by Anna Dale
Mr Claggitt and Mrs Voysey-Brown were dealt with first. The magic disposed of them swiftly, snuffing them out like feeble flames. When it came to Jimmy’s turn, Mr Hardbattle chose to impart some words of wisdom before the deed was done.
‘It’s clear that you possess brains, young man,’ Mr Hardbattle said, eyeing Jimmy earnestly. ‘It’s a great pity, however, that you could not think of better ways to make use of them. I trust you will endeavour to do so in future.’
‘Don’t bank on it!’ Jimmy said, and flashed his cocksure grin.
Mr Hardbattle sighed.
Glancing down at Champagne for Geraldine, Arthur found Jimmy’s name in the text. He put his finger on it and started to say the words that would send Jimmy home. At the critical moment, the arrogant sneer on Jimmy’s face faded and, for a brief second, he looked downcast.
When the bookshop had been emptied of the three undesirables, there followed several minutes of celebration. Miss Quint seized Mr Hardbattle’s hand and waltzed him around the shop; Arthur whooped for joy and Scallywag chased her tail. Over by the fireplace, Susan gave Trunk a kiss, which caused the plump little elephant to turn a backwards somersault. Susan was pleased that the robbers had been sent packing, but she did not feel as cock-a-hoop about it as the others. The method of the gang’s removal had shocked her to the core and she suddenly felt an urge to be by herself. Deciding to take a walk in the park, she got up from her seat and replaced Trunk gently on the cushion of the chair. Before she could reach the door, however, it opened and the bell above it jangled as a customer entered the shop.
All the joy in Arthur’s heart evaporated when he saw that the customer was Mr Beaglehole. Scallywag was similarly horrified, and Arthur’s reactions had to be quick to grab hold of her collar before she launched herself at the man and punctured his skin with her teeth.
‘Come about my book!’ Mr Beaglehole said in his usual abrasive manner. He marched up to Mr Hardbattle’s desk and planted his fat, pink hands on it. Then he began to examine the pile of books that he found there. It being a hot summer’s day, Mr Beaglehole was wearing shorts, and the sight of his bulging, fleshy calves was too much for Scallywag to bear. Arthur clung to her manfully as she bared her teeth and scrabbled at the floor, straining to get close enough to give him a nip.
‘The name’s Beaglehole,’ said Arthur’s teacher, his eyes settling on Mr Hardbattle, whom he decided was the person in charge. ‘I ordered the damn thing days ago. What kind of shambolic outfit are you running here?’
When Mr Beaglehole revealed who he was, Mr Hardbattle’s back stiffened and he carefully adjusted his spectacles.
‘I am the manager of this bookshop,’ Mr Hardbattle said. He removed his hand from Miss Quint’s waist and dipped his head politely, thanking her for their impromptu dance. Then he walked behind his desk.
‘Is that your teacher?’ whispered Miss Quint, stooping to speak to Arthur.
He nodded, unable to stop a look of intense dislike from creeping on to his face.
Miss Quint glared too, and so did Susan. Even Trunk made an effort to fill his eyes with loathing, but as they were very small and made from felt, it was quite a challenge to get the emotion across.
Mr Hardbattle turned to rummage through some books in a box behind him and drew out a slim blue volume with a triumphant ‘Aha!’
‘That mine?’ Mr Beaglehole asked.
‘Yes, by good fortune it seems that your book has arrived,’ Mr Hardbattle told him. He glanced at the book’s title and a nervous tic jiggled his eye. ‘The Future Is Nuclear, hmm?’ he said. ‘I hope very much that that won’t be the case. There are preferable, less toxic alternatives.’
‘Yeah? What would you know about it?’ Mr Beaglehole said.
‘Bits and bobs,’ Mr Hardbattle answered.
Mr Beaglehole made a disparaging noise. ‘Well, I happen to teach that boy over there geography so I think we can both assume that I’m more of an expert than you!’
Mr Beaglehole may have majored in geography, but he was woefully uninformed about the subject of magic. He did not know, for example, that if a bookshop filled with magic is exposed to a glut of negative energy emitted by several persons and directed at one point of focus at the same time, it can cause palms to tremble in their pots and stairs to turn to custard.
In the bookshop, there was a kind of a lull. The only sound was the blaring, monotonous voice of Mr Beaglehole, making one complaint after another. Arthur glanced about him. The air seemed to be pulsing. It felt like a storm was brewing.
