The Serial Garden: The Complete Armitage Family Stories

by Joan Aiken

  "Ha ha ha, he he he [they sang],

  Little broom stick, how I love thee."

  They were interrupted by Mr. Warlock.

  "Have any of you boys seen Mr. Whizzard?” he inquired. “He went to interview the young female prisoner, and I haven't seen him since."

  "No sir, he hasn't been in here,” the eldest one said. “Won't you come and play for us, Mr. Warlock? You do play so beautifully."

  "Well, just for five minutes, if you insist.” They began to sing again.

  "Necromancers come away, come away, come come away,

  This is wizard's holiday,"

  When suddenly they were aware of the three children, Mark, Harriet, and Sarah, standing inside the door, holding the red-and-blue crackers in their hands.

  "What is the meaning of this?” said Mr. Warlock severely. “You are trespassing on private property."

  "Yes,” said Mark. “Our property. This is our house, and we would like you to get out of it at once."

  "Vacate it,” whispered Harriet.

  "Vacate it at once."

  "We shall do no such thing."

  "Very well then. Do you know what we have here?” He held up one of the crackers. “Your Mr. Whizzard. And if you don't get out—vacate—at once, we shall pull them. So you'd better hurry up."

  The wizards looked at each other in consternation, and then, slowly at first, but with gathering speed, began to put their things together and take them out to the dragon-coach. The children watched them, holding the crackers firmly.

  "And you must take down all that beaverboard partitioning,” said Harriet. “I don't know what Mummy would say if she saw it."

  "The workmen have all gone home."

  "Then you must manage on your own."

  The house began to resound with amateurish bangs and squeaks. “Ow, Nightshade, you clumsy clot, you dropped that board on my toe.” “Well, get out of the way then, you nitwit necromancer."

  At last it was all done, and at the front gate the children handed over the twelve red and blue parts of Mr. Whizzard.

  "And it's more than you deserve,” said Harriet, “seeing how you were going to treat our poor Pa."

  "We should also like that screwdriver, with which I perceive you have armed yourself, or we shall not be able to restore our director to his proper shape,” said Mr. Warlock coldly.

  "Oh, dear me, no. You're nuts if you think we're going to let you get away with that,” said Sarah. “We shall want it in case of any further trouble. Besides, what about poor uncle—oh dear—” she stopped in dismay. For Mr. Warlock had disappeared, and his place had been taken by a sack of coconuts.

  "Oh, never mind,” said Harriet. “You didn't mean to do it. Here, do for goodness’ sake hurry up and go.” She shoved the sack into the arms of Nightshade, and bundled him into the coach, which slowly rolled off. “We must simply dash along to Mrs. Foster's. I'm sure Mummy will be worrying."

  They burst in on Mrs. Armitage with their story. “And where is your father?” she asked immediately.

  "Oh goodness.” Mark looked guilty. “I'd forgotten all about him.” He carefully extracted the half-stifled cuckoo from his trouser pocket.

  "Out with the screwdriver, Sarah."

  Sarah obediently pointed it at him and said “You're Uncle” and he was restored to himself once more, but looking much rumpled and tattered. He glared at them all.

  "I must say, that's a respectful way to treat your father. Carried in your trouser pocket, indeed!"

  "Well, I hope this will cure you once and for all of writing those unkind reviews,” said Mrs. Armitage coldly. “Now we have all the trouble of moving back again, and just when I was beginning to feel settled."

  "And talking of cures,” said Mr. Armitage, turning on his niece, “we won't say anything this time, seeing it's all turned out for the best, but if ever I catch you playing any of your practical jokes again—"

  "Oh, I never, never will,” Sarah assured him. “I thought people enjoyed them."

  "Not in this family,” said Mark.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Sweet Singeing in the Choir

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Daddy, have we really got a fairy godmother?” asked Harriet, dropping her basket full of holly leaves in a corner of the room and coming over to the fire, where tea was laid on a little table.

  "Possibly, possibly,” he replied, without coming out of his evening paper.

  "No, but really?” she persisted. “A rather silly-looking lady, with popping eyes and a lot of necklaces?"

