The Borrowers Collection

by Mary Norton

  There was so much to watch. There was Lady Mullings removing all the pamphlets and the collecting box from the bench in front of the far curtains, sweeping them aside, as it were, as though they were so much rubbish, and setting up plant pots along its length. Heavy as they were, she seemed to be given strength by the joy of her newly discovered talent. “Just four along here, Kitty, and a space in the middle, and two standing higher up in the space. Now, what can we find to stand them up on?” Her eyes alighted on the collecting box, and she grabbed it up from the floor. “Ah, this will do—”

  “No, Lady Mullings, we can’t use that. It’s the tourists’ collecting box, and people will be coming all next week—in the hundreds, I shouldn’t wonder. What about a hassock?” She took the collecting box from Lady Mullings and set it once again on the floor. When she brought out a rather dusty, sawdust-filled hassock from the back pew, Lady Mullings looked at it distastefully.

  “It’s a bit clumsy,” she said, “and how are we going to hide the front of it? I know,” she exclaimed (it was her day for inspiration), “we can drape it with a bit of pink aubretia, hanging down. There’s some round the bottom of the pulpit.”

  As she hurried down to the aisle to fetch it, Kitty Whitlace tried to protest again. “It’s the two Misses Forbes’s aubretia,” she pointed out.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Lady Mullings called back to her. “I’ll only take a little bit.” Nothing could stop her now.

  At that moment something else caught Arrietty’s eye. In the long patch of afternoon sunshine that streamed in from the west door, there lay a dark shadow. It was the shadow of a man. Why, oh, why, did she have this sudden sense of foreboding? Was it perhaps because this shadow kept so still, thrown by a figure that was neither coming in nor intending to move away? A kind of “watching” shadow? Her heart, for some reason, began to beat more heavily.

  Lady Mullings came bustling back down the aisle, a clump of aubretia in her hand. Perhaps it had left rather a bald-looking patch at the foot of the pulpit, but she could see to that later by spreading the rest of it along. As she passed the open door, she glanced carelessly sideways to see who was standing on the threshold. “Oh, Mr. Platter,” she exclaimed, scarcely pausing in her step, “I had forgotten all about you! Do come in. I shan’t keep you a minute. Take a look round the church. It’s really worth it. The flowers are quite wonderful this year. And”—she called back to him gaily as she hurried on—“you’re our first visitor.”

  Mr. Platter took off his hat and entered rather dubiously. He and Mrs. Platter were very “low church” (in fact, he had been brought up “chapel”), and he was not at all sure he approved of all these light-hearted goings-on on the eve of such a solemn feast as Easter. However, he was not a bad gardener himself, and hat in hand, he made a slow but professional inspection. He quite liked the aubretia at the foot of the pulpit but did not care much for those ashen-colored roses below the lectern. The things that took his fancy most were the two long rows of variegated plants arranged along the foot of the rood screen. Quite a herbaceous border, you might say! He sat down quietly on the front pew in order to study them better and while away the time until Lady Mullings should be ready to receive him.

  Arrietty peered down at him, her heart still beating heavily. From where she was stationed, she could not see Timmus, but hoped he was keeping still. She need not have worried. Mr. Platter did not raise his eyes. He was not interested in rood screens. After a while he brought out an envelope, drew out a piece of paper, uncapped his fountain pen, and made a few jottings. He was adding to the list of extra jobs that “Miss” Parkinson had thrust upon him and wondering, in view of all the hours he had put in, whether or not he dare add a few inventions of his own.

  Lady Mullings, down at the end of the church, was saying, “Now we need something to top up the pinnacle. A few hymn books would do . . .”

  “A good idea,” Kitty Whitlace replied. “I’ll run and get them,” and hurried up the church towards the vestry. Aunt Lupy, who at that moment had been peering out of her “front door,” heard her footsteps and darted back inside.

  Lady Mullings, standing back to admire her handiwork, did not notice when another person entered the church; someone who looked around vaguely for a moment, then tiptoed up the side aisle. But Arrietty noticed, and also noticed that Mr. Platter started slightly when he felt the figure take her place quietly beside him on the front pew. “Mabel!” he gasped, in a sort of whisper.

