The Serial Garden: The Complete Armitage Family Stories (24 page)

The children walked slowly towards them, Harriet hobbling and clutching Mark's elbow.

"Up early, aren't you?” said one of the men. “What's the matter? Little girl hurt her foot?"

"I think I've sprained it,” gasped Harriet.

"Lower Little Finching,” answered Mark, inventing quickly.

"Never heard of it. We're going to Gorsham."

"Oh, that would be fine. You could put us off at Gorsham crossroads."

The men finished their cigarettes and stood up, moving slowly towards the van. It was the usual enormously high furniture removal van, and said simply SMITHS REMOVALS AND STORAGE on its side. Mark noticed with suppressed excitement that a couple of rusty leaves were jammed at the bottom of the roll-down steel back. He wanted to draw Harriet's attention to this but didn't dare.

"Lift the little girl in, Weaver,” said the shorter man. “I want to check the fuel."

When he started, he said, “First garage we see I must stop for juice. Only half a gallon left. All that winching used a lot."

The other man scowled at him in a silencing way. “So they've got a winch inside there,” Mark thought, “run by a belt-drive off the engine.” He had been wondering how they had gotten the tree out of the ground and into the van.

The driver edged his way cautiously along the narrow track which was called Back Lane because it swung out in a semicircle behind the village and then joined the main road again farther along. Just past this road junction was Smalldown Garage, and Ken Clement, who owned it, was a friend; it was Ken who came and mowed Granny's lawn with her crazy, temperamental old motor mower.

"I'll pull in here,” said the driver, when he saw Ken's sign.

"How about a bit of breakfast?” suggested Weaver, noticing that the sign also said Snacks.

"Okay. You want any breakfast, kids?"

"No, thank you,” said Mark, who was afraid that Ken would ruin things by greeting them. “We've had ours.” He wished it were true.

"Well, we shan't be long. You can stay in the cab if you want."

Both men jumped out, and the driver called to Ken, who was hosing down a van, and asked him to fill up the tank. Then they went in at the café door, which was round the side of the garage, out of sight.

"Now,” said Mark to Harriet, “you must go in and distract their attention. Make a noise, play tunes on the jukebox or something, and don't forget to limp."

Harriet hobbled off. Her foot was really sore by now; she didn't have to pretend. In the café a fat girl was just giving the men plates of bacon and eggs. Luckily Harriet did not know her.

Harriet bought some chocolate and then limped across and put sixpence into the jukebox which jerked and rumbled once or twice and began to play a rather gloomy song:

"If she bain't a pal to me

What care I whose pal she be?"

"Oh, blimey!” said Weaver. “I never can hear that song without crying."

"Why?” asked the other man.

"It reminds me so of the missus."

"Well, she's at home waiting for yer, isn't she?"

"Yes, that's just what I mean!” Sure enough, his face was all creased sideways, like a cracker that is just going to be pulled, and as the song went on its gloomy way, he fairly burst out boohooing.

"Here, shall I turn the perishing thing off?"

"Oh, no, Fred, don't do that. It's lovely—makes me feel ever so sad. Put in another sixpence and let's have it again. You don't hear it often nowadays."

"Lumme,” said Fred, “there's no accounting for tastes.” But he kindly put in another sixpence and started the tune again when it ended, while Weaver sat happily crying into his eggs.

Harriet went quietly out.

"It's all right,” she said to Mark, who was waiting round the front. “They're good for another twenty minutes."

"That should do us; come on quick, Ken's waiting. He filled the tank and we had a look inside (lucky that that twig stuck out, it stopped the lock from engaging properly) and it's our tree all right."

They ran. Ken was in the cab of the van already, and his son Laurie was in the back; Harriet and Mark piled in with Laurie. As Ken pulled out, his other son Tom ran a tractor across the forecourt with a deafening roar that effectively drowned out the noise of their own departure. It seemed queer to be riding along in a van with a quince tree. A few of the quinces had fallen off, but not so many as might have been expected.

"Must be a very well-sprung van,” Mark said.

"Proper shame, though, to take your Granny's quince tree like that,” Laurie said. “Why not tell the police?"

"Oh, I expect those men were just hired to do the job. The main thing is to get it back before Granny notices."

