‘The old crone says you had a falling-out.’ The Psammead’s cross voice floated from the basket. ‘I shall be most displeased if you’ve killed him.’
The Lamb snorted with laughter.
‘Don’t call poor Old Nurse a “crone”,’ Jane said. ‘And of course Ernie hasn’t killed the Professor – tell him, for goodness sake.’
‘The Prof’s alive and well,’ Ernie said. ‘And as you very well know, I wouldn’t hurt a hair of his blessed old head. But Mrs Taylor’s right, we’ve had a disagreement.’
‘About me?’ The Psammead’s head popped over the rim of the basket.
Ernie sighed, obviously uncomfortable. ‘Yes, in a way. It was about that book the Prof’s writing.’
‘MY book,’ said the Psammead, ‘in which the TRUTH of the sand fairy is revealed to the nations.’
‘Well, that’s just it,’ Ernie said. ‘It’s the one thing we can’t agree about. The Professor wants to present his findings as real history. I mean, I know it is real history – but when it’s written down it just looks barmy. This was the last straw.’
He handed a sheet of paper to Jane, who read it aloud. ‘This book is worshipfully dedicated to the mighty PSAMMEAD, former god of the Akkadian desert, with humble thanks for all the help he has given to the authors.’
‘Crikey,’ the Lamb said. ‘I see what you mean.’
‘I don’t – what’s wrong with it?’ Edie said.
‘Nobody will believe a word of it,’ Jane said.
‘Nothing’s wrong with it, exactly.’ Ernie shot a cautious look at the Psammead. ‘It’s just not quite the ticket for a serious work of scholarship. I suggested he should call it something like Myths of the Ancient Near East, or Legends of a Lost Civilisation. But he went berserk and said I had no respect for the truth.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ the Psammead said. ‘I’ve never been so insulted in my considerable life! Do I LOOK like a myth?’
‘Not to me – but that’s what people will assume you are. You don’t get books about the Greek gods containing dedications to Zeus, with thanks for all his help, do you?’
‘I’m glad people don’t know you’re real,’ Edie said. ‘You wouldn’t be safe if everybody knew about you.’ One of her great fears was that the Psammead would somehow fall into the wrong hands, which was why she worried so much about keeping him secret. ‘Ernie’s only trying to protect you.’
Ernie smiled at her, his face reddening a little. ‘Yes, that was part of it. I can’t stand the thought of people finding out about you, and turning you into a fairground attraction. But I’m afraid my real reason is more selfish. I’ve worked hard to pull the Prof’s book into shape and I want it to be published – if we put it in the right way, his discoveries will cause a sensation. But if we do it his way, we’ll be a laughing stock. I can’t afford to ruin my career before it’s even started!’
They all knew that if Ernie’s writing was successful he would have enough money to support a wife, and then he might be able to marry Anthea.
‘So you’ve nearly finished my book.’ The Psammead looked over the edge of the basket at the pile of paper beside the typewriter. ‘I see you’re working on it now.’
‘Er – no,’ Ernie said, turning redder. ‘That’s something of my own. My newspaper work is keeping me pretty busy these days.’
‘Did you write to our father?’ Edie asked.
‘Not yet – it wouldn’t be right when he doesn’t know about me and Anthea.’
The door opened suddenly and the Professor burst into the room, scattering pieces of paper. ‘Haywood, I’ve got it! How could I have been so obtuse?’
‘Look here,’ Ernie said, ‘I was out of order this morning, and I’m sorry.’
‘What? Oh, never mind all that – I’m the one who should apologise – but this is too exciting—’ Jimmy was breathless and had the dazed, dreamy look that came over him when he was thinking about the Psammead. ‘I’ve had a new idea about how to read the fragment of carving in Minsk.’ He blinked and smiled at the three children and the Psammead. ‘Hello, what a delightful – oh, but I was expecting you, wasn’t I?’
‘Yes, and we’ve got the postcard to prove it. Do shake hands with Ernie,’ Jane said.
‘Hmm?’
‘You had a blazing row,’ the Lamb reminded him.
