The Rope and Other Stories

by Philippa Pearce

  My aunt was running at top speed, with amazing acceleration from standstill, but wasps seemed to catch up with her (she said) quite effortlessly. She tore from the apple-room down the passage to the main part of the house. She must have been shrieking, for she could already hear Spot in the distance barking in a frenzy of reply. Her family roused to the alarm, of course. But she was down the stairs and through the hall so fast that she never saw her father. Apparently he had stepped forward towards my Aunt Carrie in her flight, then noticed the wasps hot in her pursuit, and, with great common sense, as my aunt admitted, drew back. Apparently he had shouted to her to make for the fish-pond, but my aunt never heard him.

  My Aunt Carrie tore down the hall, through the open garden door, and out on to the lawn. There was the tin tub and the yellow soap and the bluebag that, hundreds of years before it seemed, she had intended using; and there was Spot jumping about at the end of his lead and barking so continuously and shrilly that he was almost screaming, too. He had – again with great good sense – rushed to the furthest extent of his lead, well clear of the route that the wasps were taking.

  Meanwhile, my aunt never stopped running. Across the lawn and down the length of the garden and the orchard, and suddenly there was the fish-pond. My aunt ran straight off the ground and into the water.

  Into the water and down – down – so that the water closed over her head, and my aunt said she could have laughed for joy, except that you don't laugh under water. When she came up, there were a few wasps trying to swim – they must have floated off her clothes and hair and skin – and a good many others were flying around, much taken aback.

  My aunt thought it wise to submerge again at once. She did so again and again and again. At the last coming up to snatch air, she observed that there were no more wasps hanging around on the off chance (as she put it). In the distance they could be seen straggling homeward, disgruntled.

  My Aunt Carrie crawled out of the fish-pond. From the top of her head downwards she was covered with mud and water-weed. She staggered to her feet and began squelchily to walk back to the house. She was careful not to catch up with any wasps as she went.

  Her mother came hurrying – but, equally, on a careful route – to meet her. When she saw the state my aunt was in, she turned back, crying that she would start to run a bath for her at once. In the mean time her father was preparing to untie Spot from his tree and tidy away the tin bath, the scrubbing-brush, the soap and the bluebag. He paused as my aunt drew level with him. He said, ‘You'll need this, my girl,’ and handed her the bluebag.

  At this point in her story my Aunt Carrie became triumphant. Above the roar of the washing-machine, she would shout, ‘I said I'd let you into the secret of the bluebag – its second use. You don't know? You haven't guessed? In those days bluebag was used against bites and stings. My mother always dabbed it, wet, on a wasp-sting to soothe the pain and the swelling.

  ‘So, after my bath, there was I with runny blue blotches all over my face and arms and legs. My little dog came to see me, and my father – who always thought he had a great sense of humour – said he couldn't tell us apart for the spots. He called us Spot the Dog and Spot the Daughter.’

  My Aunt Carrie would laugh heartily; then sometimes would add thoughtfully: ‘But I remember that it didn't seem funny at the time.’

  Mrs Chamberlain's Reunion

  This is a tale of long ago. I was a little boy, and our family lived – no, resided – among other well-off families in a Residential Neighbourhood. All those neighbours were people like ourselves, who thought well of themselves and also liked to keep themselves to themselves.

  Except for one neighbour. That's where my story starts.

  On one side of us had lived for many years the Miss Hardys, two spinster sisters, very ladylike. Our two gardens were separated by a trellis fence with rambler roses, a rather sketchy, see-through affair. So our family had at least an acquaintance with the Miss Hardys, and my sister, Celia, knew them quite well. As a little girl she had played with their cat, Mildred, until it died of old age.

  Of course, we had neighbours on the other side, too; but on that side a thick laurel hedge grew so high that these neighbours – to us children, anyway – seemed hardly to exist.

  In all the years that we lived in our house (and it had been bought by my father from a family called Chamberlain, just before my birth), neighbours may have come and gone beyond the laurel hedge, but we never noticed.

  Then one day there was a new neighbour and suddenly things were different. The new neighbour cut down the hedge – not to the ground of course but to shoulder level. He thus revealed himself to us: Mr Wilfred Brown, retired and a widower.

