by Mary Norton
“Where they could see into our room? Yes.”
“Well,” said Mr. Platter, as though that settled the matter. “And talking of houses,” he went on, “in my opinion, the best house I ever made in my life was that showcase I made for them. The trouble I took over that showcase. The trouble! Stairs, ventilation, drainage, furniture, real carpet, electric light . . . And that plate-glass front, slotted so you could lift it up for cleaning. Real homelike it looked, and yet—this was the trick—there wasn’t a corner they could get themselves into where the public couldn’t see them. Day or night—”
“There wouldn’t be public at night, Sidney.”
“Evenings,” said Mr. Platter, “winter evenings. This wouldn’t have been no tourist summer show, girl. Not like the Riverside Teas, or Pott’s model village. And there it sits”—there was real grief in his voice now—“a perfect miniature house out in the toolshed, covered with a blanket.”
There was a gloomy silence. After a while, Mrs. Platter said, “I been thinking, Sidney, before you start taking our home to bits—brick by brick, as you say—that it might be a good idea to take a run down to Abel Pott’s . . .”
“Little Fordham?”
“Yes, that’s where they’d aim for, wouldn’t they?”
“Maybe. Yes. But it’s a pretty good step. At their kind of pace, it might take them a week to get there.”
“All the better. Let them settle in and feel safe, like.”
“Yes, you’ve got a point there.” He thought for a moment. “And yet, on the other hand . . .”
“What, Sidney?”
He began to smile. “We got the boat, haven’t we? Say we went down ahead and laid in wait for them?”
“What? Now?”
Mr. Platter looked irritated. “Not now, this minute. As I say, it’ll take them a bit of time to get there. Tomorrow, say, or the day after . . .”
Chapter Four
“I don’t know where your father’s got to,” exclaimed Homily for about the fourth time that evening as she and Arrietty sat by the fireless grate in the far too tidy room. “Spiller said he’d found a place . . .”
Although through the tiny glass panes they could see the neat roofs of Mr. Pott’s model village, here indoors a gray dimness had stolen all the color from their bright and toylike home. Home? Was it really home? This miniature village made by Mr. Pott? More of a hideaway, perhaps, after that long, dark winter in the Platters’ attic.
Arrietty glanced at the neatly strapped bundles ranged against the far wall. “We’ll be ready when they do come,” she said. We were all right here, she thought, before those Platters stole us. All the same, it lacked something—it was perhaps too ordered, too perfect, and in some way too confined. Improvization is the breath of life to borrowers, and here was nothing they had striven for, planned, borrowed, or invented: all had been given, arranged by a kind but alien taste.
“When they do come? They’ve been gone a couple of days!”
“Perhaps,” said Arrietty, “it’s a good sign really: it may mean they’ve found somewhere.”
“Pity that old mill wasn’t any good. But, anyway, we couldn’t have lived on corn.”
“Nor could the miller,” Arrietty pointed out. “That’s to say, when he was alive.”
“All tumbled down, they said it was. And the rats something fierce.”
“Spiller will find somewhere,” said Arrietty.
“But where? What sort of place? I mean, there’s got to be human beans or we’ll have nothing to live on! And this idea of everywhere by boat! Something could easily have happened to them! Or suppose those Platters got them again?”
“Mother—” began Arrietty unhappily. She got up suddenly and went to the window and stared out at the fading sky. Then she turned, a dark outline against the dim light. Homily could not see her face. “Mother,” she said again in a more controlled voice, “don’t you see that you and I, sitting here in this model village, the very place the Platters stole us from, are in far more danger than Papa or Spiller?”
“There’s that pig-wire along the river bank.”
“They’d be through that in a trice. They’d get some things called wire cutters. And if you want to take all our stuff, we’ve got to go by water.”
“That knife box of Spiller’s! Suppose it sank? You and your father can swim, but what about me?”
