by Anna Dale
In the kitchen, his mother and his older sister, Penny, were clearing away the breakfast things.
‘Say you’re tired of something, right,’ said Arthur, ‘and you want to find it a new home – a good home – but you haven’t got much time. What’s the quickest way of doing it?’
Arthur had been so caught up with this quandary that he had forgotten to wipe his shoes on the doormat. It had also slipped his mind that he was holding a guinea pig.
Neither of these things escaped Arthur’s keen-eyed mother. The dirt on the floor worsened her mood and the presence of the guinea pig caused her to jump to entirely the wrong conclusion.
‘A guinea pig isn’t a plaything that you can cast aside when you feel like it,’ she told her son sharply.
Arthur gaped while his mother hammered her point home.
‘Cuddles and games in the garden are only one part of keeping a pet. I warned you that you’d have to clean out the hutch twice a week and you children assured me that you didn’t mind. If you agree to do a thing you should stick to it. Your guinea pigs are staying right here.’
‘But –’ began Arthur.
‘End of story!’ said his mother, and turned away from him to open the door of the fridge.
Arthur’s feelings were hurt. He was astounded that his mother could think that he would want to rehome his two beloved guinea pigs. He stroked the dainty ear of the guinea pig in his arms, which was nibbling a neat hole in his jumper.
‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Mum!’ he said in injured tones. ‘I wasn’t talking about Quasimodo or Peanut. It’s my friend. He’s got something he wants to get rid of. The thing that he wants to find a new home for isn’t alive, well . . . not exactly.’
His mother made an exasperated noise and complained that he had not made himself clear. Then she busied herself rearranging the food in the fridge to make room for the milk jug. ‘I don’t know what your friend should do,’ she muttered. ‘Why doesn’t he ask his own parents?’
Arthur’s sister, Penny, was loading the dishwasher and reading a library book at the same time. She was a person of many talents, and being able to concentrate on several things at once was one of her most enviable skills.
‘When I wanted to sell my CD collection,’ Penny said, turning a page of her book with one finger and slotting a dirty dish in the rack, ‘I put an advert in the Plumford Gazette.’
Arthur felt a rush of adrenalin flood through his veins. ‘Advertising! What a fantastic idea! Thanks, Pen! That’s the answer!’
He rushed outside and ran to the end of the garden, where he dropped Quasimodo into a run with his hutch mate, Peanut. In the shed next to the guinea pigs’ living quarters were bundles of newspapers, tied with string, which were waiting to be recycled. He found a copy of the Plumford Gazette and turned to the narrow-columned section near the back. This part of the newspaper was called ‘The Classifieds’. Items that people wanted to sell were grouped under headings such as Cars for Sale, Domestic Pets, and Furniture and Furnishings.
Arthur’s bicycle was leaning against five others. He stuffed the Gazette into his saddlebag and wheeled his bicycle up the garden path.
‘I’m off out!’ he yelled as he passed the back door. ‘I’ll be back by lunchtime! See you later!’
Mr Hardbattle almost jumped out of his skin when Arthur burst into his bookshop a full hour earlier than had been arranged. Neglecting to ask Mr Hardbattle if he had had any brainwaves, Arthur recounted his own idea enthusiastically.
‘You want to advertise . . . in the nationals?’ Mr Hardbattle was not convinced. ‘I don’t think that The Times would print that sort of advertisement, Arthur.’
‘Oh,’ said Arthur, trying not to feel discouraged. ‘What about some other paper . . . or a magazine, perhaps? Let’s go and do some research.’
‘Now?’ Mr Hardbattle said. ‘What about my customers?’
‘What customers?’ said Arthur. There was no one in the shop.
Feeling a little browbeaten, Mr Hardbattle walked to the door and flipped over the sign so that it said Closed. Then he put on his hat and coat and allowed Arthur to lead him to the paper shop in the next street. It was a small shop, but despite being the size of a beach hut, it stocked hundreds of newspapers, comics and magazines. These were crammed on to shelves, which spread from ceiling to floor. In order to find the publication of your choice a lot of rummaging was usually involved.
