Five Children on the Western Front
Page 3
‘Hmmm, I suppose this will do – perhaps a year or two of sleep will restore my magical powers.’ The Psammead burrowed into the feathers and disappeared.
‘A year or two!’ Edie was dismayed. ‘I can’t wait years to see him again!’
‘Don’t take it too seriously,’ Robert said. ‘He likes company a lot more than he lets on.’
‘That’s because he’s lonely,’ Edie said. ‘He’s the last of his kind in the whole universe – just think how awful that must be.’
Downstairs, the gong banged loudly.
‘Phew,’ Robert said. ‘What a turn-up! Hold on, Panther – you can’t go down with your hair full of feathers!’
The Bigguns burst into giggles again as they hastily brushed each other down.
Edie didn’t understand how they could treat this crisis as a silly game. She had caught a look of terrible anxiety on the Psammead’s strange little face and it touched her heart. ‘We haven’t worked it out properly. We’ve got to try to help him – we’re his only friends.’
The Bigguns stopped giggling.
‘Oh dear,’ Jane said. ‘I suppose we are sort of responsible for him.’
‘We didn’t ask him to come back,’ Robert pointed out.
‘Didn’t we? All the other times, the Psammead turned up because we needed him – either Mother and Father were away, or something else was wrong. Well, the war counts as something wrong, doesn’t it?’
They were all silent for a moment. Everyone was wondering if the sand fairy had returned because Cyril was going away to where the fighting was.
‘I have a ghastly feeling you may be right,’ Cyril said. ‘In which case, we’re honour-bound to help him. Let’s meet here again, directly after lunch. Eat quickly, chaps – or I’ll be late for the war.’
*
Lunch should have been a solemn occasion. Mrs Field, who did the cooking at the White House, had slaved all morning to make roast lamb and Cyril’s favourite jam roly-poly pudding. Granny, deaf and white-haired and (as the Lamb said) nearly as ancient as the Psammead, had come to see Cyril off to war, and though Mother and Father were doing their best to be jolly, Mother’s eyes kept misting over, and Father’s voice wobbled when he proposed a toast to ‘the soldier’s return’.
All the six children, however, kept bursting into giggles – especially when Granny innocently wondered where all the feathers had come from.
Cyril was leaving for the local station at half past three to catch the train to London; the hall was piled with his mysterious luggage, which included a real sword and a real Webley service revolver (the Lamb had cut a tremendous dash at school when he’d boasted about this). After cramming down two helpings of pudding, Cyril said firmly that he wanted to say his goodbyes to his brothers and sisters, and they all hurried back to Anthea’s bedroom.
Edie immediately ran to the tin bath, to check that the Psammead hadn’t suddenly recovered his magic and left them; she was very relieved to see the hump of sand fairy under the feathers.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Cyril announced. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the mantelpiece. ‘Bobs and I will be away, and Panther’s always busy sketching her naked people or helping Mother—’
‘For heaven’s sake,’ Anthea said crossly, ‘stop going on about the naked people! It’s called a life class – and anyway, it only happened once.’
Cyril grinned at her; he loved teasing her about the art school. ‘The point is that we won’t be much use when it comes to Psammead-duty. So Jane, Edie and the Lamb will have to take the lion’s share.’
‘Good,’ Edie said. ‘Bags I have him under my bed.’
‘I won’t be much use either, I’m afraid,’ Jane said, ‘as I have late classes at school this term, and heaps of work to do.’
‘In that case,’ Cyril said briskly, ‘it’s down to you babies.’
‘Watch it!’ the Lamb growled.
‘Actually, it’s jolly useful that you two are younger than the rest of us,’ Cyril continued. ‘You’ll have far more freedom to help the dear old Psammead back to his home – or to find out exactly why he’s turned up now. And I expect you to write me bulletins at least once a week. We’ll refer to him as “Sammy”, in case anyone thinks I’m sending mysterious code-words to the Huns.’
‘Who—?’ the Psammead began faintly.
‘It’s a name we call the Germans,’ Anthea explained. ‘The Huns were a horrible Germanic tribe in the Dark Ages, so it’s not very polite.’
