The Serial Garden: The Complete Armitage Family Stories (11 page)

"Good-bye—and thank you very much,” he called back. But the little man was laughing very heartily to himself and took no notice.

It was very cold inside the bus, and Mark stared out of the dim window, looking for interesting shops. But there were none, and presently the bus stopped at the gate of Kew Gardens.

"I won't get a present here,” he thought, and decided to go back. But the conductor said, “All change, please."

"I want to stay on and go back again,” said Mark.

"Sorry, son—the bus doesn't go back,” the conductor said kindly but firmly, and waited till he got out in the cold. Then the bus trundled off down the road and round the corner.

"Well, I may as well go in, now that I'm here,” Mark said to himself. “Harriet's present will just have to wait till tomorrow.” He paid at the turnstile and wandered off into the gardens.

The haze was thicker than ever now, and the trees looked spidery and unreal. He moved off across the frosty grass towards the river, and sat on a seat, watching two swans who were wondering whether or not they wanted to fight. To his disappointment they decided not to, and after a few hisses and neck-stretchings, sailed away in different directions. It was too cold to sit still for long, and he turned to his left along a path under dripping beech trees. Then he saw the girl.

She was very tall, and walked swiftly along a path at right angles to his. She wore some sort of dark cape over her head which made her look like a nun, but under this was a glint of red. It was not this which made Mark stare after her, but the thing she carried in her hand.

"I don't know what's the matter with me,” Mark said to himself, “but I must see what that thing is."

It glittered and threw off light in a most improbable way, and she carried it carefully in both hands as if it were very precious.

"If I cut across behind those saplings,” thought Mark, “I ought to meet her somewhere over there."

He struck across the grass, running when he got behind the trees. When he came out he saw the girl, nearer this time, turning sharply to her right. He took another shortcut, running across flower beds and behind a long yew hedge, and caught a glimpse of her going towards a gate in the hedge marked Private.

"Oh bother,” thought Mark, “I expect she lives in one of the gardeners’ cottages, and that's where she's going.” For behind the hedge and the gate, he could see chimneys and a curl of gray smoke.

She went through the gate, and he followed her and looked in. A path turned to the right between tall hedges. He saw her dark cape whisk round the corner.

"I don't care,” he said, “even if it is private. After all, they can't do more than turn me out.” And he slipped in after her.

The path wound about a long way without coming anywhere near the two chimneys. Every now and then it forked, and he had some difficulty in keeping up with the girl. It was like a maze. But at last they passed through another high, barred gate, Mark close behind and going softly now. The girl walked rapidly across a small, cobbled courtyard and into a cottage which had a rainwater barrel outside it and pots of flowers in the windows.

Mark, blind with excitement (he did not know why), followed her into the open door. As he stepped into the dark, a skinny hand shot out from beside him and grabbed him round the throat. He felt himself pulled forward, and resisted with all his might. The hand tightened until stars danced in front of his eyes, and finally everything went black around him.

When he came to, he was lying on a brick kitchen floor. A crow was perched on the window-sill, hunched up, and the girl he had followed was sitting on a chair by the table reading a book with a blue shiny cover on which he could see the words, “Amalgamated Electrical Companies.” She had taken off her black cape, which was flung over the back of a chair, and was dressed in a long red robe, covered with question marks, exclamation points, semicolons, dollar signs, and so forth. Her hair was as black as the crow's wing, and straight, and her black eyes glittered. She was unmistakably a witch.

"Oh dear,” thought Mark, “what a fool I was to follow her. I might have known something like this would happen—specially considering it's a Monday."

He lay still as a mouse and watched her. “'Peel and wash,'” the witch read aloud, “'wrap in brown paper with herbs if liked. Place in oven when thermometer registers 250 degrees. Leave at High until thermometer registers 600 degrees and then turn to low. Bake for an hour and a half.’ That seems fairly simple.” She turned the page.

"Wait a minute,” she said, “this sounds better. ‘With particularly small ones, it may be found easier not to peel them until they are cooked, when the skin is readily removed. Wrap in brown paper, with herbs in the mouth if liked, and proceed as before, only baking for an hour. Small ones are generally served with redcurrant jelly.'” She lifted her eyes from the book and gave Mark a piercing glance.