‘We need to think carefully about the type of person that we’d be appealing to,’ Mr Hardbattle said. Despite initial doubts, Arthur’s idea was beginning to grow on him.
‘What about Homes & Gardens?’ asked Arthur. He held up a magazine.
‘The people who buy Homes & Gardens like their houses to be spick and span,’ pointed out Mr Hardbattle. ‘We need someone with lower standards who doesn’t mind if their furniture’s shabby or if their garden goes to seed.’
‘But they have to be kind,’ insisted Arthur, keen for the magic to have a considerate minder. ‘Old ladies are kind,’ he said, pointing to the cover of a magazine which featured a grey-haired lady in a cashmere cardigan, holding a Persian cat.
‘Something more unorthodox, that’s what we should be looking for,’ Mr Hardbattle said, burrowing under a pile of sticker albums. ‘A magazine for oddballs who believe in the weird and wonderful, like witches and crop circles . . .’
They decided that they would take out adverts in Kindred Spirit, The Lady and Farmers Weekly. Mr Hardbattle purchased a copy of each magazine and a bag of peppermint-flavoured sweets, which he felt would aid them in their task of putting together their advert.
‘Have a bullseye,’ he said in the doorway of the shop.
‘Cheers,’ said Arthur, taking a huge, round sweet out of the bag and popping it in his mouth.
Cheeks bulging, they marched back to the bookshop and once they had put their hands on pencils and paper, they got down to business straight away. It took longer than they had imagined to write the advertisement. Arthur was not that bothered about the wording, but Mr Hardbattle was a perfectionist when it came to composing even the briefest piece of writing. The task was made even harder by the arrival of Miss Quint, who insisted on putting her twopenn’orth in. It took until midday to come up with an advert that all three of them were satisfied with.
.
FREE TO GOOD HOME!
MAGIC REQUIRES TRANQUIL, RUN-DOWN RESIDENCE TO LIVE IN FOR THE LONG-TERM. HOMEOWNER MUST BE KIND AND RESILIENT. THOSE OF A HOUSE-PROUD NATURE NEED NOT APPLY.
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PLEASE CONTACT: MR M. G. HARDBATTLE OF HARDBATTLE BOOKS, MEADOW STREET, PLUMFORD, EAST SUSSEX.
.
They had to wait weeks rather than days for their advert to be printed in the three magazines. By the middle of May, readers were starting to reply and soon post was pelting Mr Hardbattle’s doormat daily. After sifting through the letters, Mr Hardbattle put aside twelve identified as having potential. Of the remaining replies, eight were from time-wasters, three were from family or friends enquiring about his health and the last – on perfumed notepaper – was from Mrs Elizabeth Trinket, who expressed the hope that Mr Hardbattle knew what he was doing.
Late on a Friday afternoon, towards the end of May, Mr Hardbattle, Arthur and Miss Quint had a conference.
‘Twelve possibles,’ Mr Hardbattle murmured, moving towards a map of Great Britain, which he had tacked on to the wall. ‘They all sound promising, but, of course, they’ll have to be checked out. What’s the name of the first place, Arthur?’
‘Somersham,’ said Arthur, taking the letter from the top of the pile. It was from a Mrs Jean Passworthy who lived in a labourer’s cottage in the countryside.
‘That’s in Suffolk,’ said Mr Hardbattle, taking the lid off a marker pen. He found Somersham on the map and drew a thick red circle round
it. ‘Read out the next place, Arthur, please.’
By the time that they had finished, the map looked as if it had contracted chickenpox.
‘One of the places is quite nearby,’ said Arthur, smearing the red ink with his finger as he pointed it out on the map. Several miles north-east of Plumford was a village called Thornwick.
Miss Quint looked up from a letter that she had been perusing. ‘Arthur and I could tackle that one for you, if you like.’
‘Good idea!’ said Mr Hardbattle, staring at the map. His eyes moved rapidly behind his horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘Common sense dictates that I should hop from one place to the next, but that would mean I’d have to take at least a week off work,’ he said, ‘and I daren’t leave the shop for any length of time. There’s no telling what mischief the magic might get up to.’
‘You need someone to shop-sit!’ concluded Arthur. ‘I’d do it if I didn’t have to go to school!’
