The Serial Garden: The Complete Armitage Family Stories (22 page)

"Why in heaven's name would it be up the
chimney
? Stop arguing and go to bed. And brush your teeth!"

"I'll lend you some of my toothpaste,” Harriet said.

"Just the same,” Mark grumbled, brushing his teeth with yards of toothpaste so that the foam stood out on either side of his face like Dundreary whiskers and flew all over the bathroom, “Ernie Perrow definitely told me that his great-great-great-grandfather, Oliver Perrow, had a row with Lady Anne Armitage because she ticked him off for catching field mice in her orchard; Oliver was the village sweep, and her pearls vanished after that; Ernie thinks old Oliver stuck them in the chimney to teach her a lesson, and then he died, eaten by a fox before he had a chance to tell anyone. But Ernie's sure that's where the pearls are."

"Perhaps Min's up there looking for them too."

"Not her! She'd never do anything as useful as that."

Harriet had asked Alastair the starling to call her at seven; in fact, she was raised at half past six by loud bangs on the front door.

"For heaven's sake, somebody tell that maniac to go away!” shouted Mr. Armitage from under his pillow.

Harriet flung on a dressing gown and ran downstairs. What was her surprise to find at the door a little old man in a white duffel coat with the hood up. He carried a very large parcel wrapped in sacking. Harriet found the sharp look he gave her curiously disconcerting.

"Would it be Miss Armitage now, the young lady who put the advertisement in the paper then?"

"About hair?” Harriet said eagerly. “Yes, I did. Have you got some, Mr.—?"

"Mr. Thomas Jones the Druid, I am. Beautiful hair I have then, look you—finer than any lady's in the land. Only see now till I get this old parcel undone!” And he dumped the bundle down at her feet and started unknotting the cords. Harriet helped. When the last half-hitch twanged apart, a great springy mass of hair came boiling out. It was soft and fine, dazzlingly white, with just a few strands of black, and smelled slightly of tobacco.

"There, now, indeed to goodness! Did you ever see finer?"

"But,” said Harriet, “has it ever been cut short?” She very much hoped that it had not; it seemed impossible that they would ever be able to parcel it up again.

"Never has a scissor blade been laid to it, till I cut it all off last night,” the old man declared.

Harriet wondered whose it was; something slightly malicious and self-satisfied about the old man's grin as he said “I cut it all off” prevented her from asking.

"Er—how much do you want for it?” she inquired cautiously.

"Well, indeed,” he said. “It would be hard to put a price on such beautiful hair, whatever."

At this moment there came an interruption. A large van drew up in front of the Armitage house. On its sides iridescent bubbles were painted, and, in rainbow colors, the words SUGDEN'S SOAP.

A uniformed driver jumped out, consulting a piece of paper.

"Mr. Mark Armitage lives here?” he asked Harriet. She nodded.

"Will he take delivery of one bathroom, complete with shower, tub, footbath, deluxe basin, steel-and-enamel hairdryer, and a six year's supply of Sugden's Soap?"

"I suppose so,” Harriet said doubtfully. “You're sure there's no mistake?"

The delivery note certainly had Mark's name and address on it.

"Mark!” Harriet yelled up the stairs, forgetting it was still only seven a.m. “Did you order a bathroom? Because it's come."

"Merciful goodness!” groaned the voice of Mr. Armitage. “Has
no
one any consideration for my hours of rest?"

Mark came running down, looking slightly embarrassed.

"Darn it,” he said as he signed the delivery note, “I never expected I'd get a
bathroom
; I was hoping for the free cruise to Saposoa."

"Where shall we put it, guv?” said the driver, who was plainly longing to go away and get some breakfast at the nearest truck-driver's pull-up.

Mark looked about him vaguely. At this moment Mr. Armitage came downstairs in pajamas and a very troublesome frame of mind.

"Bathrooms? Bathrooms?” he said. “You've bought a bathroom? What the blazes did you want to go and get a bathroom for? Isn't the one we have good enough for you, pray? You leave it dirty enough. Who's going to pay for this? And why has nobody put the kettle on?"

"I won it,” Mark explained, blushing. “It was the second prize in the Sugden's Soap competition. In the
Radio Times
, you know."

"What did you have to do?” Harriet asked.

"Ten uses for soap in correct order of importance."

"I bet
washing
came right at the bottom,” growled his father. “Greased stairs and fake soft centers in chocolates are more your mark."

