The Serial Garden: The Complete Armitage Family Stories

by Joan Aiken

  The Perrow family were peculiar in that none of them was more than six inches high. Ernie Perrow and his wife were cousins and lived with his old mother and their nine children. There had always been some Perrows in the village, but no one knew exactly why they were so small. There were various theories about it. Some people thought that a Perrow ancestor had been frightened by Stevenson's Rocket when he was young, and had never grown any more. Others said that it was a curse laid on the family by someone who had suffered from their bad temper, or that the Perrows always gave their children juniper wine instead of milk to keep them small.

  Whatever the cause of their small size, they were very proud of it, and seldom married outside the family. They were a hard-working, self-respecting clan, rather dour and surly, earning their living mostly by rat-catching, chimney-sweeping, drain-clearing, and other occupations in which their smallness was useful. The women did marvelous embroidery.

  They had always owned Rose Cottage, portioning it off, one or two rooms to each family. But Ernie's father, old Mrs. Perrow's husband, had been a waster and had been obliged to sell the cottage to Farmer Beezeley's father, who had let him stay on in it and pay rent. The present Beezeley was not so accommodating, and had been trying to get them out for a long time.

  Harriet and Mark watched with interest as the Perrows made their way up the path to the loft. Lily and Ernie were each pushing barrows loaded with household belongings, and a trail of minute children followed, some of them only an inch or so high. Harriet began to wonder how the children would manage to climb up the trellis, but they scrambled up like monkeys, while Ernie was rigging a pulley to take the furniture. At the end of the procession came old Mrs. Perrow carrying a bluebottle in a cage and keeping up a shrill incessant grumble.

  "What I mean to say, fine place to expect us to live, I'm sure. Full of cobwebs, no chimney—where's Lily going to put her oil stove? We shall all be stunk out with paraffin."

  Harriet was enraptured with the oil stove, which the resourceful Ernie had made out of biscuit tins and medicine glasses. She rushed off to call her father to come and see it. Unfortunately he arrived just as the stove, dangling at the end of the rope, swung inward and cracked a pane of the kitchen window. Mr. Armitage growled and retired again. He decided to soothe himself by watering his tomatoes, but had only just begun when he was startled by tiny but piercing shrieks; he found a small Perrow in a pram the size of an eggshell (and in fact made from one) in the shade of one of his tomato plants. He had just copiously sprinkled it with Liquifert. He hurried off in a rage, tripped over a long line of washing which had been strung between two hollyhocks, and had to replace twenty nappies the size of postage stamps fastened with clothes-pegs made from split matches bound with fuse wire.

  He strode indoors to find his wife.

  "This arrangement won't do,” he thundered. “I'll go and see that miserable Beezeley myself. I cannot have my garden used in this manner. I'm sure to tread on one of those children sooner or later."

  Mrs. Armitage ruefully looked at a little Perrow sobbing over the fragments of a doll's tea-set made from corn husks which she had trodden on before she saw it.

  "They do seem to spread,” she agreed.

  They heard frantic yells from the garden and saw two more children slide down from a cloche and run off, pursued by Ernie with a hairbrush.

  "You touch any of these things and I'll tan you,” he shouted.

  "It's no use, though,” Mrs. Armitage said. “Ernie and Lily do their best, but they can't be in nine places at once."

  Her husband clapped on his hat and rushed off to Beezeley's farm. He met Mr. Beezeley himself, just outside the gate of Rose Cottage.

  "Now look here, Beezeley,” he shouted. “What right have you to turn those Perrows out of Rose Cottage? They paid their rent, didn't they? You can't do things like that."

  "Oh yes, I can, Mr. Armitage,” Beezeley replied smoothly. “Rose Cottage belongs to me, and it's supposed to be an agricultural labourer's cottage intended for men working on my farm. Perrow never did a hand's turn for me. He was all over the village."

  "Indeed,” said Mr. Armitage dangerously, “and who is the agricultural labourer that you have put in, may I ask?"

  He turned to look at a huge Packard which stood outside the gate of Rose Cottage.

  "Here he comes now,” replied Mr. Beezeley agreeably. “Meet my new farm worker, Mr. Dunk R. Spoggin."

