“I’ve never had a frog in my pond, Tilly,” she said. “It would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a frog,” said Tilly. “Not a real one. I don’t think I like them all that much.”
“Not like frogs!” Mrs Hardcastle was astonished. “Good heavens, Tilly Mint. You like fish, don’t you?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Well then. You’ll like frogs. Bound to. Come on, Tilly. Fetch a jam-jar, and we’ll go frog-spawn hunting. And on the way home, we’ll buy some fresh-baked bread and some strawberry jam for tea.”
On the big pond in the park, ducks were quacking and turning upside down, and sticklebacks were zipping about, and little flies were dancing just above the water. The frog-spawn lay among the reeds, where the pond was shallow.
“Yuk!” said Tilly, in disgust. “Look at that! It’s like jelly gone grey. It’s like sago pudding in washing-up water.”
“It’s like little bubbles waiting to be popped,” said Mrs Hardcastle. “Wait till these little black blobs turn into tadpoles, Tilly Mint. Wait till they grow their little tails, and swim round in my pond. Wait till they grow little legs, and crawl up onto our sitting-stone. Then you’ll like them, when they’re baby frogs.”
“We’ll just take a bit then,” said Tilly, and she slid a blob of bubbly frog-spawn into a jar. “I shall probably like it a bit better, when it’s a frog.”
“Listen! Did you hear that?” said Mrs Hardcastle. “I’m sure I heard a frog croak just then.”
“So did I,” said Tilly. “But I can’t see one, can you?”
They hunted round in the grass and under the stones and at the edge of the big pond, till Mrs Hardcastle was too tired to hunt any more. She sat down on a bench, and she closed her eyes, and she began to snore, very, very gently.
And then it was that Tilly heard the frog again.
“Croak, croak!”
And she saw it. It flopped across the grass towards her, and it was the colour of a leaf, or an apple, or the top of an onion, or a new lettuce. Tilly thought she had never seen anyone looking so sad.
“Frog,” she croaked. “What’s the matter?”
And this is the song the sad frog sang to her:
“I’ve lost my lovely frog-faced friend.
(Sigh with me. Come, cry with me.)
Without my love my days will end.
(Oh, come and croak with me.)
While others leap I watch and weep
On this cold stone I croak alone,
Who knows when my cracked heart will mend?
Oh, come and croak with me.”
Frog croaked again, and Tilly croaked too.
Then Tilly picked up her jar of frog–spawn, and went over to where Mrs Hardcastle was snoring gently in the sunshine.
They walked back up the hill to Mrs Patel’s shop, but Mrs Hardcastle was thoughtful, and Tilly was sad.
“It must be lonely, being a frog,” said Tilly Mint at last.
“It is,” said Mrs Hardcastle. “It’s bad enough being an old lady.”
They pushed open the shop door, and went into Mrs Patel’s lovely, warm, appley-and-cheesy-and-new-baked-bread-smelling shop.
“Help yourselves!” sang out Mrs Patel, from the top of a ladder, and Mrs Hardcastle went to sniff the bread while Tilly chose the jam. She put her jar of frog-spawn on the shelf with the jars of jam, and thought how funny it would be if all the strawberries and raspberries and blackcurrants started bobbing round in their jars instead of lying all still and sticky in their ponds of jam, waiting to be eaten.
And then she thought of her sad frog again, sighing for his missing frog-faced friend. What could she do to help him? What could she do to help him? She gazed round Mrs Patel’s shop, looking for a clue, and it was then that she saw the messages on the shop door. Envelopes, telling people about things for sale, and things to buy, and things that were lost, and things that were found.
FOR SALE, they said. BOY’S BIKE.
WANTED, they said. HUTCH FOR RABBIT.
LOST, they said. TABBY CAT. And FOUND. ONE GLOVE.
That was it! She’d put a message for the missing frog!
“Please, Mrs Hardcastle,” she said, when Mrs Hardcastle had paid for her bread and nibbled the crusty bit off the end. “Can I put a message on Mrs Patel’s door? Can I put, LOST, ONE FROG, just in case it happens to pass by? Please?”
Well, Mrs Hardcastle wasn’t sure that frogs could read, and neither was Mrs Patel, but they wrote the message out, just in case, and stuck it on the door for everyone to read. LOST, it said. ONE FROG. CONTACT TILLY MINT.