"Anyway he won!” Harriet pointed out. “Was that all you had to do?"

"You had to write a couplet too."

"What was yours?"

Mark blushed even pinker. “Rose or White or Heliotrope, Where there's life there's Sugden's Soap."

"Come on now,” said the truck driver patiently. “We don't want to be here all day, do we? Where shall we put it, guv? In the garden?"

"Certainly not,” snapped Mr. Armitage. He was proud of his garden.

"How about in the field?” suggested Harriet diplomatically. “Then Mark and I can wash in it, and you needn't be upset by soot on the towels."

"That's true,” her father said, brightening a little. “All right, stick it in the field. And now will somebody
please
put on a kettle and make a cup of tea, is that too much to ask?"

And he stomped back to bed, leaving Mark and the driver to organize the erection of the bathroom in the field beside the house. Harriet put a kettle on the stove and went back to Mr. Jones the Druid, who was sunning himself on the front porch.

"Have you decided what you want for your hair?” she asked.

"Oh,” he said. “That is a grand new bathroom you have with you! Lucky that is, indeed. Now I am thinking I do not want any money at all for my fine bundle of hair, but only to strike a bargain with you."

"Very well,” Harriet said cautiously.

"No bathroom I have at my place, see? Hard it is to wash the old beard, and chilly of a winter morning in the stream. But if you and your brother, that I can see is a kindhearted obliging young gentleman, would let me come and give it a bit of a lather now and again in
your
bathroom—"

"Why, yes, of course,” Harriet said. “I'm sure Mark won't mind at all."

"So it shall be, then. Handy that will be, indeed. Terrible deal of the old beard there is, look you, and grubby she do get."

With that he undid his duffel coat and pulled back the hood. All around his head and wound about his body like an Indian sari was a prodigiously long white beard that he proceeded to untwine until it trailed on the ground. It was similar to the white hair in the bundle, but not so clean.

"Is that somebody's beard, then?” Harriet asked, pointing to the bundle.

"My twin brother, Dai Jones the Bard. Bathroom he has by him, the lucky old
cythryblwr
! But soon I will getting a bigger one. Made a will, my dad did, see, leaving all of his money to the one of us who has the longest and whitest beard on our ninetieth birthday; that falls tomorrow on Midsummer Day. So I crept into his house last night and cut his beard off while he slept; hard he'll find it now to grow another beard in time. All Dada's money I will be getting, he, he, he!"

Mr. Jones the Druid chuckled maliciously.

Harriet could not help thinking he was rather a wicked old man, but a bargain was a bargain, so she picked up the bundle of beard, with difficulty, and was about to say good-bye when he stopped her.

"Weaving the hair into a mat, you would be, isn't it?” he said wheedlingly. “There is a fine bath mat it would make! Towels and curtains there are in the grand new bathroom of yours but no bath mat—pity that is, indeed.” He gave her a cunning look out of the corner of his eyes, but Harriet would not commit herself.

"Come along this evening, then, I will, for a good old wash-up before my birthday,” Mr. Jones said. He wound himself in his beard again and went off with many nods and bows. Harriet ran to the field to see how the bathroom was getting on. Mark had it nearly finished. True enough, there was no bath mat. It struck Harriet that Mr. Jones’ suggestion was not a bad one.

"I'll start weaving a mat as soon as we've had another thorough hunt for Min Perrow,” she said. “Saturday, thank goodness, no school."

However, during breakfast (which was late, owing to various events) Ernie Perrow drove along in the pushchair with Lily and Dizzry to show the Armitages an air-letter which had arrived from the British Consul in Cathay.

Dear Sir or Madam,

Kindly make earliest arrangements to send passage money back to England for your daughter Hermione who has had herself posted here, stowed away in a box of Health Biscuits. Please forward without delay fare and expenses totaling 1,093 pounds. 7s.1d.

A postscript, scrawled by Min, read: “Dun it at larst! Nuts to silly old postmun!"

"Oh, what shall we do?” wept Mrs. Perrow. “A thousand pounds! How can we ever find it?"

While the grown-ups discussed ways and means to raise the money, Mark went back to his daily search for Lady Anne's pearls, and Harriet took the woebegone Dizzry up to the attic, hoping to distract her by a look at the hairloom.

Dizzry was delighted with it. “Do let's do some weaving!” she said. “I like weaving better than anything."

