Bedknob and Broomstick Part 11

"Much Frensham," said Emelius. "Market day at Much Frensham . . . then were great doings!"

"There are still," said the little girl excitedly. "I dare say there are lots of new houses, but the main road doesn't go through there, so it isn't much changed."

They began to exchange impressions. Emelius it seemed had bathed in their brook; Lowbody Farm had still been called Lowbody Farm; "a fine new residence" Emelius called it, and he, too, had roamed the short gra.s.s on the tiered mound known as Roman Remains.

"Five of the clock," called the watchman, as he pa.s.sed below the window, "and a fine, clear, windy morning."

They drew back the curtains. The dim room shrank from the clear light, and dust danced golden in the sunbeams.

"I wish you could go back to Pepperinge Eye," cried the little girl. "I wish you could see it as it is now."

Then they, in their turn, told him of their lives, of the war, of their first visit to the country, of the magic bed. They told him how they had left the bed a few yards down the road in a walled churchyard. It was then they remembered the string bag, tied fast to the bed rail, with the cheese sandwiches and the Thermos of hot cocoa. Emelius, his housekeeper being still "abed," was much put to it to find food, but at length he produced from the larder two legs of cold roast hare and a jug of beer. He was deeply relieved to hear that it was no spell of his that had called these children from the mysteries of the future and was more than anxious to go with them to the churchyard so that he might see the bed.

They set out, a strange procession, Emelius carrying the jug of beer with the hare wrapped neatly in a napkin. The yard gate was open, and there, behind the biggest tomb, they found the bed just as they had left it, with the string bag tied securely to the foot.

It was there they had their early breakfast, while the hungry cats prowled around and the city slowly woke to the clang and rumble of a seventeenth-century day. And it was there, without mentioning her name, that they told about Miss Price.

A VISITOR.

Miss Price slept in Carey's room the night the children were away. She had a restless night. She was not feeling at all happy about having let them go off on their own. She had been caught between two sets of fairnesses. What was fair, she thought, to the children was hardly fair to their parents. Besides, a trip into the past could not be planned with any degree of accuracy. They had seen first how many twists the bed-k.n.o.b allowed, and then they had made a rough calculation of period. They had aimed for the time of Queen Elizabeth, but goodness knew what they had got. Charles rather cleverly had made a scratch with a pin, from the side of the k.n.o.b, across the crack, and down the base of the screw. And when Paul twisted, he was supposed to twist until the two ends of the scratch met evenly. All very rough and ready, as neither Miss Price nor the children knew if the period covered by the bed-k.n.o.b embraced the beginning of the world or just the history of England from 1066 onwards. They had a.s.sumed the latter.

"Oh, dear," muttered Miss Price to herself, tossing and turning in Carey's bed. "If they come back safe from this trip, it will be the last, the very last, I shall allow."

She had tried to be careful and to take all sensible precautions. The bedclothes had been carefully folded and put away and the mattress covered by a waterproof ground sheet. She had provided the children with a Thermos of hot cocoa, bread and cheese, and a couple of hard-boiled eggs. She had given them an atlas and a pocket first-aid kit. Should she have furnished them with a weapon? But what? She had no weapon in the house barring the poker and her father's sword.

"Oh, dear," she muttered again, pulling the bedclothes round her head as if to shut out a persistent picture of the children timidly wandering through a bleak and savage England inhabited by Diplodocus Carnegii and saber-toothed tigers. And that Neanderthal man, she told herself unhappily, would be utterly useless in an emergency. . . .

Toward morning she fell into a heavy sleep and was awakened by the sudden opening of the bedroom door. The bright sunshine streamed in through the partially drawn curtains, and there, at the foot of her bed, stood Carey.

"What time is it?" asked Miss Price, sitting bolt upright.

"It's nearly nine o'clock. The boys are dressed. I didn't like to wake you-"

"Thank heaven you're back safely!" exclaimed Miss Price. "You can tell me all your adventures later. Is breakfast ready?"

"Yes, and the boys have started. But-" Carey hesitated.

Miss Price, who had put her feet out of bed and was fumbling for her slippers, looked up.

"But what?"

"We've got to lay another place," said Carey uncomfortably.

"Another place?"

"Yes-I, we- You see, we brought someone home with us."

"You brought someone home?" said Miss Price slowly.

"Yes-we thought you wouldn't mind. Just for the day. He needn't stay the night or anything." Carey's eyes seemed to plead with Miss Price. She grew pinker and pinker.

"He?" repeated Miss Price.

"Yes. His name is Emelius Jones. Mr. Jones. He's a necromancer. He's awfully nice, really, underneath."

"Mr. Jones," echoed Miss Price. She hadn't had a man staying in the house since her father died, and that was more years ago than she cared to remember. She had forgotten all their ways, what things they liked to eat and what subjects they liked to talk about.

"What did you say he was?" asked Miss Price.

"He's just a necromancer. We thought you wouldn't mind. He lived near here once, with an aunt. We thought you'd have a lot in common."

