The Borrowers Collection

by Mary Norton

  “Of course it’s warm!” Mrs. Platter’s voice had risen almost to a scream. “Grab it, Sidney! Grab it! Quickly . . . quickly!” But the little leg had been withdrawn. The groping fingers, now in a panic of hurry, spun frenziedly about the vine leaf. It was empty. The prey had gone.

  Mrs. Platter burst into tears. As Mr. Platter emerged in a crestfallen way from behind the rood screen, Mrs. Platter gasped out, “You nearly had it! You actually touched it! How could you be so silly . . . !”

  “It gave me a shock,” said Mr. Platter, and Arrietty, crouched back in her old position, could see he was looking pale. His eyes roved despondently over the rood screen, but with little hope that, among the myriad strange figures and faces, he might see the one he sought.

  “It’s no good looking there,” gasped Mrs. Platter, feeling for her handkerchief. “It’s down among those flowers. Or was. These creatures can move, I tell you!”

  “Did it fall?”

  “Fall! Of course it didn’t fall. It nipped along to the edge of the screen and slid down it into the flowers. Like greased lightning it went!”

  Mr. Platter looked down at the flowers. “Then it must be in there still,” he said.

  “There’s no must about it, Sidney. It could be anywhere by now.”

  Mr. Platter still stared down at the flowers, as if hoping to detect some kind of faint stir among the leaves and blossoms. He seemed to have gotten over his sudden attack of nervousness. Stooping, he put down a careful hand into the mass of color. He felt about for a moment and then withdrew it. He had discovered that, although the display had looked like a growing border, the cut stalks of each clump were set in containers filled with water—jam jars, tins, vases of all shapes and sizes—among which any creature small enough could move with ease. Well, that was that.

  Sighing, he sat down beside his wife. “We’ll just have to watch and wait,” he said.

  “What’s the point of that, Sidney? It may have run out already.” She turned her head towards the open west door, where the sunlight seemed to be fading. “And the light will be going soon . . .”

  “If you didn’t see anything run out—and you didn’t, did you—”

  “No, of course I didn’t.” But she wondered about those moments when she had been wiping her eyes.

  “Then it stands to reason that it must still be in there somewhere.”

  “But we can’t sit here all night!” Was he really thinking of another vigil?

  He did not reply immediately: he seemed to be thinking hard. “There’s only one other thing we can do,” he said at last. “That is to remove all these pots and vases one by one—you starting at one end and me at the other.”

  “Oh, we can’t do that, Sidney. Supposing somebody came in?”

  Even as she spoke, they heard voices in the porch. Mrs. Platter sprang to her feet. “Sit down, Mabel, do!” hissed Mr. Platter. “We’re not doing anything wrong.” Mrs. Platter sat down again obediently, but all the same both of them turned round to see who had come in.

  It was Lady Mullings, followed by Parkinson, who was carrying a small folding card table. “Just prop it up beside the door,” Lady Mullings was saying, “and do ask Mrs. Crabtree to come in—”

  “She’d like to, but she’s got the dog, my lady.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter on this sort of day, as long as she’s got it on the lead. We won’t be staying more than a minute or two, and I do want her to see her pelargoniums.” She made off swiftly in the direction of her cherished flower arrangement. She did not even glance at the Platters, sitting so quietly at the other end of the church. All her attention was centered elsewhere.

  Mrs. Crabtree was an extremely tall, elderly lady, dressed in shabby but very well-cut tweeds. The little dog, a young wire-haired terrier, was pulling at the lead. “Oh, come on, Pouncer,” she was saying irritably as they made their way into church, “don’t be a fool! Walkies, after . . .”

  “I’m here, dear,” called Lady Mullings, in her pleasant rather musical voice, “down by the belfry.”

  The Platters had half turned in their seats again to take note of the newcomer. Arrietty was watching, too. Mrs. Platter seemed especially interested in Mrs. Crabtree’s frail right hand as she hauled her unwilling little dog down the aisle. “Just take a look at those diamonds,” she whispered to Mr. Platter. Mr. Platter said, “Hush!” and turned away abruptly: the less attention they drew to themselves, the better. But Mrs. Platter went on staring.