  “I thought something must have happened to you,” she whispered back, “so I hopped on my bicycle.”

  “They gave me a whole lot of extra jobs,” he told her, still in a whisper. But Arrietty could hear every word.

  “They would,” hissed Mrs. Platter, “that Parkinson! Did they give you anything to eat?”

  “They brought me something on a tray. Not much. Not what she and cook were having in the kitchen.”

  “I had a lovely hot pot,” said Mrs. Platter. She sounded almost wistful.

  “I know.” He was silent a minute. “What have you done with the bicycle?”

  “Put it in the back of the pony cart. I’m not going to bicycle back all the way up that hill . . .” Leaning more closely towards him, she put a hand on his arm. “What I really wanted to know, Sidney, what really brought me down was, did you give that package to Lady Mullings?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Oh, thank heavens for that! What did she say?”

  “She said she’d do her best.”

  “It’s our only chance, Sidney. It’s our last chance!”

  “I know that,” he said uncomfortably.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Lady Mullings almost flung herself down beside Miss Menzies in the pew beside the west door. “Well, that’s done!” she exclaimed in a voice both exhausted and satisfied.

  Miss Menzies, startled, opened her eyes. “Have you finished? How splendid!” She blushed. “I’m afraid I must have nodded off . . .”

  “And I don’t blame you, my dear, after having been up all night! Would you care to take a look at it? I always value your opinion.”

  “I’d love to,” said Miss Menzies, although it was the last thing that she felt inclined to do at that moment.

  She followed Lady Mullings out of the pew and down to the back of the church. It was indeed a startling erection, a beautiful burst of color against the darker curtains and facing straight down the aisle, adding a focal point to all the lesser decorations.

  “It really is quite lovely,” exclaimed Miss Menzies with genuine admiration. “I can’t think how on earth you’ve managed to prop it all up—”

  “With this and that,” said Lady Mullings modestly, but she was looking very pleased.

  Kitty Whitlace was on her knees, tidying up the pamphlets that somehow seemed to have scattered themselves about the floor. She made a neat pile of these and another one of the post cards and set them in an orderly fashion beside her rescued collecting box. Then she sat back on her heels and looked up to Lady Mullings. “What are we going to do with this lot?” she asked.

  “Oh, dear! Yes . . . well, I see. Oh, I know! Just leave them where they are for the moment. I’ve a small card table at home, which I can bring down later. With a pretty piece of brocade on top, we could set it by the west door.” She turned to Miss Menzies. “Well, my dear, I really think we’ve all done enough for today. Where did you leave your bicycle?”

  “Up at the rectory.”

  “I’ll ride it down for you,” said Kitty, “or better still, I’ll walk up with you and make you a nice pot of tea. You look as though you need one. And I’ve got my cakes to see to . . .” These were cakes she was baking for the garden fete on Monday.

  “Actually,” said Lady Mullings, “I don’t think there is any more to do. Except perhaps tidy up the pulpit.” She looked round the church. “It all looks quite lovely, better even than last year—” She broke off abruptly, staring up toward the chancel. “Oh, dear, there’s Mr
. Platter! And Mrs. Platter, too. I’d forgotten all about him again. He’s such a quiet man. Miss Menzies, dear, where did I leave my handbag?”

  “In the pew. I’ll get it. I’ve left mine there, too.”

  In the end, they went together. Lady Mullings sat down. “I’ll just make sure I did bring my checkbook.” She felt about in her handbag. “Yes, here it is. And Mr. Platter’s bill—” She drew out a beige envelope. “No, it isn’t: it’s the other thing he brought me. Do sit down for a minute, Miss Menzies. I really am a little curious to see what’s inside . . .”

  She slid a thumb under the flap of the envelope and drew out a very small, neatly folded piece of cambric. “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed in an exasperated voice, crumpling the envelope and contents together in her lap. “I do wish people wouldn’t send me things like this!”

  “Why, whatever is it?” asked Miss Menzies.

  “Washed and ironed! I can never do anything with things that have been washed and ironed. It leaves no trace whatever of the original owner. You see, dear,” she went on, turning to Miss Menzies, “to get my ‘feeling’, or whatever you might like to call it, it has to be from something that has recently been handled or worn, or close in some way to another human being. I couldn’t get any feeling from this, except perhaps of soapsuds and Mrs. Platter’s ironing board.”

