by Joan Aiken
Poor Dizzry continued to cry, on and off, for the rest of the day. Harriet tried to console her but it seemed horridly probably that Min had at last gone too far and been swallowed by a cow or drowned in a sump or rolled into a Swiss roll at the bakery while stealing jam—so many ill fates might easily have befallen her that it was hard to guess the likeliest.
"I'll help you hunt for her this evening,” Harriet promised, however, “and so will Mark. As soon as my birthday tea's finished."
Dizzry came home with Harriet for the birthday tea and was a little cheered by the cake, made in the shape of a penguin with black-currant icing and an orange beak, and by Harriet's presents, which included a do-it-yourself water-divining kit from Mark (a hazel twig and a bucket of water), an electronic guitar that could sing as well as play, a little pocket computer for working out sums, and from the children's fairy godmother a tube of endless toothpaste. Harriet was not particularly grateful for this last; the thought of toothpaste supplied for the rest of her life left her unmoved.
"I'd rather have an endless supply of licorice,” she said crossly. “Probably I won't have any teeth left by the time I'm ninety; what use will toothpaste be then?"
Her presents from Dizzry were by far the nicest: a pink-and-orange necklace of spindleberries, beautifully carved, and a starling named Alastair whom Dizzry had trained to take messages, answer the telephone or the front door, and carry home small quantities of shopping. (At first Harriet was a little anxious about Walrus the cat's reactions to this new member of the household, and indeed Walrus was somewhat aggressive, but Harriet found she had no need to worry: Alastair had also been trained to defend himself against cats, and Walrus soon learned to keep his paws to himself.)
"Now,” said Mrs. Armitage rather nervously when the presents had been admired, “I'd better show Harriet the Closed Room."
Mr. Armitage hurriedly retired to his study while Mark, controlling some natural feelings of envy, kindly said he would help Dizzry hunt for Min, and carried her off to inspect all the reapers and binders in Mr. Beezeley's farmyard.
Harriet and Mrs. Armitage went up to the attic, and Mrs. Armitage paused before a cobweb-shrouded door and pulled a rusty key out of her pocket.
"Now you must say, ‘I, Harriet Armitage, solemnly swear not to reveal the secret of this room to any other soul in the world.’”
"But when I grow up and have a daughter,” objected Harriet, “won't I have to tell her, just as Great Aunt Charlotte told you and you're telling me?"
"Well, yes, I suppose so,” Mrs. Armitage said uncertainly. “I'd rather forgotten how the oath went, to tell you the truth."
"Why do we have to promise not to tell?"
"To be honest, I haven't the faintest idea."
"Let's skip that bit—there doesn't seem much point to it—and just go in,” Harriet suggested. So they opened the door (it was very stiff, for it had been shut at least fifteen years) and went in.
The attic was dim, lit only through a patch of green glass tiles in the roof; it was quite empty except for a small, dusty loom, made of black wood with a stool to match.
"A loom?” said Harriet, very disappointed. “Is that all?"
"It isn't an ordinary loom,” her mother corrected her. “It's a hairloom. For weaving human hair."
"Who wants to weave human hair? What can you make?"
"I suppose you make a human hair mat. You must only use hair that's never been cut since birth."
"Haven't you tried?"
"Oh, my dear, I never seemed to get a chance. By the time your father's Aunt Charlotte showed me the loom everyone was wearing their hair short; you couldn't get a piece long enough to weave for love or money. And then you children came along—somehow I never found time."
"Well, I jolly well shall,” Harriet said. “I'll try and get hold of some hair. I wonder if Miss Pring would let me have hers? I bet it's never been cut—she must have yards. Maybe you can make a cloak of invisibility, or the sort that turns swans into humans."
Harriet was so pleased with this notion that only as they went downstairs did she think to ask, “How did the loom get into the family?"
"I'm a bit vague about that,” Mrs. Armitage admitted. “I believe it belonged to a Greek ancestress that one of the crusading Armitages married and brought back to England. She's the one your middle name Penelope is after."