  The two ladies stood in silence for a moment before Lady Mullings’s masterpiece. “It’s magnificent,” said Mrs. Crabtree at last, “quite magnificent!”

  “I’m so glad you think so,” replied Lady Mullings. “I did so want you to see it before the light failed.”

  “I do congratulate you, my dear.”

  “Well, you must take some of the credit, my dear Stephanie: it was you and Bullivant who grew the flowers.”

  What persuaded Timmus to bolt then always remained a slight puzzle to Arrietty. Was it because he had overheard the conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Platter about moving the rood-screen flowers pot by pot? Or was he taking advantage of the unexpected distraction caused by the sudden entrance of two ladies and a dog? Or was he banking on the dimness of the aisle in this fading, pew-shadowed half-light? But there he was, barely more than a shadow himself, streaking down towards the bell chamber, as fast as his little flailing legs would carry him!

  She guessed his destination: under the curtain, on to the bell rope, up through the hole in the ceiling, and then safety!

  But Mr. Platter, facing forwards, had seen him run out from among the flowers; Mrs. Platter, looking backwards, had seen him chasing down the aisle; and Arrietty, watching so intently from her perch above the rood screen, of course had seen every stage of his panic-stricken dash. And now, (oh, horror of horrors!) the dog had seen him! Just as Timmus was about to chase round the far end of the collecting box, which still was standing on the floor, the dog gave a joyous yelp and pounced, his lead freed in a second from Mrs. Crabtree’s frail and inattentive hand. He had not been named Pouncer for nothing.

  The collecting box slithered along the floor, pushing Timmus with it. Arrietty saw two little hands come up and grip the top, and, with an agile twist, the slim, little body followed. Mrs. Crabtree groped down for the lead and jerked the dog aside, but not before Timmus, lithe as an eel, had slipped down through the slot. Was it only Arrietty, in the short sharp silence that followed the dog’s first yelp, who heard a shifting and clinking of coins in the bottom of the collecting box?

  Lady Mullings came out of her dream. “What was all that about?” she asked.

  Mrs. Crabtree shrugged. “I don’t know: he must have seen a mouse or something. I’d better take him home.” She patted Lady Mullings on the shoulder. “Thank you, my dear, for showing me: you’ve worked wonders. I can have a good look at all the rest of the flowers after the service tomorrow—the light will be better then.”

  As Mrs. Crabtree went out, Kitty Whitlace came in, humming “County Down” and swinging the key on her first finger as usual. Her cakes had turned out beautifully, she had put Miss Menzies to rest on the sofa, where she had fallen asleep again, and tomorrow was Easter Day. Kitty Whitlace was feeling very happy.

  Not so Mr. and Mrs. Platter. A certain amount of anxiety still gnawed at their vitals. Neither could withdraw his or her gaze from the collecting box. Both were standing up now. What must be their next move?

  “At least we know where it is,” whispered Mr. Platter.

  Mrs. Platter nodded. After a minute she said, her voice a little uncertain, “It’s a very young one.”

  Mr. Platter gave a grim little laugh. “All the better: it’ll last us longer!”

  Kitty Whitlace and Lady Mullings had set up the card table, spread with the piece of brocade, and Kitty had arranged the pamphlets, the picture post cards, and the visitors’ book in a neat row towards the front. The collecting box she tucked under her arm. />
  Arrietty shuddered as she heard the rush of coins to one end of it, hoping Timmus would not be hurt. Perhaps it contained a few of those rare pound notes, which might act as buffers. American tourists could be very generous at times . . .

  “I expect you’ll be wanting to lock up now,” Lady Mullings was saying, glancing once more around the church. “Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Platter, I didn’t see you! I am so sorry. It’s all so beautiful that I suppose you’re like the rest of us—almost impossible to tear oneself away.” Mr. Platter nodded and smiled weakly. He didn’t know quite what to say. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Kitty Whitlace hurrying towards the vestry, the collecting box under her arm. She returned almost immediately, swinging an even larger key, and went towards the door.

