Magical Mischief

by Anna Dale

  Miss Quint had spent an inordinately long time in the toilet. When she emerged from the stairwell, she had neatened her appearance, her face was powdered and she was wearing a pair of unscathed tights.

  ‘There’s a cup of tea for you on the mantelpiece,’ Mr Hardbattle said to her, peering out from behind a sheaf of papers. He was busy reading through Arthur’s essay, the conclusion of which had been a joint effort. ‘This is good stuff, Arthur,’ he murmured, ‘though I think your spelling is . . . how shall I put it? Unconventional.’

  Arthur grunted in response. He was sitting on the rug in front of the fire with Scallywag’s head in his lap. The heat from the flames, the dog’s steady breathing and a stomach full of hot tea were sending him to sleep. The only thing that spoilt the ambience was the aroma of nit shampoo. ‘So, are you going to tell me what’s special about your bookshop now?’ asked Arthur, his eyelids beginning to droop.

  ‘It’s a magic bookshop,’ Mr Hardbattle said in an offhand way.

  ‘Magic?’ said Arthur drowsily. ‘What d’you mean by that?’

  ‘How pretty!’ said Miss Quint, taking her cup of tea from the mantelpiece. ‘The flames keep changing colour! An up-to-the-minute, hi-tech gas fire, I suppose. Was it very expensive? I wonder if I could manage to talk my friend Mirabel into buying one. A fire like that would look breathtaking in her front room.’

  Miss Quint lifted her cup off its saucer, but did not lower her chin to drink. The desire to continue talking was too great.

  ‘I must say, Mr Hardbattle,’ she chattered, ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d be the type to embrace new technology. Upstairs, Arthur, there’s a mirror that writes messages. It tells you if your parting is crooked or if you’ve got lipstick on your teeth. That fire takes the biscuit, though. The logs seem almost real, don’t they? It’s really clever the way the flames switch colour like that.’

  Arthur’s eyes, which had been closed, suddenly opened wide. ‘Gosh, they’re pink and now they’ve gone back to orange!’ he exclaimed. ‘But it doesn’t look modern to me. It’s a real fire, I’m sure.’ He breathed in through his nose. ‘I can smell the woodsmoke!’

  ‘Well, I can’t,’ said Miss Quint, sniffing the air and recoiling. ‘The only thing that I can smell is curdled milk.’

  Mr Hardbattle crouched down stiffly by the fireplace. He lifted the lid off the log basket and dropped another log in the grate. Turquoise sparks shot up the chimney, making Arthur gasp.

  ‘It’s a log fire all right,’ Mr Hardbattle said, ‘but every so often the flames act unusually. It’s the magic that’s behind it. It likes to interfere.’ Mr Hardbattle gave Arthur’s elbow a nudge. ‘I told you that my bookshop was magic, didn’t I, Arthur?’

  Tearing his eyes away from the flames, which had turned a dark resplendent red, Arthur stared at Mr Hardbattle, overwhelmed and respectful. ‘Are you some kind of wizard, sir?’ he asked with a gulp.

  ‘Good heavens, no!’ Mr Hardbattle chuckled. ‘I’m just an old man who created the perfect place for magic to thrive, quite by accident.’

  Miss Quint tittered to herself. ‘That’s codswallop, of course. Don’t believe a word he says, Arthur!’ she warned. ‘He’s teasing you.’ She sat down in a chair and heaved her shopping bag on to her knee, but not before she had glared at Mr Hardbattle reproachfully.

  ‘It’s the honest truth!’ insisted Mr Hardbattle, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. ‘There’s magic in every corner of my shop, Miss Quint. All you need to do is take a good look!’

  Holding up her hands in mock surrender, Miss Quint gave a weary sigh. ‘It’s up to you if you want to indulge in a little make-believe,’ she said, ‘but please don’t involve me. I shan’t be joining in.’ Having said her piece, Miss Quint ferreted in her bag. She pulled out a women’s magazine, which had orange pips stuck to its cover, and started to leaf through its pages.

