by Mary Norton
“Where’s Spiller now?” asked Homily.
“Down by the stream. Making the boat fast—”
“What to?”
“The pig wire, of course.” Pod stretched out his legs wearily. “Finish up that bit of cake. We got to start loading.”
“Tonight?” gasped Homily.
“Of course tonight. While there’s a bit of light left . . .” He rose to his feet. “Then we just lie low awhile till the moon rises. Then we’ll be off: Spiller’s got to see to navigate . . .”
“You mean we’re going to that place tonight!”
Pod, from where he stood, leaned forwards, placing two tired hands on the shelf above the fireplace. He bowed his head. Then, after a moment, he slowly raised it. “Homily,” he said, “I don’t want to scare you. Nor you neither, Arrietty. But you got to realize that every minute that we’re here, we’re in grave danger.” He turned round and faced them. “You don’t want to be taken back to that attic. Now, do you? Nor to be put on show for the public to stare at? In a glass-fronted cage, like they were making—those Platters? For the rest of our lives . . .” He paused a moment. “For the rest of our lives . . .” he repeated slowly.
There was a long silence. Then Arrietty whispered huskily, “No.”
Pod straightened up. “Then let’s get busy,” he said.
Chapter Five
It was not easy to get all the bundles through the squares of the pig wire, even with Spiller’s help. The bedsteads were the worst. The squares of mesh were wide enough for most things but not wide enough for the beds. They had to dig away the earth on the bank of the stream with their bare hands and slide the bedsteads underneath. “I wish we still had our old mustard spoon,” Homily grumbled. “It would have come in useful here.”
“If you ask me—” panted Pod, as, stooping, he pushed the last bundle through to Spiller in the boat, “if you ask me—” he repeated, standing upright to relieve his aching back, “we shan’t use half this junk.”
“Junk!” exclaimed Homily. “All these lovely chairs and tables, made for us special! And all our very own, as you might say—to take or leave—”
“What have you left?” asked Pod wearily. Irritated as they were, they kept their voices down.
“Well, the kitchen sink, for one thing—being a fixture, like. And think of all those lovely clothes, washed and ironed, and fitting us a treat . . .”
“And who’s to see us in them?” asked Pod.
“You never know,” said Homily. “I’ve always kept a good home, Pod. And fitted you and Arrietty out proper. And it hasn’t always been easy—”
“I know, I know,” Pod whispered more gently. He patted her on the shoulder. “Well, we’d better be getting aboard.”
Arrietty took one last look round at the miniature village. The slate roofs glinted palely under the rising moon; the thatched ones seemed to disappear. There was no light in the window of Mr. Pott’s house—he must have gone to bed. A tinge of sadness mingled with the feeling of tired excitement. Why? she wondered. And then she thought of Miss Menzies. Miss Menzies would miss them. How she would miss them! And, in Miss Menzies, Arrietty knew she was losing a friend. Why did she—a borrower born and bred—succumb to this fatal longing to talk to human beans?
It always brought trouble: she had to admit that now. Perhaps, as she grew wiser and older, she would grow out of it? Or perhaps (and this was a strange thought) this hidden race to which she belonged once had been human beans themselves? Getting smaller and smaller in size as their ways of life became more secret? Or perhaps even (as she remembered the boy at Firbank had hinted) their race was dying out . . .
She shivered slightly and turned towards the pig wire and, with Spiller’s help, climbed down into the boat.
Homily was arranging down quilts and pillows in what had been the teaspoon compartment of Spiller’s old knife box. “We’ll have to get some sleep,” she was saying.
“You’ll get that right enough,” said Pod. “We’ll have to lay up till morning.”
“Where?” Homily’s voice sounded startled.
“Where the stream turns into the rectory garden. It comes from the pond, like: there’s a spring. We aren’t none of us going up across that lawn in the moonlight. Owls galore, they say there are. No, we’ll hole up against the bank under the alders. Nothing’ll see us there . . .”
“But what about crossing that lawn in the daylight? Carrying all this stuff?”
“The stuff stays in the boat—until we’ve got our bearings. Some corner of the house that’s safe. Safe to settle down in, as you might say.”