‘It’s not meant to be,’ Cyril said.
‘Sammy – I like that,’ the Lamb said. ‘And if he gets his magic back, you can write us your wishes.’
‘I think I’d better steer clear of magic while I’m on active service,’ Cyril said. ‘And I strongly suggest you do the same. Jane remembers the scrapes we got into with our wishes, don’t you, Puss?’
The serious schoolgirl let out an undignified snort of laughter. ‘Rather!’
‘I’m trusting you to give the dear old thing as much help as you can, but don’t let him lead you up the garden path.’ Cyril glanced at the new watch on his wrist. ‘I’ll have to be off in a minute. I wonder if he’d mind me digging him up again?’
‘He’ll complain,’ Anthea said. ‘But I think he’ll like it really.’
Cyril carefully put a hand into the tin bath. The Psammead sneezed, sending up a cloud of feathers.
‘What? What is this? I’d only just dropped off into a fitful half-slumber!’
‘Sorry, old chap.’ Cyril gently lifted the feathery Psammead into his arms. ‘I just wanted one more glimpse of you – it’s so good to think about those happy old days.’
‘Where are you going, exactly? Is this war nearby?’
‘It’s across the Channel,’ Robert said. ‘The Huns marched through Belgium, then they marched into France, and that’s where Squirrel’s regiment will give them a good thrashing.’
‘Yes, and we’ll make short work of it,’ Cyril said. ‘Everyone’s saying it’ll be done and dusted in a couple of months – I’m jolly lucky to get a look-in while it’s still going on.’
‘I don’t like wars,’ the Psammead said. ‘Wars are painful and untidy.’
‘But sometimes necessary.’ Cyril stroked him gently. ‘Take care of them, won’t you?’
‘They’re supposed to be taking care of ME!’
‘I know – I like to think of you being here, that’s all.’ Cyril placed the Psammead back in his feathery bath.
They heard the pony and trap on the path outside, and they all fell silent. It was time for Cyril to vanish into the unknown world of the war – perhaps forever, though everyone pushed this thought away.
‘Well, this is it,’ Cyril said.
‘Goodbye and good hunting, dear old Squirrel,’ Anthea said softly.
Cyril let the girls kiss him, and shook hands with Robert and the Lamb. ‘Listen here, Lamb – you’ll be Mother’s only boy now, what with me and Bobs being away. Don’t let her get too blue.’
‘Righto.’ It came out gruffly, because the Lamb had a lump in his throat.
Cyril let out a shaky laugh. ‘Toodle-oo, Psammead.’
‘Toodle-oo? What on earth is that?’
‘It’s a new word for goodbye.’
‘Really? How quickly the language changes! “Toodle-oo”, my dear Cyril.’
They had all been rather choked up, but hearing the Psammead saying ‘toodle-oo’ was so funny that they were all giggling again when they trooped downstairs.
Cyril’s luggage had been loaded onto the trap. Mother and Father were waiting in the hall with Granny. Father kept clearing his throat and looking at his old-fashioned pocket watch (only soldiers like Cyril wore wristwatches). Mother was making an enormous effort not to cry.
Cyril kissed her and folded his arms around her. ‘Goodbye, Mother – please don’t worry too much. I’ll be back before you know it.’
‘My adventurous boy,’ Mother said. ‘God keep you safe.’
Though he had already said goodbye to his brothers and sisters, Cyril hugged them all again. ‘Be good, you lot.’
Edie sniffed hard to stop herself crying; Cyril was so old that she was used to him going away, but all the other times they had known for sure that they would see him again.
‘And don’t forget to write about Sammy,’ Cyril whispered in her ear.
‘No point in hanging about,’ Father said. ‘Don’t want to miss that train.’
Cyril and Father climbed into the pony-trap, and they waved until it turned the corner of the lane and disappeared.