  While Miss Quint was occupied with reading about women’s matters, Mr Hardbattle treated Arthur to a tour of his shop. They walked in and out of every alcove, with Arthur admiring the books and the quantity of dust. When they had finished surveying the bookshelves, Mr Hardbattle told Arthur all about The Smell and introduced him to Trunk the elephant, the black cat bookends and the flock of origami sheep. Raindrops continued to slip down the windowpane as Arthur and Mr Hardbattle talked and talked.

  ‘So this Mrs Trinket knew all about magic, did she?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Mr Hardbattle said. ‘She’s an authority on it. I was advised to let the magic be, and over the years more and more kept arriving. I dare say there’s more magic here in my shop than in every county south of the Thames!’

  ‘Cool!’ breathed Arthur.

  ‘It is rather marvellous, yes,’ Mr Hardbattle agreed. He was thrilled to have found a customer, after so many years, who shared his opinion that the magic was top-hole.

  ‘This is the best shop I’ve ever been in!’ blurted out Arthur excitedly. ‘I’ll come in here every day after school. Could I do that, Mr Hardbattle? Would you mind?’

  Mr Hardbattle paled. He produced a smile although he felt like groaning. The conversation with Arthur had been so pleasurable that Mr Hardbattle had not wanted to spoil things by admitting that the magic was a curse as well as a blessing; and that in the next few weeks, without the advent of a miracle, he would have to turf the magic out or become homeless himself.

  Mr Hardbattle took off his horn-rimmed glasses and wiped them carefully on a clean corner of handkerchief. When he replaced his glasses, his eyes met Arthur’s eager gaze.

  ‘I haven’t been totally honest with you, Arthur,’ he said humbly. ‘There’s something I need to explain . . .’

  .

  Chapter Four

  The Search Begins

  Miss Quint heard whispering. She closed her magazine. In her experience, people tended to whisper when they wanted to pass on a secret or a tasty morsel of gossip, and Miss Quint was partial to both these things. Without wasting another second, she got up from her chair and followed the irresistible sound of hushed voices. Emerging from in between two rows of bookshelves, she glimpsed Mr Hardbattle and Arthur standing close together by the cash register, talking nineteen to the dozen.

  As she approached them, Miss Quint managed to hear a snatch of their conversation.

  ‘Problem? What problem?’ she asked, forging her way into their midst.

  Arthur and Mr Hardbattle stopped talking and stared at her. The interruption had caught them unawares. Neither of them knew how to answer Miss Quint’s question. It would be difficult to explain about the new landlord’s ultimatum without mentioning the magic in which Miss Quint did not believe.

  ‘I’m pleased to see you’ve abandoned your game of Let’s Pretend,’ Miss Quint said, undaunted by their mute response. ‘So, what were you discussing, hmm?’

  Arthur opened his mouth and closed it again and Mr Hardbattle hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat. He wetted his lips, but did not say anything.

  Their silence only succeeded in making Miss Quint even more curious. She studied their troubled faces for a moment, then her sharp eyes slid downwards to a letter lying on the desk. ‘What’s this?’ she asked and reached out her hand. Before she could pick up the letter, however, the magic intervened.

  On the desk was a carton full of drawing pins and the moment that Miss Quint’s fingers touched the letter, they leaped out of their carton, rose high into the air and drummed into the letter with bullet-like speed. Miss Quint barely managed to snatch her hand away in time. Once she had recovered from the shock of almost having had her hand impaled on the desk, she noticed that the drawing pins had landed in formation, spelling out a four-lettered word.

  ‘MYOB?’ Miss Quint said, puzzled. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? MYOB? That’s not a word. That’s a load of nonsense –’
<
br />   ‘Actually, it’s an abbreviation,’ Arthur cut in helpfully. ‘The letters M Y O B stand for Mind Your Own Business.’

  Miss Quint was speechless for a moment, then she said, ‘Of all the nerve!’ and flushed with embarrassment. ‘Mr Hardbattle, are you going to let those . . . those drawing pins speak to me like that?’

  ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, Miss Quint,’ Mr Hardbattle said. He leaned over the desk and reprimanded the drawing pins. ‘Back to your box, you little scamps!’ he said, shaking his finger sternly, which was as close to bawling them out as he was going to get. ‘Miss Quint is a friend. She may read my letter if she wants.’

  The drawing pins sprang out of the letter and regrouped in mid-air, then they rained into the carton, falling like pennies down a chute.

  ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me that those drawing pins got from here to there and back again . . . by magic,’ said Miss Quint uneasily.

  Mr Hardbattle nodded. ‘That’s the long and short of it.’

  ‘I . . . I know I saw them with my own eyes,’ Miss Quint said in a halting voice, ‘but I can’t bring myself to believe in magic. I can’t! The idea’s . . . well . . . preposterous.’ Miss Quint was so involved in her thoughts that she did not cast more than a fleeting glance at the cat, which had jumped on to the desk and was strolling towards her along its length. Being fond of cats, Miss Quint extended her hand to stroke it and got a horrible shock when she discovered that it was made of wood.

  ‘Where’s its fur?’ she asked, knocking her knuckles against its coat.

  Her disrespectful conduct failed to charm the bookend, which hissed at Miss Quint and returned to its shelf. She watched the black cat rise on to its hind legs and press its paws against a book, mirroring the stance of its pair.

  Miss Quint turned to Mr Hardbattle. A tight smile flickered on to her face.

  ‘First, magic drawing pins . . . and now, a magic bookend! All right, I believe you. It is magic, it must be. You were telling me the truth.’

  For the briefest of moments, Miss Quint thought about leaving the shop right there and then. It was not that the magic unsettled her so much as the realisation that in scorning its existence she had made an idiot of herself. However, Miss Quint was not in the habit of running away from rum situations and, besides, her skirt was still damp and she wanted to know what the letter contained.

  A gentleman to the core, Mr Hardbattle did not say, ‘I told you so.’ He merely patted Miss Quint’s arm and offered to make a fresh pot of tea. Remembering how Mrs Trinket had catered for his bewilderment when he had found out about magic, he resolved to put several teaspoons of sugar in Miss Quint’s cup.

  In the next quarter of an hour, in between gulps of tea, Arthur and Mr Hardbattle told Miss Quint everything. She was most upset to learn that Mr Hardbattle might have to close his shop.

  ‘Money is the root of all evil,’ she said, and winced as she sipped her over-sweet tea.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more. Money’s a nuisance,’ said Mr Hardbattle, ‘but the cold, hard truth is that I need to make more of it!’

  Arthur was in favour of encouraging customers into the shop by making a big to-do about the magic. ‘It’s sort of like the Ferris wheel at a fairground,’ Arthur explained. ‘Magic would be your big attraction. It would draw people in.’

  ‘A crowd-puller? Ah, I see,’ said Mr Hardbattle, nodding. ‘I prefer the dodgems myself, but I see your point. You think that magic would invite more custom.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I reckon,’ said Arthur. He got up from his chair and began to pace the floor, enlivened by the idea that was taking shape in his mind. ‘I bet if we told everyone that you had magic in your shop, they’d be fighting each other to get through the door. I could make posters to put in the window and Miss Quint could hand out leaflets. Loads of people would come and you’d be rich,’ he finished confidently.

  ‘Problem solved, eh?’ said Mr Hardbattle.

  ‘Yeah!’ said Arthur, beaming.

  Miss Quint glanced up at them both. ‘It wouldn’t work,’ she said, ‘if we’re being realistic.’

  ‘What do you mean? Why wouldn’t it work?’ Arthur was crestfallen. He looked to Mr Hardbattle for support and his stomach turned over when he saw the pained expression on the old man’s face.

  ‘It’s an unfortunate fact,’ said Mr Hardbattle tenderly, ‘that most people aren’t as open-minded as you are, Arthur. They’re scared of things they don’t understand and they shy away at the drop of a hat. The Smell would put most people off, and finicky people would hate the dust, and nervous types would scream and run at the first hint of anything magical.’

  Arthur slumped into his chair and folded his arms. ‘Human beings are quite disappointing, aren’t they?’ he said.

  At half past five, they were forced to admit that none of them could think of a scheme to make more money while the magic was still in the shop.

  ‘It looks as though I’ll have to get rid of it,’ Mr Hardbattle said.

  Arthur nodded dismally. ‘It looks that way to me too.’

  ‘And me,’ said Miss Quint. ‘I wondered when you’d both see sense. Do you two have any idea what it’s like to be made homeless?’