‘Sixteen pounds ninety-nine?’ raged Mr Beaglehole. ‘For that teeny-weeny paperback?’ He snatched the book from Mr Hardbattle’s grip – and that was the moment that all hell broke loose.
Books flew off the shelves, flapping their board covers as if they were wings, and dropped like rocks on to Mr Beaglehole’s head.
‘Ouch! Yow! Ooh!’ cried Mr Beaglehole, too surprised to comprehend what was going on. He tossed The Future Is Nuclear on to the desk and folded his arms over his head to protect it. ‘Goodenough, is that you?’ he bellowed. ‘You’d better stop throwing those books at once!’
Arthur could not help laughing. ‘It’s nothing to do with me, sir,’ he said.
Next, the staples and drawing pins combined their forces to launch an offensive on Mr Beaglehole’s toes. (His feet were clad in sandals, which made them vulnerable to attack.) Breaking out of their corral of coloured pencils, the origami sheep joined in the onslaught, tickling his ankles with their paper hooves as the staples and drawing pins did their worst.
Mr Beaglehole lifted his knees and danced on the spot, wailing with pain.
‘Watch out!’ warned Miss Quint. ‘The rubber bands want their share of glory!’
Mr Hardbattle ducked down behind his desk as the entire box of rubber bands lined up on a rug and pinged themselves at the teacher’s bare legs. That final assault proved to be the last straw and, dodging the black cat bookends, which were attempting to trip him up, Mr Beaglehole stumbled out of the doorway and ran off down the street.
.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Pastures New
‘You were awesome!’ cried Arthur, applauding the magic. He had enjoyed the spectacle of his bullying form teacher reduced to a cowering wreck.
Mr Hardbattle frowned and shook his head. ‘You mustn’t show such appreciation, Arthur. That sort of behaviour oughtn’t to be encouraged.’
Reluctantly, Arthur stopped clapping. He tidied up the shop instead, helping the others to pick up the books which had bombarded Mr Beaglehole. After that chore was done, he crouched on the floor to collect all the staples, drawing pins and rubber bands. He sorted them into piles and replaced them in their containers.
‘Well done, everyone!’ Arthur whispered when he thought that Mr Hardbattle was out of earshot.
Arthur jumped when he felt a tap on the shoulder. ‘Now then, Arthur!’ Mr Hardbattle scolded. ‘That teacher fellow needed bringing down a peg or two, I’d agree with you on that, but you must accept that the magic overstepped the mark. It’s totally out of control.’
Proving, once more, that he was a thorough sort of chap, Mr Hardbattle broached another subject. ‘Before we resume our search for somewhere else to put my magic,’ he said to Arthur, ‘I think there’s another matter that we should attend to, don’t you?’
Arthur felt a horrible prickling sensation creep up his spine. The uncomfortable feeling had almost reached the nape of his neck when the shop bell jingle-jangled and his dad peered round the door.
‘Arthur, there you are!’ said his dad with relief. ‘I wasn’t sure if this was the place. I’ve brought your bicycle, just as you asked. What were you thinking of earlier, charging off in that great big lorry? You wait till your mother hears what you did!’
Trying not to sound too
conceited, Arthur informed him that he had been on a rescue mission to secure the safe return of Lady Smythe-Hughes. ‘You must have heard that she’d been kidnapped,’ said Arthur. ‘You wait and see: my picture will be in the paper and my friend’s will too.’ He beckoned to Susan so that he could introduce her.
‘Gracious heavens!’ Arthur’s father said. ‘What a heroic thing to do!’ He held out a hand to Susan. ‘Pleased to meet you, pet.’
‘And this is Mr Hardbattle and this is Miss Quint,’ said Arthur, completing the introductions. ‘Oh! Where’s Tilly?’ he asked his father.
‘Right here,’ his father said, tugging on a small hand. Tilly’s arm and sleeve were visible, but the rest of her remained out of sight, loitering just beyond the doorway. ‘She’s the reason we didn’t get here sooner,’ Arthur’s dad explained. ‘Your sister said she wanted to see the whole parade. She’s been rabbiting to all and sundry for the entire day, but, bless her, she’s suddenly decided to be shy!’