Spiller was fixing a shabby leather gaiter over the cargo. Once this was done, except to very sharp eyes, the knife box would look like some old floating log.
“And we’d not be needing—not even a quarter of this stuff—say I’d got my tools,” Pod lamented.
“Yes,” agreed Homily, in a sad whisper, “that’s a real shame, that is. To lose your tools . . .”
“They weren’t lost, not in the meaning of the word. What did we take away from that gamekeeper’s cottage, except one hard-boiled egg?”
“That’s right,” said Homily. She sighed. “But needs must.”
“I could make anything, anything we really needed, like, say I had my tools.”
“I know that,” said Homily. There was real understanding in her voice as she thought of the partitions, the gates, and the passages under the floor at Firbank. “And that cigar-box bedroom you made for Arrietty! There’s not a soul alive who wouldn’t call that a triumph.”
“It wasn’t bad,” said Pod.
Arrietty, who had been helping Spiller with the last lashings down of the gaiter (a leather legging such as in those days most of the gamekeepers wore), heard her own name and became suddenly curious. Edging her way along the side of the knife box, she heard her father saying, “Wouldn’t be surprised if the Hendrearys had got them . . .”
“Got what?” she asked, leaning towards them.
“Keep your voice down, girl.”
“We was talking about your father’s tools,” explained Homily. “He thinks the Hendrearys may have taken them. Not that they hadn’t a right to, I suppose, seeing as we left them behind . . .”
“Left them behind—where?” Arrietty’s voice sounded puzzled.
“In that gamekeeper’s cottage, when we escaped down the drain. Where,” she added rather acidly, “you used to talk to that boy. What was his name now?”
“Tom Goodenough,” said Arrietty. She still sounded puzzled. After a moment, she said, “But the tools are here in this boat!”
“Oh, don’t be silly, girl! How could they be?” Homily sounded really impatient. “All we took away from that cottage was one hard-boiled egg!”
Arrietty was silent for a moment. Then she said slowly, “Spiller must have rescued them.”
“Now what are you on about, girl! You’ll only worry your father . . .” Pod, she noticed, had kept strangely silent.
Arrietty slid down from her perch and came between them. “When we were loading, Spiller and I”—she had dropped her voice to a whisper—“there was a blue bag, like one of Uncle Hendreary’s—I sort of knocked against it, and it nearly fell into the water. Spiller jumped forwards and saved it. Just in time.”
“Well, what about it?”
“When we stowed it, I heard something rattle inside.”
“That could be anything,” said Homily, thinking of her pots and pans.
“And it seemed fairly heavy. Spiller seemed quite angry. As he grabbed hold of it, I mean. And he said—” Arrietty swallowed. She seemed to hesitate, as though to recall the words.
“What did Spiller say?” asked Pod, in a strained voice. He had been standing very still.
“He said, ‘Look out what you’re doing! Them’s your father’s tools!’”
There was a stunned silence. Then Homily spoke: “Arrietty, are you sure he said that?” She glanced across at her husband. His head and
shoulders were outlined faintly in the moonlight. Still he had not moved.
“That’s what it sounded like. I didn’t give it two thoughts. Not with the bag nearly falling into the water . . .” As neither parent spoke, she went on, “Yes, that’s what he said all right. He nearly shouted it: ‘Them’s your father’s tools!’”
“You’re sure he said ‘tools’?”
“Yes, that was the word he shouted. Never seen Spiller cross like that. That’s what I was thinking of most . . .” She looked from one dim shape to the other. “Why? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter!” Arrietty thought she heard a short sob. “Everything’s wonderful! Wonderful . . .” Homily was really crying now. “Oh, Pod—” She rushed forwards, flinging her arms around the still figure. “Oh, Pod,” she sobbed, “I think it’s true!”
He held her close, patting her back. “Seems like it,” he said gruffly.
“I don’t understand,” faltered Arrietty. “Spiller must have told you . . .”
