by Joan Aiken
Mr. Johansen reached the end of the piece as Mark entered. He put down his fiddle and smiled welcomingly.
"Ach, how gut! It is the young Mark."
"Hullo, sir."
"You know,” confided Mr. Johansen, “I play to many audiences in my life all over the world, but never anywhere do I get such a response as from zese dear doggies—it is really remarkable. But come in, come into ze house and have some coffee cake."
Mr. Johansen was a gentle, white-haired elderly man; he walked slowly with a slight stoop and had a kindly, sad face with large dark eyes. He looked rather like some sort of dog himself, Mark always thought, perhaps a collie or a long-haired dachshund.
"Sir,” Mark said, “if I whistle a tune to you, can you write it down for me?"
"Why, yes, I shall be most happy,” Mr. Johansen said, pouring coffee for both of them.
So Mark whistled his tune once more; as he came to the end, he was surprised to see the music master's eyes fill with tears, which slowly began to trickle down his thin cheeks.
"It recalls my youth, zat piece,” he explained, wiping the tears away and rapidly scribbling crotchets and minims on a piece of music paper. “Many times I am whistling it myself—it is wissout doubt from me you learn it—but always it is reminding me of how happy I was long ago when I wrote it."
"You wrote that tune?” Mark said, much excited.
"Why, yes. What is so strange in zat? Many, many tunes haf I written."
"Well—” Mark said, “I won't tell you just yet in case I'm mistaken—I'll have to see somebody else first. Do you mind if I dash off right away? Oh, and might I borrow a dog—preferably a good ratter?"
"In zat case, better have my dear Lotta—alzough she is so old, she is ze best of zem all,” Mr. Johansen said proudly. Lotta was his own dog, an enormous shaggy lumbering animal with a tail like a palm tree and feet the size of electric polishers; she was reputed to be of incalculable age; Mr. Johansen called her his strudel-hound. She knew Mark well and came along with him quite biddably, though it was rather like leading a mammoth.
Luckily his mother, refreshed by her day at the sea, was heavily engaged with Agnes the maid in spring cleaning. Furniture was being shoved about, and everyone was too busy to notice Mark and Lotta slip into the playroom.
A letter addressed to Mark lay among the clutter on the table; he opened and read it while Lotta foraged happily among the piles of magazines and tennis nets and cricket bats and rusting electronic equipment, managing to upset several things and increase the general state of huggermugger in the room.
Dear Sir, (the letter said—it was from Messrs. Digit, Digit & Rule, a firm of chartered accountants)—We are in receipt of your inquiry as to the source of pictures on packets of Brekkfast Brikks. We are pleased to inform you that these were reproduced from the illustrations of a little-known 18th-century German work, Steinbergen's Gartenbuch. Unfortunately the only known remaining copy of this book was burnt in the disastrous fire which destroyed the factory and premises of Messrs. Fruhstucksgeschirrziegelsteinindustrie two months ago. The firm has now gone into liquidation and we are winding up their effects. Yours faithfully, P. J. Zero, Gen. Sec.
"Steinbergen's Gartenbuch,” Mark thought. “That must have been the book that Princess Sophia Maria used for the spell—probably the same copy. Oh, well, since it's burned, it's lucky the pictures were reproduced on the Brekkfast Brikks packets. Come on, Lotta, let's go and find a nice princess then. Good girl! Rats! Chase ‘em!"
He sang the spell and Lotta, all enthusiasm, followed him into the garden.
They did not have to go far before they saw the princess—she was sitting sunning herself on the rim of the fountain. But what happened then was unexpected. Lotta let out the most extraordinary cry—whine, bark, and howl all in one—and hurled herself towards the princess like a rocket.
"Hey! Look out! Lotta! Heel!” Mark shouted in alarm. But Lotta, with her great paws on the princess’ shoulders, had about a yard of salmon-pink tongue out, and was washing the princess’ face all over with frantic affection.
The princess was just as excited. “Lotta. Lotta! She knows me, it's dear Lotta, it must be! Where did you get her?” she cried to Mark, hugging the enormous dog, whose tail was going round faster than a turbo prop.
"Why, she belongs to my music master, Mr. Johansen, and it's he who made up the tune,” Mark said.
