by Mary Norton
“Now, Pod,” protested Homily, “no need to get insulting.”
“But I mean it,” said Pod. “And as far as Spiller knew, we was all right here till dark. Once the hook had gone.”
They were quiet a moment, listening to the splashes across the water. Homily, caught by the sound of that brisk, familiar voice, moved away from Pod in order to hear what was happening. “Come on, now,” Ernie Runacre was saying, “get your foot on that root. That’s right. Give us your hand. . . . Bit early, I’d say, for a dip. Wouldn’t choose it myself. Sooner try me hand at a bit of fishing . . . providing, of course, I weren’t too particular about the bylaws. Come on now”—he caught his breath as though to heave—“one, two, three—hup! Well, there you are! Now, let’s take a look at this basket. . . .”
Homily, to get a glimpse of them, had hauled herself up on a twig when she felt Pod’s hand on her arm. “Watch,” she exclaimed excitedly, gripping his fingers with hers, “he’ll find that borrowed fish! That rainbow trout or whatever it’s called. . . .”
“Come on, now,” whispered Pod.
“Just a minute, Pod—”
“But he’s waiting,” insisted Pod. “Better we go now, he says, while they’re taken up with that basket. . . . And that light on the bank, he says, will make the river seem darker.”
Homily turned slowly: there was Spiller’s boat, bobbing alongside, with Spiller and Arrietty in the stern. She saw their faces, pale against the shadows, lit by the rising moon. All was quiet, except for the running of the ripples.
Dazedly she began to climb down. “Spiller . . .” she breathed. And, missing a foothold, she stumbled and clung to Pod.
He supported and gently guided her down to the water. As he helped her aboard, he said, “You and Arrietty better get in under the canopy. Bit of a squeeze now because of the cargo, but it can’t be helped. . . .”
Homily hesitated, gazing dumbly at Spiller, as they met face to face in the stern. She could not, at that moment, find words to thank him, nor dare she take his hand. He seemed aloof, suddenly, and very much the captain: she just stood and looked at him until, embarrassed, he frowned and looked away. “Come, Arrietty,” said Homily huskily and, feeling rather humbled, they crept in under the legging.
Chapter Twenty-one
Perched on top of the cargo, which felt very nubbly, Homily and Arrietty clung together to share their last traces of warmth. As Pod let go the painter and Spiller pushed off with his butter knife, Homily let out a cry. “It’s all right,” Arrietty soothed her. “See, we’re in the current. It was just that one last lurch.”
The knife box now rode smoothly on the ripples, gracefully veering with the river’s twists and turns. Beyond the canopy and framed in its arch, they could see Pod and Spiller in the stern. What were they talking about, Arrietty wondered, and wished very much she could hear.
“Pod’ll catch his death,” muttered Homily unhappily, “and so will we all.”
As the moon gained in brilliance, the figures in the stern became silvered over. Nothing moved except Spiller’s hand on the paddle as deftly, almost carelessly, he held the boat in the current. Once Pod laughed, and once they heard him exclaim, “Well, I’m danged . . .”
“We won’t have any furniture or anything,” said Homily after a while, “only the clothes we stand up in—say we were standing up, I mean. Four walls, that’s all we’ll have: just four walls!”
“And windows,” said Arrietty. “And a roof,” she added gently.
Homily sneezed loudly. “Say we survive,” she sniffed, fumbling about for a handkerchief.
“Take mine,” said Arrietty, producing a sodden ball. “Yours went away with the skirt.”
Homily blew her nose and pinned up her dripping hair; then, clinging together, they were silent awhile, watching the figures in the stern. Homily, very tense, seemed to be thinking. “And your father’s lost his hacksaw,” she said at last.
“Here’s Papa now,” Arrietty remarked as a figure darkened the archway. She squeezed her mother’s arm. “It will be all right. I know it will. Look, he’s smiling. . . .”
Pod, climbing onto the cargo, approached them on hands and knees. “Just thought I’d tell you,” he said to Homily, slightly lowering his voice, “that he’s got enough stuff in the holds he says to start us off housekeeping.”