"Who's going to take him back?" asked Miss Price. She frowned. "No, Carey, I do think this is thoughtless of you. I had made up my mind this was the last trip the bed was going to make, and there you go picking up strange necromancers who you know perfectly well have to be taken home again, which means another journey." She pushed her feet into her bedroom slippers. "Where did you say he was?"

"He's in your bedroom," said Carey. "On the bed."

Miss Price looked really put out. "Oh, dear," she said. "What ever next?" She slipped her arms into her blue-flannel dressing gown. "How am I to get my clothes, or do my hair, or anything? I really am annoyed, Carey!" She gave a vicious tug as she tied up her dressing gown.

"You must take him down to breakfast, and I'll have to see about him later."

Emelius meekly followed Carey down the stairs. He looked dazed and gazed wanly about him. As he took his place at the breakfast table, he staggered slightly against Paul, who was halfway through his porridge.

Carey looked worried. "Mr. Jones, are you all right?"

"Yes, I am well enough."

"You look so pale."

Emelius ran a limp hand across his wind-blown hair. "Small wonder," he remarked, smiling faintly.

Carey gazed at him uneasily; she was thinking of Miss Price. Would he, she began to wonder, give quite the right impression? In the bright light of day Emelius looked far from clean: his tousled hair hung wispily about his ears and his pallid skin was grayish. The long thin hands were stained, she noticed, and the nails were rimmed with black. The velvet of his fur-trimmed robe, though rich, was sadly spattered; and when he moved, he smelled of cottage kitchens.

There was no time to do anything about it, however; Miss Price came in almost immediately, looking slightly fl.u.s.tered. She was wearing her best pink blouse, the one she kept for trips to London. Emelius rose to his feet-long and thin, he towered above the table.

Miss Price, in one swift glance, took in his appearance from top to toe. "So this is Mr. Jones?" she remarked brightly-not, it seemed, to anyone in particular.

"Emelius Jones. Your servant, madam. Nay"-he bowed deeply-"your slave-"

"How do you do," put in Miss Price quickly.

"-humbly content," Emelius persisted, "to raise his eyes to one whose subtle craft, maturing slowly through the ages as a plant in the dark earth spreads its roots and sucks its sustenance, bripging forth shoot and stem and branching foliage to burst at length into dazzling blossom, blinding in this your twentieth century the reverent gaze of one who dared to doubt . . ."

Miss Price, blushing slightly, moved to her place behind the teapot. "Oh, well," she exclaimed and gave a little laugh, "I wouldn't say that exactly. Do you take milk and sugar?"

"You are bountiful," exclaimed Emelius, gazing at her spellbound.

"Not at all. Do sit down."

Emelius sat down slowly, still gazing. Miss Price, her lips pursed, poured out two cups of tea in thoughtful silence. As she pa.s.sed his cup, she said conversationally, "I hear you have an aunt in these parts?"

"And a house," put in Carey quickly. To establish Emelius as a man of property might help, in Miss Price's eyes, to enhance his status. "At least, it will be his. On Tinker's Hill . . ."

"Really?" remarked Miss Price. She sounded dubious. She helped herself to a boiled egg and began to tap it thoughtfully. "Is there a house on Tinker's Hill?"

"Yes, indeed," Emelius a.s.sured her, "a comely, neat house-with an apple orchard."

Miss Price looked noncommittal. "Really?" she said again, then, remembering her manners, "Porridge, corn flakes, or rice crispies?"

He took porridge. Again there was silence-only comparative: Emelius was a noisy eater and not, Carey noticed, a very tidy one. When he drank down his tea in a series of gulps (as though it were medicine, thought Carey), Miss Price tightened her lips and glanced at Paul. "You had better get down, dear," she said.

"I haven't finished," complained Paul.

"Eat up, then. Quickly."

Paul, nothing loath, gobbled noisily, copying Emelius. Miss Price, averting her face, took a dainty spoonful of boiled egg, which, closing her eyes, she consumed very slowly. "Oh, dear," thought Carey, who knew this sign. She glanced sideways at Emelius "who, having peeled one egg and eaten it whole, was reaching for another. He picked off the sh.e.l.l abstractedly, deep in thought. Suddenly he gave a large belch.

Miss Price opened her eyes, but she did not change her expression. "Some more tea, Mr. Jones?" she asked sweetly.

Emelius looked up. "Nay, I am well enough," and, as he thought they seemed puzzled, he added quickly, "but 'tis an excellent infusion. None better. And good they say against the Falling Sickness."

"Really?" said Miss Price again, and hesitated. "Some toast and marmalade?"

"Marmalade?"

"It's a preserve made from oranges."

"Ah, yes, indeed," exclaimed Emelius, "I am very partial to it." He took the cut-gla.s.s dish, and, using the jam spoon, quite unhurriedly he sc.r.a.ped it clean. Paul was fascinated; his eyes seemed to bulge and his mouth fell open.

"Now, get down, Paul," Miss Price said quickly when he seemed about to speak; and she turned again politely to Emelius who, more relaxed, was leaning back in his chair thoughtfully licking the jam spoon. "The children tell me you are interested in magic?"