Tilly Mint and Mrs Hardcastle were nearly at the top of the hill when Tilly remembered the terrible thing she had done. She’d forgotten! She forgotten the jar of frog-spawn! She’d left it on the jam shelf in Mrs Patel’s shop!
Poor old Mrs Hardcastle was much too tired to go back down the hill again, so she sat on somebody’s wall and had a little nap while Tilly charged down to the shop. She flung open the door and raced in. The shop doorbell jangled so loudly that Mrs Patel nearly fell off her ladder.
“Mrs Patel!” gasped Tilly. “You haven’t sold my frog-spawn, have you?”
But she was quite safe. Nobody had taken it home for their tea. She lifted it carefully off the shelf, and as she was going out with it, Mrs Patel shouted: “By the way, Tilly. There’s been an answer to your advert.”
Sitting on the counter, looking very hopeful, was a green frog.
In great excitement, Tilly picked her up and carried her outside.
“Frog!” she croaked softly. “Have you lost your lovely frog-faced friend?”
Frog croaked.
“Hop down to the park,” Tilly croaked. “And look on the stone by the bench by the pond. He’s waiting for you there.”
Frog flopped joyfully off towards the pond.
“And Frog!” Tilly called. “Come and see us at Mrs Hardcastle’s pond, any time.”
That night, after Tilly had emptied the frog-spawn from her jar into Mrs Hardcastle’s pond, and after she’d had three slices of fresh crusty bread, sticky with fat strawberries for her tea, and after she’d said goodnight and gone to bed, she thought she heard the sound of a frog singing in the dark.
It might have been two frogs. It might have been coming from the sitting-stone at the side of the pond in Mrs Hardcastle’s back garden.
“I hope it is,” she said. And went to sleep.
“Deep in the green of the silent pond
Where fingers of fern reach out to the light;
The cold fins glitter,
The pale eye gleams,
The ghost-fish flicker and drift like dreams:
And in the cool moonlight, dark in the dead-night,
The voice of the frog is heard in the land.”
The Island of Dreams
“WHAT SHALL WE do today, Tilly Mint?” asked Mrs Hardcastle, when Tilly knocked at her door. “Shall we go to the shops, or make some buns, or do you want to pop down with me to the Island of Dreams?”
“What!” said Tilly. “We’re always going to the shops. And we’re always making buns. But I’ve never even heard of the Island of Dreams. What are we waiting for?”
She ran round, looking for the bits and pieces that Mrs Hardcastle could never find, like her shoes, and her handbag, and her key, and her headscarf. She tied her shoelaces for her, and she gave her a digestive biscuit to stop her tummy rumbling, and they were off: running down the hill and over the road to the park.
They leaned against a tree, panting, to get their breath back.
“Well,” said Tilly. “Where is this island, Mrs Hardcastle?”
Mrs Hardcastle looked round, a bit worried.
“That’s just it,” she said. “I can’t remember. It’s years and years since I went there. But it’s round here somewhere, I’m sure of it.”
They looked round a bit more, and then Mrs Hardcastle said, “I remember, Tilly. We have to get ther
e by boat!”
They climbed into one of the green boats that were tied up at the side of the lake ready for the summer.
“You’ll have to help me to row, Tilly,” said Mrs Hardcastle. “My arms aren’t as rubbery as they used to be.”
Seven ducks lined up behind them, and three swans floated in front. Tilly and Mrs Hardcastle took an oar each. And they rowed.
Tilly loved the sound the oars made. It made her think of shiny, fat fish, leaping up out of the water. She loved the up-and-down rocking of the boat. And she loved the sound of the ducks quacking round them, tipping up their tails in the water, quacking and quacking as if the little green boat was one of them.
And as they rowed, and as they quacked, Mrs Hardcastle sang at the top of her voice. Only it wasn’t really a song. It sounded a bit like a shopping list. It sounded a bit like a recipe for something new to bake.
“Petals and cobwebs and butterfly wings,
Ground to a powder, mix it and mingle it.
Soak it in dewdrops and summer-breeze dry it.
Feather-light float it in cool of the moonlight.