“What sort of stuff?” asked Homily.
“Food mostly. And one or two tools and such to make up for the nail scissor.”
“It’s clothes we’re short of . . .”
“Plenty of stuff for clothes, Spiller says, down at Little Fordham. Any amount of it, dropped gloves, handkerchiefs, scarves, jerseys, pullovers—the lot. Never a day passes, he says, without there isn’t something.”
Homily was silent. “Pod,” she said at last, “I never even thanked him.”
“That’s all right. He don’t hold with thanks.”
“But, Pod, we got to do something. . . .”
“I been into that,” said Pod. “There’s no end to the stuff we could collect up for him once we get settled like, in a place of our own. Say every night we whipped round quick after closing time. See what I mean?”
“Yes,” said Homily uncertainly: she could never quite visualize Little Fordham.
“Now,” said Pod, squeezing past them, “he’s got a whole lot of sheep’s wool, he says, up for’ard. Better you both undress and tuck down into it. Might get a bit of sleep. We won’t be there, he says, not much before dawn. . . .”
“But what about you, Pod?” asked Homily.
“That’s all right,” said Pod, poking about for’ard. “He’s lending me a suit. Here’s the sheep’s wool,” he said and began to pass it back.
“A suit?” echoed Homily amazed. “What kind of a suit?” Mechanically she stacked up the sheep’s wool. It smelled a little oily, but there seemed to be plenty of it.
“Well,” said Pod, “his summer clothes.” He sounded rather self-conscious.
“So Lupy finished them?”
“Yes, he went back for them.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Homily, “did he tell them anything about us?”
“Not a word. You know Spiller. They did the telling. Very upset Lupy was, he says. Went on about you being the best friend she ever had. More like a sister to her, she says. Seems she’s gone into mourning.”
“Mourning! Whatever for?”
“For us, I reckon,” said Pod. He smiled wanly and began to unbutton his waistcoat.
Homily was silent a moment. Then she, too, smiled—a little puffed up, it seemed, by the thought of Lupy in black. “Fancy!” she said at last and, suddenly cheerful, began to unbutton her blouse.
Arrietty, already undressed, had rolled herself into the sheep’s wool. “When did Spiller first spot us?” she asked sleepily.
“Saw us in the air,” said Pod, “when we were on the hook.”
“Goodness . . .” murmured Arrietty. Drowsily she seemed trying to think back. “And that’s why we didn’t see him.”
“And why Mild Eye didn’t either. Too much going on. Spiller took his chance like a flash: slid on quick, close as he could get, and drove in under those brambles.”
“Wonder he didn’t call out to us,” said Homily.
“He did,” exclaimed Pod, “but he wasn’t all that close. And what with the noise of the river . . .”
“Hush—” whispered Homily. “She’s dropping off . . .”
“Yes,” went on Pod, lowering his voice, “he called all right; it was just that we didn’t seem to hear him. Excepting, of course, that once.”
“When was that?” asked Homily. “I never heard nothing.”
“That fourth throw,” whispered Pod, “when the hook caught in our stick, remember? And I was down there pulling? Well, he yelled out then at the top of his lungs. Remember a voice calling, ‘cut it’? Thought it was you at the time. . . .”
“Me?” said Homily. In the wool-filled dimness there were faint, clicking, mysteri
ous unbuttonings. . . .
“But it was Spiller,” said Pod.
“Well, I never . . .” said Homily. Her voice sounded muffled: in her modest way she was undressing under the sheep’s wool and had disappeared from view. Her head emerged at last, and one thin arm with a sodden bundle of clothes. “Anywhere we can hang these out, do you think?”
“Leave them there,” said Pod as, grunting a little, he struggled with Spiller’s tunic, “and Arrietty’s too. I’ll ask Spiller . . . dare say we’ll manage. As I see it,” he went on, having got the tunic down past his waist and the trousers dragged up to meet it, “in life as we live it—come this thing or that thing—there’s always some way to manage. Always has been and, like as not, always will be. That’s how I reckon. Maybe we could fly the clothes, like, strung out on the knitting needle . . .”