‘Hmm? Oh, great heavens, I nearly forgot! My dear Haywood—’ The Professor grabbed Ernie’s hand and shook it violently. ‘Forgive me, I behaved like an absolute old fool! Now be a good chap and dig out my Russian portfolio.’ He bowed to the Psammead. ‘Oh Gracious One, I have searched high and low to answer the questions you posed in your letter about the fire – and now another piece has fallen into place.’
‘More murdering, I suppose,’ the Lamb said cheerfully.
Ernie, nearly as excited as the Professor, pulled a cardboard folder from one of the heaps. It was stuffed with scraps of paper, dull old photographs, and a rubbing of the mysterious Russian stone. ‘Not murders – this one’s about a huge, hairy tyran. What did you find?’
‘It was staring us in the face, my boy – try reading this symbol as “Downfall”,’ the Professor said,
‘Downfall?’ The Psammead twitched uneasily. ‘That has an uncomfortable sting of familiarity – dear Edie, please don’t think less of me when you see that my going out was so much less glorious than my coming in!’
Edie lifted him out of the basket. ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, but you know I’ll never think less of you.’
‘Here’s the rubbing of the stone.’ Ernie spread the large, thin sheet of paper on the desk.
‘Don’t bother to read it out – I’ll give you the gist of it.’ The Psammead let out a long, quivering sigh. ‘I have to remember now, whether I like it or not. Your bonfire was the heaviest possible hint.’
‘Well?’ The Lamb was impatient.
The Psammead sat up straight. ‘Yes, this stone tells the story of my downfall.’ He pulled in his eyes and wrapped his gangling arms and legs around his little blob of a body. ‘They burned me at the stake.’
‘Oh no – you poor darling!’ Edie cried, horrified.
‘But the stone says the people rose up against a gigantic monster,’ Ernie said. ‘And you’re hardly gigantic.’
‘I was once,’ the Psammead said, with another long sigh. ‘Hasn’t it ever struck any of you that I’m rather small to be a god? In the days of my godhood I was fifteen cubits tall and my limbs were as massive as trees. The fire didn’t kill me – I shrank to the size I am today and made a cunning escape down a drain.’
‘I like you this size,’ Edie said warmly. ‘And it makes you much easier to hide – if you’d stayed big, you’d never fit in our tin bath.’
‘So you still had control over your magic in those days?’ Jane said.
‘Unfortunately not – it had nothing to do with my magic,’ the Psammead said. ‘I shrank to the size of my own popularity, then I was forced into hiding, and I’ve been in hiding ever since. I’d still be fast asleep at this moment – if you children hadn’t woken me up all those years ago in 1902.’
‘I say, don’t blame us,’ the Lamb said. ‘We didn’t ask you to pop out of our gravel pit.’
Ernie had been writing rapidly in a notebook. ‘The children might’ve woken you with the power of their imagination. It must be very strong when the kids love stories as much as this lot do.’
‘No, I think it’s simpler than that,’ Jane said thoughtfully. ‘I think you were attracted to us because we were happy and we loved each other. It sounds like a small thing, but I can see now that it’s the biggest thing in the world. That’s why you came back to help us when the war broke us apart.’
Eighteen
A LONG, LONG TRAIL
Letter from Lt Cyril Pemberton,
Somewhere in France,
to Miss Mabel Harper,
Oswestry, Shropshire,
May 1916
Dear Miss Harper,<
br />
Your letter was waiting for me in a bundle at HQ, which explains why I’ve taken such a long time to reply. It was topping to hear from you – on paper you sound just like good old Geoffrey. I’ve missed that bright Harper outlook on the world; I think about him every day. Of course, it’s a thousand times worse for his family and I think about you too.
If your trip to London happens to fall in the first two weeks of June, you’ll coincide with my leave; let me take you out to tea, and we can share our memories of the dear old boy. You’ll be surprised to hear how much I know about you.
Your favourite scent is lilac.
Your favourite colour is rose-pink.
Your favourite song is ‘There’s a Long, Long Trail A-Winding’.
You have a scar on your right foot from where your brother pushed you out of a tree house.
And I daresay you know all sorts of hideous things about me, but please overlook them.
Yours sincerely,
Cyril Pemberton
IN THE SECOND WEEK OF JUNE it was sports day at the Lamb’s school. This was a grand occasion, like a garden party. Besides the races and gymnastic displays, there was a brass band and a striped tea tent, and the ladies wore huge hats laden with feathers and silk flowers. This year felt particularly festive; the weather was glorious and all the children were together again – Cyril and Robert both had leave and Anthea had been allowed time off from the hospital.