“We’d fish you out,” said Arrietty patiently. “And it never has sunk yet.” She knew her mother in this mood. After all, Homily had been brave enough in their other escapes: in their homemade balloon, in the boot, and, come to think of it, extremely courageous in the kettle. A worrier she might be, but she would always rise to an emergency.
“Spiller will find somewhere,” she said again. “I know he will. And it might be somewhere lovely . . .”
“I’ve liked it here,” said Homily. Glancing round the room, she shivered, crossing her arms. “I wish we could light the fire . . .”
“But we can’t!” exclaimed Arrietty. “Someone might see the smoke— We promised Papa!”
“Or put the light on,” Homily went on.
“Oh, Mother!” cried Arrietty. “That would be madness! You know it really . . .”
“Or have something to eat that wasn’t Spiller’s nuts . . .”
“We were lucky to have those nuts.”
“They take such an age to crack,” said Homily.
Arrietty was silent: she had heard these kinds of grumbles so many times before. And yet, she thought (coming back to her stool as the room grew slowly darker) that perhaps in her heart Homily understood the need for this speedy removal better than she pretended. Three human beans at least, perhaps four—perhaps even more—knew they had been here, knew they had departed, but (unless they gave the game away) there was no one, as yet, who knew they had returned.
It was for this reason Pod had forbidden them the use of light or fire, had kept them away from the windows, and throughout the daylight hours had confined them to the miniature house. Such days, with Pod and Spiller away, could sometimes seem very long. It was late March, and three days had passed since their dramatic escape from the Platters’ attic in their homemade balloon. What a feat that had been, she realized now, the study, the trials, and the patience! “Why do things always happen to us in March?” Arrietty wondered. She sat on her stool and, curling her legs round it slightly, laid her head on her knees. Both she and Homily were very tired: the packing had not been easy—beds taken down, mattresses rolled, armchairs clamped together; each bundle arranged in such a way that everything would fit into Spiller’s boat. And still Pod and Spiller had not come.
She remembered her father’s face on their first arrival back: the way he had glanced about the tidy little room, with its dollhouse furniture and polished wooden floor, how he had looked up with a rueful shrug at the pocket flashlight bulb hanging from the ceiling. Battery controlled, this contraption meant more to him than any other of Miss Menzies’s inventions (“Clever . . . she’s bright, you know,” he had said). He wished he had thought of it himself. And Arrietty remembered he had sighed a little. No, it hadn’t been easy for any of them.
“Hark!” said Homily suddenly. Noiselessly Arrietty sat up, holding her breath in the silence. A faint scrape on the door—a breath of nothing. Neither moved: it might be a passing vole, a beetle, or even a grass snake. Homily stole from her stool and melted into the shadows beside the threshold. Arrietty could just perceive her bent head and the stooped, listening outline.
“Who’s there?” Homily whispered at last, just above her breath.
“Me,” said a familiar voice.
As Homily opened the door, a waft of air flew into the room, scented with spring and evening, and there against the pale sky was the solid outline.
Eagerly Homily pulled him by the arm. “Well, what news, Pod? Where’s Spiller? Did you find anything?” She pushed forwards her own stool. “Here you are. Sit down. You look all in.”
“I am all
in,” said Pod. Sighing, he laid his borrowing bag on the floor. There was something in it, Arrietty noticed, but not much. “Walking, walking, climbing, climbing . . . it takes it out of you.” He looked round wearily at the stacked furniture in its neat piles. “Would there be a drop of something?” he asked.
“There’s a few tea leaves,” suggested Homily. “I could warm them up over the candle”—she bustled towards the luggage—“if I can find them.” She pulled at a few bundles. “What with everybody packing, you don’t know what’s in what . . .”
“I could do with something a bit stronger,” said Pod.
“There’s that sloe gin,” said Homily. “But you don’t like it . . .”
“That’ll do,” said Pod.
She brought it to him in part of a broken nutshell. It was some of Miss Menzies’s making. “I was going to leave it behind,” Homily said: she had always been a little jealous of Miss Menzies as a provider.
