by Mary Norton
All in all, it was a happy, glorious summer for everyone concerned.
There were scares, of course. Such as the footsteps before dawn, human footsteps but not those of the one-legged Mr. Pott, when something or someone had fumbled at their door. And the moonlight night when the fox came, stalking silently down their village street, casting his great shadow and leaving his scent behind. The owl in the oak tree was, of course, a constant source of danger. But, like most owls, he did his hunting further afield, and once the vast shape had wafted over the river and they had heard his call on the other side of the valley, it was safe to sally forth.
Much of the borrowing was done at night before the mice got at the scraps dropped by the visitors. Homily at first had sniffed fastidiously when presented with—say, the remains of a large ham sandwich. Pod had to persuade her to look at the thing more practically—fresh bread, pure farm butter, and a clean paper bag; what had been good enough for human beings should be good enough for them. What was wrong, he asked her, with the last three grapes of a stripped bunch? You could wash them, couldn't you, in the stream? You could peel them? Or what was wrong with a caramel wrapped up in transparent paper? Half-eaten bath buns, he agreed, were a bit more difficult ... but you could extract the currants, couldn't you, collect and boil down those crusted globules of sugar?
Soon they had evolved a routine of collecting, sorting, cleaning, and conserving. They used Miss Menzies' shop as a storehouse, with—unknown to Pod and Homily—her full cooperation. She had cheated a little on the furnishing, having (some years ago now) gone into the local town and bought a toy grocer's shop, complete with scales, bottles, cans, barrels, and glass containers. With these, she had skillfully furnished the counter and dressed up the windows. This little shop was a great attraction to visitors—it was a general shop and post office modeled on the one in the village—bow windows, thatched roof, and all. A replica of old Mrs. Purbody (slimmed down a little to flatter her) stood behind the counter inside. Miss Menzies had even reproduced the red-knitted shawl that Mrs. Purbody wore on her shoulders, both in summer and winter, and the crisp white apron below. Homily would borrow this apron when she worked on her sortings in the back of the shop but would put it back punctually in time for visitors. Sometimes she washed it out, and every morning—regular as clockwork—she would dust and sweep the shop.
The trains made a good deal of noise. They very soon got used to this, however, and learned, in fact, to welcome it.
When the trains began to clatter and the smoke unfurled from the cottage chimneys, it warned them of Visiting Hours. Homily had time to take off the apron, let herself out of the shop, and cross the road to her home, where she engaged herself in pleasant homely tasks until the trains stopped and all was quiet again and the garden lay dreaming and silent in the peaceful evening light.
Mr. Pott, by this time, would have gone inside to his tea.
Chapter Eight
"There must be something we can do," said Mrs. Platter despairingly for about the fifth time within an hour. "Look at the money we've sunk."
"Sunk is the right word," said Mr. Platter.
"And it isn't as though we haven't tried."
"Oh, we've tried hard enough," said Mr. Platter. "And what annoys me about this Abel Pott is that he does it all without seeming to try at all. He doesn't seem to mind if people come or not. 'MODEL VILLAGE WITH LIVE INHABITANTS'—that's what he'll put on the notice—and then we'll be finished. Finished for good and all! Better pack it in now, that's what I say, and sell out as a going concern."
"There must be something..." repeated Mrs. Platter stubbornly.
They sat as before at a green table on their singularly tidy lawn. On this Sunday evening it was even more singularly tidy than usual. Only five people had come that afternoon for "Riverside Teas." There had been three, quite disastrous weekends: on two of them it had rained, and on this particular Sunday there had been what local people spoke of as "the aeronaut"—a balloon ascent from the fairground, with tea in tents, ice cream, candy floss, and roundabouts. On Saturday people drove out to see the balloon itself (at sixpence a time to pass the rope barriers) and today in the hundreds to see the balloon go up. It had been a sad sight indeed for Mr. and Mrs. Platter to watch the carriages and motors stream past Ballyhoggin with never a glance nor a thought for "Riverside Teas." It had not comforted them, either, when at about three o'clock in the afternoon the balloon itself sailed silently over them, barely clearing the ilex tree, which grew beside the house. They could even see "the aeronaut," who was looking down—mockingly, it seemed—straight into the glaring eyes of Mr. Platter.
