The Serial Garden: The Complete Armitage Family Stories (30 page)

The chaos in the Armitage house had changed its location: the front hall was now clean, tidy, and damp; the rumpus of vacuuming had shifted to the playroom. With a black hollow of apprehension in his middle, Mark ran through the open door and stopped, aghast. All the toys, tools, weapons, boxes, magazines, and bits of machinery had been rammed into the cupboards; the floor where his garden had been laid out was bare. Mrs. Armitage was in the playroom taking down the curtains.

"
Mother!
Where's my Brekkfast Brikks garden?"

"Oh, darling, you didn't want it, did you? It was all dusty, I thought you'd finished it. I'm afraid I've burned it in the furnace. Really, you
must
try not to let this room get into such a clutter, it's perfectly disgraceful. Why, hullo, Mr. Johansen, I'm afraid you've called at the worst possible moment. But I'm sure you'll understand how it is at spring-cleaning time."

She rolled up her bundle of curtains, glancing worriedly at Mr. Johansen; he looked rather odd, she thought. But he gave her his tired, gentle smile, and said,

"Why, yes, Mrs. Armitage, I understand, I understand very well. Come, Mark. We have no business here, you can see."

Speechlessly, Mark followed him. What was there to say?

"Never mind,” Mrs. Armitage called after Mark. “The Rice Nuts pack has a helicopter on it."

Every week in
The Times
newspaper you will see this advertisement:

So if you have any, you know where to send them.

But Mark is growing anxious; none have come in yet, and every day Mr. Johansen seems a little thinner and more elderly. Besides, what will the princess be thinking?

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Mark, who wished to get rid of the space gun his great-uncle had sent him, and acquire something more useful, had brought home a copy of
Exchange and Mart
.

"'Princess-type boiler fireplace exchanged for gent's bicycle,'” he read aloud consideringly.

"But we don't want a fireplace,” Harriet pointed out. “And we haven't a bicycle."

"Or there's five gross jazz-coloured balloons, a tiger's head, and two whale teeth. Offered in exchange for go-kart or griffin's eggs."

"The balloons would be nice.” Harriet swallowed her last bite of cake—they were having a Friday tea—and came to hang over his shoulder. “If we had a go-kart."

"'Sale or exchange road-breaker tools interested arc welder, spray plant, w.h.y. Buyer collects.’ I do wonder w.h.y.? They seem queer things to collect."

"'Pocket Gym, judo suit, height increaser, neck developer, strength course, weights and Dynamic Tension course.’
That
seems a bargain. Only three pounds."

"No height increasers in this family, thanks,” said Mr. Armitage, without looking up from his evening paper. “Or weight increasers. Kindly remember the house is three hundred years old."

"'A hundredweight of green garnishing in 10-inch sections, de-rinder and sausage-spooling machinery'; they might come in handy for Christmas decorations,” Harriet said thoughtfully.

"'One million toys at 65p per 100, including Woo-Woos, Jumping Shrimp, et cetera.’”

"Mother wouldn't like the Jumping Shrimp."

"I would not,” agreed Mrs. Armitage, pouring herself another cup of tea.

"
Gosh
! ‘7 in. span baboon spider with 1/2 in. fangs, 5 pounds.’”

"
No
."

"I don't really want it,” Harriet said hastily. “But—listen—'2 1/2-year-old Himalayan bears, only 42 pounds'—oh, Mother,
they'd
be lovely. ‘Or would exchange griffin's eggs.’ What a pity we haven't any of those. Lots of people seem to want them."

"
Forty-two pounds
? You can't be serious. Besides, it would be too warm for Himalayan bears here."

"'Various rattlesnakes, 6 ft Mangrove snake, 8 pounds.’”

"Shall we get away from this section?” Mr. Armitage suggested, lowering his paper. “Anyway, isn't it time for your music lesson, Mark?"

"Yes, in just a minute. Here's something that might interest Mr. Johansen,” Mark said. “'Would exchange room in town for room in country; pleasant outlook required. View by appointment.’ Mr. Johansen was saying only last week that he wished he had a bedsit in London so that he could go to concerts and not always have to miss the last movement to catch the ten-fifteen. I'll take this along to show him."