“No, lass,” said Pod quietly, “he didn’t tell us nothing. But that’s his way . . .” He felt around for something with which to wipe Homily’s face. But she broke away from him and rubbed it on the small pillow she had been holding in her hand. “You see, Arrietty,” she said, still gasping a little, “church or rectory, or whatever it is, we can begin to live now. Really live. Now we’ve got his tools . . .” She threw down the pillow, and seemed to be straightening her hair. “But why, Pod, why didn’t he tell us?”
Chapter Six
It was pleasant to be on the water again. Spiller’s boat, fastened securely at the prow, swayed softly—drawn and released by the current of the stream. Fragile wisps of cloud drifted across the moon and sometimes obscured the stars. But not for long: a gentle radiance seemed to quiver upon the water, and a faint hint of wind stirred the rushes on the far bank. All was silent—except for Homily’s humming. Brisk and light-hearted once more, she was making up the beds. A difficult business this was, as the teaspoon compartment in which she and Arrietty were to sleep was only partly under the gaiter. It meant a lot of crawling back and forth, for careful tuckings-in of Miss Menzies’s flannel blankets and handmade quilted eiderdowns. If it rained, their heads and shoulders would be dry. But what about their feet? Arrietty wondered.
She stood in the one free place in the stern, breathing in great drafts of the welcome night air and idly watching Pod and Spiller moving about in the prow. Spiller, stooping, was drawing out his punt pole, the long yellow knitting needle that once—so long ago—had belonged to Mrs. Driver. Out it came from under the gaiter, inch by inch, and he laid it down across the thwarts. He stood up cheerfully and rubbed his hands, then turned towards Pod, who, stooping towards the fence, was fumbling with the twine. Then, suddenly—swift as a whiplash—Spiller swung round, staring upstream. Pod, too, rather more slowly, straightened himself and followed the direction of Spiller’s eyes.
Arrietty leaned quickly forwards and laid a warning hand on her mother’s arm, as Homily—a little disheveled—emerged once again from under the gaiter. “Hush!” she whispered. Homily stopped her humming. They both listened. It was unmistakable—not very near, as yet—the sound of oars!
“Oh, my goodness . . .” breathed Homily. She stood up, peering bleakly ahead. Arrietty’s hand on her arm tightened to a painful grip. “Quiet, Mother! We mustn’t panic . . .”
Homily, hurt (in more senses than one), turned reproachfully towards her daughter, and Arrietty knew that she was about to protest that she never panicked, that all her life “calm” had been her watchword, that she had never been one to fuss, that—But Arrietty pinched her arm more tightly, and, grumpily, she remained silent, staring blankly ahead.
Spiller had moved quickly beside Pod. Somehow, the twine had got wet or someone had tied the knots too tightly. There was something desperate about the two bent backs. Arrietty, suddenly contrite, released her grip and laid a comforting arm about her mother’s shoulders and drew her closer. Homily took Arrietty’s free hand and squeezed it gently. This was no time for quarrels.
At last, the twine slid free. They saw Spiller snatch up his punt pole and, driving it hard into the bank below the fence, he spun the boat into midstream. Homily and Arrietty clung more closely together as, with strong rhythmic strokes, Spiller propelled them against the current. Upstream? Towards the sound of oars? Towards danger? Why?
“Oh, my goodness gracious . . .” breathed Homily again.
But on they went, stroke after stroke, the knife box shuddering slightly on the shallow ripples of the current. The sound of oars became clearer and, with it, another sound—a kind of scrape and a splash. Homily, wild-eyed but silent, clung more closely to Arrietty, and Arrietty, twisting in her mother’s grasp, cast a desperate glance backwards. Yes, they had left the wire fence behind—the fence, the model village, and all that their home there had stood for. But where, oh, where, could Spiller be making for now?
They soon saw: the knitting needle swung up in a moonlit flash across the boat and down on the other side. Two swift, deep strokes from Spiller, and they were plunged among the rushes of the farther bank. Not plunged exactly, more crashing into them, the head of Spiller’s boat being square.
There was no longer any sound of approaching oars. Whoever was rowing had heard the noise. A frightened frog plopped out of the rushes. Then all was silent again.