Three
A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY
THE PSAMMEAD SPENT HIS first night in Robert’s bedroom (which they had all hastily agreed was the safest hiding place for the moment), his tin bath hidden behind a wall of Greek and Latin dictionaries. Next morning, while Anthea was in London at her art college and Jane, Edie and the Lamb were at school, Robert, who wasn’t going back to Cambridge until the end of the week, drove the pony-trap into the nearby town of Sevenoaks and bought several large sacks of fine builder’s sand. They had decided that the attic was the best long-term home for their sand fairy; it was dark and draughty and crammed like a jumble sale with crippled furniture and burst cushions, and nobody ever went in there. Robert put the tin bath under a table with a rickety leg and filled it with the soft new sand.
When the others came home in the afternoon and rushed straight upstairs to see the Psammead, they found him sitting comfortably in his new bed, with just his head sticking out.
‘Good wheeze, Bobs,’ the Lamb said approvingly. ‘I was wondering where we’d get more feathers for him.’
‘This sand is of a very high quality, and even distantly reminds me of the lovely sand-hole I had in my palace,’ the Psammead said. ‘I may even get a little sleep tonight.’
‘You never told us you had a palace,’ Jane said. ‘Where was it?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ the Psammead said with a deep sigh. ‘It crumbled to dust long years ago.’
Edie leaned over the tin bath to stroke the Psammead’s head; she’d had a niggling fear all day that he wouldn’t be there when she got back, and horrible Miss Bligh had given her a black mark for daydreaming during a history lesson. ‘I do wish I could have you under my bed.’
‘For the last time, you know it wouldn’t wash,’ Anthea said. ‘If Mother suddenly found a tin bath full of sand under your bed, there’d be all sorts of awkward questions.’
‘But would she be able to see old Sammy?’ the Lamb asked. ‘We couldn’t remember if he was invisible to grown-ups.’
‘If Mother and Father can see him,’ Robert said, ‘we ought to come clean and introduce him properly right now.’
The Psammead rose a couple of inches out of his sand and said grandly, ‘Only the chosen ones may see and hear me. This is the magic that has protected me from the unknowing since the first pyramid was built. My life has depended on this invisibility, and it is everlasting.’
‘Yes, but you keep saying your magic powers have gone up the spout,’ the Lamb said. ‘How do you know your invisibility hasn’t gone too?’
‘It is deep in my bones, and in both my hearts – for I have two of them, one on each side,’ the Psammead said gravely. ‘You may rest assured that nobody will be able to see me unless I wish them to.’
They soon found out that he was wrong about this.
The following Sunday morning, Mrs Field went up to the attic to look for a jelly mould, and then thundered down the narrow stairs with such loud screams that Father came out of his study.
‘Mr P, there’s a rat got into the attic – a great big beast of a thing – sitting in the old pram bold as brass!’
‘Well, what do you expect me to do – ask it to leave?’ Father said. He worked as the editor of a weekly magazine, and did not like being interrupted while he was reading the Sunday newspapers. ‘Can’t Field deal with it?’
‘He’s gone to see his mother, sir – and I can’t cook when I know there’s a rat in the house. You’ll have to kill it.’
Everyone was out in the hall now.
Edie tugged at Robert’s sleeve, feeling sick. ‘Don’t let him kill the Psammead!’ she whispered.
‘I’ll take a look,’ Robert said quickly.
‘Me too,’ the Lamb said.
The two boys went up to the attic, pretending to be searching for the enormous rat Mrs Field thought she’d seen. As she said, they found him squatting on top of the old pram that hadn’t been used since Edie was a baby.
‘Hello, how nice of you all to pop in,’ he said graciously. ‘Tell me, what made your fat slave-woman scream like that?’
‘She saw you,’ the Lamb said. ‘So much for your everlasting invisibility.’
‘Saw me?’ The Psammead was rattled. ‘The spell must’ve worn off. I really don’t understand this.’
Robert picked him up and firmly put him back in his sand bath. ‘You gave poor old Mrs F a dreadful shock – and by the way, she’s not a slave.’
‘She thought you were a rat,’ Edie said.
The corner of the Psammead’s mouth drooped. ‘A rat? Of all the insults! And so it has come to this.’ He was talking to himself now. ‘How are the mighty fallen – from desert god to household vermin!’ He let out a long sigh. ‘If I can’t make that masking spell work again, I will take more care not to be seen by strangers.’