He laid down the spoon at once, all courteous attention. "Yes, that is so. It is, as one might say, my calling."

"You practice for money?"

Emelius smiled, shrugging slightly. "For what else?"

Miss Price, quite suddenly, looked pleasantly fl.u.s.tered. "I don't know. . . . You see-" Her face became quite pink. "A real professional! I've never actually met one. . . ."

"No?"'

"No." Miss Price hesitated, her hands clasped together in her lap. "You see-I mean-" She took a long breath. "This is quite an occasion."

Emelius stared. "But you, madam-do you not practice for money?"

"I? Oh dear me, no." She began to pour a second cup of tea. "I'm only an amateur-the merest beginner."

"The merest beginner . . ." repeated Emelius, amazed. He stared even harder. "Then-if I understand rightly-it was not you, madam, who caused the bed to fly?"

"The bed-k.n.o.b? Yes, that was me. But"-she laughed a little deprecatingly, sipping her tea-"it was quite easy really-I just went by the book."

"You just went by the book," repeated Emelius in a stunned voice. He drew out an ivory toothpick and, in a worried way, began to pick his teeth.

"Yes," (Carey felt happier now: Miss Price was almost prattling) "I have to measure everything. I can't do a thing out of my head. I'd very much like to invent a spell. That would be so worth while, don't you think? But somehow . . ." She shrugged. "You, I dare say," she went on, dropping her voice respectfully, "have invented many?"

For one panic-stricken moment, Emelius caught Carey's eye. He quickly looked away again. "No, no-" he declaimed. Then, seeing Miss Price's expression, he added modestly, "None to speak of." He gazed in a hunted way about the room and saw the cottage piano. "That's a strange instrument," he remarked, as though to change the subject.

Miss Price got up and went toward it. "Not really," she explained, "it's a Bluethner." As Emelius came beside her, she raised the lid of the keyboard. "Do you play?"

"A little."

He sat down on the music stool and struck a few notes, half closing his eyes as though listening to the tone. Then, head nodding and fingers skipping, he swept into a little piece by William Byrd. He played with great feeling and masterly restraint, using the piano as though it were a harpsichord. Miss Price seemed quite impressed.

"That was very nice," she admitted guardedly. And, glancing quickly at her watch, she moved away and began to clear the table.

"It was lovely," cried Carey warmly, as she jumped up to help. "Do play some more!"

Emelius, turning to look at her, smiled a trifle wanly. "Saepe labat equus dtfessus? he explained, glancing at Miss Price.

Miss Price looked back at him, her face expressionless. "Yes, quite," she agreed uncertainly.

"Or perhaps," Emelius went on, "one might more truly say lmira rivma oculos inebriant''?"

"Well," said Miss Price and gave a little laugh, "it's as you like, really," and she clashed the plates together rather noisily as though to make a distraction.

"I think," said Charles uncertainly, aside to Miss Price, "that perhaps he means he's tired . . ."

Miss Price blushed warmly, immediately all concern. "Oh dear, oh dear ... of course; how stupid of me! Charles, dear, put a chair under the mulberry tree for Mr. Jones; he can rest there quietly. . . ." She glanced about the room. "And we must find him something to read. Where's the Daily Telegraph?"

They could not find the Telegraph but found instead a book called Little Arthur's History of England. "Couldn't he have this?" Charles urged. "It would be even better. I mean, it would be all news to Mr. Jones from chapter seven onward."

They went out through the back way for Emelius to see the kitchen. Surprised and delighted, he admired all the right things in the right way-the electric cooker, the plastic plate rack, and the stainless steel sink. He clothed his wonder in odd, poetical phrases. Miss Price seemed very pleased. "I can't afford a refrigerator-at least, not yet," she told him as he ran a loving hand across the gleaming surface of the sink. "But this is rather jolly, don't you think? Forty-three pounds, seven shillings and tenpence, excluding the plumbing. But worth it in the end, wouldn't you say?"

But it was in the garden that Emelius came into his own. His knowledge of plants astounded even Miss Price, and he told her countless uses for what had seemed the commonest of herbs. Mr. Bisselthwaite's boy, who was delivering the milk, broke off his whistling to stare at Emelius. Emelius, his long velvet robe sweeping the lawn, returned the milkboy's stare with somber dignity. The whistling was resumed, and the milkboy clanged down the two pints with his usual roughness.

Later, leaving Emelius with a history book in the shade of the mulberry tree, reading with much interest of what was to come to pa.s.s in his future, Charles and Carey sought out Miss Price in her bedroom.

"Miss Price," whispered Carey, as if Emelius might hear, "do you like him?"

Miss Price, who was making up the bed, paused, sheet in hand. "He has distinction," she admitted guardedly.

"Think, Miss Price," went on Carey, "of the things you'd have to talk about. You haven't even begun-"

Miss Price wrinkled her forehead. "Ye-s," she said uncertainly.

"Couldn't he stay a bit longer? Couldn't he stay a week?"

Miss Price turned. She sat down suddenly on the edge of the bed. "I had better be perfectly frank," she announced firmly. "He could only stay on one condition."

"What condition?" they asked excitedly.