"Yes, I should definitely say that was a small one,” she murmured, “and besides, it saves the trouble of peeling it."

She stood up and came over to Mark.

"Hey, you can't bake me,” said Mark, much alarmed.

"Can't I just, my little cherub,” she answered, smiling sweetly. “Why do you think I went to all the trouble of enticing you here, if not to wrap you in brown paper, with herbs in the mouth if liked, and place you in my new oven when the thermometer registers 250 degrees?” She picked him up with one muscular hand, and though Mark struggled fiercely, he could not get out of her clutch. She put him on the table, which had a white enameled top, and cast some sort of rapid spell over him, so that he could not struggle, while she fetched the brown paper and herbs. As she went out of the door, she switched on a large electric stove which glittered with newness. The crow gave a large “croak” and shuffled sideways along the window-sill.

She came back in a minute with a vast sheet of brown paper and some string, and proceeded to make Mark into a neat parcel, so that he could see nothing at all.

"Drat it,” she said, “if I haven't forgotten the herbs.” She went over to a cupboard and brought out a paper bag full of strange leaves. Then she untied the bit of string which was around Mark's neck, and pushed away the paper from his face. He could not stop her from stuffing his mouth with the herbs, which tasted most unpleasant. The crow flew across to the table and peered into his mouth with evident interest and approval.

"I can't be bothered to tie him up again,” said the witch. “I'm too hungry. We've got an hour to wait as it is.” She had a look at the thermometer on the oven door.

"Not near 250 degrees” she said in disgust, “what a time it takes. I don't know why I ever bought the thing. Well, I shall just put the creature in now, and use my judgment about the time it takes. We can always poke it with a fork to see if it's tender enough.

A shiver ran down Mark's spine.

She picked him up and put him in a roasting-pan. “It says no basting is necessary—that's a comfort,” she muttered, and shoved the pan into the oven. The door shut with a click, and Mark found himself in the dark.

To his surprise, the oven was not hot in the least.

"I know what's happened,” he suddenly thought. “She's new to this kind of stove and she forgot to turn on both switches. She turned on the oven switch, but she forgot the main one."

However, this did not comfort him much, for she was bound to remember sooner or later.

Half an hour passed, in which he could hear the witch moving about the kitchen, setting the table and singing to herself something about goats and vervain. Then she opened the oven door.

"Not done yet?” she exclaimed. “It's as cold as a stone. Something's wrong with the dratted stove."

The bird gave an angry croak.

"Yes, I know,” she said crossly, “you always said it was a mistake to get one of these things and you were quite right. Newfangled nonsense. I wish I'd stuck to my good old range. Switches and thermometers indeed! As for you,” she said, turning furiously to Mark, “as for you my little seraph, in another five minutes, if this still hasn't hotted, I shall toast you on my toasting-fork in front of the drawing-room fire.” And she fished down from the wall an enormous toasting-fork. Mark shuddered at the sight of it.

The witch shoved him smartly back into the oven and shut the door.

This time he was overcome with despair. He thought of his aunt waiting at the theatre door with the tickets, and how he would not turn up and she would get more and more anxious and telephone the police, and two tears rose in his eyes and trickled slowly backwards down his forehead and into the roots of his hair, where they felt cold and sticky.

There came a knock at the door, and the witch swept across the room and opened it.

"He is here? You haf him all stuffed and trussed, yes no?” asked a voice which Mark recognized as that of the little man with the invisible elastic.

"Yes, I've got him in the oven now,” said the witch. “Would you like to have a look at him?"

"So the whole thing was a plant,” Mark thought, “right from the very beginning. What a fool I've been."

Steps came across the room, and the oven door was flung back.

"There's something wrong with the stove,” the witch said. “It won't heat up properly. I expect you know what it is.” She pulled the pan out of the oven and dumped it on the table. They both leaned over and prodded Mark.

"See? Not done at all,” she said.