Pod sipped the drink slowly. Then slowly he began to smile. “You’ll never guess,” he said. They could not, in that dusky half-light, see his expression, but his voice sounded amused.
“You mean you’ve found somewhere?”
“Could be.” He took another sip of gin. “But I’ve found someone. At least, Spiller has . . .”
“Who, Pod? Who?” Homily, leaning forwards, tried to see his face.
“And what’s more,” Pod went on stolidly, “he’s known about them all the time.”
“Them!” repeated Homily sharply.
“The Hendrearys,” said Pod.
“No!” exclaimed Homily. The little room became tense with shock. Thoughts raced shadowlike around it from floor to ceiling as Homily sat with clasped hands, head and shoulders in rigid outline against the half-light of the window. “Where?” she asked at last, in an oddly colorless voice.
“In the church,” said Pod.
“The church!” Homily’s head swung sharply round towards the window.
“Not the model church,” said Pod, “the real one—”
“The human church,” explained Arrietty.
“Oh, my goodness,” cried Homily, “what a place to choose!”
“There wasn’t all that choice,” said Pod.
“Oh, my goodness me,” muttered Homily again. “What a thing! But how did they get there? I mean, the last we saw of them, they were locked up in that gamekeeper’s cottage, with just enough food for six weeks. I never did quite take to Lupy, as you well know, but many a time I’ve thought of them, wondering how they made out. Famine! That’s what they were facing. You said it yourself, remember? When the humans go and the place gets locked up (and locked up it was—every crevice, didn’t we know it?—against the field mice!). And that ferret, sniffing about outside . . .”
“How did they get out?” asked Arrietty, listening intently. She had edged her way along the floor and was sitting by her father’s feet. “I’d love to see Timmus,” she added. She hugged her knees suddenly and gave a small giggle.
Pod patted her shoulder. “Yes, he’s there. But not the two bigger boys. Seems they went back to the badger’s set. And Eggletina went to keep house for them. Well”—Pod moved uneasily—“seems they got out the same way as we did.”
“By our drain?” exclaimed Homily. “In the scullery?”
“That’s right. Spiller went for them.”
“And brought them down by our stream?” There was a slightly affronted tone in her voice.
“That’s right. Just like he did us. And a nice dry run, he said it was, too. No bathwater and no floods. It was when we was shut up in the attic. You see, Homily, as the weeks went by and turned into months, Spiller never thought he’d see us no more. It was his escape route, not ours: he’d a perfect right to use the drain.”
“Yes, but you know the way Lupy talks . . .”
“Now, Homily, who’s she got to talk to? And you wouldn’t have wanted them to starve—now, would you?”
“No,” said Homily, grudgingly, “not starve exactly. But Lupy could well lose a fair bit of weight.”
“Maybe she has,” said Pod.
“You mean, you didn’t see them?”
Pod shook his head. “We didn’t go into the church.”
“Why ever not?”
“There wasn’t time,” said Pod.
“Then where are we supposed to live? Not that I hold with a church. Not for borrowers. Arrietty’s read all about churches: they’re one of the places that get absolutely chock-a-block with human beans. Where they congregate, as you might say, like starlings or something . . .”
“Only at regular hours, like. A church can be a good sort of place to be. Say there’s a stove that heats the water. For the radiators, like—”
“What are radiators?”
“Oh, you know, Homily! Those things they had at Firbank—”
“You forget, Pod,” said Homily, with some dignity, “that at Firbank I never went upstairs.”
“Radiators—” said Arrietty, “I remember: those things that bubbled?”
“That’s right. Full of hot water. Keeps the house warm in winter . . .”
“And they’ve got those in the church?”
“That’s right. And the stove they have burns coke.”
Homily was silent for almost a full minute. After that she said slowly, “Coke’s as good as coal, wouldn’t you say?”
“That’s right,” said Pod. “And they’ve got candles.”
“What sort of candles?”