The princess turned quite white and had to sit down on the fountain's rim again.
"Johansen? Rudolf Johansen? My Rudi! At last! After all these years! Oh, run, run, and fetch him immediately, please! Immediately!"
Mark hesitated just a moment.
"Please make haste!” she besought him. “Why do you wait?"
"It's only—well, you won't be surprised if he's quite old, will you? Remember he hasn't been in a garden keeping young like you."
"All that will change,” the princess said confidently. “He has only to eat the fruit of the garden. Why, look at Lotta—when she was a puppy, for a joke I gave her a fig from this tree, and you can see she is a puppy still, though she must be older than any other dog in the world! Oh, please hurry to bring Rudi here."
"Why don't you come with me to his house?"
"That would not be correct etiquette,” she said with dignity. “After all, I am royal."
"Okay,” Mark said. “I'll fetch him. Hope he doesn't think I'm crackers."
"Give him this.” The princess took off a locket on a gold chain. It had a miniature of a romantically handsome young man with dark curling hair. “My Rudi,” she explained fondly. Mark could just trace a faint resemblance to Mr. Johansen.
He took the locket and hurried away. At the gate something made him look back: the princess and Lotta were sitting at the edge of the fountain, side by side. The princess had an arm round Lotta's neck; with the other hand she waved to him, just a little.
"Hurry!” she called again.
* * * *
Mark made his way out of the house, through the spring-cleaning chaos, and flew down the village to Houndshaven Cottage. Mr. Johansen was in the house this time, boiling up a noisome mass of meat and bones for the dogs’ dinner. Mark said nothing at all, just handed him the locket. He took one look at it and staggered, putting his hand to his heart; anxiously, Mark led him to a chair.
"Are you all right, sir?"
"Yes, yes! It was only ze shock. Where did you get ziss, my boy?"
So Mark told him.
Surprisingly, Mr. Johansen did not find anything odd about the story; he nodded his head several times as Mark related the various points.
"Yes, yes, her letter, I have it still"—he pulled out a worn little scrap of paper—"but ze Gartenbuch it reached me never. Zat wicked Gertrud must haf sold it to some bookseller who sold it to Fruhstucksgeschirrziegelsteinindustrie. And so she has been waiting all ziss time! My poor little Sophie!"
"Are you strong enough to come to her now?” Mark asked.
"Naturlich! But first we must give ze dogs zeir dinner; zey must not go hungry."
So they fed the dogs, which was a long job as there were at least sixty and each had a different diet, including some very odd preferences like Swiss roll spread with Marmite and yeast pills wrapped in slices of caramel. Privately, Mark thought the dogs were a bit spoiled, but Mr. Johansen was very careful to see that each visitor had just what it fancied.
"After all, zey are not mine! Must I not take good care of zem?"
At least two hours had gone by before the last willow-pattern plate was licked clean, and they were free to go. Mark made rings around Mr. Johansen all the way up the village; the music master limped quietly along, smiling a little; from time to time he said, “Gently, my friend. We do not run a race. Remember I am an old man."
That was just what Mark did remember. He longed to see Mr. Johansen young and happy once more.
The chaos in the Armitage house had changed its location: the front hall was now clean, tidy, and damp; the rumpus of vacuumi
ng had shifted to the playroom. With a black hollow of apprehension in his middle, Mark ran through the open door and stopped, aghast. All the toys, tools, weapons, boxes, magazines, and bits of machinery had been rammed into the cupboards; the floor where his garden had been laid out was bare. Mrs. Armitage was in the playroom taking down the curtains.
"Mother! Where's my Brekkfast Brikks garden?"
"Oh, darling, you didn't want it, did you? It was all dusty, I thought you'd finished it. I'm afraid I've burned it in the furnace. Really, you must try not to let this room get into such a clutter, it's perfectly disgraceful. Why, hullo, Mr. Johansen, I'm afraid you've called at the worst possible moment. But I'm sure you'll understand how it is at spring-cleaning time."
She rolled up her bundle of curtains, glancing worriedly at Mr. Johansen; he looked rather odd, she thought. But he gave her his tired, gentle smile, and said,
"Why, yes, Mrs. Armitage, I understand, I understand very well. Come, Mark. We have no business here, you can see."
Speechlessly, Mark followed him. What was there to say?