Letter from Lieutenant C. J. Pemberton, 9th Loamshires,
23rd October 1914
Somewhere on the Western Front
Dear Anthea, Jane, Lamb, Edie – and a certain ‘Sammy’,
Thanks for the letter. Poor old Mrs F, Sammy gave her quite a turn.
In my opinion, Sammy will be a lot more trouble if he lets the wrong people see him. They’ll either shriek like Mrs F or sell him to a travelling circus, and I can’t bear to think of that. Sammy, keep your head down.
I can’t tell you exactly where I am in case the Kaiser intercepts this letter and learns vital things about the war. I can tell you that I’m writing this in a khaki tent, on a hillside covered with khaki tents as far as the eye can see. I share my tent with a very decent chap called Harper, who is at this moment lying on his camp bed trying to read a Sherlock Holmes novel by the light of one small oil lamp. It’s a pretty good billet, though Sammy wouldn’t like the drips when it rains.
Last night Harper and I stood on a little hill at the edge of the camp, and watched the flashes and flickerings in the general direction of the front. It won’t be so easy to write letters there, so you’re not to worry too much if you don’t hear from me.
Keep cheery, and tell me when the universe makes up its mind what to do with Sammy.
Toodle-oo
Cyril
Four
THE TROUBLE STARTS
IT WAS SURPRISING HOW QUICKLY they got used to living with the Psammead. He stayed in his bath filled with sand, and as the autumn turned greyer and colder, and the war in France turned bloodier, the family carried on pretty much as usual.
Their home, the White House, was on the edge of a sprawling village in the Kentish countryside, stretched around a large common. At the railway station three miles away, Father took the train to London every morning to his office just off Fleet Street, where he edited his magazine. Anthea spent three days a week at her art college in Kensington. She was also taking first-aid classes; she longed to help wounded soldiers, like the shattered men she had seen at the station in London when the big hospital trains came in.
‘You don’t want to stare at them, but you can’t help it,’ she told Jane privately (nobody wanted to upset poor Mother, so anxious about Cyril, with this sort of talk). ‘Some of them have been blown up so badly that there’s barely anything left of them to pu
t on a stretcher. I hated myself for being so useless.’
The rest of Anthea’s time was spent writing letters for her mother’s charitable committees, paying visits to neighbours with her mother, and mending the boys’ socks. These were exactly the sorts of thing girls were expected to do in between leaving school and getting married. She worried that she was too busy to spend much time in the attic with their odd little guest.
Jane was just as busy as her elder sister. Every morning she cycled five miles to the high school for girls in the nearest small town, where she had incredible amounts of work and often stayed late; she belonged to several societies and was working the lights for the end-of-term play.
‘Sometimes,’ she confessed to Anthea, ‘I’m just too tired to talk to the old fusspot when I get home – you must admit, he can be hard work.’
The Lamb took a local train every morning to St Anselm’s Priory, the large public school where he was a very junior day boy, and had a best friend called Winterbum – short for Winterbottom, his real surname. The Winterbottom family lived on the other side of the common, in a large red-brick house called Windytops; Winterbum’s big sister, Lilian, had been in Anthea’s class at school, and the two families were great friends.
When the Lamb came home in the afternoons, he ran straight up to the attic to see the Psammead – but he had homework to do, and war stories to read in the Boy’s Own Paper. ‘I hate to say it,’ he wrote to Cyril, ‘but old Sammy can be a bit of a bore. The school world is at the front of my mind, and he doesn’t belong there.’
It was Edie who spent most time with the Psammead. Her school, Poplar House, was very close by and the day was short. Mother or Mr Field drove her home in the pony-trap each afternoon, and she dashed straight upstairs to dig him out of his sand bath. She loved him so much that she didn’t mind the constant complaining.
When he was in a good mood, the Psammead liked to ask Edie questions about her school – which nobody else ever did because they were too old, and too busy with their more important concerns. She told him about the teacher she liked (Miss Poole), the teacher she hated (cruel Miss Bligh) and her battles with the class bully. The Psammead listened very seriously and often gave advice.