The Borrowers Afloat (6 page)

Chapter Nine

"Between the devil and the deep blue sea, that's us," said Pod with a wan smile. He was quoting from Arrietty's diary and proverb book.

They sat grouped on the hearth where the stones were warm. The iron shovel, still too hot to sit on, lay sprawled across the ashes. Homily had pulled up the crushed matchbox lid on which, with her lighter weight, she could sit comfortably. Pod and Arrietty perched on a charred stick; the three lighted dips were set between them on the ash. Shadows lay about them in the vast confines of the room, and now that the Hendrearys were out of earshot (sitting down to supper most likely), they felt drowned in the spreading silence.

After a while this was broken by the faint tinkle of a bell—quite close it seemed suddenly. There was a slight scratching sound and the lightest, most delicate of snuffles. They all glanced wide-eyed at the door, which, from where they sat, was deeply sunk in shadow.

"It can't get in, can it?" whispered Homily.

"Not a hope," said Pod. "Let it scratch ... we're all right here."

All the same Arrietty threw a searching glance up the wide chimney; the stones, she thought, if the worst came to the worst, looked uneven enough to climb. Then suddenly, far, far above her, she saw a square of violet sky and in it a single star, and, for some reason, felt reassured.

"As I see it," said Pod, "we can't go and we can't stay."

"And that's how I see it," said Homily.

"Suppose," suggested Arrietty, "we climbed up the chimney onto the thatch?"

"And then what?" said Pod.

"I don't know," said Arrietty.

"There we'd be," said Pod.

"Yes, there we'd be," agreed Homily unhappily, "even supposing we could climb a chimney, which I doubt."

There was a few moments' silence, then Pod said solemnly, "Homily, there's nothing else for it..."

"...but what?" asked Homily, raising a startled face. Lit from below, it looked curiously bony and was streaked here and there with ash. And Arrietty, who guessed what was coming, gripped her two hands beneath her knees and stared fixedly down at the shovel, which lay sideways across the hearth.

"But to bury our pride, that's what," said Pod.

"How do you mean?" asked Homily weakly, but she knew quite well what he meant.

"We got to go, quite open-like, to Lupy and Hendreary and ask them to let us stay...."

Homily put her thin hands on either side of her thin face and stared at him dumbly.

"For the child's sake..." Pod pointed out gently.

The tragic eyes swiveled round to Arrietty and back again.

"A few dried peas, that's all we'd ask for," went on Pod very gently, "just water to drink and a few dried peas...."

Still Homily did not speak.

"And we'd say they could keep the furniture in trust like," suggested Pod.

Homily stirred at last. "They'd keep the furniture anyway," she said huskily.

"Well, what about it?" asked Pod after a moment, watching her face.

Homily looked round the room in a hunted kind of way, up at the chimney then down at the ashes at their feet. At last she nodded her head. "Should we go up now," she suggested after a moment in a dispirited kind of voice, "while they're all at supper and get it over with?"

"Might as well," said Pod. He stood up and put out a hand to Homily. "Come on, me old girl," he coaxed her. Homily rose slowly and Pod turned to Arrietty, Homily's hand pulled under his arm. Standing beside his wife, he drew himself up to his full six inches. "There's two kinds of courage I know of," he said, "and your mother's got both of 'em; you make a note of that, my girl, when you're writing in your diary...."

But Arrietty was gazing past him into the room; she was staring white-faced into the shadows beyond the log box toward the scullery door.

"Something moved," she whispered.

Pod turned, following the direction of her eyes. "What like?" he asked sharply.

"Something furry..."

They all froze. Then Homily, with a cry, ran out from between them. Amazed and aghast, they watched her scramble off the hearth and run with outstretched arms toward the shadows beyond the log box. She seemed to be laughing—or crying—her breath coming in little gasps. "...the dear boy, the good boy ... the blessed creature!"

"It's Spiller!" cried Arrietty on a shout of joy.

She ran forward too, and they dragged him out of the shadows, pulled him onto the hearth and beside the dips, where the light shone warmly on his suit of moleskins, worn now, slightly tattered, and shorter in the leg. His feet were bare and gleaming with black mud. He seemed to have grown heavier and taller. His hair was still as ragged and his pointed face as brown. They did not think to ask him where he had come from; it was enough that he was there. Spiller, it seemed to Arrietty, always materialized out of air and dissolved again as swiftly.

"Oh, Spiller!" gasped Homily, who was not supposed to like him. "In the nick of time, the very nick of time!" And she sat down on the charred stick, which flew up, the farther end scattering a cloud of ash, and burst into happy tears.

"Nice to see you, Spiller," said Pod, smiling and looking him up and down. "Come for your summer clothes?" Spiller nodded; bright-eyed, he gazed about the room, taking in the bundles strapped to the hatpin, the pulled-out position of the log box, the odd barenesses and rearrangements that signify human departure. But he made no comment. Countrymen, such as Spiller and Pod were, do not rush into explanations; faced with whatever strange evidence, they mind their manners and bide their time. "Well, I happen to know they're not ready," Pod went on. "She's sewn the vest, mind, but she hasn't joined up the trousers...."