The sudden, sharp, unexpected swerve had bowled Homily and Arrietty over. They lay where they had fallen, listening hard. There was no sound except for the murmur of the gently flowing stream. Then an owl hooted, answered faintly by its mate across the valley. Silence again.
Arrietty rose stealthily to her knees and edged her way towards the stern of the boat. She could just see over.
Moonlight fell fully on her face and (she realized unhappily) on the exposed stern of the boat. She turned and glanced forward: Pod and Spiller, lost among the deeper shadows, were scarcely visible now, but she could see they were moving, moving and leaning. And then the boat began to stir: steadily, silently, inexorably, Pod and Spiller were pulling them more deeply into the rushes. A strong scent of bruised spearmint drifted back to her, and a faint smell of cow dung. Then the knife box became still. Once more there was silence.
Arrietty, in shadow now, looked back over the stern. Between the bent and flattened rushes, she could still see the open stream, and still she felt exposed.
“Could have been an otter . . . ?” said a voice. Startlingly close it sounded, and it was a voice she recognized.
All the borrowers froze. Again there came the sound of a scrape and a splash.
“More likely a water rat,” said another voice dryly—nearer still now.
“Oh, my goodness . . .” breathed Homily again in Arrietty’s ear, “it’s them! Those Platters . . .”
“I know,” whispered Arrietty, barely above her breath. “Keep still . . .” as Homily made an instinctive move towards the gaiter.
Then the boat came into view, drifting down on the current. It was a small dinghy—the one the Platters had used at the Riverside Teas for children’s trips round the island—and the two figures in it, outlined against the moonlit bank, looked top-heavy and enormous. The oars, pulled in from the oarlocks, stuck up against the sky. The larger figure leaned forwards. Again there was the scrape and the splash.
“I never thought we’d spring leaks like this, Sidney,” said the first voice.
“Stands to reason. Boat’s been laid up all winter—she’ll soon settle down, once the timbers begin to swell.”
Another scrape, another splash. “Oh, drat, something’s gone into bilges. I think it’s the mutton sandwiches . . .”
“I told you, Mabel, this wasn’t going to be easy.”
“I made them so nice, Sidney, with chutney and all.” There was a short silence, and Arrietty held her breath, watching intently as the other boat drifted by. “It’s all right, Sidney,” she heard the first voice say. “It was onl
y the hard-boiled eggs . . .”
Again there was silence, except for the scrape and the splash. Arrietty turned her head, and there was Pod climbing towards them along the curve of the gaiter. He put his finger to his lips, and she kept obediently still.
As he let himself down beside her, they heard the sound of oars again. Pod cocked his head, listening quietly. After a moment, under cover of the splashings, he said, “They’ve gone past?”
Arrietty nodded. Her heart was still beating wildly.
“Then that’s all right, then.” He spoke in almost his normal voice.
Arrietty groped for his hand. “Oh, Papa—”
“I know, I know,” he said, “but it’s all right now. Listen! They’ll be tying up soon . . .”
Even as he spoke, they heard the clatter of the oars being withdrawn from the oarlocks and Mabel’s voice, more distant now but carrying tremulously across the water: “Oh, please, Sid, gently! You’ll wake old Pott!”
“Him?” they heard Mr. Platter say. “He’s deaf as a post. And his light’s out. Been asleep this good couple of hours, I shouldn’t wonder . . .” And again they heard the sound of bailing.
“Could they sink?” whispered Arrietty hopefully.
“’Fraid not,” said Pod.
Once more Mabel’s voice came to them across the water: “Have I got to keep this up all night?”
“Depends,” said Mr. Platter. Then there were some murmurings and slight creaks and scufflings. They made out a few words like “Can’t seem to get my hand on the painter . . . mixed up with the umbrellas . . .” Then Mrs. Platter complaining about “too much stuff . . .”
“Too much stuff!” they heard Mr. Platter repeat indignantly. “You’ll thank your stars for some of it before the night’s out. I warned you what we were in for, didn’t I, Mabel?” There was no reply, and they heard the hard voice rasp on. “A vigil! That’s what we’re in for—a vigil! Tonight, tomorrow night, and, if need be, many a night to come . . .”