  “May I see?” asked Miss Menzies.

  “Yes, of course.” Lady Mullings passed it to her. “It’s some kind of doll’s apron . . .”

  Miss Menzies, unfolding the scrap of material, gave a sharp gasp. “Mr. Platter brought you this?” Her voice sounded almost fearful with astonishment.

  “Yes. He—or, rather, Mrs. Platter—wanted to locate the owner.”

  Miss Menzies was silent for a moment, staring down at the little object on the palm of her hand. “Mr. Platter?” she said again, in a tone of tremulous wonder.

  “I must admit I was a little surprised myself. When you think of Mr. Platter, it does seem a little out of character.” She laughed. “I suppose I should feel flattered . . .”

  “You have found the owner,” said Miss Menzies quietly.

  “I don’t quite understand—”

  “I am the owner. I made it.”

  “Good gracious me!” exclaimed Lady Mullings.

  “I remember every stitch of it. You see these little stroked gathers? I thought I’d never get a needle fine enough . . . Mr. Platter! I mean, how did he . . . ? It’s quite extraordinary!”

  “I suppose you made it for one of your little model figures?”

  Miss Menzies did not reply: she was staring into space. Never had a face looked more bewildered. Mr. Platter? For some reason, she thought of the cut wire, the trampled streets, the broken shop fronts, the general devastation in the model village. What thoughts were these? Why had they come to her? Mr. Platter had a model village of his own (one might almost say a rival model village if—as she was not—one was of a jealous disposition), and as Lady Mullings had remarked, he was “such a quiet man”—always courteous, so good at his job, so scrupulous in his building, such a comfort to those who found themselves bereaved. Miss Menzies tried to resist these bad, unworthy thoughts, which somehow of their own accord had crept into her mind.

  “Well, my dear,” Lady Mullings was saying, “I think we’ve solved Mr. Platter’s little problem.” She picked up her bag and gloves. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and settle up with him.”

  Arrietty, in her eyrie, had not quite heard the confidential exchanges going on halfway down the church: she had been too much taken up by trying to overhear the Platters. She had heard Miss Menzies’s first, sharp repetition of Mr. Platter’s name and thought perhaps the Platters had heard it, too, because both had turned their heads warily to glance behind them. Even then Arrietty did not pay too much attention. All her anxiety now was concentrated on Timmus: would he be wise enough to keep absolutely still?

  Then she noticed that Lady Mullings had eased herself out of her pew and, handbag in hand, was coming up the church towards the Platters. She held her breath: something was going to happen!

  Mr. Platter rose when she approached, and so did Mrs. Platter, with whom Lady Mullings shook hands. “Ah, Mrs. Platter, how very nice to see you! Come to see the decorations, have you? We’re rather proud of them this year.”

  Mrs. Platter mumbled some reply, but her face looked oddly anxious as the three of them sat down again.

  Mr. Platter produced his accounts, which took a little explaining. Lady Mullings listened amiably, nodding her head from time to time. She completely trusted him. When she had written out his check and received his receipt, she rose to her feet. Mr. Platter rose too.

  “And that other little matter,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’ve had time—”

  “Oh, the little thing you brought me—what a scatterbrain I am! I didn’t need any time, Mr. Platter: I find it belongs to Miss Menzies. She made it.” She turned to Mrs. Platter. “Here it is. Perhaps you’d like to give it back to her yourself? She’s sitting down there by the west door . . .”

  Mrs. Platter did not seem to hear her. She was staring at the rood screen. There was the strangest expression on her face, and her mouth had fallen open. Lady Mullings, envelope in hand, looked puzzled. What was the matter with the woman? “Well, here it is,” she said at last, and put the envelope down on the seat. Mrs. Platter turned towards her then, her face still looking curiously dazed. But Lady Mullings saw that she was trying to pull herself together. “No. Please—” she stammered, “you give it to her. And thank you. Thank you very much. It was—” and her eyes flew back to the rood screen.