  He was a well-built man with a pointed, inquisitive nose. His eyes, large and prominent, looked glancingly, missing nothing; yet his gaze could settle with close attention. My mother said he stared.

  My mother snubbed Mr Brown's attempts at conversation over what remained of the hedge. She had decided that he was what she called ‘common’. She remarked to my father that Mr Brown had been a butcher – and my father, in rare joking mood, pointed out that he had indeed butchered the hedge. But my father was no more ready than my mother for a friendly chat with Mr Brown.

  We three children, however, had been strictly taught to be attentive and polite to our elders. In the garden, therefore, we were at Mr Brown's mercy. He hailed us, talked with us, questioned us. We had to answer. Thus Mr Brown discovered that, in our well-ordered family way, we would be off on our fortnight's summer holiday, starting – as always – on the second Saturday of August.

  The date was then the thirtieth of July.

  The next time that my mother went into the garden, to cut flowers for an arrangement, Mr Brown accosted her over the hedge. He begged to be allowed ‘to keep a friendly and watchful eye’ on our house while we were away at the seaside.

  My mother answered with instant refrigeration: ‘Too kind, Mr Brown! But we could not possibly put you to such trouble. We shall make our usual arrangements.’

  Mr Brown asked, ‘How good are these arrangements, Mrs Carew? What are they exactly?’ He gazed earnestly, and the point of his nose seemed to quiver.

  My mother was flustered by Mr Brown's stare. She was forced into explaining in detail that the Miss Hardys would be left with the key to the house, as well as with our telephone number at the seaside. But all this was only for use in case of emergency.

  Mr Brown shook his head. ‘The Miss Hardys, you say? Oh, dear me! Ladies are prone to panic in an emergency.’

  By now my mother had recovered herself. She retorted quite sharply: ‘The Miss Hardys are never prone to anything, Mr Brown.’

  Mr Brown smiled and shook his head again. So there the matter was left. My mother could hardly forbid a neighbour to focus his eyes sometimes on our house, now so very visible over the low hedge. So, for the first time since we had lived there, our empty house would be overlooked not only by the Miss Hardys, but also by our new neighbour on the other side, Mr Brown.

  Meanwhile, that second Saturday in August was drawing nearer and nearer.

  I was the youngest child and excited at the thought of the sea and the seaside. The other two were much calmer; they remembered so well other fortnights beginning with that second Saturday in August. Celia told me privately that Robert, the eldest of us, had said (but not in our parents’ hearing, of course) that family holidays got duller and duller.

  Celia herself would probably be too preoccupied with her white mouse, Micky, to be bored on the holiday. There was nothing at all remarkable about Micky, except that neither of our parents knew of his existence. They had never liked animals. They hadn't really approved of Celia's playing with the Hardys' cat; they were relieved when Mildred died. Disappointingly for Celia, the Hardys did not get another cat – Mildred had only been inherited from their old friend and neighbour, Mrs Chamberlain, when she died. Celia missed a pet, and at last – most daringly and, of course, secretly – had acqu
ired Micky. She would take Micky on holiday with her, and his very private companionship would console her during her seaside fortnight.

  At the seaside we always stayed in the same guest-house and did the same things – that was one of Robert's complaints. My father played golf and did some sea-fishing; and, whatever the weather, he swam every morning before breakfast, taking Robert with him. Sometimes he shared with my mother the duty of supervising our play: we were allowed to paddle and trawl in rock-pools with nets and to make sand-castles and sand-pictures. Sometimes we went for long walks inland, all five of us. Of course, there were wet Augusts, but my father never allowed rain to keep us indoors for even half a day. One could walk quite well in mackintoshes and Wellington boots, he said; and our landlady, Mrs Prothero, was obliging about the drying out of wet clothes.

  Our return from these holidays was always the same. As the car turned into our quiet, tree-lined street, there was our house, but first my mother had to collect the key from the Miss Hardys.

  ‘All has been well, I hope, Miss Hardy?’

  ‘Nothing at all for you to worry about, Mrs Carew.’