  "Oh, yes, now I remember,” said Mr. Armitage, putting down his paper and starting to laugh. “She was the one who dropped you in the font. Your mother never took to her much. And right after the christening she tried to interest me in a scheme for supplying old fairy ladies with needlework patterns."

  "Goodness, can't they make their own?"

  "Apparently not. Yes, of course, she was going to give you each a wish for your christening presents, but your mother pointed out that if you had it, then you'd only wish for your lunch and it might be better to wait for a few years."

  "Yes, well, that's just it,” exclaimed Mark. “We met her just now in Farthing Wood, and she offered us a wish each, so we said could we think it over and tell her tomorrow; you know how it is on the spur of the moment, you can never think of anything sensible."

  "Very prudent of you,” murmured his father. “Try not to wish for anything that needs upkeep, will you, like race horses or airplanes. You know what the price of gasoline is now."

  Here Mrs. Armitage came in and started pouring tea.

  "Children, I'm afraid I've a disappointing message for you from Mr. Pontwell. He says he's very sorry but he doesn't think he can have you in the carol choir."

  "Not have us in the choir? But Mr. Willingdon always did."

  "Well, I suppose Mr. Pontwell is more particular about voices. He says he wants the singing to be especially good this year. And you know I don't mean to be unkind, but you can neither of you sing in tune at all."

  "Yes, the other day,” agreed Mr. Armitage, “I wondered who could possibly be sawing wood in the bathroom, only to find—"

  "Oh, he is a mean man,” said Harriet, taking no notice. “Nobody ever minds about keeping in tune in carols. And I do love carol-singing too. Oh, why did Mr. Willingdon have to go and get made a canon?"

  "Couldn't we go along with them and keep quiet?” suggested Mark.

  "No, I thought of that, but he said, ‘You know how effervescent Mark and Harriet are, there's no knowing what they'd do.’ I think he's afraid of you."

  "Well, I think that's most unkind of him. We'll just have to go out by ourselves, that's all."

  "No, no,” said Harriet, “don't you see what we can do? What about our fairy godmother and the wishes?"

  Next day, as arranged, they met the popeyed lady in Farthing Wood.

  "Well, dears,” she beamed at them. “Thought of a good wish?"

  "Yes, please,” said Mark. “We'd both like to have simply wonderful voices—to sing with, I mean."

  The lady looked a little blank. “Voices? Are you sure you wouldn't like a nice box of chocolates each? Or a pony?"

  "No, thank you very much. We have a unicorn already, you see. But we really do need good voices so that we can get into the carol choir."

  "Well,” she said doubtfully. “That's a rather difficult wish. I don't think I could manage it for you permanently. But perhaps for a week or two, I might be able to manage it—"

  "Oh, please do try.” They both looked at her imploringly.

  "Very well, dears, since it means such a lot to you.” She shut her eyes and clenched her fists with an appearance of terrific concentration. The children waited breathlessly.

  "Now, then,” she said after a moment or two, “try to sing a few notes."

  They were rather embarrassed and looked at each other for encouragement.

  "What shall we sing? ‘Goo
d King Wenceslas?'” They sang the first few lines rather timidly and were much disconcerted by the notes that boomed out—Harriet's voice had become a terrific contralto which would not have disgraced a twelve-stone prima donna, and Mark's was a deep and reverend bass.

  "I say, I hate to seem ungrateful, but couldn't we be soprano and treble—it would be more natural, don't you think?"

  "Perhaps you are right, pettie,” said the lady, and closed her eyes again, looking a shade martyred.

  "Oh dear, we are giving her a lot of trouble,” Harriet thought.

  This time the result was more satisfactory, and they thanked her with heartfelt gratitude.

  "How long will it last?” asked Mark.

  "Thirteen days. You will find that it wears off at midnight."

  "Like Cinderella,” said Harriet, nodding.

  "So remember not to give a performance just at that time. Well, dears, I am so pleased to have met you again, and please remember me to your dear Mamma."

  "Oh yes, she said do drop in to tea whenever you are passing. Good-bye, and thank you so much—you are kind—"

  When they had left her, they dashed straight to the vicarage and inquired for Mr. Pontwell, but were told that he was round at the church.