Spiller nodded again. His eyes sought out Arrietty who, ashamed of her first outburst, had become suddenly shy and had withdrawn behind the shovel.

"Well," said Pod at last, looking about as though aware suddenly of strangeness in their surroundings, "you find us in a nice sort of pickle...."

"Moving house?" asked Spiller casually.

"In a manner of speaking," said Pod. And as Homily dried her eyes on her apron and began to pin up her hair, he outlined the story to Spiller in a few rather fumbling words. Spiller listened with one eyebrow raised and his mocking v-shaped mouth twisted up at the corners. This was Spiller's famous expression, Arrietty remembered, no matter what you were telling him.

"...and so," said Pod, shrugging his shoulders, "you see how we're placed?"

Spiller nodded, looking thoughtful.

"Must be pretty hungry now, that ferret," Pod went on, "poor creature. Can't hunt with a bell: the rabbits hear him coming. Gone in a flash the rabbits are. But with our short legs he'd be on us in a trice—bell or no bell. But how did you manage?" Pod asked suddenly.

"The usual," said Spiller.

"What usual?"

Spiller jerked his head toward the washhouse. "The drain, of course," he said.

Chapter Ten

"What drain?" asked Homily, staring.

"The one in the floor," said Spiller, as though she ought to have known. "The sink's no good—got an's' bend. And they keep the lid on the copper."

"I didn't see any drain in the floor..." said Pod.

"It's under the mangle," explained Spiller.

"But—" went on Homily. "I mean, do you always come by the drain?"

"And go," said Spiller.

"Undercover, like," Pod pointed out to Homily. "Doesn't have to bother with the weather."

"Or the woods," said Homily.

"That's right," agreed Spiller. "You don't want to bother with the woods. Not the woods," he repeated thoughtfully.

"Where does the drain come out?" asked Pod.

"Down by the kettle," said Spiller.

"What kettle?"

"His kettle," put in Arrietty excitedly. "That kettle he's got by the stream...."

"That's right," said Spiller.

Pod looked thoughtful. "Do the Hendrearys know this?"

Spiller shook his head. "Never thought to tell them," he said.

Pod was silent a moment and then he said, "Could anyone use this drain?"

"No reason why not," said Spiller. "Where you making for?"

"We don't know yet," said Pod.

Spiller frowned and scratched his knee where the black mud, drying in the warmth of the ash, had turned to a powdery gray. "Ever thought of the town?" he asked.

"Leighton Buzzard?"

"No," exclaimed Spiller scornfully. "Little Fordham."

Had Spiller suggested a trip to the moon, they could not have looked more astonished. Homily's face was a study in disbelief, as though she thought Spiller was romancing. Arrietty became very still; she seemed to be holding her breath. Pod looked ponderously startled.

"So there is such a place?" he said slowly.

"Of course there is such a place," snapped Homily. "Everyone knows that; what they don't know exactly is
—where?
And I doubt if Spiller does either...."

"Two days down the river," said Spiller, "if the stream's running good."

"Oh," said Pod.

"You mean we have to swim for it?" snapped Homily.

"I got a boat," said Spiller.

"Oh, my goodness..." murmured Homily, suddenly deflated.

"Big?" asked Pod.

"Fair," said Spiller.

"Could she take passengers?" asked Pod.

"Could do," said Spiller.

"Oh, my goodness..." murmured Homily again.

"What's the matter, Homily?" asked Pod.

"Can't see myself in a boat," said Homily. "Not on the water, I can't."

"Well, a boat's not much good on dry land," said Pod. "To get something, you got to risk something—that's how it goes. We got to find somewhere to live."

"There might be something, say, in walking distance," faltered Homily.

"Such as?"

"Well," said Homily unhappily, throwing a quick glance at Spiller, "say, for instance ... Spiller's kettle."

"Not much accommodation in a kettle," said Pod.

"More than there was in a boot," retorted Homily.

"Now, Homily," said Pod, suddenly firm, "you wouldn't be happy, not for twenty-four hours, in a kettle; and inside a week you'd be on at me night and day to find some kind of craft to get you downstream to Little Fordham. Here you are with the chance of a good home, fresh start, and a free passage, and all you do is go on like a maniac about a drop of clean running water. Now, if it was the drain you objected to—"

Homily turned to Spiller. "What sort of boat?" she asked nervously. "I mean, if I could picture it like..."

Spiller thought a moment. "Well," he said, "it's wooden."

"Yes?" said Homily.

Spiller tried again. "Well, it's like ... you might say it was something like a knife box."

"How much like?" asked Pod.

"Very like," said Spiller.

"In fact," declared Homily triumphantly, "it
is
a knife box?"

Spiller nodded. "That's right," he admitted.