Mr Hardbattle’s hazel eyes widened and after smiling at Arthur he shifted his gaze to Miss Quint. ‘I wonder, dear lady, if you’d consider stepping into the breach?’ he said. ‘Your duties wouldn’t be too burdensome. You’d merely need to keep an eye on the shop, feed Scallywag and see that Trunk’s spirits don’t sink too low.’
Miss Quint considered his proposal for a moment or two, then with a determined nod of her head she said, ‘I’ll do it!’
The prospect of looking after the shop prompted Miss Quint to take a walk around it. ‘This place could do with a woman’s touch,’ she said, running her finger along a dust-caked shelf. ‘I assume you’d be offering me bed and board. I’ll break the news to Mirabel right away. I could move in as soon as you like.’
‘Great!’ Arthur said and glanced at Mr Hardbattle, who, to his surprise, looked less than pleased.
It had not occurred to Mr Hardbattle that Miss Quint might want to move into his shop. He had lived on his own for more years than he could remember and it filled him with horror to think of someone else hanging their clothes in his wardrobe and having a soak in his bath. He felt that it was only right that he should warn Miss Quint about the inconveniences that she would have to put up with.
‘The mattresses are lumpy and the cistern makes a gurgling noise. And there are spiders – huge fellows – and no television set. Oh, and the windows mustn’t be opened more than a crack for fear of disturbing the dust.’
Miss Quint did not turn a hair at the mention of these aggravations. ‘It sounds like a palace compared to Mirabel’s!’ she joked. Then she unzipped her handbag and drew out a pen. ‘So, that’s settled. Good. Where’s your notebook, Mr Hardbattle? I think it’s high time we discussed your trip.’
The spiral-bound notebook was produced and Miss Quint began to compile a list. ‘You’ll need to work out your route beforehand and plan where you’re going to stay each night,’ she said, scribbling down each thought as soon as it occurred to her.
Mr Hardbattle was rather put out to have his expedition organised for him. However, he was too polite to say so, and had to be satisfied with contributing the odd remark: ‘My camera could do with a new film . . . I’ll need to shine my shoes before I go . . . Travel sickness pills – they’re a must . . . I’d better take a torch. Oh, and a pair of overalls.’
Arthur thought of five or six suggestions of his own, the best of them being an evaluation sheet, which he offered to draw up.
‘This way every building gets a score,’ Arthur explained as he started to rule lines on a sheet of A4 paper. ‘I’ll put in lots of categories and each of them can be marked out of ten. We’ll also need columns for total percentage and rank.’ In minutes, an impressive-looking table had taken shape. After writing The Best Place for Magic to Live In? in large, untidy letters at the top of the page, Arthur glanced up at Mr Hardbattle and grinned.
‘If only my homework was this interesting!’ he said.
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Chapter Six
Company for Miss Quint
Having been persuaded to travel by bus (which was free to all holders of a senior citizen’s pass), Mr Hardbattle dangled the keys of the van above Miss Quint’s outstretched palm. He did not seem to want to let go of them. As he stood in the doorway of the bookshop, suitcase at his feet, he gave her the low-down on getting the best from his much-cherished vehicle.
‘Let her engine tick over before you put her in gear, and go easy round corners. Try not to yank the steering wheel if you can help it. Keep an eye on the temperature gauge. Don’t let her overheat. Oh, and remember to check her oil. She gobbles it up, the greedy girl.’
‘What is it about men and cars?’ said Miss Quint to no one in particular. She snatched the keys from Mr Hardbattle’s grasp and shooed him away. ‘Go on, you old fusspot! You’ll miss your bus!’
‘My instructions!’ he fretted. ‘You haven’t mislaid them? Oh, and say goodbye to Arthur from me.’
‘No,’ said Miss Quint patiently. ‘And yes, I will.’
‘Poor chap!’ said Mr Hardbattle. ‘He’ll be in double Geography now with that buffoon, Mr Beaglehole. I do hope our map of South America was up to scratch. You’ll take an interest in his homework, won’t you, Miss Quint?’
‘Yes . . . yes,’ Miss Quint muttered. ‘Off with you, now! Not a word more. Go and find a new home for the You Know What – and don’t lose any sleep in the meantime. Your shop is in safe hands.’