Mother and Father went to talk to the headmaster. The six children strolled across the sunny, crowded lawn, often halting so that Cyril and Robert could shake hands with their old schoolfriends. Cyril and Robert were both in uniform; there was khaki everywhere. The brass band played a jolly selection from The Gondoliers, families spread picnic blankets in the meadow next to the sports field, and the war seemed very far away. Edie strolled beside the Lamb, feeling grown up and elegant in her best, white silk dress that she’d just inherited from Jane, and the beautiful gold locket Cyril had given her two days ago for her eleventh birthday. The Lamb was also very smart in his dark red blazer and straw hat, ready to cheer Winterbum on in the hurdles.
‘Watch out,’ Robert said, ‘it’s old MacTavish.’
Mr MacTavish, the Lamb’s ancient, grey-bearded teacher, hurried over to shake the hands of his former pupils. ‘Well, well – a full complement of Pembertons! Very good to see you all! Isn’t this a splendid occasion? And isn’t the weather marvellous?’
‘I wish everybody didn’t have to be so cheerful all the time,’ Cyril said when the old man had gone to shake hands with someone else. ‘It seems absurd, when half the world’s in khaki and the other half’s in black – you feel as if you’re being patted on the back for not being dead yet.’
‘Don’t,’ Anthea murmured. ‘We notice it too, Squirrel darling, though nobody says anything – all the empty spaces.’
They were quiet for a moment, listening to the jaunty music of the band. Cyril had seemed much older when he came home this time; he was quieter, and he smoked cigars after dinner with Father, like a complete grown-up. Robert, on the other hand, wanted as much fun and silliness as possible.
‘Perhaps it’s all coming to an end at last,’ Jane said. ‘Everyone’s talking about a “Big Push” this summer.’
‘Oh yes,’ Cyril said. ‘I’ve heard all about the Big Push, and I wish I believed in it – but experience tells me it’s more likely to be a small shove.’
They had brought a large picnic basket, filled with sandwiches and a sponge cake. Robert and Jane were carrying it between them.
‘Phew – this weighs a ton!’ Robert said. ‘Let’s find somewhere to put it down.’
The meadow beyond the playing field was dotted with family groups setting out their picnics. Anthea, carrying the rug, ran ahead to bag an excellent spot in the dappled shade of a willow tree. Edie’s spirits soared; the loveliest thing about being all together again was that it felt so normal – as if the whole war had been a dream. The Bigguns stopped behaving like worried grown-ups and became themselves again, joking and shoving and giggling. Jane poured them all glasses of Mrs Field’s delicious lemonade, cloudy and sweet.
‘This is bliss!’ Anthea sighed. ‘Music and sunshine – after such a beastly wet winter.’
‘I invited Harper’s sister,’ Cyril said, ‘but she had to go home. I wanted you all to meet her – it’ll have to wait till next time now.’
‘Look here,’ Robert said, ‘that’s about the thousandth time you’ve dragged Miss Harper’s name into a completely unrelated conversation. I think she must be rather pretty.’
‘Shut up!’ Cyril flicked lemonade at him. ‘She’s extremely pretty, but it’s none of your business.’
‘Does she look like Harper?’ Edie asked, and then remembered that Cyril didn’t know she’d ever seen him. The Lamb shot her a scowl.
‘She does and she doesn’t,’ Cyril said with a slow, inward-looking smile. ‘Her nose and mouth are just the same as his, but her eyes—’
‘Oh, those HEAVENLY eyes!’ Robert squeaked.
‘I said shut up!’
‘What-ho, Pembertons!’ Lilian Winterbottom bounded across the grass towards them, her big hat all to one side. ‘Crikey – the whole boiling lot of you!’ She pumped the hands of all the girls and slapped the backs of the boys. ‘Isn’t it splendiferous that we’re all on leave at the same time? The word at my depot is that it’s because they’re cranking up for a Big Push.’
‘I hope you have time for another outing to the theatre, old bean,’ Robert said. ‘Father says he can get us very decent seats for Tonight’s the Night.’