  “Well,” thought Lady Mullings as she made her way back towards Miss Menzies, “I suppose there is rather a lot to look at in that rood screen.” Perhaps Mrs. Platter had never seen it before? Perhaps it had rather shocked her, brought up (as Mr. Platter had been) to a more austere form of worship. And, now that she came to think of it, some of those medieval faces (although beautifully carved) did appear rather devilish . . .

  Belongings were collected and good-byes said. Lady Mullings left by the west door, and Kitty and Miss Menzies came up the church to leave by the vestry, which gave them a shortcut to the wicket gate. Mr. Platter, too, was standing up as though preparing to leave, but Mrs. Platter was still sitting down. It looked, as Kitty and Miss Menzies passed them, bidding them good night, as though Mrs. Platter was gripping Mr. Platter by the sleeve.

  The church became very silent. Mrs. Platter looked round cautiously. “Don’t go, Sidney,” she whispered urgently.

  He pulled his arm away from her grip. “Oh, come on, Mabel. We’ve played our trump card—and we’ve lost. I’m tired and I’m hungry. Is there any of that hot pot left?”

  “Oh, forget about the hot pot, Sidney! This is serious—” Her voice seemed to be trembling with some kind of excitement.

  “What is?”

  She pulled on his sleeve again. “Sit down and I’ll tell you.” He sat down unwillingly. “One of them yawned!”

  “Well, what of it?” He thought she was referring to one of the ladies. But Arrietty, up above, understood immediately and went cold with fear.

  Mrs. Platter was pointing with a shaking finger at the rood screen. “One of those creatures up there—it yawned!”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Mabel.” He attempted to stand up again. “You’re just imagining things.”

  “Sidney—it yawned, I’m telling you! You don’t imagine a yawn. I saw the flash of its teeth—”

  “Which one?”

  Mrs. Platter began to gabble. “Well, you see that long kind of face, that one with a hat on—some kind of bishop something—there, just by the edge of the arch? And you see a smaller face, just below its ear, sort of leaning against it? Well, that’s the one that yawned!”

  Mr. Platter leaned forwards, peering hard in the direction of her pointing finger. “Oh, Mabel, it couldn’t have. It’s carved out of wood!”

  “It coul
d be carved out of rock for all I care, but it yawned!”

  From where Arrietty crouched, she could not see Timmus, except for one little leg that overhung the vine leaf. This was because the eaves of the gallery stood out a little on either side of the rood screen. To see the whole of Timmus, she would have to lean right over. This, at the moment, for fear of being “seen,” she did not dare to do. Oh, why had she left him so long climbing about in the ivy? Of course he had yawned: he had tired himself out.

  “It’s one of them, Sidney, I know it is!” Mrs. Platter was saying. “And one would be better than none. Could you reach it, do you think?”

  “I could try,” said Mr. Platter. He rose to his feet and, rather gingerly, approached the massed blooms at the foot of the rood screen. He leaned over, stretched up an arm, and rose up on tiptoe. “It’s no good, Mabel, I can’t reach it.” He had very nearly overbalanced into the flowers. “I’d need something to stand on.”

  Mrs. Platter looked around but could see nothing movable. Then her eye lighted on the two shallow steps leading into the chancel. “Why don’t you try from the other side?” she suggested. “That’s higher. You could put your hand round the edge of the arch, like . . .”

  Arrietty was filled with a sudden anger: these two awful human beings were talking as though poor little Timmus had neither eyes nor ears.

  Mr. Platter went up the two steps and disappeared on the far side of the rood screen. Arrietty, watching from above, saw the bony hand come out and feel its way along the smooth edge of the arch. “Inwards a bit more, Sidney, you’re nearly there,” said Mrs. Platter, watching excitedly. “That’s the bishop’s face. Can you stretch a bit more and then go lower?”

  Arrietty decided to stand up and lean farther over: those dreadful feeling fingers were approaching the little leg. At last, they touched it. She heard Mr. Platter give a strangled gasp as though he had been stung by a wasp, and the fingers flew away again. “It’s warm!” he cried out in a frightened voice. Arrietty realized then that Mr. Platter had only been trying to humor Mrs. Platter and had never believed that Timmus was alive.