Fill it with shadows of goblins and dragons
And whispers of fairies and harebells and bees.
Colour it rainbow and wrap it in snowflakes
And drink it at sleep-time to sweeten your dreams.
“Don’t forget the dream-dust, will you, Tilly Mint?” she said. “I’m right out of it. That’s what we’ve come for, if we ever find the place.”
Tilly was too excited to speak.
Mrs Hardcastle stood up in the boat so suddenly that she nearly flipped right out of it into the water. “There it is!” she said. “There’s the Island of Dreams.”
A mist lay across the water in front of them, so low and so thick that nothing could be seen. And as they sailed into it, it swallowed all the sound up, so nothing could be heard. The singing, and the rowing and the quacking all stopped, and they floated towards a large rock, and deep into a hole that was as black as a wide toothless mouth. They were in a cave, with water drip-drip-dripping all around them.
“I don’t like it, Mrs Hardcastle,” Tilly whispered. “Let’s go home and bake buns.”
But Mrs Hardcastle said, “Tilly Mint, don’t you ever let me find you trying to run away from magic.”
Magic!
“Pop out and fetch me some dream-dust, there’s a good girl,” said Mrs Hardcastle. “I’m so tired.” She yawned dozily. “That’s the trouble with being the oldest woman in the world – can’t seem to sleep without dream-dust these days. Petals . . . and cobwebs . . . and butterfly wings. Remember that, Tilly Mint.”
Before Tilly had time to ask her how many, and where from, and how, Mrs Hardcastle had closed her eyes, and opened her mouth, and was snoring, very, very gently.
“Well,” said Tilly to herself, thinking that Mrs Hardcastle was hardly ever awake these days. “Now what do I do?” And the only answer was the echo of her own voice, round and round in the cold, dark cave. “Now what do I do? Do I do? Do? Do?”
Then she saw hundreds of tiny lights dancing round her, and she felt hundreds of tiny hands clutching at her own. She stood up, and the tiny hands pulled her and pushed her till she was whizzing, faster and faster, on the slippiest helter-skelter of her life. Wheeeee! Right into a fairground.
In front of her was a merry-go-round of shiny red and black and grey horses. Tilly was so excited that she completely forgot what she’d come for. She climbed on the back of the nearest merry-go-round horse – the red one – and they were off!
But this horse didn’t go up and down. This horse didn’t go round and round. It galloped, red as a poppy; it galloped away from the fairground and into a forest that was strewn with petals and dangling with cobwebs and dancing with butterflies. Its black hooves thundered on the grass and sent up dazzling showers of dewdrops.
“I’m wet!” shouted Tilly. “Red horse! I’m wet through!” But a breeze that was as soft and warm as a summer’s day dried her.
The red horse galloped through the forest till it came to a cliff, and without even pausing to look down, it galloped over the edge and into the air and floated, slow as a feather, in the silver light of the moon.
Tilly clung to it and laughed with joy. Black shapes flickered and flitted round her, calling and cackling, goblin-shaped, with bent backs and bony fingers; and dragon-shaped, with red breath as hot as a kettle, but they didn’t worry Tilly. All round her she could hear the whisper of fairies, and the chiming of harebells, and the lovely buzz of bees. She knew she was safe.
Then, all of a sudden, it began to snow. Every snowflake had the colours of a rainbow hidden in the heart of it. Tilly opened her mouth to catch them, and they tasted as feathery-fizzy as sherbet. Snowflakes settled in her hair, on her eyelids, on her tongue. They covered her red horse.
The horse galloped down from the air onto the land. A hundred dancing lights led them down a steep path to the edge of the water. Hundreds of tiny hands helped Tilly to climb down from the horse.
“Goodbye, red horse,” she called. “Goodbye!”
The red horse stamped its hoof and whinnied. “Goodbye,” it seemed to say, and galloped away into the mist.
Tilly Mint heard a snore, and a whistle, and she turned round to see the little green boat bobbing on the black water of the cave, and Mrs Hardcastle just beginning to wake up. And then she remembered. The dream-dust! She’d forgotten all about it.
“What shall I do?” she whispered. And the echo of the cave answered, “What shall I do? Shall I do? Do? Do?”
Tilly climbed into the boat, still wondering what she could say to Mrs Hardcastle.