‘Thanks Bobs – I’m here till Sunday week and I’ll accept any outing most gratefully. Mother’s being an utter barnacle, due to the fact that I’ve signed up to drive my ambulance in France. I’ve had enough of driving in London, and I’m sure I’d be more use nearer the front line.’
‘Good for you!’ Anthea was still rubbing her knuckles after Lilian’s crushing handshake. ‘The talk at my hospital’s just the same. It’s very quiet at the moment, but we all know there’s something on the horizon. They’ve squashed two new huts into the grounds, and all the patients who are well enough have been sent home to make more space. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that they’re expecting an awful lot of casualties.’
‘Girls, girls!’ Cyril said. ‘Stop worrying your pretty little heads about the war!’
‘Oh, shut up,’ Lilian said. ‘Wait till I’ve thrashed you at tennis a couple of times – come over tomorrow and we’ll make a party of it, as in the olden days of yore.’
‘Gosh, I can’t remember the last time we had a tennis party at Windytops,’ Cyril said. ‘My game’s a bit rusty – we don’t get much tennis on the Western Front – but I can still give you a run for your money.’
‘Ha! You and whose army?’
The Bigguns moved off towards the tea tent in a laughing group around Lilian. The Lamb and Edie were left under the willow tree, lazily sipping warm lemonade and listening to the band as they waited for Mother and Father.
The Lamb fanned himself with his hat. ‘I can’t move. Sling us over some more lemonade.’
‘Righto.’ Too warm and contented to argue, Edie opened the picnic basket – and let out a little yelp of shock when she saw the lump of brown fur curled up inside it. ‘The Psammead! What’s he doing here?’
The Lamb sat up straight. ‘Well, he can’t stay. Give him a prod to wake him up.’
Edie didn’t like waking the Psammead, and gave him a timid prod with one finger. This was usually enough, but today the sand fairy only sighed and shifted to a more comfortable position on top of the cake tin.
‘Here, I’ll do it properly.’ The Lamb grabbed a teaspoon and stuck it rudely into the Psammead’s round stomach. ‘I say, rise and shine!’
The sand fairy coughed and groaned. ‘Is this the path before me?’ he mumbled.
‘He’s dreaming.’ Edie dared to shake his skinny shoulder, but he shrugge
d her hand off crossly and went back to sleep.
‘Oh, lor,’ the Lamb said. ‘What on earth do we do if we can’t get rid of him?’ He stared at the slumbering Psammead, trying to think. ‘I’ll run for the Bigguns.’
‘No!’ Edie grabbed his sleeve. ‘Don’t you dare leave me alone! He might be ill. And what if the parents get back first?’
‘Keep your hair on. I’ll pick him up and give him a jolly good shake.’
‘NO!’
‘All right! What if I hide him under my blazer?’
‘I suppose that would be better than leaving him in the basket – I’ll do it!’ Edie didn’t trust the Lamb not to shake the Psammead, as he’d so heartlessly suggested. Very gently she lifted him out of the picnic basket. Normally the smallest touch woke him up at once. Today his long arms and legs dangled limply and a light snore whistled through his furry lips. Edie put him down beside the trunk of the willow tree and carefully spread the Lamb’s blazer on top of him.
‘That ought to do it,’ the Lamb said. ‘We can easily keep an eye on him if we sit nearby.’
The Gondoliers finished, to a scattering of applause. A moment later the band began to play ‘There’s a Long, Long Trail A-Winding’.
‘This is Mabel Harper’s favourite song,’ Edie said. ‘Cyril told me he paid the band at the Kardomah tea room to play it for her. Wasn’t that romantic? I wonder if they’ll get married.’
‘Yeuch,’ the Lamb said scornfully. ‘You’re always marrying people off.’
‘I’m practically the only girl in my class who’s never been a bridesmaid, that’s all. And it’s no use waiting for Panther and Ernie, when we’re not even allowed to say they’re engaged, or at least not until he’s got enough money to marry her.’
‘Well, I wish you’d give it a rest. Just because Cyril’s taken a girl out a couple of times—’
‘Shh! What’s that?’
‘What’s what?’
There was a low, mumbling, humming sound – and it was coming from underneath the Lamb’s blazer. They both bent over it.
Five Children on the Western Front Page 14