Mr Hardbattle had not walked more than half a dozen steps when he heard a mournful whine coming from an upstairs window. Scallywag’s spotted muzzle was poking through a Venetian blind. That morning, sensing that something was up, she had followed her master all over the house, then lain down by his suitcase, her head on her paws. When the time had come for Mr Hardbattle to leave, it had been necessary to shut her in an upstairs room or she would undoubtedly have bolted after him.
There had been no need to go to such lengths with Trunk. Fond of Mr Hardbattle though the elephant was, he had never been known to stray from his shelf, haunted by the fear that his forgetful little mistress might return without him noticing.
‘Cheerio, Scally, old girl! I’ll be back in a week or so!’ shouted Mr Hardbattle, wiping a tear from his eye. He walked to the corner of the road and stopped to wave before vanishing round it.
‘Right!’ said Miss Quint, shutting the door of the bookshop. The bell jingle-jangled with a note of melancholy. ‘That’s got rid of him. Now, I’m sure I saw some fruit cake in a cupboard in the kitchen. Time for elevenses, I think.’
Miss Quint soon stamped her personality on the shop. Though she had promised not to polish or vacuum, she made changes. In the shop, she tidied as much as she dared, putting books in order on the shelves and filing paperwork. She cleared out the till drawer, finding a shilling amongst the change, which had long since ceased to be legal tender.
Upstairs in the living quarters she was just as thorough. Beds were aired and floors were swept lightly with a dustpan and brush. Everything out of date in the kitchen cupboards was thrown away. Miss Quint baked bread. She made marmalade and jam. The mop was encouraged to slosh water a little more tidily over the floor, and the salt and pepper shakers were asked not to empty themselves over every dish (they had always had a tendency to be overly keen). She used up leftovers and fed vegetable peelings to the dog. On the third day, when the magic ran amok, she made trifle topped with custard from the second to last stair. Her arrival brought order and thriftiness and the magic did not know quite what to make of her.
For the first few days she kept herself busy and then boredom set in.
A people person, Miss Quint’s whole purpose of being was to chat and there was not much of that in a bookshop whose average clientele was three customers per day. Scallywag could be relied upon to wag her tail, sigh, yawn, bark and scratch at the door, but that was the limit of her communicative powers. The origami sheep could onl
y bleat repeatedly, and Trunk did not say anything, having a trunk and a pair of tusks, but sadly no mouth. Miss Quint yearned to be asked to hand deliver books and when she received a request she made the most of it, keeping the customer talking on their doorstep for as long as she could. However, these opportunities were few and far between.
For the most part, Miss Quint had to content herself with listening to Mr Hardbattle’s old transistor radio, but after a while, the magic started to change the station at vital moments in news bulletins and afternoon plays, and it also developed the habit of turning the volume up and down. Eventually Miss Quint grew so annoyed with the magic that she returned the radio to the bathroom cabinet where she had found it.
Without fail, Arthur dropped by every day after school. Trunk barely acknowledged him, but both Scallywag and Miss Quint viewed Arthur’s arrival as the highlight of their day. Scallywag greeted Arthur by tugging at his trouser legs (the only bad habit that she had retained, following on from a naughty puppy-hood). There was a brief interlude while Scallywag fetched her lead, then copious tail wagging until he took her for a walk. Miss Quint’s form of welcome was more demure, but no less enthusiastic. Watching for Arthur from the window, she was always ready at the door to let him in. She took his bag, hung up his coat and asked about his day, before telling him in great detail about her own.
While Scallywag and Arthur were taking their walk to the park, Miss Quint occupied herself with pouring him an orange squash, putting biscuits on a plate, plumping the cushion on the wing chair that was Arthur’s usual seat and setting out his exercise books and pencil case on a small oak table. On his return, she babbled to Arthur until he asked her to stop so that he could make a start on his homework. Miss Quint was no scholar. She had only three O levels to her name, but she did her best to assist him as well as she could. She found books on relevant subjects on the shelves and made what she thought were helpful suggestions, but otherwise respected his wishes and tried to leave him alone (never fully succeeding).