  The new vicar was a red-faced, rather pompous-looking man. He seemed slightly embarrassed at meeting Mark and Harriet.

  "Oh—er, hullo, my dear children. What can I do for you?"

  "Well, sir, it's about our being in the carol choir,” Mark plunged.

  Mr. Pontwell frowned. “Dear me, I thought I had made that perfectly plain to your dear mother. I am afraid I cannot see my way—"

  "No, but,” said Harriet, “we feel sure that you are acting under a wrong impression of our voices. You probably heard us on some occasion when Mark had a cold, and I was, um, suffering from my laryngitis, and of course you had quite a mistaken idea of what we could do. We just want you to be very kind and hear us again."

  "Well really, my dear children, I don't think that is the case, and there hardly seems much point in reopening the question—however, if you insist—"

  "Oh, we do insist,” agreed Mark. “What shall we sing, Harriet, ‘Oh, for the Wings of a Dove'?"

  They were much more confident this time, and opened their mouths to their widest extent.

  "Oh, for the weengs, for the weengs of a dove—

  Far away, far away would I rove."

  When Mr. Pontwell heard their exquisite treble voices soaring about among the rafters of the church, his eyes nearly popped out of his head, and he sat down suddenly in a nearby pew.

  "Good gracious,” he said, “I had no idea—of course, you were quite right to come. My dear children—gracious me, what an extraordinary thing. I had quite thought—but there, it only shows how mistaken one can be. You will indeed be an addition to the choir."

  He went on saying things like this as they walked through the churchyard.

  "You will come to the practices on Wednesdays and Saturdays, will you?"

  "Of course,” said Harriet anxiously, “and when are we going out singing?"

  "Monday evening, the nineteenth.” Mark and Harriet did some rapid calculation. Monday the nineteenth would be the last day of their thirteen days, which seemed cutting it rather fine.

  "I suppose it couldn't possibly be any earlier?” said Harriet. “You see, rather odd things sometimes happen to our family on Mondays—rather unaccountable things—and it would be so awful if we were late or prevented from coming or anything.” She was thinking of the day when their home had suddenly turned into a castle on the Rhine for twelve hours.

  "No, my dear, I'm afraid the date cannot be changed, as I have already made several arrangements for the evening, including a visit of the choir to Gramercy Chase. Sir Leicester will be most interested to hear you sing, so I do trust that you will not let any of these—er—unaccountable things happen during the day, or while you are out with the choir.” He looked at them sternly.

  * * * *

  "So you're really in the choir?” said Mr. Armitage that evening. “And going to Gramercy Chase. Well, well, it's a good thing it will be dark."

  "Why?"

  "It's the most hideous house between here and Birmingham. Sir Leicester always says he wishes he had a good excuse to pull it down. It was entirely rebuilt, you know, in nineteenth-century gothic, except for the haunted terrace."

  "Haunted?” said Harriet. “Oh, good. What by? That's where we're going to sing."

  "Oh, some bird, called King William's Raven (don't ask me why), who only appears to foretell bad tidings to the house of Gramercy. The last time was just before the current baronet was killed at Waterloo. He flies above the terrace lighting torches in the brackets—of course, they've put in electric lighting now, so I don't know how he'd manage—"

  * * * *

  Harriet and Mark had a somewhat difficult time at the choir practices, as all their village friends were only too familiar with their usual voices, and they had to face a considerable amount of chaff and a lot of astonishment at this sudden development of flute-like tones.

  "Been keeping quiet all these years, eh? Didn't want to waste yourself on us, I suppose?"

  "Ah,” said Ruby, the blacksmith's daughter, “they've heard as how Mr. Pontwell's going to have a recording made on Monday night."

  In fact, there was a general rumor going round that Mr. Pontwell had something special up his sleeve, and that was why he was so particular about the singers and the practices; though whether he was having the singing recorded, or royalty was going to be there, or some great impresario was staying at Gramercy Chase to hear them, was not known.

  Mr. Pontwell made a particular point of asking them to wear tidy dark clothes and rubber-soled shoes so that they should not squeak on people's gravel.