"Never mind,” Mrs. Armitage called after Mark. “The Rice Nuts pack has a helicopter on it."
* * * *
Every week in The Times newspaper you will see this advertisement:
BREKKFAST BRIKKS PACKETS. 100 pounds
offered for any in good condition,
whether empty or full.
So if you have any, you know where to send them.
But Mark is growing anxious; none have come in yet, and every day Mr. Johansen seems a little thinner and more elderly. Besides, what will the princess be thinking?
[Back to Table of Contents]
Mrs. Nutti's Fireplace
* * * *
* * * *
Mark, who wished to get rid of the space gun his great-uncle had sent him, and acquire something more useful, had brought home a copy of Exchange and Mart.
"'Princess-type boiler fireplace exchanged for gent's bicycle,'” he read aloud consideringly.
"But we don't want a fireplace,” Harriet pointed out. “And we haven't a bicycle."
"Or there's five gross jazz-coloured balloons, a tiger's head, and two whale teeth. Offered in exchange for go-kart or griffin's eggs."
"The balloons would be nice.” Harriet swallowed her last bite of cake—they were having a Friday tea—and came to hang over his shoulder. “If we had a go-kart."
"'Sale or exchange road-breaker tools interested arc welder, spray plant, w.h.y. Buyer collects.’ I do wonder w.h.y.? They seem queer things to collect."
"'Pocket Gym, judo suit, height increaser, neck developer, strength course, weights and Dynamic Tension course.’ That seems a bargain. Only three pounds."
"No height increasers in this family, thanks,” said Mr. Armitage, without looking up from his evening paper. “Or weight increasers. Kindly remember the house is three hundred years old."
"'A hundredweight of green garnishing in 10-inch sections, de-rinder and sausage-spooling machinery'; they might come in handy for Christmas decorations,” Harriet said thoughtfully.
"'One million toys at 65p per 100, including Woo-Woos, Jumping Shrimp, et cetera.’”
"Mother wouldn't like the Jumping Shrimp."
"I would not,” agreed Mrs. Armitage, pouring herself another cup of tea.
"Gosh! ‘7 in. span baboon spider with 1/2 in. fangs, 5 pounds.’”
"No."
"I don't really want it,” Harriet said hastily. “But—listen—'2 1/2-year-old Himalayan bears, only 42 pounds'—oh, Mother, they'd be lovely. ‘Or would exchange griffin's eggs.’ What a pity we haven't any of those. Lots of people seem to want them."
"Forty-two pounds? You can't be serious. Besides, it would be too warm for Himalayan bears here."
"'Various rattlesnakes, 6 ft Mangrove snake, 8 pounds.’”
"Shall we get away from this section?” Mr. Armitage suggested, lowering his paper. “Anyway, isn't it time for your music lesson, Mark?"
"Yes, in just a minute. Here's something that might interest Mr. Johansen,” Mark said. “'Would exchange room in town for room in country; pleasant outlook required. View by appointment.’ Mr. Johansen was saying only last week that he wished he had a bedsit in London so that he could go to concerts and not always have to miss the last movement to catch the ten-fifteen. I'll take this along to show him."
"Bring it back, though,” said Harriet, who did not want to lose track of the Himalayan bears.
Mark was very fond of Mr. Johansen, his music teacher, a sad, gentle man who, as well as teaching the piano and violin, had for many years run a dogs’ weekend guest house. Lately, however, he had given up the dogs because he said he was growing too old to exercise them properly. When young, he had been in love with a German princess who had been lost to him by an unfortunate bit of amateur magic. He had never married. Everybody in the village liked him very much.
"Look, Mr. Johansen,” said Mark, before settling down to his five-finger exercises. “You were saying only the other day that it was a pity not to use your spare room; here's somebody want to exchange a room in town for once in the country. Don't you think that would do for you?"
"Ach, so?” Mr. Johansen carefully scanned the advertisement. “Why yes, ziss might certainly be useful. I wvonder wvere ziss room is? I will write off to ze box number.” He made a note of it.