“Great long things. There’s a drawer that’s full of them. And they throw away the candle ends.”
“Who do?” asked Homily.
“The human beans.”
Homily was silent again. After a while, she said slowly, “Well, if we’ve got to live in church . . .”
Pod laughed. “Who said we’d got to live in a church?”
“Well, you did, Pod. In a manner of speaking . . .”
“I said no such thing. The place that Spiller and I had in mind is somewhere quite different.”
“Oh, my goodness,” said Homily, “whatever next?” Her voice sounded frightened.
“There’s an old empty house not a stone’s throw from the church. Spiller and I have been all over it . . .”
“Empty!” exclaimed Homily. “What would we live on then?”
“Wait!” said Pod. He took another sip of sloe gin. “When I say ‘empty,’ I mean no one lives in it, except”—he drained the nutshell—“the caretakers.” Homily was silent. “Now, these caretakers, name of Witless, they live in the very far end of the house, which used to be the kitchen. There’s the kitchen, the scullery, and the larder . . .”
“A larder . . .” breathed Homily. Awestruck, she sounded as though granted a heavenly vision.
“Yes, a larder,” repeated Pod, “with slate shelves. And,” he added, “a mite of lovely stuff laid out on them.”
“A larder . . .” breathed Homily again.
“And that reminds me,” Pod said. He stooped down and opened his borrowing bag. He drew out a fairly large piece of rich plum cake and a rather hacked-off morsel of breast of chicken. “I guess you and Arrietty have been on pretty short rations these last two days. Fall to,” he went on. “Spiller and I had our fill. There was some stuff called brawn, but wasn’t sure if you would like it . . .”
“I remember it at Firbank,” said Homily. She tore off a morsel of chicken and handed it to Arrietty. “Here, child, try this. Go on, Pod.”
“There’s a small staircase that goes up from the scullery to some bedrooms above. Not the main staircase that goes curving up and up—”
“How do you know all this, Pod?” Daintily, Homily tore off a piece of chicken for herself.
“I told you: Spiller and I went all over.”
“How could you, Pod, without your climbing pin? I mean, how could you get up the stairs?”
“You don’t have to,” he said. She could tell he was smiling. “The house is covered with vines—ivy,
jasmine, clematis, honeysuckle—everything you can think of. You can get just about anywhere.”
“Were the windows open?”
“Some were. And some of the panes were broken. It’s all that crisscross stuff. Lattice, I think they call it.”
“And in the main house, you’re sure there’s no one?”
“No one,” said Pod. He thought for a moment. “Except ghosts!”
“That’s all right,” said Homily, breaking off another piece of chicken. With her little finger crooked, she took a ladylike bite. She would have preferred to unpack a plate.
“She comes through now and again, this Mrs. Witless, with a broom and a duster. But not often—she’s frightened of the ghosts.”
“They always are, human beans,” remarked Homily. “I can’t think why.”
“She calls them fairies,” said Pod.
“Fairies! What nonsense! As if there were such things!”
Arrietty cleared her throat: she felt her voice might tremble. “I would be,” she said.
“Be what?”
“Frightened of ghosts.” (Her voice did tremble.)
“Oh, Arrietty,” exclaimed Homily irritably, “it’s nice you can read and that, but you read too much of all that human stuff. Ghosts is air. Ghosts can’t hurt you. Besides, they keep human beans away. My mother lived in a house once where there was a headless maiden. Real good times they had with her, as children, running through her and out the other side—kind of fizzy it felt, she said, and a bit cold. It’s human beans that can’t abide them, for some reason. Never occurs to them that ghosts is too self-centered to take a blind bit of notice of human beans . . .”
“Let alone borrowers,” said Pod.
Homily was silent. She was thinking quietly of the larder—of cold smoked ham, of half-eaten apple tarts, of Cheddar cheese, of celery in glass jars, of early cherries . . .
As if reading her thoughts, Pod said, “He keeps up the kitchen garden, this Witless. Grows everything, Spiller says . . .”