  They all filed out. They had to: they could not keep her waiting. Mr. and Mrs. Platter came last. They walked like two people in a dream (or was it a nightmare?). Cheerful good nights were said and see-you-tomorrows, and all went their separate ways. Mr. and Mrs. Platter walked reluctantly towards where they had tethered their pony cart. Kitty Whitlace locked the church door.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Neither spoke as Mr. Platter untethered the pony and Mrs. Platter, in her awkward way, climbed up onto the seat. Her bicycle lay safely in the back on top of Mr. Platter’s tool bag. “Where now?” she said in a dispirited voice as Mr. Platter, reins in hand, took his place beside her.

  He did not reply at once, just sat there staring down at his hands. “We’ve got to do it,” he said at last.

  “Do what?”

  “Break into the church.”

  “Oh, Sidney, but that’s a felony!”

  “It’s not the first felony we’ve had to commit,” he reminded her glumly. “We know exactly where that creature is—”

  “Yes. Locked up, in a locked box, in a locked cupboard, in a locked church!”

  “Exactly,” said Mr. Platter. “It’s now or never, Mabel.”

  “I don’t like it, Sidney.” She looked round in the gathering dusk. “It’ll be dark soon, and we won’t be able to put a light on.”

  “We can borrow a flashlight from Jim Sykes at the Bull. He’s got a good one, for going round the cellars . . .”

  “The Bull!” exclaimed Mrs. Platter; the face she turned towards him looked almost stupid with surprise. Mr. Platter had never been one for visiting village pubs.

  “Yes, the Bull, Mabel. And what’s more, we’re going to stay there up to near on closing time. We’ll have a nice glass of stout, a couple of roast-beef sandwiches, and some oats and water for the pony, and leave the cart there till we’re ready for it. We’re not going to leave that cart and pony parked outside the church—oh, no! It’d be evidence against us.”

  “Oh, Sidney,” faltered Mrs. Platter, “you think of everything . . .” But she was feeling very nervous.

  “No, Mabel, there was one thing I didn’t think of.” He picked up the reins. “When I took all my locksmith’s tools down to Lady Mullings’s to open up her attic, I never thought I’d need ’em again for a tricky job of this size. Giddup, Tiger!” And the pony trotted off.

  When next they reached the church porch, night had completely fallen, but low above the yew trees, a pale moon was rising. Mr. Platter threw it a glance, as though measuring it for size. They had come down on foot, Mrs. Platter carrying the box of keys and Mr. Platter his tool bag and the flashlight.

  “Now, you hold the flashlight, Mabel, and pass me the box of keys. I took a good look this afternoon at the key that woman was using, and I’ll be blowed if I haven’t got one almost exactly like it. Most of these old church locks were made the same . . .” He was feeling about among the keys. “I took it when they modernized the church at Went-le-Cray. Got antique value, some of those old keys have . . .”

  He was right—on all counts. After a bit of initial fumbling, they heard the lock grind back, and the heavy door squeaked open. “What about that?” said Mr. Platter in a satisfied voice.

  They went inside, Mrs. Platter on her tiptoes. “No need for that,” Mr. Platter told her irritably. “There’s no one to hear us now.” But there was somebody to hear them.

  As soon as Kitty Whitlace had locked the west door and silence had reigned again in the church, Arrietty climbed down from the rood screen and ran to the harmonium to break the dreadful news. Her uncle Hendreary had his foot up on the sofa (as Pod had prophesied, he was becoming a martyr to gout), and her aunt Lupy was busy preparing a little supper. The candles were all lighted again, and the room looked very cozy. “Oh, there you are!” Aunt Lupy exclaimed. “I couldn’t get on till you came: I’m making a sparrow’s-egg omelet. Where’s Timmus?”

  And then Arrietty had had to tell them. It was a dreadful evening. There was nothing anyone could do. For almost the first time, Arrietty realized the utter helplessness of their tiny race when pitted against human odds. She stayed on and on, trying to comfort them, although she knew her own parents must be getting worried. At last she said (thinking of Timmus’s terror and loneliness), “It will only be for one night. When Mrs. Witless opens the press in the morning, he’ll be out and away in a moment!”

  “I hope you’re right,” Aunt Lupy said, but she did wipe away her tears, and Arrietty, although she did not fancy the idea of the long walk back in the dark, now felt she might leave for home. It was then that they heard the squeak and the scrape of the main door into the church.

