife box."
"It isn't now."
"Or was it the tool drawer?"
"Yes, it was in the tool drawer for ages. After they redid the nursery
cupboards, remember? It isn't now."
"I don't know," mused Carey. "I've seen it somewhere- in a box
or something. There were some old door handles, and some screws . . ."
"Old door handles?" exclaimed Charles. "I know where those are."
"Where?"
Charles jumped to his feet. "That canvas bag on a nail in the broom cupboard.
. ."
That was just where it was-a little rusty and spotted with whitewash. They took
it as a "sign."
Mrs. Wilson was puzzled. Bedfordshire instead of Cornwall? And why this undercurrent
of excitement about so very zm-exciting a maiden lady? There was more in this,
she suspected uneasily, than appeared on the surface. But to all her questions,
they gave the most satisfactory replies. Miss Price, as a holiday chaperone,
sounded almost too good to be true. Letters were exchanged and a meeting was
arranged. The children mooned about in a torment of suspense. They need not
have worried, however. Over tea and cakes with Miss Price at Fuller's, their
mother's fears were laid. Although unable to discover the secret of Miss Price's
peculiar charm, Mrs. Wilson found her just as Carey had described her-quiet,
reserved, a little fussy. Dignified but friendly, she expressed a guarded fondness
for the children and her willingness to accommodate all three, provided they
would be careful of her belongings and would help a little in the house.