The Penderwicks on Gardam Street

by Jeanne Birdsall

  Moodily Tommy swung at the bag and missed. Jane was getting frustrated with him—certainly this was no way for a hero to behave.

  “You’re not going to get her by moping around, you know,” she said, abruptly letting go of the bag.

  “Get who?”

  “You know who. She needs action and valor. All girls do.”

  “Like that Cagney gave her, you mean?” Tommy tried to sneer when he said “Cagney,” but instead looked pitiful. “What do you know, anyway? You’re only ten.”

  “I’m a writer. Writers understand human emotions.”

  “Hooey,” he said.

  “Hooey yourself.” She felt tears pricking her eyelids. “Go be Superman, then. I’m sure you’ll do very well on some street that isn’t Gardam Street. And certainly I, who am only ten, won’t miss you.”

  She ran back across the street to grab the rake from her garage, realizing too late that she’d forgotten to ask Tommy if he wanted to help. But who wanted to rake leaves with a phoney Superman, anyway? Abandoning herself to the relief of tears, she pushed the leaves this way, then that way, then another, trying to build a big enough pile to crawl under. She was crying too hard to manage even that, though, so finally she simply lay down and pulled a few leaves over her face, and cried and cried until there were no more tears, but still she lay there, thinking that maybe she would stay forever, moldering along with the worms and the leaves, and at least she would help the lawn grow.

  Moldering on Gardam Street turned out to be difficult. Before even one worm appeared, the leaves were being tossed aside by someone large and black, and then that same someone was licking her face.

  “Oh, Hound,” Jane said. It was nice to be looked for, even if only by a dog.

  But it wasn’t only a dog. When Hound finished cleaning her face, Jane sat up and saw that Iantha was there, too, with Batty hanging on to one of her hands and Ben the other, both in their secret-agent glasses.

  “Are you all right?” asked Iantha.

  “We thought you were dying,” said Batty.

  “Not dying, exactly. Just—” Iantha paused politely.

  “Miserable,” Jane finished for her.

  “Yes, I thought you might be miserable, and wondered if a grilled cheese sandwich could help. We were just about to make some.”

  “With chocolate milk,” added Batty.

  To Jane’s surprise, a grilled cheese sandwich with chocolate milk was exactly what she wanted right then, and by the time they were all back in Iantha’s kitchen, her unhappiness was starting to lift. Then Iantha somehow burnt the grilled cheese sandwiches, and though Jane swore she liked them that way—and Batty and Ben were too busy smearing cheese on each other to care—Iantha was so apologetic that Jane decided to take her mind off it. So she talked about Skye going to Boston, the dreadful soccer game, and Tommy’s boorishness, and Iantha was such a good listener that soon Jane was telling her about the Save-Daddy Plan and how worried Rosalind was.

  “You’re not worried?” asked Iantha.

  “I suppose so, but not as much as Rosalind. She’s worried beyond measure.”

  “Poor Rosalind.”

  Jane finished the last of her chocolate milk. “Too bad you’re not awful, because you’d be a convenient date for Daddy, though Rosalind did say we shouldn’t use anyone on Gardam Street because of the discomfort. You have no idea how much trouble we’ve had trying to find awful women.”

  Iantha smiled. Jane thought she was extra pretty when she smiled, like…who? Who did Iantha remind her of? The poor French governess in The Enchanted Castle, perhaps. She wondered briefly if Iantha spoke French.

  Now Iantha’s phone rang, and when she went into another room to answer it, Jane entertained herself by looking around the kitchen. It was nothing like the kitchen at home. It was warm and cozy like home, true, but it was also messy—delightfully so, thought Jane—and it didn’t look as though lots of cooking went on there. There was a laptop computer on the counter with duck stickers on it, the spice cabinet was full of Ben’s toy trucks, and Jane couldn’t spot a cookbook anywhere. This is the kitchen of a Thinker, she decided, and promised herself that she’d never bother with cooking, either.

  Jane had been taught not to listen to private phone conversations, so when Iantha’s voice in the other room got louder, she tried not to overhear. Ben and Batty were also trying not to hear by putting their hands over their ears, but Jane suspected that they were more concerned with the anger in Iantha’s voice than with good manners. Iantha’s voice was quite angry.