  Arthur shook his head and Mr Hardbattle looked shamefaced. They had both forgotten that Miss Quint’s flat had been destroyed by fire.

  ‘I felt bereaved at first and I took some time off work,’ she said, ‘but when my spell of leave was up, I found I couldn’t go back; not to the way things were, to the life I’d had before the explosion. For the past three months I’ve been trying to think what I should do next and every day Mirabel says she wishes I’d hurry up and decide, but it isn’t easy to know which way to turn when you’ve had your roots pulled up.’

  Almost moved to tears by Miss Quint’s emotional speech, Mr Hardbattle said that he had come to a decision and that he did not want to risk losing his home or his livelihood. He agreed to discuss the practicalities of evicting the magic, but only if Miss Quint would consent to lower her voice.

  ‘I wouldn’t want the magic to get wind of what we’re up to. It mightn’t take the news very well,’ he explained.

  In deference to Mr Hardbattle’s wishes, the remainder of their conversation was conveyed in whispers. They discussed the sorts of places where they thought the magic would feel most at home and then tried to think of buildings in Plumford which might fit the bill.

  Together they came up with a handful of suggestions, which included a boarded-up pub, an allotment shed and a cricket pavilion. Arthur was keen to go and look at them that instant, but Mr Hardbattle said that it was getting far too late. Reminding Arthur that his family must be expecting him home for tea, Mr Hardbattle promised to visit each place on their list the very next day.

  ‘And I’ll come too!’ said Miss Quint. ‘I’ve nothing else to do!’

  When Arthur turned up at Hardbattle Books on Thursday after school to find out how the two of them had fared, he was disappointed to learn that none of the places had passed muster.

  ‘The pub wasn’t derelict,’ Miss Quint explained, warming her cold fingers on a mug of steaming tea. ‘It was being given a facelift by the brewery that’d just bought it . . . and the allotment shed was far too small and constantly in use.’

  ‘As was the cricket pavilion,’ Mr Hardbattle said as he glanced at the list in his notebook. ‘The house by the river was the best of the bunch. It was old and run-down and seemed ideal, but unfortunately we were wrong about it being empty. An old fellow lives there with a German shepherd dog. I asked him how he’d feel about sharing his home with some magic and he charged me with being a madman and threatened to call the police!’

  Having ruled out Plumford, it was clear that they would have to look further afield. They each thought of all the places they had ever visited and tried to come up with a n
ew list of buildings with potential for storing magic.

  Mr Hardbattle rooted out some large-scale maps, which he thought might help to jog their memories, but despite poring over them, no one could come up with any ideas.

  ‘I can only think of an old slate mine,’ said Arthur, who had been to Wales on holiday the year before. ‘But Wales is no good for English magic, is it?’

  ‘There’s nothing else for it!’ Mr Hardbattle said. ‘I’ll have to go on trips to the nearby towns and villages, until I strike lucky and find a suitable place.’

  ‘That’s a bit random!’ said Miss Quint. ‘It could take you ages! How long have we got?’

  They read through the letter from Piers Honeycomb again. (Despite being punched with holes, it was still legible.)

  ‘It says we’ve got six weeks,’ said Arthur. ‘The rent must be found by the tenth of June.’

  ‘That’ll zoom by in a flash!’ said Mr Hardbattle. He groaned. ‘We need a better plan. Can either of you two think of one?’

  They all thought immensely hard, but their effort was not rewarded. Eventually, Arthur announced that he was due home for tea.

  ‘We need some more thinking time,’ he said, as he wound his scarf around his neck and pulled on his cagoule. ‘I’ve got football practice tomorrow after school, but on Saturday morning I’m not doing anything. I bet one of us will have thought of a good idea by then!’ He picked up his school bag and opened the door of the shop. ‘Let’s meet here at half past ten, OK?’

  .

  Chapter Five

  A Trip to the Paper Shop

  On Saturday morning, straight after breakfast, Arthur wandered down to the bottom of the garden, which is where he always went when he needed space to think. Time was running out. He was meeting his new friends at the bookshop at half past ten and he had not thought up a single idea which would help them to rehome the magic. Despite concentrating hard, Arthur’s brain came up with zilch, so he got up from the grass and went back indoors, intending to ask his family’s advice.