  The younger Miss Hardy, from behind her sister in the doorway, would ask, ‘And you had a restful holiday, Mrs Carew?’

  ‘Restful and delightful,’ said my mother. ‘Perhaps a little rainy, but that never kept us indoors. And now it's good to be home.’

  Having recovered the key from the Miss Hardys, my mother would rejoin the family as we waited at our own front door. She handed the key to my father. He unlocked the door, and we entered. We brought with us the salty smell of the seaside rising from our hair and skin and clothing and from the collections of seashore pebbles and shells in our buckets. That saltiness, together with fresh air from newly opened windows, soon began to get rid of the stuffy, rather unpleasant smell of an empty house shut up for a whole fortnight. Soon our home was exactly as it had always been; and so it would remain for another year, until another second Saturday in August.

  But this particular year our seaside holiday could not possibly have been described as restful and delightful, even by my mother; and our home-coming was to be very different.

  From that second Saturday in August rain fell without stopping: this we had had to endure on holidays before now. What was new was Robert's sullen ill-temper, as continuous as the rain and as damping. He said nothing openly, for my father could be very sharp with a child of his ungrateful enough not to enjoy the holiday he was providing. My mother tried to soothe and smooth. She gave out that Robert was probably incubating some mild infection.

  As if to prove her point, Robert developed a heavy cold after one of our wet walks and sneezed all over Mrs Prothero's paying guests’ sitting-room. He had to borrow his father's linen handkerchiefs, and Mrs Prothero had to boil them after use, and dry them and iron them. Mrs Prothero complained about the extra work; and we all caught Robert's cold. In spite of this, my father continued to play golf and to fish, until one morning he embedded a fish-hook in the palm of his right hand. He came out of the local hospital with his hand bandaged, and in a bad temper. No more golf or fishing for the rest of the holiday.

  This all happened in our first week. We were still, however, expecting to remain at the seaside, enjoying ourselves, to the end of our fortnight.

  Then came the telephone call.

  We had returned from a moist morning's walk to be told that a Mr Wilfred Brown had telephoned. He had urgently asked that Mr or Mrs Carew should telephone him back as soon as possible.

  ‘What's the man on about?’ my father demanded fretfully. ‘Telephone him back, indeed! Does he think I'm made of money?’

  ‘Perhaps something's wrong at home,’ faltered my mother. She was remembering Mr Brown's ‘watchful eye’.

  ‘Rubbish!’ said my father. ‘One of the Miss Hardys would have telephoned us; not this Brown fellow.’

  He was so enraged with Mr Brown that when, during lunch, the telephone rang again for Mr or Mrs Carew, my mother had to deal with it. She went most reluctantly; she returned clearly shaken. ‘Mr Brown was surprised that we hadn't rung back.’ (My father snorted.) ‘He thinks there's something wrong at home. He's been on the watch and he's sure there are goings on (as he puts it) inside our house. He's sure that “something's up”.’

  ‘Inside our house!’ cried my father, throwing aside his napkin. ‘Then why on earth hasn't the fool got the police? Burglars! – and he just… Oh, the idiot, the juggins!’

  ‘No,’ said my mother. ‘Nobody's broken in; he was quite positive about that. This is different, he says. Something wrong inside the house.’

  My father stared in angry disbelief. Then he gave his orders. ‘Go and telephone the Miss Hardys.’ (My father felt that, as a general rule, ladies should communicate with ladies; men with men.) ‘Tell them what Brown says, and find out – oh! just find out something!’

  My father bade us all go on with our lunch, as he himself did; and my mother went to the telephone again. She came back after a while, still troubled. ‘I told them, dear, and they're sure there's nothing at all for us to worry about. They insist that's so. But they're upset by Mr Brown's suspicions. I didn't tell you at the time, dear, but he asked me on the telephone whether we'd empowered – that was his word: empowered – the Miss Hardys to use the house in our absence. But they say they've never set foot over the threshold in our absence. Ever. It's all rather strange and horrid…’

  We three children listened, appalled – delightfully appalled. If the Miss Hardys were other than they had always seemed – if they were liars, trespassers, thieves – if all this, then houses might come toppling about our ears and cars take off with wings.