  “No, Norman, that isn’t appropriate,” she was saying. “Keep this up and I’ll have to report you. I’m hanging up now, Norman. Oh! He hung up on me!”

  There was the crash of a phone being thrown to the floor, and Iantha strode back into the room. Her eyes were flashing, and Jane was sure her hair was curlier, perhaps electrified with anger. Ben took his hands from his ears.

  “Duck,” he said.

  “Yes, darling.” She picked him up and patted his back. “Jane, I’m sorry you had to hear me arguing. That Norman is a delusional ex-colleague who keeps accusing me of stealing his research, and no matter how many times I explain that his research is so flawed no one would ever steal it—oops, sorry again.”

  “I don’t mind. I’m used to temper, living with Skye.”

  “You’re very kind,” said Iantha. “Let’s do something fun to make up for Norman. Batty, should we go on with our experiment?”

  The experiment turned out to be an attempt to convince Asimov that dogs weren’t evil creatures, and that Hound, in particular, could even be a friend. Iantha and Batty had been at it for a few weeks now, and had a chart on the side of the refrigerator to measure their progress. They’d worked slowly and systematically, first letting Hound into the front hall for two minutes while Asimov was safely locked in the secondfloor bathroom, then letting Hound into the living room for five minutes while Asimov was in the secondfloor bathroom, but with the door open, and so on. So far there had been no violent chases or battles, and today Iantha and Batty were ready for a big step—having Hound in the living room while Asimov was in the kitchen. Same floor, no restraints.

  With a great deal of laughter and cajoling, Iantha and Batty dragged Asimov off his favorite pile of towels, carried him downstairs, and plopped him onto the kitchen counter. While Iantha and Ben guarded him, Jane and Batty opened the front door and invited Hound in, warning him with dire threats that if he didn’t behave himself, his end was nigh. Eagerly he trotted in, and though he clearly knew where Asimov was—his nose pointed unerringly toward the kitchen—he settled down and lasted five whole minutes without once trying to leave the room. Iantha shouted “Time!” from the kitchen, and Jane and Batty took Hound back outside, and everyone congratulated each other heartily.

  Now Jane realized that she’d been there for a long time. Her father might be wondering where she’d gone. “We’d better be going home,” she said.

  “And your misery?” asked Iantha.

  “Vanished, thank you,” said Jane, hugging Iantha good-bye without thinking first whether she should.

  She floated home happily with Batty and Hound and, when she got there, discovered even more happiness. On the front step was a paper bag with JANE written across the front, and a battered helmet balanced on top.

  “Oh, Batty, I’m going to be a football player for Halloween! Isn’t that fabulous?”

  “It’s not as good as a dinosaur.” Batty was a different dinosaur every year.

  “That might be true for any old football player,” said Jane. “But this one is much better than a dinosaur. You’ll see.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Batty’s Spying Mission

  BY SUNDAY MORNING, Rosalind had picked out a sonnet to memorize for English class. Lying on her bed, she murmured the opening lines to herself.

  No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:

  Thy pyramids built up with newer might

  To me a
re nothing novel, nothing strange;

  They are but dressings of a former sight.

  Yes, that would work. No one would understand a word of what she was saying, let alone think she was talking about love. Still, though, she had a problem. It wasn’t enough just to recite the poem—her teacher wanted her to recite with expression. And since she barely understood the poem herself, she didn’t know what expression to use. Solemn? Hushed, like she was imparting great wisdom to the other seventh graders? Like she could do that without looking silly!

  Well, what then? Singsongy?

  “‘No, TIME, thou shalt not BOAST that I do CHANGE.’” She stopped, appalled. Absolutely not singsongy.

  She’d have to ask Anna for guidance. Anna had no such problems with her own poem, for she’d signed up for Lewis Carroll and Jabberwocky, which really did make no sense, and so could be recited any way the reciter wanted. And it was absolutely, definitely, not about love. Lucky Anna.