  "What a fusser he is,” Mark complained to Harriet.

  "Never mind,” she replied. “At least we're going to be there."

  Nothing untoward happened to Mark and Harriet on Monday the nineteenth. Indeed the day was suspiciously quiet, and they both of them became slightly anxious as evening approached. However they got safely away from home and met the other carol-singers in the vicarage at eight o'clock, as had been arranged. The vicar was handing out torches and carol books.

  "Now, are we all assembled? Excellent, excellent. I suggest we start off with a good rousing 'Adeste Fideles' outside the church, just to get our lungs in, then through the village as far as Little Foldings (should take a couple of hours), where Mrs. Noakes has very kindly promised us hot drinks, and Sir Leicester is sending the station wagon to collect us all there. We are expected at Gramercy Chase round about eleven o'clock."

  As they were starting on their first carol, Mark felt a cold nose pushed down his neck, and turned his head to look into the reproachful green eyes of Candleberry, their unicorn.

  "Goodness! I thought you were shut up for the night. Go home, bad unicorn,” he said crossly, but Candleberry shook his head.

  "Dear me, is that a unicorn?” said Mr. Pontwell at the end of "Adeste Fideles." “He shouldn't really be here, you know."

  "I'm very sorry,” said Mark. “I can't think how he got out. But he's extremely well trained. He won't interrupt, and he could carry anyone who got tired."

  "Very well,” said Mr. Pontwell. “He certainly makes a picturesque addition. But if there's the least sign of trouble, mind, you'll have to take him home."

  However, there was no trouble, though they had so many requests for encores that they arrived at Little Foldings very much behind schedule and had to gulp down their drinks and hurry out to the station wagon, which sped away through the dark across Gramercy Wold, with the unicorn easily keeping pace beside it. Even so, they arrived at the Chase well after half-past eleven.

  Sir Leicester welcomed them, and hurried them at once round to the terrace where they were to sing. Mark and Harriet tried to get a look at the hideousness of the house as they walked past it, but only received a genera
l impression of a lot of pinnacles and gargoyles. The terrace was enormous—at least half a mile long and twenty yards wide, extending to a low wall, which was topped by a series of lampposts, now fitted with electric lamps.

  The singers, hot and panting from their hurry, flung down coats and mufflers on the wall, and clustered together opposite the orangery door, where they were to sing. As they were finding their places for the first carol, there was a prodigious clattering of hoofs, and Candleberry arrived, galloping down the terrace like a Grand National winner. Mark went to meet him and quiet him down. When he returned, he muttered to Harriet:

  "Now I know what all the fuss was about. There are some blokes over there in the shade with a television camera. That's why Mr. Pontwell's been taking such a lot of trouble."

  "Well, do keep an eye on Candleberry,” she muttered back. “Oh, look, here comes Mr. Pontwell. Thank goodness, now we can start before I get nervous."

  They were halfway through their first carol when Mark noticed that Candleberry seemed very uneasy; he was shivering, stamping his feet, and looking over his shoulder a great deal. Mark himself glanced rather fearfully down the long, dark expanse of terrace.

  At the same time, Harriet heard something in her ear that sounded like a ratchet screwdriver being painstakingly worked into granite. She turned her head to listen and realized that it was Mark singing. She caught hold of his hand and tapped his watch.

  "Hey,” she whispered under cover of the singing, “it's midnight and we've lost our voices. Better pipe low. Bang goes our chance of charming thousands of listeners."

  Mr. Pontwell was energetically conducting “The Holly and the Ivy” when an unpleasant scent invaded his nostrils. He sniffed again—yes, it was the smell of burning clothes. Could it be that dratted unicorn, with its incandescent horn? Had it set fire to somebody's cap? He glanced about angrily, and then saw a flame leap up on the terrace wall.

  "I say,” called a voice through the singing, “someone's set fire to our coats!"

  In fact, the pile of coats and scarves was now blazing up in a positive bonfire.

  Instantly there was a clamor of angry voices, and the singing died away.

  "Ladies—gentlemen—my dear friends,” cried Mr. Pontwell in anguish, “please—the evening will be ruined—"