Homily watched him in silence as he gathered the garments together. “Maybe . . .” she said, after a moment.
“Lash the point, say, and fly the knob?”
“I meant,” said Homily softly, “what you said before: that maybe there is always some way to manage. The trouble comes, like—or so it seems to me—in whether or not you hit on it.”
“Yes, that’s the trouble,” said Pod.
“See what I mean?”
“Yes,” said Pod. He was silent a moment, thinking this out. “Oh, well . . .” he said at last, and turned as if to go.
“Just a minute, Pod,” pleaded Homily, raising herself on an elbow, “let’s have a look at you. No, come a bit closer. Turn round a bit . . . that’s right. I wish the light was better. . . .” Sitting up in her nest of fleece, she gave him a long look—it was a very gentle look for Homily. “Yes . . .” she decided at last, “white kind of suits you, Pod.”
In the large kitchen at Firbank Hall, Crampfurl, the gardener, pushed his chair back from the table. Picking his teeth with a whittled matchstick, he stared at the embers of the stove. “Funny . . .” he said.
Mrs. Driver, the cook, who was clearing the dishes paused in her stacking of the plates; her suspicious eyes slid sideways. “What is?”
“Something I saw . . .”
“At market?”
“No—tonight, on the way home. . . .” Crampfurl was silent a moment, staring toward the grate. “Remember that time—last March, wasn’t it—when we had the floor up?”
Mrs. Driver’s swarthy face seemed to darken. Tightening her lips, she clattered the plates together and, almost angrily, threw the spoons into a dish. “Well, what about it?”
“Kind of nest—you said it was. Mice dressed up, you said . . .”
“Oh, I never—”
“Well, you ask Ernie Runacre; he was there—nearly split his sides laughing. Mice dressed up, you said. Those were the very words. Saw them running, you said . . .”
“I swear I never.”
Crampfurl looked thoughtful. “You’ve a right to deny it. But couldn’t help laughing meself. I mean, there you was, perched up on that chair and—”
“That’ll do.” Mrs. Driver drew up a stool and sat down on it heavily. Leaning forward, elbows on knees, she stared into Crampfurl’s face. “Suppose I did see them—what then? What’s so funny? Squeaking and squawking and running every which way. . . .” Her voice rose. “And what’s more . . . now I will tell you something, Crampfurl—” She paused to draw a deep breath. “They were more like people than mice. Why, one of ’em even—”
Crampfurl stared back at her. “Go on. Even what?”
“One of ’em even had its hair in curlers . . .”
She glared as she spoke, as though daring him to smile. But Crampfurl did not smile. He nodded slowly. He broke his matchstick in half and threw it into the fire. “And yet,” he said, rising to his feet, “if there’d been anything, we’d have found it at the time. Stands to reason—with the floor up and that hole blocked under the clock.” He yawned noisily, stretching his forearms. “Well, I’ll be getting on. Thanks for the pie . . .”
Mrs. Driver did not stir. “For all we know,” she persisted, “they may be still about. Half the rooms being closed, like.”
“No, I wouldn’t say that was likely; we been more on the watch-out and there’d be some kind of traces. No, I got an idea they escaped—say, there was something here in the first place.”
“There was something here all right! But what’s the good of talking . . . with that Ernie Runacre splitting his sides. And”—she glanced at him sharply—“what’s changed you all of a sudden?”
“I don’t say I have changed. It’s just that I got thinking. Remember that scarf you was knitting—that gray one? Remember the color of the needles?”
“Needles . . . kind of coral, wasn’t they? Pinkish like . . .”
“Coral?”
“Soon tell; I’ve got them here.” She crossed to the dresser, pulled out a drawer, and took out a bundle of knitting needles tied about with wool. “These are them, these two here. More pinkish than coral. Why do you ask?”
Crampfurl took up the bundle. Curiously, he turned it about. “Had an idea they was yellow . . .”
“That’s right, too—fancy you remembering! I did start with yellow, but I lost one—that day my niece came, remember, and we brought up tea to the hayfield?”