A week passed. Harriet, who had developed a passionate wish for a Himalayan bear, was hardly seen; she spent every evening making very beautiful dolls’ furniture out of egg-shells, plastic egg-boxes, yoghurt, pots, snail shells, and shampoo containers; when she had a hamper full of furniture, she hoped to sell it all to a London toyshop for the price of a bear. She had not mentioned this plan to Mrs. Armitage, who thought that a cat and a unicorn were sufficient pets for one family.
"Candleberry's lovely to ride on,” Harriet said to Mark, “but you can't bring him indoors. And Walrus is always out catching mice. A bear would be cozy."
Mark was in the middle of his lesson with Mr. Johansen the following week when there came a brisk peal at the front-door bell. The music master opened the door and let in an uncommon-looking old lady, very short, very wrinkled, rather like a tortoise with a disagreeable expression, wearing rimless glasses and a raincoat and sou'-wester which might have been made of alligator-skin. She limped, and walked with a stick, and carried a carpet-bag which seemed to be quite heavy.
"Answer to advertisement,” she said in a businesslike manner. “Name, Mrs. Nutti. Room in town exchange room in country. Which room? This one?"
She stumped into the music-room. Mark twirled around on his music-stool to look at her.
"No, no. Upstairs,” said Mr. Johansen. “Ziss way, if you please."
"Good. Upstairs better. Much better. Better outlook. Air fresher. Burglars not so likely. Can't do with burglars—Well, show way, then!"
Mr. Johansen went ahead, she followed; Mark came, too.
The music teacher's house was really a bungalow, and the spare room was really an attic-loft, with sloping ceilings. But it had big dormer windows with a pleasant view of fields and woods; Mr. Johansen had painted the walls (or ceiling) sky blue, so that you could imagine you were out on the roof, rather than inside a room; there was blue linoleum on the floor, an old-fashioned bed with brass knobs and a patchwork quilt, and an even older-fashioned washstand with a jug and basin covered in pink roses.
"Very nice,” said Mrs. Nutti, looking round. “Very nice view. Take it for three months. Beginning now."
"But wait,” objected Mark, seeing that Mr. Johansen was rather dazed by this rapid dealing. “He hasn't seen your room yet. And shouldn't you exchange references or something? I'm sure people always do that."
"References?” snapped Mrs. Nutti. “No point. Not exchanging references—exchanging rooms! You'll find my room satisfactory. Excellent room. Show now."
She snapped her fingers. Mark and Mr. Johansen both lost their balance, as people do in a fairgroun
d trick room with a tilting floor, and fell heavily.
Mark thought as he fell,
"That's funny, I'd have said there was lino on this floor, not carpet."
"Donnerwetter!” gasped Mr. Johansen (Mark had fallen on top of him). They clambered to their feet, rather embarrassed.
"It is zose heavy lorries,” the music master began explaining apologetically. “Zey do shake ze house so when zey pass; but it is not so very often—"
Then he stopped, staring about him in bewilderment, for Mrs. Nutti was nowhere to be seen.
Nor, for that matter, was the brass-headed bed, the patchwork quilt, the washstand with jug and roses, the blue ceiling—
"Gosh,” said Mark. He crossed to one of two high, lattice casement windows, treading noiselessly on the thick carpet, which was intricately patterned in red, blue, rose-colour, black, and gold. “Gosh, Mr. Johansen, do come and look out."
The music master joined him at the window and they gazed together into a city filled with dusk, whose lights were beginning to twinkle out under a deep-blue clear sky with a few matching stars. Below them, a street ran downhill to a wide river or canal; a number of slender towers, crowned with onion-shaped domes, rose in every direction; there were masts of ships on the water and the cries of gulls could be heard.
Immediately below there was a small cobbled square and, on the opposite side of it, a café with tables set under a big leafy tree which had lights strung from its branches. A group of men with odd instruments—long curving pipes, bulb-shaped drums, outsized Jews’ harps—were playing a plaintive tune, while another man went around among the tables, holding out a wooden bowl.
"I do not understand,” muttered Mr. Johansen. “Wvat has happened? Wvere are we? Wvere is Mrs. Nutti? Wvere is my room?"
"Why, don't you see, sir?” said Mark, who, more accustomed to this kind of thing, was beginning to guess what had happened. “This must be Mrs. Nutti's room that she said she'd show you. I thought she meant in London, but of course in the advertisement it didn't actually say London it just said ‘room in town'—I wonder what town this is?"