  Rosalind closed her Shakespeare book and stood up. Yes, she’d go over to Anna’s house to work on poem recitation. No one needed her right now—Daddy was home to watch Batty, Skye was still in Boston, and the last time she’d seen Jane, she was doing football drills by herself. This would be the perfect time to leave—she’d just have to find her father and make certain.

  She found him in the kitchen, talking on the phone. Jane was there, too, doing deep knee bends.

  Aunt Claire, she mouthed silently to Rosalind, pointing to their father.

  Even if Jane hadn’t told her, it would soon have been obvious who was on the other end of the phone.

  “No, I don’t need another blind date,” he was saying. “Yes, I’m still dating Marianne…. This afternoon, as a matter of fact…. Yes, and it will be the second date…. Fabulous indeed, and suddenly I’ve remembered that it’s actually a lunch date, and as it is almost lunchtime, I need to say good-bye and get ready to go.”

  He hung up the phone with a bang. “Here’s some advice, daughters. Try to avoid having younger sisters.”

  “Too late for that, Daddy,” said Jane.

  “Right, of course. Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit. Or, in my case, not even frequently. Do not fret, my Rosy, for I’ll translate it for you. ‘No mortal is wise at all times.’”

  “I’m not fretting.” But Rosalind was fretting dreadfully, so much so that her hands were shaking. Since they’d gotten through most of the weekend without even a mention of a date, Rosalind had let herself hope that Marianne was gone from their lives. She’d even started to reconsider Valaria—the former Mary Magdalene, among others—as a possible blind-date candidate, maybe for that gala event at Cameron University in a few weeks. But now, without warning, the mysterious Marianne was back.

  “You’re going out, Daddy?” asked Jane.

  “Yes, I’m taking Marianne to lunch, and I have to leave”—he glanced at his watch—“in fifteen minutes. Rosalind, do you mind being in charge for an hour or so?”

  She minded very much. It didn’t matter about not going over to Anna’s house—Shakespeare could wait. But it mattered a great deal about this second date. A second date got one perilously close to a third, and then a fourth, and then how long would it be before that terrifying downhill slide to a stepmother?

  “No, we’ll be fine,” she said.

  “Good. You’re my angels. And now—I’m off to primp and preen.”

  When he was gone, Rosalind threw herself into a chair. This was a nightmare. She said so to Jane.

  “Well, Daddy certainly is acting oddly,” said Jane, doing one last knee bend, then sitting down, too. “Could Skye be right about him going bonkers? But maybe she’s wrong about it being the stress of dating. Could Daddy be driven mad by love? How long does it take grown-ups to fall in love, anyway?”

  “I don’t know; I don’t know anything.” Rosalind rested her forehead on the table. It was an uncomfortable position, which made it appropriate for the moment. “I don’t even know anything about Marianne, except that she doesn’t like flannel and does like going on walks.”

  “And that she’s not listed in the phone book,” said Jane. “No Marianne Dashwood anywhere around here.”

  “You looked in the phone book?” Rosalind lifted her head, impressed with Jane’s ingenuity.

  “Skye and I did one day, to give ourselves a break from rehearsing Sisters and Sacrifice, and we even called the phone company to make sure. We can’t find a trace of her anywhere. Do you think she’s an ex-con in the Witness Protection Program?”

  “Probably not.” Though the idea cheered Rosalind up slightly. Her father would never go so far as to marry an ex-con. “Listen, Jane, if Daddy’s going to keep dating this woman, we have to find out something about her, or even—yuck—meet her. We can’t fight against an unknown.”

  “A secret, a mirage, a will-o’-the-wisp.” Jane swayed back and forth and waved her arms like she thought a will-o’-the-wisp would, but really it was more like Sirens on the rocks.

  “So how do we do it?”

  “Let me think.” Jane stopped being a Siren and tried to come up with a plan.

  But she couldn’t. And neither could Rosalind, who said, “We’ll just have to start asking Daddy questions.”

  “Tough, incisive questions, until he reveals all.”

  “Yes, we’ll be tough!” Rosalind brightened up. “When Skye gets back from Boston, we’ll make sure she’s tough, too.”