  "Well, well!” said that gentleman, strolling towards them. He wore a silk checked shirt, diamond tiepin, and red and white saddle shoes. “I sure am pleased to meet another new neighbour. Quaint little rural spot you live in here, Mr. Er. I aim to wake it up a little."

  Mr. Spoggin is going to work on my farm for a year,” explained Mr. Beezeley. “He has invented a new all-purpose agricultural machine which he wishes to try out, and my farm is going to be the testing ground. You can see them putting it up over there."

  Indeed, a small army of men in blue jeans were putting together something the size of a factory on the big meadow behind Beezeley's Farm.

  "It ploughs, harrows, sows, manures, hoes, applies artificial heat, sprinkles with D.D.T., reaps, threshes, and grinds,” Mr. Spoggin informed them. “It raises a crop in three days and has it harvested and out of the way in another three. Three days later, the field is ready for a second crop. We should get sixty crops off that field of yours, Mr. Beezeley, in the course of the next year."

  Mr. Armitage looked incredulous. Dunk R. Spoggin drew himself up.

  "You don't believe me, eh? Let me tell you I am the Dunk R. Spoggin, maker of the Spoggin Combine, the Spoggin Diesel Dam Dredger, the Spoggin Potato Clamper, the Spoggin Gloucester Old Spot Scratcher, and the Spoggin Gilt-Edged Pig Palace. I could buy out Henry Ford anytime, if I wanted to. Have a cigar.” He held out a two-foot one.

  Mr. Armitage accepted, and turned to find that Mr. Beezeley had strolled away to inspect the new machine.

  "Won't you find it rather confined in Rose Cottage? Surely it is smaller than the sort of thing you are used to?” he asked.

  Mr. Spoggin smiled expansively.

  "Why no, I just love your quaint little old houses. This one is genuine Tooder, I understand. Mr. Beezeley wanted to lease it to me, but I said straight out, ‘No, Mr. Beezeley, I am a buying man. I'll give you twenty thousand for it, take it or leave it.’”

  "Twenty thousand pounds?"

  "Pounds, yes, sir."

  "And did he take it?"

  "He did, and a cheaper property I've never bought. I felt downright mean, and nearly clapped another twenty on top of the first."

  Mr. Armitage came home to lunch very thoughtful, and told his wife about their new neighbor.

  "No hope of getting the Perrows back if he's bought the place,” he said. “I'm afraid we're fixed with them for life."

  After lunch Mrs. Armitage said: “Children, if you're going into Bunstable this afternoon, could you get me some embroidery silks? I don't seem to have as many as I thought I had."

  "I know where they are,” thought Harriet, who had seen all the little Perrow girls with beautiful new hair ribbons and sashes.

  "And some napkin rings in Woolworth's, please. All those seem to have gone, too."

  A loud cry outside the window startled them, and Mark got there in time to see the butcher's boy trip on the path and scatter chops all over the pansies. The object that had tripped him appeared to be a napkin ring, which was being bowled by a small Perrow boy.

  "Right, napkin rings and embroidery silks,” he said. “That all? Coming, Harriet?"

  Harriet always preferred the right-hand side of the Bunstable High Street, because the left side was all taken up with banks, house agents, coal merchants, and building societies, none of which have interesting shop windows. Today, however, her eye was caught as she cycled slowly along by a notice in a house agent's window, and giving a shout to Mark, who was in front, she jumped off and went to investigate.

  TO LET: DOLLS’ HOUSE
4FT. HIGH. MOD. CON.

  DESIRABLE RESIDENCE, NEWLY DECORATED

  SEEN BY ARRANGEMENT INQUIRE WITHIN

  Harriet and Mark ran inside and saw a shady, seedy, young man picking his nails behind a deal desk. On a table at the back of the room was an elegant Queen Anne house with steps up to a pillared porch and bow windows.

  "Oh,” breathed Harriet, all eyes. Mark was brisker.

  "We wish to inquire about the dolls’ house,” he said.

  "Yes, sir. A delightful family residence. Two recep., three bed, kitchen, bath, usual offices. Calor gas lighting and heating installed by last tenant, who vacated suddenly. Do you wish to have an order to view?"

  "Can't we just view it?” asked Harriet, gazing covetously through a bow window at one of the two recep.

  "Oh dear, no, madam. It's all locked up. The keys are obtainable from the owner."

  "Where does the owner live?"