"No good saying, 'There must be something,'" he told her irritably. "Night and day I've thought and thought and you've thought too. What with this balloon mania and Abel Pott's latest, we can't compete. That's all: it's quite simple. There isn't anything—short of stealing them."
"What about that?" said Mrs. Platter.
"About what?"
"Stealing them," said Mrs. Platter.
Mr. Platter stared back at her. He opened his mouth and shut it again. "Oh, we couldn't do that," he managed to say at last.
"Why not?" said Mrs. Platter. "He hasn't shown them yet. Nobody knows they're there."
"Why, it would be—I mean, it's a felony."
"Never mind," said Mrs. Platter. "Let's commit one."
"Oh, Mabel," gasped Mr. Platter, "what things you do say!" But he looked slightly awe-struck and admiring.
"Other people commit them," said Mrs. Platter firmly, basking in the glow of his sudden approbation. "Why shouldn't we?"
"Yes, I see your argument," said Mr. Platter. He still looked rather dazed.
"There's got to be a first time for everything," Mrs. Platter pointed out.
"But—" He swallowed nervously. "You go to prison for a felony. I don't mind a few extra items on a bill; I'm game for that, dear. Always was, as you well know. But this—oh Mabel, it takes you to think of a thing like this!"
"Well, I said there'd be something," acknowledged Mrs. Platter modestly. "But it's only common sense, dear. We can't afford not to."
"You're right," said Mr. Platter, "we're driven to it. Not a soul could blame us."
"Not a living soul!" agreed Mrs. Platter solemnly in a bravely fervent voice.
Mr. Platter leaned across the table and patted her hand. "I take my hat off to you, Mabel, for courage and initiative. You're a wonderful woman," he said.
"Thank you, dear," said Mrs. Platter.
"And now for ways and means..." said Mr. Platter in a suddenly businesslike voice. He took off his rimless glasses and thoughtfully began polishing them. "Tools, transport, times of day..."
"It's simple," said Mrs. Platter. "You take the boat."
"I realize that," said Mr. Platter with a kind of aloof patience. He put his rimless glasses back on his nose, returned the handkerchief to his pocket, leaned back in his chair, and with the fingers of his right hand drummed lightly on the table. "Allow me to think a while..."
"Of course, Sidney," said Mrs. Platter obediently, and folded her hands in her lap.
After a few moments, he cleared his throat and looked across at her. "You'll have to come with me, dear," he said.
Mrs. Platter, startled, lost all her composure. "Oh, I couldn't do that, Sidney. You know what I'm like on the water. Couldn't you take one of the men?"
He shook his head. "Impossible. They'd talk."
"What about Agnes Mercy?"
"Couldn't trust her, either; it would be all over the county before the week was out. No dear, it's got to be you."
"I would come with you, Sidney," faltered Mrs. Platter, "say we went round by road. That boat's kind of small for me."
"You can't get into his garden from the road, except by going through the house. There's a thick holly hedge on either side with no sort of gate or opening. No, dear, I've got it all worked out in my mind: the only approach is by water. Just before dawn, I'd say, when they're all asleep
and that would include Abel Pott. We shall need a good strong cardboard box, the shrimping net, and a lantern. Have we any new wicks?"
"Yes, plenty up in the attic."
"That's where we'll have to keep them—these ... er ... well, whatever they are."
"In the attic?"
"Yes, I've thought it all out, Mabel. It's the only room we always keep locked—because of the stores and that. We've got to keep them warm and dry through the winter while we get their house built. They are part of the stores in a manner of speaking. I'll put a couple of bolts on the door, as well as the lock, and a steel plate across the bottom. That should settle 'em. I've got to have time, you see," Mr. Platter went on earnestly, "to think out some kind of house for them. It's got to be more like a cage than a house, and yet it's got to look like a house, if you see what I mean. You've got to be able to see them inside and yet make it so they can't get out. It's going to take a lot of working on, Mabel."
"You'll manage, dear." Mrs. Platter encouraged him. "But"—she thought a moment—"what if he comes here and recognizes them? Anybody can buy a ticket."