"Flat-bottomed?" asked Pod.

"With divisions, like, for spoons, forks, and so on?" put in Homily.

"That's right," agreed Spiller, replying to both.

"Tarred and waxed at the seams?"

"Waxed," said Spiller.

"Sounds all right to me," said Pod. "What do you say, Homily?" It sounded better to her too, Pod realized, but he saw she was not quite ready to commit herself. He turned again to Spiller. "What do you do for power?"

"Power?"

"Got some kind of sail?"

Spiller shook his head. "Take her downstream, loaded—with a paddle; pole her back upstream in ballast...."

"I see," said Pod. He sounded rather impressed. "You go often to Little Fordham?"

"Pretty regular," said Spiller.

"I see," said Pod again. "Sure you could give us a lift?"

"Call back for you," said Spiller, "at the kettle, say. Got to go upstream to load."

"Load what?" asked Homily bluntly.

"The boat," said Spiller.

"I know that," said Homily, "but with what?"

"Now, Homily," put in Pod, "that's Spiller's business. No concern of ours. Does a bit of trading up and down the river I shouldn't wonder. Mixed cargo, eh, Spiller? Nuts, birds' eggs, meat, minnows ... that sort of tackle—more or less what he brings Lupy."

"Depends what they're short of," said Spiller.

"They?" exclaimed Homily.

"Now, Homily," Pod admonished her, "Spiller's got his customers. Stands to reason. We're not the only borrowers in the world, remember. Not by a long chalk...."

"But these ones at Little Fordham," Homily pointed out, "they say they're made of plaster?"

"That's right," said Spiller, "painted over. All of a piece ... except one," he added.

"One live one?" asked Pod.

"That's right," said Spiller.

"Oh, I wouldn't like that," exclaimed Homily, "I wouldn't like that at all: not to be the one live borrower among a lot of dummy waxworks or whatever they call themselves. Get on my nerves that would...."

"They don't bother him," said Spiller. "Leastways not as much, he says, as a whole lot of live ones might."

"Well, that's a nice friendly attitude, I must say," snapped Homily. "Nice kind of welcome we'll get, I can see, when we turn up there unexpected...."

"Plenty of houses," said Spiller, "no sort of need to live close...."

"And he doesn't own the places," Pod reminded her.

"That's true," said Homily.

"What about it, Homily?" said Pod.

"I don't mind," said Homily, "providing we live near the shops..."

"There's nothing in the shops," explained Pod in a patient voice, "or so I've heard tell, but bananas and such-like made of plaster and all stuck down in a lump."

"No, but it sounds nice," said Homily. "Say you were talking to Lupy—"

"But you won't be talking to Lupy," said Pod. "Lupy won't even know we're gone until she wakes up tomorrow morning thinking that she's got to get us breakfast. No, Homily," he went on earnestly, "you don't want to make for shopping centers and all that sort of caper; better some quiet little place down by the water's edge. You won't want to be everlastingly carting water. And, say Spiller comes down pretty regular with a nice bit of cargo, you want somewhere he can tie up and unload.... Plenty of time, once we get there, to have a look round and take our pick."

"Take our pick..." Suddenly Homily felt the magic of these words: they began to work inside her—champagne bubbles of excitement welling up and up—until, at last, she flung her hands together in a sudden joyful clap. "Oh Pod," she breathed, her eyes brimming, as, startled by the noise, he turned sharply toward her. "Think of it—all those houses ... We could try them
all
out if we wanted, one after another. What's to prevent us?"

"Common sense," said Pod; he smiled at Arrietty. "What do you say, lass? Shops or water?"

Arrietty cleared her throat. "Down by water," she whispered huskily, her eyes shining and her face tremulous in the dancing light of the dip, "at least to start with...."

There was a short pause. Pod glanced down at his tackle strapped to the hatpin and up at the clock on the wall. "Getting on for half-past one," he said. "Time we had a look at this drain. What do you say, Spiller? Could you spare us a minute? And show us the ropes like?"

"Oh," exclaimed Homily, dismayed, "I thought Spiller was coming with us."

"Now, Homily," explained Pod, "it's a long trek and he's only just arrived; he won't want to go back right away."

"I don't see why not if his clothes aren't ready—that's what you came for, isn't it, Spiller?"

"That and other things," said Pod. "Daresay he's brought a few oddments for Lupy."

"That's all right," said Spiller. "I can tip 'em out on the floor."

"And you will come?" cried Homily.

Spiller nodded. "Might as well."

Even Pod seemed slightly relieved. "That's very civil of you, Spiller," he said, "very civil indeed." He turned to Arrietty. "Now, Arrietty, take a dip and go and fetch the egg."

"Oh, don't let's bother with the egg," said Homily.

Pod gave her a look. "You go and get that egg, Arrietty. Just roll it along in front of you into the washhouse, but be careful with the light near those shavings. Homily, you bring the other two dips and I'll get the tackle...."