  “What’s that?” whispered Aunt Lupy, and they all froze.

  “Someone’s come into the church,” said Hendreary, very low. He rose from his couch and, limping badly, blew out the candles one by one. They sat in the darkness, waiting.

  A voice spoke sharply, but they did not hear what it said. Footsteps were approaching the vestry. They heard the sudden rattle of the curtain rings, and a strange light was flashing about. The borrowers drew together on the sofa, clasping one another’s hands.

  “Did you bring the key box, Mabel?” Oh, that voice! Arrietty would have recognized it anywhere; it even haunted her dreams. She began to tremble.

  “Shine the flashlight into my tool bag, Mabel.” The voice was very close now. They could hear the sound of heavy breathing, the clank of metal, the shuffling of boots on the flagstones. “And take the cloth off that table.”

  “What are you going to do now, Sidney?” It was Mrs. Platter’s voice. She sounded nervous.

  “Nail that tablecloth up over the window. Then we can switch on a light. We might as well work in comfort, seeing as we’ve got all night and the place to ourselves, like . . .”

  “Oh, that will be better. I mean, a bit of light. I don’t like it in here, Sidney, I don’t like it in here at all!”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Mabel. Take that other end—” The borrowers heard the sound of hammering. Then Mr. Platter said, “Draw those other curtains tight together, the ones leading to the church.” Again there was a rattle of curtain rings, and the electric light flashed on. “Ah, that’s better. Now we can see what we’re doing.”

  The borrowers could now make out one another’s faces, and very frightened faces they were. However, the sofa was well back from the glow that seeped in from their entrance.

  There was silence. Mr. Platter must be studying the lock. After about five minutes, he said in a pleased voice, “Ah . . . now I think I see!”

  The oddest sounds were heard as the operation got under way: squeaks, tappings, scrapings, and “Pass me that, Mabel; pass me this, Mabel; no, not the thick one, the fine one; now that thing with a blunt end; put your finger here, Mabel; press hard; hold it steady; now that thing with a sharp point, Mabel,” and so on. Mabel did not say a word. At last, there was a long, loud, satisfied “Ah . . . !” and the faint squeak of hinges: the door of the press was open!

  There was an awed silence: the Platters had never seen such treasure. Mr. Platter’s amazement was such that he did not make an immediate grab for the collecting box, which stood humbly on the middle shelf.

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nbsp; “Jewels, gold . . . all those stones are real, Mabel. The rector must be mad. Or is it the parish?” He sounded very disapproving. “Stuff like this ought to be in a museum or a bank or something . . .” Arrietty, listening, was again surprised by the word “bank”—a bank, to her, was something with grass growing on it. “Oh, well,” Mr. Platter went on sternly (he sounded genuinely shocked), “I suppose it’s their lookout. Glad I’m not a church warden!”

  There was a pause, and the borrowers guessed that Mr. Platter had picked up the collecting box, because they heard the faint clink of loose money.

  “Careful, Sidney,” warned Mrs. Platter. “We don’t want to damage it—I mean that creature inside. Set the box down here on the table.”

  The borrowers heard a chair being pulled out, and then a second chair. Again there was silence (except for a little heavy breathing) while Mr. Platter picked his second lock. This one did not take so long. Arrietty heard the rustle of paper money and the clink of coins as fingers felt about inside the box.

  Mrs. Platter broke the sudden shocked silence. “It’s gone! Look, Sidney, how he’s piled up the half crowns, and the florins, made a kind of staircase to get out, to reach the slot in the lid—”

  “It’s all right, Mabel, don’t panic. He may have got out of the box, but he couldn’t have got out of the cupboard. He’s in there all right, hiding among all that stuff.”

  Again Arrietty heard the scrape of chairs and the shuffle of footsteps on stone. “Oh, goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Platter. “Here’s a five-pound note—dropped on the floor!”

  “Put it back, Mabel. I’ll have to lock that box up again and place it back just where it was. But, first, we’ve got to take everything out of this middle shelf. You stand by the table and I’ll pass things out to you. We’ll get to him in the end. You’ll see . . .”