The Serial Garden: The Complete Armitage Family Stories (19 page)

"But there's nobody to answer—only a lot of apple trees."

"And if you're going to speak to an apple tree, better ring than walk all that way on foot at her age,” said Nursie, which only muddled Harriet more and didn't explain matters in the least. She went on thinking that it was very odd indeed to see a telephone in the grass, with a dovecot roof over it to keep the rain off.

"And why does Granny keep all those musical things hanging in the trees if she can't hear them?” asked Mark.

"Ee-yolian harps those are, Master Mark, and the others is wind-bells. And as to why she keeps them there—well, there's sounds as the ear can't hear, isn't there? Bats’ squeaks, and that?"

"Yes,” said Mark doubtfully.

"Well, then, maybe your granny can hear those! Now run along, the pair of you, and don't bother me. Play anywhere in the garden, climb any of the trees, but don't break any branches. And don't go climbing the laurel tree or the Silver Lady will get you."

"Oh, who is the Silver Lady? Tell! Do tell!"

"The Silver Lady? Why, she owns the laurel tree, of course. Climb into her tree and she'll send you to sleep. There's a rhyme about it:

"Sleep in the laurel but for an hour

You'll sleep in the Silver Lady's power.

So mind you keep out of it—nasty dangerous thing."

The children wanted to hear more about the Silver Lady, but Nursie pushed them crossly out, muttering that Silver Lady or no Silver Lady, she'd got to get her silver polished by lunch time, and they wandered into the garden, shivering and forlorn, telling each other that it wasn't worth starting any game before lunch.

Many of the trees were hung with these strange aeolian harps, or with the silvery glass bells, and it must have been a sheltered part of the country thereabouts, for only occasionally, when some wandering gust found its way through the trees, did there come a twangling and a sighing from high among the branches. Lying awake and coughing at night, Mark often hoped for a snatch of wind-music to breathe him off to sleep, but, perhaps owing to the immense thickness of the solid old walls, it was seldom that a far-off note whispered against his ear.

At five o'clock every evening Granny took off her hearing aid and settled down in front of the television; at the same time, Nursie removed her thick glasses, without which she could not see more than a couple of yards, and dragged her favorite upright chair close beside the radio, turned on loud; from that minute on, the two old women were quite lost to the children, who would find their supper of bread-and-milk and beef tea (or bread-and-dripping and cocoa) set out on the kitchen table. The kitchen was one of the nicest rooms of the house: huge, but airy and warm, with a great open range, and here they would eat, read, talk, play a leisurely game of ludo, and take themselves off to bed.

The nights were bad.

They slept next door to each other, and if Mark managed to get off to sleep for half an hour, Harriet was sure to have a shattering burst of coughing and wake him up. Then she would doze off until Mark waked her in his turn. They felt that their coughing shook the house from end to end, but of course Granny never heard them at all, and it took ages before Nursie would come muttering and tutting along in her red flannel dressing gown and give them hot drinks of lemon barley. And sometimes, on account of her shortsightedness and not putting on her glasses in the night-time, she would rub their chests with the lemon barley (very sticky) and give them hot camphorated oil to drink. Still, it was nice to have her exclaiming round them like a cross old ghost, and sometimes she sang them to sleep with old, old nursery rhymes—

"Intery mintery, cuttery corn,

Apple seed and apple thorn..."

in her quavering, wavering voice which seemed to search all round the corners of the room before finding its note.

"Now, that's enough: you must go to sleep,” she would finally say severely, and at this point the children (Harriet would have come in by now and would be sitting, wrapped in eiderdowns, on Mark's bed) always pleaded:

"Oh, please,
The Land of Trees and Heroes
before you go, please!"

And Nursie would sing:

"In the land of trees and heroes

The tawny owl is king

Who locked the door, who holds the key

Hidden beneath his wing."

"Tell us some more about the land, Nursie?"

"That's all there is, and it's time you went to sleep anyway.” They never got more than the one verse out of her, which ended on a plaintive, unfinished note, but there was something about the song that made them long to know more. Where was the land? And who the heroes? And why was the key hidden? Nursie wouldn't say.