  "The address is Mrs. Maria Nightshade, Cobweb Corner, Dead Man's Lane, Blackwood."

  Harriet and Mark burst into tea full of enthusiasm. “We've found a house for the Perrows,” they cried. Their parents looked sceptical.

  "Old Mrs. Nightshade? I seem to know the name. Isn't she a witch?"

  "Very likely,” Harriet said. “She lives in a dark little den full of pots and jars with a black cat and an owl. But the dolls’ house is lovely, just think how pleased the Perrows will be."

  They were having their tea in the kitchen, and at that moment an outburst of thuds and angry screeches reminded them that the Perrows were just overhead.

  "It will certainly be nice for them to have a separate room for old Mrs. Perrow,” Mrs. Armitage agreed. “I always think it's a mistake to live with your mother-in-law."

  She took the lid off the jam jar and found a small Perrow girl inside, having a peaceful feast and coated from head to foot in raspberry.

  "Oh dear. Harriet, put Elsie on this saucer—I should pick her up with sugar tongs—and take her to her mother. Really, it's just like the evacuees all over again."

  Harriet did as she was requested, holding Elsie under the tap on the way in spite of howls.

  "There she is, the wicked little thing,” exclaimed Lily. “I'm sorry, miss, I'm sure, but really they're that active it's a job to keep up with them all."

  She was putting them to bed, so Harriet postponed telling her about the house and ran back to the tea-table, where Mark was explaining that they had paid a quarter's rent in advance.

  "And they are bringing the house out tomorrow."

  "Where are they going to put it? Not in my garden, I beg."

  "No, no, Miss Rogers said it could go at the end of her field."

  "What's the rent?"

  Harriet and Mark looked a little guilty.

  "It's three packets of birthday candles a week—the pink, white, and blue ones."

  "Funny sort of rent,” remarked her father suspiciously.

  "Well, you see, she can't get them herself. People won't sell them to her in case she makes wax images, you know, and sticks pins in them."

  "She'll be able to make plenty now,” Mr. Armitage said drily. “However, far be it from me to interfere in any arrangement which rids us of the Perrows."

  An aniseed ball thudded against the window and cracked it. The Perrow boys were playing hockey with pencil hockey sticks from Woolworth's which Mark had generously but thoughtlessly given them.

  "That's the eighth window,” said Mrs. Armitage resignedly.

  Next day the Perrows moved out amidst universal rejoicing. Harriet and Mark went along to Miss Rogers's field to hear cries of delight at the sight of the beautiful house, but the Perrow enthusiasm was very lukewarm.

  "Just look at all those big windows to clean,” said Lily gloomily. “And Calor gas. Where am I going to put my oil stove? These old-fashioned houses are always draughty, too."

  "Don't you take any notice of her, miss. She's pining for the cottage and that's the truth,” Ernie apologized.

  They seemed to settle in comfortably enough though, old Mrs. Perrow taking the best front room, and Harriet and Mark presently strolled away to see how Mr. Beezeley's new cultivator was getting on. It now covered the entire hundred-acre field and looked like the Crystal Palace. Through the glass walls nothing could be seen but machinery, with Mr. Dunk R. Spoggin darting among the cogs and belts.

  They saw Mr. Beezeley and said good morning to him rather coldly.

  "Morning, morning, young people,” he replied. “Bitter weather for the time of year, isn't it. My rheumaticks are terrible bad."

  Indeed he was walking with great difficulty, almost doubled up.

  "You'll be glad to hear that the Perrows have found a suitable house,” Harriet said shortly. “They've rented Mrs. Nightshade's dolls’ house."

  "Old Mrs. Nightshade over at Blackwood?” said Mr. Beezeley, bursting into hearty laughter. “I sold her a couple of hens that had the henbane once. She's never forgiven me; I bet she'd do me a bad turn if she could. But all's fair in love and farming, I say. Ugh, this rheumatism is fairly crippling me."

  The children left him and went home.

  "Gosh,” said Harriet, “do you suppose Mrs. Nightshade is giving him rheumatism?"

  "Well, he jolly well deserves it. I hope she ties him in knots."

  When they arrived home they were dismayed to hear Mrs. Perrow's shrill, complaining voice in the kitchen.

  "What I mean to say, it's a fine thing, first to turn us out of our house, then have to live in a loft, all cobwebs though kindly meant I daresay, not what we're used to, and then when we move into the new house what do we find?"