"He wouldn't. He's so taken up with his own things that I doubt if he's ever heard of us or of Ballyhoggin or even Went-le-Craye. But say he did? What proof has he? He's been keeping them dark, hasn't he? Nobody's seen them—or the news would be all over the county. In the papers most likely. People would be going there in hundreds. No, dear, it would be his word against ours—that's all. But we've got to act quickly, Mabel, and you've got to help me. There are two weeks left to the end of the season; he may be keeping them to show next year. Or he may decide to show them at once—and then we'd be finished. You see what I mean? There's no knowing ..."
"Yes..." said Mrs. Platter. "Well, what do you want me to do?"
"It's easy: you've only got to keep your head. I take the cardboard box and the lantern, and you carry the shrimping net. You follow me ashore, and you tread where I tread, which you'll see by the lantern. I'll show you their house, and all you've got to do is to cover the rear side with the shrimping net, holding it close as you can against the wall and partly over the thatch. Then I make some sort of noise at the front. They keep the front door locked now—I've found out that much. As soon as they hear me at the front door—you can mark my words—they'll go scampering out of the back. Straight into the net. You see what I mean? Now, you'll have to keep the net held tight up against the cottage wall. I'll have the cardboard box in one hand, by then, and the lid in another. When I give the word, you scoop the net up into the air, with them inside it, and tumble them into the box. I clap the lid on, and that will be that."
"Yes," said Mrs. Platter uncertainly. She thought a while and then she said, "Do they bite?"
"I don't know that. Only seen them from a distance. But it wouldn't be much of a bite."
"Supposing one fell out of the net or something?"
"Well, you must see they don't, Mabel; that's all. I mean, there are only three or four of 'em, all told. We can't afford any losses..."
"Oh, Sidney, I wish you could take one of the men. I can't even row."
"You don't have to row. I'll row. All you have to do, Mabel, is to carry the net and follow me ashore. I'll point out their cottage, and it'll be over in a minute. Before you can say Jack Robinson, we'll be back in the boat and safely home."
"Does he keep a dog?"
"Abel Pott? No, dear, he doesn't keep a dog. It will be quite all right. Just trust me and do what I say. Like to come across to the island now and have a bit of practice on one of our own houses? You run up to the attic now and get the net, and I'll get the oars and the boat hook. Now, you've got to face up to it, Mabel," added Mr. Platter irritably, as Mrs. Platter still seemed to hesitate. "We must each do our part. Fair's fair, you know."
Chapter Nine
The next day it began to rain, and it rained on and off for ten days. Even Mr. Pott had a falling off of visitors. Not that he minded particularly; he and Miss Menzies employed themselves indoors at Mr. Pott's long kitchen table—repairing, remodeling, repainting, restitching, and oiling.... The lamplight shed its gentle glow around them. While the rain poured down outside, the gluepot bubbled on the stove and the kettle sang beside it. At last came October the first, the day when the season ended.
"Mr. Pott," said Miss Menzies after a short but breathy silence (she was quilting an eiderdown for Homily's double bed and found the work exacting), "I am rather worried."
"Oh," said Mr. Pott. He was making a fence of matchsticks, gluing them delicately with the aid of pincers and a fine sable brush. "In fact," Miss Menzies went on, "I'm very worried indeed. Could you listen a moment?"
This direct assault took Mr. Pott by surprise. "Something wrong?" he asked.
"Yes, I think something is wrong. I haven't seen Arrietty for three days. Have you?"
"Come to think of it, no," said Mr. Pott.
"Or any of them?"
Mr. Pott was silent a moment, thinking back. "Not now you mention it—no," he said.
"I had an appointment with her on Monday, down by the stream, but she didn't turn up. But I wasn't worried. It was raining anyway, and I thought perhaps Spiller had arrived. But he hadn't, you know. I know now where he keeps his boat, and it wasn't there. And then, when I passed their cottage, I saw the back door was open. This isn't like them, but it reassured me, as I assumed they wouldn't be so careless unless they were all inside. When I passed again on my way home for tea, the door was still open. All yesterday it was open, and it was open again this morning. It's a bit—"
"—rum," agreed Mr. Pott.
"—odd," said Miss Menzies—they spoke on the same instant.