"Bring it back, though,” said Harriet, who did not want to lose track of the Himalayan bears.

Mark was very fond of Mr. Johansen, his music teacher, a sad, gentle man who, as well as teaching the piano and violin, had for many years run a dogs’ weekend guest house. Lately, however, he had given up the dogs because he said he was growing too old to exercise them properly. When young, he had been in love with a German princess who had been lost to him by an unfortunate bit of amateur magic. He had never married. Everybody in the village liked him very much.

"Look, Mr. Johansen,” said Mark, before settling down to his five-finger exercises. “You were saying only the other day that it was a pity not to use your spare room; here's somebody want to exchange a room in town for once in the country. Don't you think that would do for you?"

"Ach, so?” Mr. Johansen carefully scanned the advertisement. “Why yes, ziss might certainly be useful. I wvonder wvere ziss room is? I will write off to ze box number.” He made a note of it.

A week passed. Harriet, who had developed a passionate wish for a Himalayan bear, was hardly seen; she spent every evening making very beautiful dolls’ furniture out of egg-shells, plastic egg-boxes, yoghurt, pots, snail shells, and shampoo containers; when she had a hamper full of furniture, she hoped to sell it all to a London toyshop for the price of a bear. She had not mentioned this plan to Mrs. Armitage, who thought that a cat and a unicorn were sufficient pets for one family.

"Candleberry's lovely to ride on,” Harriet said to Mark, “but you can't bring him indoors. And Walrus is always out catching mice. A bear would be cozy."

Mark was in the middle of his lesson with Mr. Johansen the following week when there came a brisk peal at the front-door bell. The music master opened the door and let in an uncommon-looking old lady, very short, very wrinkled, rather like a tortoise with a disagreeable expression, wearing rimless glasses and a raincoat and sou'-wester which might have been made of alligator-skin. She limped, and walked with a stick, and carried a carpet-bag which seemed to be quite heavy.

"Answer to advertisement,” she said in a businesslike manner. “Name, Mrs. Nutti. Room in town exchange room in country. Which room? This one?"

She stumped into the music-room. Mark twirled around on his music-stool to look at her.

"No, no. Upstairs,” said Mr. Johansen. “Ziss way, if you please."

"Good. Upstairs better. Much better. Better outlook. Air fresher. Burglars not so likely. Can't do with burglars—Well, show way, then!"

Mr. Johansen went ahead, she followed; Mark came, too.

The music teacher's house was really a bungalow, and the spare room was really an attic-loft, with sloping ceilings. But it had big dormer windows with a pleasant view of fields and woods; Mr. Johansen had painted the walls (or ceiling) sky blue, so that you could imagine you were out on the roof, rather than inside a room; there was blue linoleum on the floor, an old-fashioned bed with brass knobs and a patchwork quilt, and an even older-fashioned washstand with a jug and basin covered in pink roses.

"Very nice,” said Mrs. Nutti, looking round. “Very nice view. Take it for three months. Beginning now."

"But wait,” objected Mark, seeing that Mr. Johansen was rather dazed by this rapid dealing. “
He
hasn't seen
your
room yet. And shouldn't you exchange references or something? I'm sure people always do that."

"References?” snapped Mrs. Nutti. “No point. Not exchanging references—exchanging rooms! You'll find my room satisfactory. Excellent room. Show now."

She snapped her fingers. Mark and Mr. Johansen both lost their balance, as people do in a fairground trick room with a tilting floor, and fell heavily.

Mark thought as he fell,

"That's funny, I'd have said there was lino on this floor, not carpet."

"
Donnerwetter!
” gasped Mr. Johansen (Mark had fallen on top of him). They clambered to their feet, rather embarrassed.

"It is zose heavy lorries,” the music master began explaining apologetically. “Zey do shake ze house so when zey pass; but it is not so very often—"

Then he stopped, staring about him in bewilderment, for Mrs. Nutti was nowhere to be seen.