Without paying much attention, Harriet went off to find Mark and Dizzry. Her father said they had gone along to the church, so she followed, pausing at the post office to ask elderly Miss Pring, the postmistress, if she would sell her long gray hair to be woven into a rug.
"It would look so pretty,” Harriet coaxed. “I could dye some of it pink or blue."
Miss Pring was not keen.
"Sell my hair? Cut it off? The idea! Dye it? What impertinence! Get along with you, saucebox!"
So Harriet had to abandon that scheme, but she stuck a postcard on the notice board: HUMAN HAIR REQUIRED, UNCUT; BEST PRICES PAID, and posted another to the local paper. Then she joined Mark and Dizzry, who were searching the church organ pipes for Min, but without success.
Harriet had met several other members of the Perrow family on her way: Ernie, Min's father, driving an old doll's pushchair that he had fitted with an engine and turned into a convertible like a Model T Ford; old Gran Perrow, stomping along and gloomily shouting “Min!” down all the drainholes; and Sid, one of the boys, riding a bike made from cocoa tins and poking out nests from the hedges with a bamboo stick in case Min had been abducted.
When it was too dark to go on searching, Harriet and Mark left Dizzry at Rose Cottage, where the Perrows lived.
"We'll go looking tomorrow!” they called. And Harriet said, “Don't worry too much."
"I expect she'll be all right wherever she is,” Mark said. “I'd back Min against a mad bull any day."
As they walked home he asked Harriet, “What about the Closed Room, then? Any monsters?"
"No, very dull, just a hairloom."
"I say, you shouldn't tell me, should you?"
"It's all right—we agreed to skip the promise to keep it secret."
"What a letdown,” Mark said. “Who wants an old loom?” They arrived home to trouble. Their father was complaining, as he did every day, about soot on the carpets and black tidemarks on the bathroom basin and towels. “Well, if you don't want me to find Lady Anne's necklace—” Mark said aggrievedly. “If it was worth a thousand pounds when she lost it in 1660, think what it would fetch now."
"Why in heaven's name would it be up the chimney? Stop arguing and go to bed. And brush your teeth!"
"I'll lend you some of my toothpaste,” Harriet said.
"Just the same,” Mark grumbled, brushing his teeth with yards of toothpaste so that the foam stood out on either side of his face like Dundreary whiskers and flew all over the bathroom, “Ernie Perrow definitely told me that his great-great-great-grandfather, Oliver Perrow, had a row with Lady Anne Armitage because she ticked him off for catching field mice in her orchard; Oliver was the village sweep, and her pearls vanished after that; Ernie thinks old Oliver stuck them in the chimney to teach her a lesson, and then he died, eaten by a fox before he had a chance to tell anyone. But Ernie's sure that's where the pearls are."
"Perhaps Min's up there looking for them too."
"Not her! She'd never do anything as useful as that."
Harriet had asked Alastair the starling to call her at seven; in fact, she was raised at half past six by loud bangs on the front door.
"For heaven's sake, somebody tell that maniac to go away!” shouted Mr. Armitage from under his pillow.
Harriet flung on a dressing gown and ran downstairs. What was her surprise to find at the door a little old man in a white duffel coat with the hood up. He carried a very large parcel wrapped in sacking. Harriet found the sharp look he gave her curiously disconcerting.
"Would it be Miss Armitage now, the young lady who put the advertisement in the paper then?"<
br />
"About hair?” Harriet said eagerly. “Yes, I did. Have you got some, Mr.—?"
"Mr. Thomas Jones the Druid, I am. Beautiful hair I have then, look you—finer than any lady's in the land. Only see now till I get this old parcel undone!” And he dumped the bundle down at her feet and started unknotting the cords. Harriet helped. When the last half-hitch twanged apart, a great springy mass of hair came boiling out. It was soft and fine, dazzlingly white, with just a few strands of black, and smelled slightly of tobacco.
"There, now, indeed to goodness! Did you ever see finer?"
"But,” said Harriet, “has it ever been cut short?” She very much hoped that it had not; it seemed impossible that they would ever be able to parcel it up again.