The children still felt too tired and convalescent to play strenuous games, or go riding, or take long walks; they spent most of their outdoor time slowly and haphazardly exploring Granny's enormous, neglected garden.

One cold, nasty afternoon, rummaging in the summer house at the end of the lawn, they found an old bow with a leather cover and a red velvet guard. There was a target, too, but no arrows.

Mark dragged the target, molting straw at the seams, out onto the lawn, and said, “We can easily make some arrows. Never mind about feathers. Hazel's the best wood."

"Nursie said not to break any branches,” Harriet reminded him doubtfully, but she rubbed her finger up and down the smooth springiness of the bow; it did seem a pity not to use it.

"Oh, she only meant big ones, I expect."

They couldn't find any hazels, but there was an elder bush growing by the summer house with a lot of straight young branches shooting in the thick of it; Mark took out his pen knife and cut three of these, while Harriet, to be on the safe side, politely asked the elder tree if she minded their taking this liberty. There was no reply; she had hardly expected there would be.

"They're rather light but they'll do for a start, to practice with,” Mark said.

He whittled off the leaves and twigs, and cut a bowstring notch in each wand, while Harriet stood hugging her arms together, watching him.

"Now then, watch!"

Stringing the bow, he carefully fitted one of his arrows and fired, aiming high. The light, pithy arrow soared high and began a beautiful curve towards the target, but at that moment a gentle wind sprang up and turned it sideways so that it swerved and landed in the laurel tree.

"Oh, blow!” said Mark. “That's the first wind there's been this afternoon. Hark at the wind-bells! It would happen just when I fired."

He ran towards the tree.

"Wait!” shouted Harriet, dashing after him. “What are you doing?"

"Going to get the arrow!"

"But don't you remember—the Silver Lady!"

"Oh, blow it—I'm not going to stay in the tree an hour! It won't take two twos to nip up and get the arrow down. I can see it from here."

"Do be careful—” She arrived at the tree just as he swung himself into the first crotch and stood with her hands on the trunk, anxiously looking up after him.

"I can almost reach it now,” he called in a moment, from somewhere up in the thickness of the tree. “Goodness, there's a cat up here—it seems to be fast asleep! And a whole lot of birds, asleep too. How peculiar."

"Oh, do hurry up!"

"And here's a satchel.” Mark's voice was muffled now by the thick green leaves among which he was scuffling and flapping. “Good lord, I say, there's a postman asleep up here—I never saw him climb up, did you? And there's something that looks like a butcher's basket full of chops. This is the oddest tree I've ever been...” His voice trailed away on a tremendous yawn.

"Mark!” shouted Harriet, her voice sharp with anxiety.

No answer.

"Mark!” Twisting her head, she peered up, looking into the dark cave. And then she saw Mark. He was fourteen or fifteen feet up, curled as comfortably into a fork of the tree as if he were lying in a hammock, and he was fast asleep, his head pillowed on his hand. In the fork below him was a big tabby cat, also fast asleep, and over to the left she could dimly make out a butcher's boy in a striped blue-and-white apron, sleeping wedged in a nest of crisscrossing branches.

Harriet shouted till she was hoarse, and shook the tree till she started herself coughing, but there was no reply from any of the peaceful sleepers.

"Oh, goodness,” she said to herself miserably, “I knew something like this would happen. Now what had I better do?"

Telling Nursie seemed the first step, and Harriet went indoors. But five o'clock had struck and Nursie was listening to a program of young artists from the Midlands, and was not to be disturbed. She waved Harriet away with a preoccupied hand.

"If I don't get Mark out of that tree before the hour's up,” Harriet thought, “we shall never be able to wake him. I wonder if I could drag him out by myself?"

She went back to the tree but decided that it would be too risky, even if she put a ladder against Mark's fork and climbed up it; Mark was much too heavy for her to lift, and if he fell from that height, he might easily break something. Besides, something ought to be done about the postman and the butcher's boy, too; goodness knows how long they had been there.

"I know,” she thought. “I'll go for the doctor."

Dr. Groves had the house at the end of the village nearest Granny's. They had been to see him when they first arrived, for a check-over, and had liked him very much.

"He'll be able to help,” Harriet thought.