"Ar,” Laurie said, “it's going to be a rare old fetch-me-round getting her out and back in the ground. Lucky there's this here crane on board."

They could feel the bumpy, slower progress as Ken edged the van up the lane, and the occasional swish of a branch against the sides. Then he stopped, turned, and backed into Granny's orchard.

Laurie stood up and prepared to jump out. “Cor,” he said, “a blooming pusscat. Where did she come from?"

They all noticed the cat for the first time. She was sitting in the quince tree looking at them somewhat balefully—a big tortoise-shell with pale green eyes. Harriet was rather upset to notice also that the red flowerpot hat that had so much attracted her attention to Miss Eaves’ head was lying at the foot of the tree.

"Do you think it's her?” she asked apprehensively. “Miss Eaves? Now I come to think of it she did look as if she might be a witch."

"If so, why go to the trouble of hiring a van to steal the tree?” Mark answered.

"She couldn't take it across running water."

"That's true,” Mark said. “Well, to be on the safe side, we'd better stow her somewhere out of harm's way."

"I'll take her.” Harriet clasped the cat firmly around its middle and tucked the red hat under her arm. Then she blushed, thinking how unsuitable this treatment was for the dignified Miss Eaves. If it
was
Miss Eaves.

"Still, it was jolly mean to steal Granny's tree,” she said to the cat.

There were lots of unfurnished rooms at the back of Granny's house: apple rooms, onion rooms, tomato rooms, herb rooms, and chutney rooms. Harriet shoved the reluctant cat into an apple room with a saucer of water, shut the door and window carefully, and raced back to the house. It was still very early.

Ken had backed the van right up to the edge of the hole, and they had pulled down a ramp and were now swinging out a movable crane attached to one of the inside walls. The crane's padded clutch was still holding on to the quince tree's trunk, which was all wrapped in felt for protection. Ken got back into the cab and started the engine, and the crane cable tightened and began to throb. The quince tree lurched slightly.

Ken jumped out again. “You kids get in the back there and push,” he said. “Laurie, pass this rope round the tree and swing her if she goes askew. I'll work the crane."

Little by little the tree slid forward along the polished steel floor of the van and began to slither down the ramp. The roots, which had been pressed up against the walls, sprang out straight.

"Handy little gadget that crane is, in a furniture van,” Laurie said, giving the rope a tug and wiping his face with an earthy hand. “Now we're going to have fun though, getting her back in the hole."

It wasn't so bad as he feared—the hole was far larger than the tree needed and it was just a case of tumping it up and down to make sure the roots were all comfortable. Then, working like beavers, they piled the earth back into the hole and trampled it down.

"It looks terrible,” Harriet said. “As if wild bulls had been here."

"Turf, that's what we want,” said Laurie. “This here grass'll take a month of Sundays to come back."

"Turf down by the cricket pavilion,” said his father. “We was just going to renew the pitch. The club won't begrudge old Mrs. Armitage half a load."

They swung the crane inboard again, hauled down the back (Mark jammed a twig in at the bottom, just as it had been before), and all piled into the cab. Ken hustled the van back down the lane to the garage.

Tom was still exercising his tractor in the forecourt. He gave them a reassuring wave. “Haven't come out yet,” he shouted.

Sure enough, when Harriet tiptoed to the café window and peered in, the two van men were still drinking tea, and Weaver was crying while he listened to a tune that went:

"Oh, breathe not her name

Or don't breathe it often—"

Later, she often wondered how long it was before they discovered that the tree had gone.

Meanwhile Ken had collected a load of turf from the cricket pitch and took it back in the tractor-trailer. Mark and Harriet rode back with him and helped pack the turfs around the foot of the quince tree, working outwards until they met the unspoiled grass.

"Lucky it was lawn underneath,” Ken said, “and not rose garden or summat. That wouldn't have been so easy to fake. Now you fetch the ponies and we'll give the turf a good old flattening."

"We'd better have the quinces picked as quickly as possible,” Harriet remarked as they laced on the ponies’ felt slippers and harnessed them to the roller, “in case Miss Eaves has another try. Once the quinces are off, the tree isn't any use to her."

"I noticed the telephone linesmen as we were coming through the village from the pavilion,” Mark said. “I'll ask them to come and help."

