Bed-Knob and Broomstick (9 page)

   
"How wonderful . . . how wonderful!" sang Carey when she heard the
news. She went on singing and dancing about the room, and even Charles felt
impelled to try a handstand. Only Paul remained stolid. He sat on the hearth
rug, watching them curiously.

   
"Will we sleep there?" he asked his mother, at last.

   
Mrs. Wilson turned to look at him-too bland, his face seemed, almost too candid.
"Yes, Paul," she said, in a puzzled voice, "of course you will
sleep there. . . ." Again, for some reason, she began to feel uneasy. "Why?"
Paul began to smile. It was a slow smile, which spread gradually over all his
face. He turned away and began plucking at the carpet. "Oh, nothing,"
he said lightly.

   
AND LOST AGAIN
When they arrived at the station, it looked at first as though there was no
one to meet them. Then Carey saw the milk cart on the far side of the level
crossing. "Come on," she said, "there's Mr. Bisselthwaite."
She was surprised when the name came so easily to her tongue. Mr. Bisselthwaite
the milkman ... of course.

   
"She ordered an extra two pints," Mr. Bisselthwaite told them, as
they climbed on the cart. "And she said it was you. Growed, hasn't he?"
he added, nodding at Paul.

   
"We all have," said Carey. The train had gone, and the station was
quiet. The grass 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 grass-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 cluster 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 reassuring 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 shillings 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 space 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 sunshine, 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 brass 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 hourglass, 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 advertisement 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 embarrassed 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 passage 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 AGAIN III
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-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
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 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.