  “Do or die?”

  “For the Penderwick Family Honor.”

  And they shook on it.

  Later, Batty tried to blame it all on Hound. And it was true that if he hadn’t fallen asleep in the middle of hide-and-seek, she wouldn’t have been stuck waiting for him in the kitchen broom closet. And if she hadn’t been in the broom closet, she wouldn’t have overheard the conversations that took place in the kitchen, especially the one between Rosalind and Jane.

  She couldn’t deny, however, that the actual stowing away in her father’s car was her own idea. In fact, when she tried to load blankets—for hiding under—into the back of the car, Hound, now quite awake, grabbed hold of them, and no matter how hard Batty pulled, he wouldn’t let go.

  “You have to let me take these blankets,” she said. “I’m going to hide under them and spy on Marianne for Rosalind and Jane. They’re going to be impressed.”

  Hound, on the other hand, wasn’t impressed. Maybe he knew that Rosalind wouldn’t approve of such a scheme, or maybe he simply didn’t believe in stowing away in cars. He took a firmer hold on the blankets.

  Batty was desperate, for her father was going to show up at any moment. One blanket would have to do. In a sneak attack, she threw one over Hound’s head, and he let go of the other one, as she’d figured he would. She grabbed it, leapt into the car, and closed the door, then watched out the window while he bucked and tossed until the blanket fell off. Free now, Hound whipped this way and that, searching for Batty. When he figured out where she was, he threw himself at the car, barking hysterically.

  Batty tried burrowing under the one blanket she’d brought, hoping that would discourage him, but having her out of sight only made him bark louder. She huffed with annoyance—real secret agents didn’t have dogs that gave away hiding places. Beaten, she opened the door again and told Hound to climb in. He whined and pawed the ground for a while, but when he realized that he had to go with her or let her go alone, he leapt in, dragging his blanket along.

  “But we’re being secret agents,” she said, shoving him to the floor of the car and covering him. “So you must be quiet.”

  “Woof.”

  Now there was nothing to do but get into her car seat, fasten her seatbelt, cover herself, and wait. And think that if she brought back really good information about Marianne, maybe Rosalind would stop worrying so much about Daddy. Batty wanted it back the old way, when Rosalind was happier and never missed story time because she was on the phone talking about her worries with Anna, and then Daddy had to do story time in
stead, and he wasn’t as good at the voices.

  At last Batty heard her father opening the car door. She sunk down low under her blanket and nudged Hound with her foot to remind him to be quiet. But what was this? Daddy was walking away again. Where was he going? She waited and waited, and then, just before losing all hope, heard him coming back. This time he got in, and the engine came on, and the radio, and then the car was moving, and Batty was off on her first spying mission away from Gardam Street! She wished Ben were there. She’d have to tell him all about it later, and he would be amazed at her daring.

  On and on they drove. Too soon Batty realized that she was hungry, and she hadn’t brought along anything to eat, even cookies. Probably real secret agents had people who packed cookies for them to take along on their missions. To make things worse, it was hot hiding under the blanket. And dark, especially with her sunglasses on. She felt Hound stirring at her feet, but he kept quiet, and that gave her the courage to keep quiet, too, at least until a stray dog hair tickled her nose and she sneezed. Horrified, she clamped her hand to her mouth, but too late. Daddy must have heard her. But no, he only turned up the radio and kept on driving.

  It was only when the car finally stopped that Batty realized this wasn’t the best-planned mission. Her father could leave her locked in the car for hours while he visited with Marianne. Hound was grumbling—she was sure he was saying that he told her so—and she was getting more hungry all the time. What should she do?

  For some reason, her father wasn’t getting out of the car. He seemed to be just sitting in the front seat, still listening to the radio. And then he rolled his window down. Batty could tell, because drifting into the car came the most amazingly delicious smell. Oh! Oh! It was pizza! If Batty had been hungry before, now she was so hungry she thought she could die of it. Spying was terrible work. How did real secret agents do it?

  Then her father started to talk. “Imagine that. I’ve parked right in front of Antonio’s Pizza. I wish I had someone to share a pineapple pizza with me.”