But the little man seemed angry about something.

"You besom,” he said furiously, “I weel teach you to be lazy. You know I like heem peeled and stuffed and garneeshed. Brown paper and a bunch of herbs in the mouth, indeed!"

"Well, that's what it says in the book,” answered the witch crossly.

"That book is no affair of yours. You haf in your head how I like them cooked. Laziness!"

He was boiling with rage and suddenly gave her a clout on the ear. She flew at him like a tigress and scratched his face. Then they both drew apart, hissing with temper, and began casting spells at each other. Mark could hear them muttering long, formidable words under their breaths, and the sudden little pops as the spells worked. Then, as they became interested and worked up over the quarrel, he found that he could move once more. The witch was using up all her energy, and had none to spare for Mark.

He peered cautiously over the edge of his pan and watched them. It was most instructive. They seemed to observe no rules, but cast spells at each other as quickly as they could get them out, so that in the time it took Mark to blink an eye, he saw the witch grow horns, shrink to half her size, become bright green, turn into a tadpole, and explode in a pink puff of smoke, while the magician became a pool of water, an orange (bad), a marmoset, a piece of string, and finally himself, only with no arms or legs and a kettle instead of a head. Then they both drew a long breath and started again.

Mark soon realized that he was a fool if he did not try to escape now, while nobody was looking at him, and he wriggled feverishly to get his hands from under the piece of string round his waist. Fortunately it did not take long, as the witch, like all women, tied granny knots, which slipped, and he was able to get out from the brown paper and spit the herbs out of his mouth without much difficulty. Then, to his horror, he saw that the crow had noticed him. It flew over to the witch and tried to attract her attention, but at that moment, she turned into a bucket of coal, upside down in mid-air, and he could make no impression on her. Meanwhile, Mark crept out of the pan and across the room to the door.

It was only when he was through it that he realized that it was the wrong door. He found himself in a pitch-dark passage.

However, he could not think of turning back now, and went quickly forward. He came to some steps which went up, and then some more which went down again. At the bottom of these he tripped over an object which lay in the middle of the floor, and fell sprawling. He had an enormous bruise on his forehead, but jumped up and hurried on, absentmindedly clutching to the thing which had tripped him.

Then, to his joy, he saw a crack of light, and found a door which led him out on the other side of the house. He gave one scared glance to see if the witch or the little man were in sight. Neither of them was, and he took to his heels and tore off between the yew hedges.

It was easier to go towards the house than away from it, and several times he took a wrong turning and found himself back where he had started, which terrified him. But at last, by luck, he made his way out and set off running across the grass without looking behind him.

He pushed his way through the turnstile just in time to see a bus move off, and by making a terrible effort managed to throw himself on it.

"You shouldn't do that,” said the conductor severely, “you might have been killed."

"I was in a hurry,” pleaded Mark, and thought lovingly of
Robin Hood
, and his Aunt Hal, and the supper they would eat afterwards, and how next morning he would go present-hunting again. Then, for the first time, he realized that he was still clutching in his hand the thing he had fallen over in the passage.

He looked at it, and his eyes grew large as saucers.

"My goodness,” said the conductor, giving him his ticket, “you're lucky to have one of these."

"Yes,” agreed a fat woman across the aisle, “there's not many little boys has them, or little girls either for that matter."

And several other people in the bus gave exclamations of astonishment and told him what a lucky young boy he was and how they had always wanted one when they were young.

Mark's heart glowed.

"It's
just
the thing for Harriet's present,” he thought. “She's always wanted one, and she'll absolutely love it. Maybe she'll lend it to me sometimes too."

Then, because it was causing almost too much excitement in the bus, he pushed it into his pocket, where it was a rather tight fit.

A sudden thought struck him. The little man had said that he would get a fine present if he went on the Q bus, and he had got one, which just showed that even magicians didn't know what was going to happen. Or perhaps they did know? It was a bit confusing, and Mark slouched back in his seat and watched the misty evening grow darker and darker outside as it slipped past. He wondered how far Harriet had got with their secret house in the willow tree before the German measles struck her down.