  My father had risen from his carving chair. ‘There's only one thing to be done: we go home. Now. At once. We catch them red-handed.’

  ‘Red-handed?’ my mother repeated faintly, thinking no doubt of the towering respectability of the two Miss Hardys; and, ‘Now? When we're only half-way through our holiday?’

  ‘Damn the holiday!’ cried my father, who never swore in the presence of his family. ‘We're going home. There are hours yet of daylight. If we leave now, we can be there before dark. Everyone pack at once.’

  There was trouble with Mrs Prothero. At the time several of my father's handkerchiefs were simmering away soapily in one of her saucepans. Also my father thought that the holiday charge should be reduced by more than Mrs Prothero would agree to.

  However, within the hour, ourselves and our belongings (including, of course, Celia's stowaway mouse) were packed into the car; Mrs Prothero's account had been settled (‘Shark!’ said my father); and we were off. For once, my mother drove, as my father's injured hand would not allow him to.

  Of course, Mr Brown, having been at such pains to warn us, must have been on the lookout for our return. And if my father had hoped to catch the Miss Hardys unawares (let alone ‘red-handed’), he underestimated the alertness of elderly maiden ladies. We drove up under darkened skies and pouring rain, and my mother was about to get out of the car, when the Miss Hardys, together under a huge umbrella, rushed down their front path to greet us.

  My father had lowered the window on the passenger side and now called sternly, ‘Good evening. We need our front-door key, please.’

  Unmistakably the Miss Hardys were taken aback by our arrival – indeed, they seemed the very picture of guilt caught red-handed. ‘Oh, dear!’ and ‘Oh, no!’ they cried desperately. ‘So early back from your holiday!’ and, ‘Surely you won't want to go into your house now, at once? Surely not! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!’

  ‘The key!’ said my father, and got it.

  Quite a large party gathered in the shelter of our porch: my father in front with the key; the rest of his family behind him; behind us, again, the two Miss Hardys, still distraught; and behind them – although at first we were unaware of his having joined us – Mr Wilfred Brown.

  My father, left-handed but resolute, inserted the key in the lock, turned it and pushed open th
e front door.

  We had been expecting to enter or at least to peer forward, even if fearfully, into the hall. Instead, we found ourselves reeling back from a smell – a stench – which flowed out towards us. We knew when the tide had reached the last of our party because ‘Phew! What a stinker!’ exclaimed Mr Brown, thus declaring his presence through a handkerchief muffling nose and mouth.

  But, in spite of the smell, we could, of course, see into the hall. (Surely my father saw something, however much he afterwards preferred to deny that?) To me the hall seemed somehow darker than one would expect, even on an evening so overcast – darker in the way of having more shadows to it; and the shadows seemed to shift and flicker and move. They were just above ground level.

  And I was almost sure that – for a moment only – I glimpsed a taller shadow whose shape I could interpret: it was human, and surely female. I was not alone in this perception. The Miss Hardys had edged forward, and one now whispered, ‘Yes, it is dear Mrs Chamberlain!’ and the other, clearly in an agony of social embarrassment, murmured: ‘We are in the wrong. We are intruding upon the privacy of dear Mrs Chamberlain's reunion!’

  And then the shadowy figure had vanished.

  Even before the Miss Hardys' whispering, I was aware that Celia was standing on tiptoe for a better view into the hall. With the keen eye of love, she recognized – or thought she recognized – one shape among the low-moving shadows. She became certain: ‘Mildred!’ she cried. She took three eager steps past my father and across the threshold of the front door into the hall itself.

  There she was halted abruptly by the behaviour of someone whom, in the excitement, she had quite forgotten: her dear Micky. Up to now he had been in the concealment and safety of a pocket.

  If the extraordinary smell from the house was sickening for us, it must have crazed with fear the poor mouse. He attempted to escape.

  His small white face was already visible over the edge of Celia's pocket; and it was as if the shadowy house saw him. (If walls have ears, why not eyes, too? Eyes that stare, that glare, that stupefy.)