She ran round to the shed by the stables and got out Nursie's bicycle; this was no time for loitering. Nursie would not be wanting it again before morning, and, without waiting to ask permission, Harriet sped off down the front path and took the steps at a slither.

Thank goodness it was not a surgery night, and Dr. Groves was sitting by his fire, peacefully reading the
Lancet
, when Harriet arrived, panting and gasping, about five minutes later.

"Please will you help me,” she wheezed, trying not to cough. “Mark's gone to sleep in the laurel tree."

"Eh, dear, has he now,” said Dr. Groves. “And you want me to help pull him down, is that it?"

"Yes, please. And there are two other people up in the tree, and a cat; I expect they ought to come down, too."

"Tut, tut.” The doctor sounded more disapproving than surprised. “And what would they have been doing up there, I wonder?"

"I don't know. One of them's the postman. Oh, do please hurry."

"I can't hurry much, my lass, on account of my leg. Eh, well, well, now, the postman. We'd been wondering where he'd got to when he vanished last May."

He pulled himself stiffly to his feet, and Harriet remembered with dismay that he had an artificial leg.

"Should I get somebody else?” she said anxiously. “Will it be too much for you?"

"No, no, I'll manage very well. Just pass me that stick, will you now, and I'll be with you directly."

They made slow progress back up the road, and Harriet did rings about the doctor in her impatience to get on.

"Ah, it's a great convenience to me, this leg,” he said imperturbably, as he clanked along. “Bitten off by a shark, it was, in the days when I was a bold buccaneering sea-doctor, and I fitted myself up with the best cast-iron peg I could lay hands on. I can use it for poking the fire or bowling over a charging tiger—and best of all, when some fussing woman gets a pain in her little finger and fancies sending for the doctor, she thinks again and says to herself: ‘With his iron leg it'll take him an hour and twenty minutes to get here; it's not worth fetching him out,’ and that saves me a great, great deal of trouble, I can tell you, for I'm a lazy old man and never do two trips when one will do."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure it does,” said Harriet, wheeling round him distractedly. “Are you sure you wouldn't like to ride Nursie's bicycle?"

"No, thank you, my bairn, riding a bicycle's one of the things I can
not
do with this leg. But we're managing very well, very well indeed."

Dusk was falling as he stumped up Granny's steps, and Harriet looked at her watch and saw with a sinking heart that it had taken them forty-five minutes to do the return journey; Mark must have been in the laurel tree for very nearly an hour.

"Ah, yes, there they are,” Dr. Groves said, pulling a flashlight from his pocket and shining it up into the tree. “Fast asleep, the three of them. And Pussie Baudrons, too, after birds, nae doubt, the naughty grimalkin. And that's an interesting thing, very interesting indeed, that the laurel tree should have such power. When I was a boy I would always use laurel leaves for putting butterflies to sleep. In a jam jar."

Without listening to his reflection, which seemed likely to go on for ever, Harriet dashed off and came back with Granny's aluminum fruit-picking ladder, which she planted firmly against the trunk of the laurel.

Dr. Groves had embarked on a learned chat with himself about the medical properties of various plants, so she started up the ladder, saying over her shoulder:

"If I pull them down, Dr. Groves, do you think you can catch them?"

"I'll do my best, lass. Feet first is the way, feet first, now. Don't let the poor slumberers fall on their heads or you'd do better to leave them bide where they are."

The butcher's boy was the nearest, and Harriet tugged him down cautiously, being most careful herself not to get into the tree even for a moment. Dr. Groves received the long dangling legs and flopped the boy onto the ground, where he lay limp and sprawling. Harriet dropped his basket of chops (they flew in all directions), had to come down, then, and move her ladder round to the other side in order to reach Mark, who was more of a problem; half lifting, half dragging, she at last managed to get him clear of the branches and lower him to the doctor. He was laid down unceremoniously on the chops while they tackled the postman. He was the most difficult of all, for he was higher up still, and in the end Harriet had to go and get the clothesline and make a very unworkmanlike hitch round his shoulders so that she could let him bumpingly down to the doctor. She herself had to come down from time to time to get a good breath of fresh air, for even when she was safely perched on the ladder she found that the laurel tree made her feel uncommonly sleepy.