"Never has a scissor blade been laid to it, till I cut it all off last night,” the old man declared.
Harriet wondered whose it was; something slightly malicious and self-satisfied about the old man's grin as he said “I cut it all off” prevented her from asking.
"Er—how much do you want for it?” she inquired cautiously.
"Well, indeed,” he said. “It would be hard to put a price on such beautiful hair, whatever."
At this moment there came an interruption. A large van drew up in front of the Armitage house. On its sides iridescent bubbles were painted, and, in rainbow colors, the words SUGDEN'S SOAP.
A uniformed driver jumped out, consulting a piece of paper.
"Mr. Mark Armitage lives here?” he asked Harriet. She nodded.
"Will he take delivery of one bathroom, complete with shower, tub, footbath, deluxe basin, steel-and-enamel hairdryer, and a six year's supply of Sugden's Soap?"
"I suppose so,” Harriet said doubtfully. “You're sure there's no mistake?"
The delivery note certainly had Mark's name and address on it.
"Mark!” Harriet yelled up the stairs, forgetting it was still only seven a.m. “Did you order a bathroom? Because it's come."
"Merciful goodness!” groaned the voice of Mr. Armitage. “Has no one any consideration for my hours of rest?"
Mark came running down, looking slightly embarrassed.
"Darn it,” he said as he signed the delivery note, “I never expected I'd get a bathroom; I was hoping for the free cruise to Saposoa."
"Where shall we put it, guv?” said the driver, who was plainly longing to go away and get some breakfast at the nearest truck-driver's pull-up.
Mark looked about him vaguely. At this moment Mr. Armitage came downstairs in pajamas and a very troublesome frame of mind.
"Bathrooms? Bathrooms?” he said. “You've bought a bathroom? What the blazes did you want to go and get a bathroom for? Isn't the one we have good enough for you, pray? You leave it dirty enough. Who's going to pay for this? And why has nobody put the kettle on?"
"I won it,” Mark explained, blushing. “It was the second prize in the Sugden's Soap competition. In the Radio Times, you know."
"What did you have to do?” Harriet asked.
"Ten uses for soap in correct order of importance."
"I bet washing came right at the bottom,” growled his father. “Greased stairs and fake soft centers in chocolates are more your mark."
"Anyway he won!” Harriet pointed out. “Was that all you had to do?"
"You had to write a couplet too."
"What was yours?"
Mark blushed even pinker. “Rose or White or Heliotrope, Where there's life there's Sugden's Soap."
"Come on now,” said the truck driver patiently. “We don't want to be here all day, do we? Where shall we put it, guv? In the garden?"
"Certainly not,” snapped Mr. Armitage. He was proud of his garden.
"How about in the field?” suggested Harriet diplomatically. “Then Mark and I can wash in it, and you needn't be upset by soot on the towels."
"That's true,” her father said, brightening a little. “All right, stick it in the field. And now will somebody please put on a kettle and make a cup of tea, is that too much to ask?"
And he stomped back to bed, leaving Mark and the driver to organize the erection of the bathroom in the field beside the house. Harriet put a kettle on the stove and went back to Mr. Jones the Druid, who was sunning himself on the front porch.
"Have you decided what you want for your hair?” she asked.
"Oh,” he said. “That is a grand new bathroom you have with you! Lucky that is, indeed. Now I am thinking I do not want any money at all for my fine bundle of hair, but only to strike a bargain with you."
"Very well,” Harriet said cautiously.
"No bathroom I have at my place, see? Hard it is to wash the old beard, and chilly of a winter morning in the stream. But if you and your brother, that I can see is a kindhearted obliging young gentleman, would let me come and give it a bit of a lather now and again in your bathroom—"
"Why, yes, of course,” Harriet said. “I'm sure Mark won't mind at all."
"So it shall be, then. Handy that will be, indeed. Terrible deal of the old beard there is, look you, and grubby she do get."