It was Susan who persuaded Tilly to come into the shop, by telling the little girl that there was magic inside. Wrinkling her nose and declaring that the shop smelt pooey, Tilly stepped through the doorway and began to look around.
On the cushion of the chair where Susan had left him, Trunk sat bolt upright and his ears unfolded and raised themselves high. Keeping his black felt eyes trained on Tilly, he pushed himself off the seat cushion and landed on his bottom on the floor. Once he had jumped up, he approached the girl in stops and starts, until he shook off his hesitance and ran to her with his front feet outstretched.
‘Look, Daddy!’ Tilly said, cupping her hands around her knees and bending over to look at him. ‘A walking hippopotamus!’
Trunk did not appear to mind that he had been misidentified. He took the last few centimetres in one bound, then jumped into her arms.
‘He’s all squishy-squashy!’ said Tilly delightedly, hugging the elephant to her chest.
Everyone in the bookshop stared. Arthur, Mr Hardbattle, Susan and Miss Quint could not believe their eyes. Before today, it had not been known for Trunk to stray from his shelf and now, here he was, in the embrace of a little girl. Not having come across a soft toy that could move of its own accord, Arthur’s father was more mystified than anyone.
‘But that’s not . . .’ began Arthur. He knew that Trunk had been left behind in the bookshop, and since that day had been waiting for his little girl to return to claim him, but Arthur was sure that Tilly had never owned an elephant and was just as certain that she had not set foot in the bookshop before. ‘Mr Hardbattle,’ he whispered, ‘Trunk’s made a mistake. I think I’d better tell him –’
‘Don’t you dare,’ Mr Hardbattle breathed. He gave Arthur a steely look before addressing Arthur’s dad. ‘My elephant seems to have taken a shine to your daughter, sir. I wonder if she’d like to keep him?’
Arthur gasped. ‘Mr Hardbattle! But . . . you can’t . . . what about the other girl?’
‘A word, Arthur,’ Mr Hardbattle said. He steered Arthur across the shop to a more secluded area. ‘Now listen,’ he said to Arthur on reaching a suitably quiet corner. ‘Trunk has been sitting on that shelf above my desk, mooning over his owner, for the past ten years. She’s never going to walk back through that door – at least, not as the little girl that Trunk remembers.’
‘Oh,’ said Arthur, swallowing, ‘I see.’
When their little tête-à-tête was over, they rejoined the others. Miss Quint had been explaining to Arthur’s dad about the magic in the shop and although he had voiced disbelief at first, he had started to realise that Miss Quint must be telling the truth.
‘There’s magic all around me now? Fancy that!’ he said.
His aged knees protesting as he did so, Mr Hardbattle crouched down to speak to Arthur’s five-year-old sister. ‘Why don’t you choose a book, my dear, and read the little fellow a story? I’m sure that would go down a treat.’
Tilly nodded and ran to a rack of picture books. She selected one, sat down and crossed her legs, then settled the elephant in her lap.
Although no one could have guessed it from the euphoric angle of his tusks, Trunk knew that Tilly Goodenough was not his owner. A few hours ago, this knowledge would have bothered him, but since leaving his shelf he had felt like a different elephant. It was as if he had leaped from the past into the present when he jumped those few metres on to the floor.
The little girl who was reading to him had brown eyes instead of blue, but otherwise she was very like his little girl. She had the same rosy cheeks and clear-cut voice and the identical way of squeezing him gently round his middle. Trunk had come to feel at home in the bookshop, but what he wanted most of all was to be loved and cuddled and read stories to, and if this little girl was Arthur’s sister there was a good chance that she was a nice, caring child and a fair possibility that he was destined to be a very happy elephant.
‘Time to go, Tilly!’ said her father. ‘The animals have got to be fed, and I’m cooking supper tonight. Arthur, you’ll be home by six, won’t you?’
Tilly closed the picture book and scooped up Trunk. As she and her father left the shop, the elephant peeped over Tilly’s arms and waved his trunk at them all to say farewell.
A tear slithered down Mr Hardbattle’s cheek.
‘I’m a sentimental old fool, that’s what I am,’ he said, dabbing his eyes with his handkerchief.
Susan stood at the door and waved at Trunk and his new mistress until they were out of sight. ‘I’m jolly glad he’s found a new home,’ she said. ‘He looked awfully happy, didn’t he?’