"Mr. Pott, dear," went on Miss Menzies, "after I showed them to you, so very carefully, you remember—you didn't go and stare at them or anything? You didn't frighten them?"
"No," said Mr. Pott, "I been too busy closing up for winter. I like to see 'em, mind, but I haven't had the time."
"And their chimney isn't smoking," Miss Menzies went on. "It hasn't been smoking for three days. I mean, one can't help being—"
"—worried," said Mr. Pott.
"—uneasy," said Miss Menzies. She laid down her work. "Are you still listening?" she asked.
Mr. Pott tipped a matchstick with glue, breathing heavily. "Yes, I'm thinking..." he said.
"I don't like to look right inside," Miss Menzies explained. "For one thing, you can't look in from the front because there's not room to kneel in the High Street, and you can't kneel down at the back without spoiling their garden, and the other thing is that, say they are inside—Pod and Homily, I mean—I'd be giving the whole game away. I've explained to you what they're like about being 'seen'? If they hadn't gone already, they'd go then because I'd 'seen' them. And we would be out of the frying pan into the fire..."
Mr. Pott nodded; he was rather new to borrowers and depended on Miss Menzies for his data. She had, he felt, through months of study, somehow got the whole thing taped. "Have you counted the people?" he suggested at last.
"Our people? Yes, I thought of that—and I've been through everyone twice. A hundred and seven, and those trwo being mended. That's right, isn't it? And I've examined them all very carefully one by one and been through every railway carriage and everything. No, they're either in their house or they've gone right away. You're sure you didn't frighten them? Even by accident?"
"I've told you," said Mr. Pott. Very deliberately, he gave her a look, laid down his tools, and went to the drawer in the table.
"What are you going to do?" asked Miss Menzies, aware that he had a plan.
"Find my screw driver," said Mr. Pott. "The roof of Vine Cottage comes off in a piece. It was so we could make the two floors ... remember?"
"But you can't do that. Supposing they are inside, it would be fatal!"
"We've got to take the risk," said Mr. Pott. "Just get your coat on now and find the umbrella."
Miss Menzies did as she was told; relieved, she felt suddenly, to surr
ender the leadership. Her father, she thought, would have acted just like this. And so, of course, would have Aubrey. In times of stress and indecision, it was good, she realized, to have a man about.
Obediently, she followed him into the rain and held the umbrella while he went to work. Mr. Pott took up a careful position within the High Street, and Miss Men-zies (feet awkwardly placed to avoid damage) teetered slightly beside the back garden. Stooping anxiously, they towered above the house.
Several deft turns of the screw driver and a good deal of grunting soon loosened the soaking thatch. Lidlike, it came off in a piece. "Bone-dry inside," remarked Mr. Pott as he laid it aside.
They saw Pod and Homily's bedroom—a little bare it looked, in spite of the three pieces of dollhouse furniture that once Miss Menzies had bought and left about to be borrowed. The bed, with its handkerchief sheets, looked tousled as though they had left it hurriedly. Pod's working coat, carefully folded, lay on a chair, and his best suit hung on a safety-pin coat hanger suspended against the wall; while Homily's day clothes were neatly ranged on two rails at the foot of the bed.
There was a feeling of deadness and desertion—no sound but the thrum of the rain as it pattered on the soaked umbrella.
Miss Menzies looked aghast. "But this is dreadful—they've gone in their night clothes! What could have happened? It's like the Marie Celeste..."
"Nothing's been inside," said Mr. Pott, staring down, screw driver in hand. "No animal marks, no sign of what you'd call a scuffle.... Well, we better see what's below. As far as I remember, this floor comes out all in a piece with the stairs. Better get a box for the furniture."
The furniture! thought Miss Menzies as she squelched back to the house, picking her way with great Gulliverlike strides over walls and railway lines, streets and alleyways. Just beside the churchyard, her foot slipped on the mud, and to save herself, she caught hold of the steeple. Beautifully built, it held firm, but a bell rang faintly inside: a small sad ghostly protest. No, the furniture, she realized, was too grand an expression for the contents of that little room. If she had known, she would have bought them more things or left more about for them to borrow. She knew how clever they were at contriving, but it takes time, she realized, to furnish a whole house from leftovers. She found a box at last and picked her way back to Mr. Pott.