With that he undid his duffel coat and pulled back the hood. All around his head and wound about his body like an Indian sari was a prodigiously long white beard that he proceeded to untwine until it trailed on the ground. It was similar to the white hair in the bundle, but not so clean.
"Is that somebody's beard, then?” Harriet asked, pointing to the bundle.
"My twin brother, Dai Jones the Bard. Bathroom he has by him, the lucky old cythryblwr! But soon I will getting a bigger one. Made a will, my dad did, see, leaving all of his money to the one of us who has the longest and whitest beard on our ninetieth birthday; that falls tomorrow on Midsummer Day. So I crept into his house last night and cut his beard off while he slept; hard he'll find it now to grow another beard in time. All Dada's money I will be getting, he, he, he!"
Mr. Jones the Druid chuckled maliciously.
Harriet could not help thinking he was rather a wicked old man, but a bargain was a bargain, so she picked up the bundle of beard, with difficulty, and was about to say good-bye when he stopped her.
"Weaving the hair into a mat, you would be, isn't it?” he said wheedlingly. “There is a fine bath mat it would make! Towels and curtains there are in the grand new bathroom of yours but no bath mat—pity that is, indeed.” He gave her a cunning look out of the corner of his eyes, but Harriet would not commit herself.
"Come along this evening, then, I will, for a good old wash-up before my birthday,” Mr. Jones said. He wound himself in his beard again and went off with many nods and bows. Harriet ran to the field to see how the bathroom was getting on. Mark had it nearly finished. True enough, there was no bath mat. It struck Harriet that Mr. Jones’ suggestion was not a bad one.
"I'll start weaving a mat as soon as we've had another thorough hunt for Min Perrow,” she said. “Saturday, thank goodness, no school."
However, during breakfast (which was late, owing to various events) Ernie Perrow drove along in the pushchair with Lily and Dizzry to show the Armitages an air-letter which had arrived from the British Consul in Cathay.
Dear Sir or Madam,
Kindly make earliest arrangements to send passage money back to England for your daughter Hermione who has had herself posted here, stowed away in a box of Health Biscuits. Please forward without delay fare and expenses totaling 1,093 pounds. 7s.1d.
A postscript, scrawled by Min, read: “Dun it at larst! Nuts to silly old postmun!"
"Oh, what shall we do?” wept Mrs. Perrow. “A thousand pounds! How can we ever find it?"
While the grown-ups discussed ways and means to raise the money, Mark went back to his daily search for Lady Anne's pearls, and Harriet took the woebegone Dizzry up to the attic, hoping to distract her by a look at the hairloom.
Dizzry was delighted with it. “Do let's do some weaving!” she said. “I like weaving better than anything."
So Harriet lugged in the great bundle of beard, and they set up
the loom. Dizzry was an expert weaver. She had been making beautiful scarves for years on a child's toy loom. She could nip to and fro with the shuttle almost faster than Harriet's eyes could follow. By teatime they had woven a handsome thick white mat with the words “Bath Ma” across the middle (there had not been quite enough black for the final T).
"Anyway you can see what it's meant to be,” Harriet said. They took the new mat and spread it in their elegant bathroom.
"Tell you what,” Mark said, “we'd better hide the bath and basin plugs when Min gets back or she'll climb in and drown herself."
"Oh, I do wonder what Dad and Mum are doing about getting her back,” sighed Dizzry, who was sitting on a sponge. She wiped her eyes on a corner of Harriet's cloth.
"Let's go along to your house,” Harriet said, “and find out."
There was an atmosphere of deep gloom in the Perrow household. Ernie had arranged to sell his Model T pushchair, the apple of his eye, to the Motor Museum at Beaulieu.
"A thousand pounds they say they'll give for it,” he said miserably. “With that and what I've saved from the chimney sweeping, we can just about pay the fare. Won't I half clobber young Min when I get her back, the little varmint!"
"Mrs. Perrow,” Harriet said, “may Dizzry come and spend the evening at our house, as Mother and Daddy are going to a dance? And have a bath in our new bathroom? Mother says it's all right, and I'll take great care of her."