‘He did,’ agreed Mr Hardbattle. ‘Everyone has a place where they feel that they should be. Mine is this bookshop, and yours . . .’
Susan wondered why Mr Hardbattle had stopped in mid-sentence. He had been about to tell her where it was that she belonged. Feeling puzzled and bewildered, she thought about asking him to continue with what he had been going to say. Then she saw that Mr Hardbattle was staring intently at Arthur, and that Arthur had his eyes fixed on the floor.
‘I’ll come straight out with it,’ Mr Hardbattle said. ‘I think you know where this young lady’s book is, Arthur.’
‘I . . .’ Arthur began and got no further.
Mr Hardbattle nodded. ‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘I think you’d better fetch it, don’t you?’
Arthur’s eyes flicked up guiltily and met Mr Hardbattle’s unflinching gaze. He knew that there was no denying it. Mr Hardbattle was far too shrewd, and lying was not Arthur’s strong point. Without a word, even to Miss Quint, who was staring at him, open-mouthed, Arthur went outside, got on his bike and rode home.
The book was under his mattress, where he had shoved it a week ago, realising that he did not want Susan to be unwished. He had told himself that he was merely borrowing the book, and hoped that Mr Hardbattle would not imagine that his furtive deed had been the same as stealing. As he cycled back to the bookshop with High Jinks in his saddlebag, Arthur thought of a hundred reasons to convince Mr Hardbattle that Susan should stay in Plumford and not be returned to her book.
When he re-entered Hardbattle Books, Arthur discovered that Miss Quint had been thinking along the same lines as him. She and Mr Hardbattle were embroiled in an argument.
‘She could live with me. I could adopt her,’ said Miss Quint, holding on tightly to Susan’s hand.
Mr Hardbattle’s mouth contracted. Clearly he did not agree. ‘That wouldn’t work! Susan isn’t a real child. There’s no certificate recording her birth. You’d get into hot water with the authorities –’
‘Paperwork can be faked!’ Miss Quint insisted stubbornly. ‘If Jimmy’s gang can get hold of dodgy dealers, I can find a forger.’
‘You’re missing the point,’ Mr Hardbattle said, frustrated that Miss Quint would not see reason. ‘Susan isn’t like other children. S
he’s a character from a book. She won’t get any older. Don’t you think people will find that odd? How will you cope in a few years’ time when she’s still eleven and you’re an old lady?’
Miss Quint looked ready to thump him. ‘I’m only forty-four!’ she shrieked. ‘I’m in my prime! You make me sound as if I’m already drawing my pension!’
Despite listing all the reasons that they had thought up, neither Arthur nor Miss Quint could persuade Mr Hardbattle that Susan should remain with them. He was sympathetic, but firm.
‘This is what comes of being careless and not sticking to my instructions,’ he said, wagging a finger at Miss Quint. Not letting Arthur off the hook either, Mr Hardbattle aimed his next rebuke at him. ‘If you hadn’t hidden her book, and had sent Susan back earlier –’
‘I couldn’t!’ said Arthur, the words sticking in his throat. ‘I’d got to like her. She’d become my friend.’
Mr Hardbattle was not unmoved by Arthur’s admission, but he still would not let it influence his judgement. He handed Miss Quint the copy of High Jinks and asked her to find the appropriate page. Miss Quint could barely see through the films of unshed tears in her eyes. She took some time about it.
While Miss Quint was leafing blindly through the book and Arthur was frowning, lost in thought, Susan stood quietly between them, taking everything in. She had known somewhere, lost down, that she did not belong in this world, but she had desperately yearned to be a part of it and that desire had confused her memory. She had grown very fond of Miss Quint and Arthur and dear old Scallywag the dog, and to be parted from them was a dreadful blow. If she had not felt so hollow inside she might have kicked up a fuss, but making a scene was not in her nature, and besides, she knew that it would do no good. Her fate was sealed and she would have to grin and bear it.
Arthur, however, had not finished protesting. ‘This isn’t fair!’ he railed. ‘It’s cruel, that’s what it is! Susan’s happy here with us. If you send her back to the book, what kind of a life will she have? She’ll have to stand by those dumb old railings, waiting for a go on those stupid swings today and every day afterwards . . . FOR EVER!’ Arthur’s throat felt tight and hurt so much that he could not utter another word.