The linesmen always helped Granny pick her fruit, and when they heard Mark's story, they said they would be along with their ladders right away. Ken said he supposed he had better go back and look after the business, and he drove off, waving aside the thanks of Mark and Harriet.

"Never thought she'd look so good,” he shouted. The ponies were shuffling round and round with the roller, and the grass beneath the tree had begun to look as if it had been there all its life. A few leaves and one more quince had fallen.

"Well, us'll make a start,” said the leader of the telephone men.

"I'll just go and tell Granny you're here,” said Harriet. “It's ten minutes to breakfast time."

Granny was delighted to hear that the men had begun on the quinces; she said ever since that woman had called, she had been thinking about quince chutney. As soon as breakfast was over, without even going out to look at the tree, she got out a cook book and a cauldron, told Nursie to make some strong tea with molasses in it for the men, and instructed the children to bring in all the quinces that had been picked.

Soon the house was full of the aromatic scent of Granny's quince, tomato, and onion chutney, and Mark and Harriet were kept busy peeling, chopping, and running to and fro with more supplies, while old Nursie doddered around ordering everyone about and taking the men enormous jam tarts.

"Do you think the tree will be all right?” Harriet said to Mark as they stood watching the last of the quinces come down.

"Oh, I should think so,” he said. “That's that, now we can let Miss Eaves out. If it
is
Miss Eaves."

Harriet ran indoors with the last basketful.

"Put them in the quince room, child,” said Granny, stirring away at her pungent brew. “And then come back and have a good sniff at this steam; it will cure your cough. By the way—"

"Oh!” exclaimed Harriet, stopping on the kitchen hearth. “How did
she
get here?"

"I was going to ask you that,” said Granny mildly. “I heard her mewing in the apple room. She's not one of the village cats."

Miss Eaves was sitting comfortably on the hearthstone, washing her tortoise-shell paw with a pink tongue. If it
was
Miss Eaves. How had she mewed loudly enough to penetrate Granny's deafness, Harriet wondered.

"I've been wanting a cat,” Granny went on. “Ever since old Opussum went to sleep in the laurel tree, the mice have been getting at the codlins. So I buttered her paws and I shall keep her—unless, of course, anyone turns up to claim her."

Harriet was rather taken aback, but Miss Eaves looked uncommonly placid and pleased with herself. An empty sardine saucer stood at one side of the hearth.

After she had had her good sniff at the quince steam (which did indeed cure her cough), Harriet ran off to consult Mark.

"If she's had her paws buttered,” he said gloomily, “she'll probably never leave of her own accord. We shall have our work cut out to get rid of her."

And certainly a tactful taking of Miss Eaves to the boundary hedge and dropping her over it did nothing to dislodge her; there were so many windows kept open in Granny's house that Miss Eaves could always get in one or another of them and turn up purring in time for the next meal. Meanwhile, to the children's relief, the quince tree showed no signs of ill effects from its upheaval.

On Nursie's next W.I. afternoon, Granny was making quince honey in the kitchen when Harriet saw the Brushitoff Brush man drive up to the door.

"Do you want any brushes today, Granny?” Harriet shouted through the steam. “The brush man's here."

"No, child. Last week we had an onion brush, the week before a tomato brush, and the week before that a tin of apple polish. Nothing this week, tell him, thank you."

On the way to the front door Harriet found Mark and hissed her plan to him, also borrowing all the money he had, which was sevenpence.

"Granny doesn't want anything, thank you,” she said to the man, “but may I look at what you've got. I want to buy a—a present."

The Brushitoff man rapidly undid his suitcase and spread out a most multifarious display of brushes—straight, curved, circular, pliable, nylon, bristle, sponge, and all colors of the rainbow.

"Oh, how lovely,” Harriet said admiringly. “Gracious, isn't it hard to decide. How much is that one?"

"Three and sixpence, miss."

"And this?"

"Five and eleven."

"Oh dear, they do cost a lot, don't they? How much is this little one?"

"Two and six."

Harriet went on hopefully digging in the suitcase. She tried out a muff brush on her cuff and a pot-plant swab on her finger tip. Finally, after much thought, she purchased a tiny button brush that cost only a shilling. The man collected all the other brushes together and drove off in his van.