Nor, for that matter, was the brass-headed bed, the patchwork quilt, the washstand with jug and roses, the blue ceiling—

"Gosh,” said Mark. He crossed to one of two high, lattice casement windows, treading noiselessly on the thick carpet, which was intricately patterned in red, blue, rose-colour, black, and gold. “
Gosh
, Mr. Johansen, do come and look out."

The music master joined him at the window and they gazed together into a city filled with dusk, whose lights were beginning to twinkle out under a deep-blue clear sky with a few matching stars. Below them, a street ran downhill to a wide river or canal; a number of slender towers, crowned with onion-shaped domes, rose in every direction; there were masts of ships on the water and the cries of gulls could be heard.

Immediately below there was a small cobbled square and, on the opposite side of it, a café with tables set under a big leafy tree which had lights strung from its branches. A group of men with odd instruments—long curving pipes, bulb-shaped drums, outsized Jews’ harps—were playing a plaintive tune, while another man went around among the tables, holding out a wooden bowl.

"I do not understand,” muttered Mr. Johansen. “Wvat has happened? Wvere are we? Wvere is Mrs. Nutti? Wvere is my
room
?"

"Why, don't you see, sir?” said Mark, who, more accustomed to this kind of thing, was beginning to guess what had happened. “This must be Mrs. Nutti's room that she said she'd show you. I thought she meant in London, but of course in the advertisement it didn't actually say London it just said ‘room in town'—I wonder what town this is?"

"But—ach,
himmel
—zen wvere
is
my room?"

"Well, I suppose Mrs. Nutti has got it. This seems quite a nice room, though, don't you think?"

Mr. Johansen gazed about it rather wildly, pushing long thin hands through his white hair until the strands were all standing on end and he looked like a gibbon.

Mrs. Nutti's room was furnished in a much more stately way than the humble attic bedroom. For a start, there was a massive four-poster bed with crimson damask hangings. The walls, also, were covered with some kind of damask, which made the room rather dark. Two tall black polished cabinets on claw feet stood against the wall facing the windows. A lamp in a boat-shaped gilt container hung suspended by a chain from the ceiling and threw a dim light. A velvet curtain, held back by a tasseled cord, partly covered the doorway; a small organ stood to the right of the door. Strangest of all, opposite the doorway there was a fireplace with a large heavy pair of polished metal and irons and a massive white marble mantelpiece which appeared to have suffered from some accident. The right side of the mantel was supported by a large carved marble heraldic beast with a collar round its neck, but the beast that should have supported the left-hand side was missing; it had apparently been dragged out of the wall, like a decoration from an iced cake, leaving nothing but a jagged hole.

"
That's
a bit of a mess,” Mark said. “I do think Mrs. Nutti should have put it right for you before she lent you her room. It's rather a shame; the monster on the other is awfully nice. A kind of furry eagle."

"A griffin,” corrected Mr. Johansen absently. “Ze legs, you see, are zose of a lion. Head, zat of an eagle, also wvings. But wvere
is
zis Mrs. Nutti?"

"Wherever she is, she's left her carpet-bag behind,” said Mark, picking it off the floor. “Blimey, what a weight. Hey, Mrs. Nutti? Are you downstairs?"

He put the bag down again, walked through the open door, and stuck his head back through again to say, “She really has done a neat job, Mr. Johansen, it's still your landing outside."

Bemusedly, Mr. Johansen followed him out and discovered that, as Mark had said, the transformation of the loft-room went no farther than the door; outside were Mr. Johansen's tidy bare landing, his coconut-matted stairs, and his prints of Alpine flora.

They went down, expecting to find Mrs. Nutti in the music-room. But she had gone.

"Back to wherever she came from, I suppose,” Mark said.

"Taking my room wizz her,” Mr. Johansen murmured plaintively.

"But really, sir, hers is quite a nice room, don't you think? And it has a smashing view. I know it's not London, which is what you wanted, but maybe they have concerts in this town, too. Where do you suppose it is?"