  "Well, what do you find?” said Mrs. Armitage patiently.

  "Nothing won't stay put!” cried Mrs. Perrow. She had climbed onto a chair and was standing on it, quivering with indignation. “You put down the kettle and it flies across and sticks on the wall. There's all Lily's bottled elderberries fallen down and broken and the daisy wine full of ashes that blew out of the fire by themselves, and young Sid's got a black eye from the mustard, and the bedroom door slammed and knocked baby down the stairs, and the dishes fall off the dresser all the time, it won't do, Mrs. Armitage, it really won't do."

  "Oh dear,” Mrs. Armitage said sympathetically, “it sounds as if you have a poltergeist."

  "Can't say about that, Mum, but it's not good enough for me and Ernie and Lily, and that's a fact. We'd sooner live in your house loft, though it's not what we're used to, but stay in that house we cannot and will not."

  Mrs. Armitage gazed at her in despair.

  Just at that moment, they all heard an extraordinary noise from the direction of Beezeley's farm, a sort of whistling which rose to a roar.

  "What can be going on?” exclaimed Harriet. “Let's go and see. I bet it's the new cultivator."

  They all ran out, leaving Mrs. Perrow to continue her complaints to an empty kitchen. A strange sight met their eyes as they reached the new cultivator. It was swaying from side to side, shuddering and groaning as if at any moment it might leave the ground and take off into the air. Mr. Spoggin was rushing about in great agitation with an oilcan. Mr. Beezeley was there too, but did not seem to be taking much notice; he was standing hunched up, looking very miserable and groaning from time to time.

  "Look!” said Mark, “there's corn sprouting through the walls."

  Wheat ears of an enormous size were pushing their way out between the panes of glass, and through the windows they could see that the whole inside was a tangled mass of stalks which continuously writhed and pushed upwards.

  "It's cursed,” cried poor Mr. Spoggin frantically. “None of my other machines has done this. Someone's put a hoodoo on it."

  As he spoke there was a shattering explosion. Bits of broken glass and ears of corn the size of vegetable marrows filled the air. Fortunately the spectators were all blown backwards across several fields by the blast, and came to rest, breathless but unhurt, in Miss Rogers's field outside the dolls’ house.

&nbs
p; "Well, that certainly is the end,” said Mr. Spoggin, struggling to his feet. “Never again do I try any experiments in your country. There must be something peculiar about the soil. I'm going straight back to the U.S.A. by the next boat.” He paused, with his mouth open and his eyes bulging.

  "That dolls’ house! Am I dreaming, or is it real?"

  "Oh, it's real, right enough,” they assured him gloomily as a saucepan and two little Perrows, inextricably entangled, rolled screaming and kicking down the front steps.

  "I must add it to my collection. I have the largest collection of dolls’ houses in five continents, including a real Eskimo child's dolls’ igloo, made out of genuine snow. I definitely must have that house."

  "That's a fine thing,” shrieked Mrs. Perrow, who had come up behind him in time to hear this. “And where do we live, I should like to know?"

  Mr. Spoggin was visibly startled but recovered himself quickly and bowed to her.

  "I'll make you a present of my place, ma'am,” he said. “It's a poky little hole, I only paid twenty thousand pounds for it, but such as it is, it's yours. Just up the road, Rose Cottage is the name. Here are the title deeds.” He pulled them out of his pocket.

  "We'll take you to see the agent,” Harriet said quickly. “The dolls’ house doesn't belong to the Perrows, and I don't know if the owner will want to sell. I fancy she prefers letting it."

  "She'll sell,” said Mr. Spoggin confidently. “Where's Tin Lizzie?"

  He found his Packard roosting in a nearby hawthorn tree and whirled them off to the agent, who received them warily. He was evidently used to complaints from tenants.

  "If you want your quarter's rent back, I'm afraid it's out of the question,” he said at once. “It's been used already."

  "I want to buy that dolls’ house,” shouted Mr. Spoggin. “Name your figure."

  "I should warn you that it's haunted,” Harriet muttered. “There's a poltergeist in it."

  "Haunted?” said Mr. Spoggin, his eyes like stars. “A haunted dolls’ house! It'll be the gem of the whole collection.” He was in ecstasies.