So Harriet lugged in the great bundle of beard, and they set up the loom. Dizzry was an expert weaver. She had been making beautiful scarves for years on a child's toy loom. She could nip to and fro with the shuttle almost faster than Harriet's eyes could follow. By teatime they had woven a handsome thick white mat with the words “Bath Ma” across the middle (there had not been quite enough black for the final T).

"Anyway you can see what it's meant to be,” Harriet said. They took the new mat and spread it in their elegant bathroom.

"Tell you what,” Mark said, “we'd better hide the bath and basin plugs when Min gets back or she'll climb in and drown herself."

"Oh, I do wonder what Dad and Mum are doing about getting her back,” sighed Dizzry, who was sitting on a sponge. She wiped her eyes on a corner of Harriet's cloth.

"Let's go along to your house,” Harriet said, “and find out."

There was an atmosphere of deep gloom in the Perrow household. Ernie had arranged to sell his Model T pushchair, the apple of his eye, to the Motor Museum at Beaulieu.

"A thousand pounds they say they'll give for it,” he said miserably. “With that and what I've saved from the chimney sweeping, we can just about pay the fare. Won't I half clobber young Min when I get her back, the little varmint!"

"Mrs. Perrow,” Harriet said, “may Dizzry come and spend the evening at our house, as Mother and Daddy are going to a dance? And have a bath in our new bathroom? Mother says it's all right, and I'll take great care of her."

"Oh, very well, if your ma doesn't mind,” sighed Mrs. Perrow. “I'm so distracted I hardly know if I'm coming or going. Don't forget your wash things, Diz, and the bathsalts."

Harriet was enchanted with the bathsalts, no bigger than hundreds-and-thousands. On Midsummer Eve the Armitage children were allowed to stay up as late as they liked. Mark, a single-minded boy, said he intended to go on hunting for Lady Anne's necklace in the chimney. The girls had their baths and then went up to Harriet's room with a bagful of apples and the gramophone, intending to have a good gossip.

At half past eleven, Harriet, happening to glance out of the window, saw a light in the field.

"That must be Mr. Jones,” she said. “I'd forgotten he was coming to shampoo his beard. It's not Mark, I can still hear him bumping around in the chimney.” There was indeed an excited banging to be heard from the chimney-breast, but it was as nothing compared with the terrible racket that suddenly broke out in the field. They heard shouts and cries of rage, thuds, crashes, and the tinkle of smashed glass.

"Heavens, what can be going on?” cried Harriet. She flung up the sash and prepared to climb out of the window.

"Wait for me!” cried Dizzry.

"Here, jump into my pocket. Hold tight!"

Harriet slid down the wisteria and dashed across the garden. A moment later they arrived at the bathroom door and witnessed a wild scene.

Evidently, Mr. Jones the Druid had finished washing his beard and had been about to leave when he saw his doom waiting for him outside the door in the form of another, very angry old man who was trying to batter his way in.

"It must be his brother!” Harriet whispered. “Mr. Jones the Bard!"

The second old man had no beard, only a ragged white frill cut short round his chin. He was shouting:

"Wait until I catch you, you
hocsdwr
, you
herwhaliwr
, you
ffrawddunio
, you wiched old
llechwr
! A snake would think shame to spit on you! Cutting off your brother's beard, indeed! Just let me get at you and I'll trim you to spillikins, I'll shave your beard round your eyebrows!” And he beat on the door with a huge pair of shears. A pane of glass fell in and broke on the bathroom's tiles; then the whole door gave way.

Dizzry left Harriet's pocket and swarmed up onto her head to see what was happening. They heard a fearful bellow from inside the bathroom, a stamping and crashing, fierce grunts, the hiss of the shower, and more breaking glass.

"Hey!” Harriet shouted. “Stop wrecking our bathroom!"

No answer. The sound of battle went on.

Then the bathroom window flew open and Jones the Druid shot out, all tangled in his beard, which was snowy white now, but still damp. He had the bath mat rolled up under his arm. As soon as he was out, he flung it down, leaped upon it, and shouted, “Take me out of here!"

The mat took off vertically and hovered, about seven feet up, while Jones the Druid began hauling in his damp beard, hand over hand.

"Come back!” Harriet cried. “You've got no right to go off with our bath mat."

Jones the Bard came roaring out of the window, waving his shears.