Crampfurl, turning the bundle, selected and drew out a needle; it was amber-colored and slightly translucent. He measured it thoughtfully between his fingers. “One like this, weren’t it?”
“That’s right. Why? You found one?”
Crampfurl shook his head. “Not exactly.” He stared at the needle, turning it about: the same thickness, that other one, and—allowing for the part that was hidden—about the same length. . . . Fragile as glass it had looked in the moonlight, with the darkened water behind. Staring, staring, he had leaned down over the bridge. . . . The paddle, doubly silvered, had flashed like a fish in the stern. As the strange craft came nearer, he had caught a glimpse of the butter knife, observed the shape of the canopy and the bargelike depth of the hull. The set of signals flying from the masthead seemed less like flags than miniature garments strung like washing in the breeze—a descending scale of trousers, pants and drawers, topped gallantly (or so it had seemed) by a fluttering red-flannel petticoat—and tiny shreds of knitted stocking whipped eel-like about the mast. Some child’s toy, he had thought . . . some discarded invention, abandoned and left to drift . . . until, as the craft approached the shadow of the bridge, a face had looked up from the stern, bird’s-egg pale and featureless in the moonlight, and with a mocking flick of the paddle—a fishtail flash that broke the surface to spangles—the boat had vanished beneath him.
No, he decided—as he stood there twisting the needle—he would not tell Driver of this. Nor how, from the farther parapet, he had watched the boat emerge and had followed its course downstream. How blackly visible it had looked against the glittering water, the masthead garments now in fluttering silhouette. . . . How it had dwindled in size until a tree shadow, flung like a shawl across the moonlit river, had absorbed it into darkness.
No, he wouldn’t tell Driver this. Leastways, not tonight, he wouldn’t.
This story is dedicated with love to Tom Brunsdon and Frances Rush and to all the children in the world who have promised their parents never to play with gas and who keep their promises
Chapter One
Some people thought it strange that there should be two model villages, one so close to the other. (There was another, as a matter of fact, which nobody visited and which we need not bother about because it was not built to last.)
One model village was at Fordham, called Little Fordham: it belonged to Mr. Pott. Another was at Went-le-Craye, called Ballyhoggin, and belonged to Mr. Platter. The third (which nobody knew about) was at Quilter’s End and made with shoe boxes: it belonged to a little girl called Agnes Mercy Foster, and it did not have a name.
It was Mr. Pott who started it all, quietly and happily for his own amusement; and it was the businesslike Mr. Platt
er, for quite another reason, who copied Mr. Pott.
Mr. Pott was a railway man who had lost his leg on the railway: he lost it at dusk one evening on a lonely stretch of line—not through carelessness—but by saving the life of a badger. Mr. Pott had always been anxious about these creatures: the single track ran through a wood, and in the half-light, the badgers would trundle out, sniffing their way across the ties. Only at certain times of the year were they in any real danger, and that was when the early dusk (the time they liked to sally forth) coincided with the passing of the last train from Hatter’s Cross. After the train passed, the night would be quiet again; and foxes, hares, and rabbits could cross the line with safety; and nightingales would sing in the wood.
In those early days of the railway, Mr. Pott’s small, lonely signal box was almost a home-from-home. He had there his kettle, his oil lamps, his plush-covered table, and his broken-springed railway armchair. To while away the long hours between trains, he had his fret saw, his stamp collection, and a well-thumbed copy of the Bible, which sometimes he would read aloud. Mr. Pott was a good man, very kind and gentle. He loved his fellow creatures almost as much as he loved his trains. With the fret saw he would make collecting boxes for the Railway Benevolent Fund; these were shaped like little houses, and he made them from old cigar boxes, and none of his houses was alike. On the first Sunday of every month, Mr. Pott, on his bicycle, would make a tour of the village, armed with a screw driver and a small black bag. At each home or hostelry, he would unscrew the roof of a little house and count out the contents into his bag. Sometimes he was cheated (but not often) and would mutter sadly as he rode away—“Fox been at the eggs again.”