“Have you had a lovely time?” Mrs Hardcastle asked.
“Yes,” said Tilly. “Yes. But you see . . .”
“And just look at all that dream-dust you’ve brought back!” said Mrs Hardcastle. “You look like a sparkler, Tilly Mint. You’re covered in it.”
And so she was. Just like her red horse, she was covered in a fine dust of gold and silver. It probably went all down her tummy too. Mrs Hardcastle opened her handbag, and brushed all Tilly’s dream-dust into it, and closed it up tight.
“Let’s go home for tea now, shall we?” she said.
And they did. But when they looked back from the park to the lake, it was as blue as blue. No rock. No mist. The Island of Dreams had disappeared – just as if it had never been there at all.
Goodbye, Mrs Hardcastle
THIS MORNING, AS soon as Tilly woke up, she knew it was going to be a very special day. One of those days when there’s no point in staying in bed. The sunlight pushed its way through the curtains like marmalade oozing between two slices of bread. Tilly could hear the birds shouting.
And somebody was banging stones about.
She opened her bedroom window and saw, a few gardens down, Mrs Hardcastle, still in her dressing gown and slippers. She seemed to be poking under things, and turning things over, and tapping on things.
“Have you lost something, Mrs Hardcastle?” Tilly shouted.
Mrs Hardcastle waved to her. “Lost something? No, I’m waking things up, Tilly. I want to have a party!”
Tilly drew her head back in, pulled on her dressing gown and slippers, and ran out of the bedroom. Mum caught her as she was running past the door.
“Just a minute, Tilly Mint,” she said. “What’s all that noise about, this time of the morning?”
“It’s Mrs Hardcastle,” said Tilly.
“I might have known,” said Mum. “Does she realize it’s not six o’clock yet?”
“She’s waking things up,” Tilly explained.
A noise like a parade bugled across the gardens.
“She’s blowing a trumpet!” said Mum. “Will you just listen to her!”
They ran back into Tilly’s room and poked their heads through the top of the window again. And they weren’t the only ones. All along the street, curtains were being pulled back and windows were being opened and w
hite, morning, yawning faces, some of them with no teeth in their mouths, and some of them with rollers in their hair, and all of them cross with not enough sleep anyway, poked out. Birds stood open-beaked on their branches. Hedgehogs and tortoises stood stock-still. All the flowers opened at once.
Mrs Hardcastle put her trumpet down and beamed up at the windows.
“Good morning, everyone!” she said.
“Good morning, Mrs Hardcastle,” said Tilly.
“It’s my birthday,” said Mrs Hardcastle.
“Hurray!” said Tilly.
“And you’re all invited to my party.”
“Where?” said Tilly. “When?”
“Now. In the park.”
All the windows closed at once. Tilly put on her green dungarees and her stripy blue-and-white shirt, and Mum put on her red smock and her blue jeans, and they ran down to the park.
As they ran, they were joined by all Tilly’s friends and Mrs Patel from the shop; and some people on their way to work, like postmen and milkmen; and some people on their way home from work, like nurses and factory workers, and they all changed their minds about going to work or to bed and went off down to the park instead.
Dawn was still pink in the sky, and the early morning mist was still grey on the grass. Surprised spiders scrambled up their cobwebs as all those feet scurried past. Ducks flew up from the pond in amazement. Delighted frogs croaked.
Mrs Hardcastle had brought down a basket of cooked sausages and another basket of bread, and everyone helped themselves.
Then you should have seen how all the people danced, round the lake, up and down the river banks, in and out of the trees.
Mrs Hardcastle was sitting on a bench, watching them all and blowing up dozens of balloons.
“Mrs Hardcastle,” whispered Tilly. “How about showing them some magic?”
“What!” said Mrs Hardcastle.
“As it’s a very special day?” pleaded Tilly. “Go on. I just feel like a bit of magic!”
Mrs Hardcastle went on blowing up balloons. “I’m the oldest woman in the world, Tilly Mint,” she sighed. “Even older, now it’s my birthday. And the longer I’ve lived, and the older I’ve grown, the more I’ve found out that only very special people can see magic when it happens. Or hear it. Or feel it. It’s there all the time, and nobody even notices.
Tilly Mint Tales Page 4
