The Borrowers Aloft (5 page)

Chapter Eight

"There must be something we can do," said Mrs. Platter despairingly for about the fifth time within an hour. "Look at the money we've sunk."

"Sunk is the right word," said Mr. Platter.

"And it isn't as though we haven't tried."

"Oh, we've tried hard enough," said Mr. Platter. "And what annoys me about this Abel Pott is that he does it all without seeming to try at all. He doesn't seem to mind if people come or not. 'MODEL VILLAGE WITH LIVE INHABITANTS'—that's what he'll put on the notice—and then we'll be finished. Finished for good and all! Better pack it in now, that's what I say, and sell out as a going concern."

"There must be something..." repeated Mrs. Platter stubbornly.

They sat as before at a green table on their singularly tidy lawn. On this Sunday evening it was even more singularly tidy than usual. Only five people had come that afternoon for "Riverside Teas." There had been three, quite disastrous weekends: on two of them it had rained, and on this particular Sunday there had been what local people spoke of as "the aeronaut"—a balloon ascent from the fairground, with tea in tents, ice cream, candy floss, and roundabouts. On Saturday people drove out to see the balloon itself (at sixpence a time to pass the rope barriers) and today in the hundreds to see the balloon go up. It had been a sad sight indeed for Mr. and Mrs. Platter to watch the carriages and motors stream past Ballyhoggin with never a glance nor a thought for "Riverside Teas." It had not comforted them, either, when at about three o'clock in the afternoon the balloon itself sailed silently over them, barely clearing the ilex tree, which grew beside the house. They could even see "the aeronaut," who was looking down—mockingly, it seemed—straight into the glaring eyes of Mr. Platter.

"No good saying, 'There must be something,'" he told her irritably. "Night and day I've thought and thought and you've thought too. What with this balloon mania and Abel Pott's latest, we can't compete. That's all: it's quite simple. There isn't anything—short of stealing them."

"What about that?" said Mrs. Platter.

"About what?"

"Stealing them," said Mrs. Platter.

Mr. Platter stared back at her. He opened his mouth and shut it again. "Oh, we couldn't do that," he managed to say at last.

"Why not?" said Mrs. Platter. "He hasn't shown them yet. Nobody knows they're there."

"Why, it would be—I mean, it's a felony."

"Never mind," said Mrs. Platter. "Let's commit one."

"Oh, Mabel," gasped Mr. Platter, "what things you do say!" But he looked slightly awe-struck and admiring.

"Other people commit them," said Mrs. Platter firmly, basking in the glow of his sudden approbation. "Why shouldn't we?"

"Yes, I see your argument," said Mr. Platter. He still looked rather dazed.

"There's got to be a first time for everything," Mrs. Platter pointed out.

"But—" He swallowed nervously. "You go to prison for a felony. I don't mind a few extra items on a bill; I'm game for that, dear. Always was, as you well know. But this—oh Mabel, it takes
you
to think of a thing like this!"

"Well, I said there'd be something," acknowledged Mrs. Platter modestly. "But it's only common sense, dear. We can't afford not to."

"You're right," said Mr. Platter, "we're driven to it. Not a soul could blame us."

"Not a living soul!" agreed Mrs. Platter solemnly in a bravely fervent voice.

Mr. Platter leaned across the table and patted her hand. "I take my hat off to you, Mabel, for courage and initiative. You're a wonderful woman," he said.

"Thank you, dear," said Mrs. Platter.

"And now for ways and means..." said Mr. Platter in a suddenly businesslike voice. He took off his rimless glasses and thoughtfully began polishing them. "Tools, transport, times of day..."

"It's simple," said Mrs. Platter. "You take the boat."

"I realize that," said Mr. Platter with a kind of aloof patience. He put his rimless glasses back on his nose, returned the handkerchief to his pocket, leaned back in his chair, and with the fingers of his right hand drummed lightly on the table. "Allow me to think a while..."

"Of course, Sidney," said Mrs. Platter obediently, and folded her hands in her lap.

After a few moments, he cleared his throat and looked across at her. "You'll have to come with me, dear," he said.

Mrs. Platter, startled, lost all her composure. "Oh, I couldn't do that, Sidney. You know what I'm like on the water. Couldn't you take one of the men?"

He shook his head. "Impossible. They'd talk."

"What about Agnes Mercy?"

"Couldn't trust her, either; it would be all over the county before the week was out. No dear, it's got to be you."

"I
would
come with you, Sidney," faltered Mrs. Platter, "say we went round by road. That boat's kind of small for me."

"You can't get into his garden from the road, except by going through the house. There's a thick holly hedge on either side with no sort of gate or opening. No, dear, I've got it all worked out in my mind: the only approach is by water. Just before dawn, I'd say, when they're all asleep and that would include Abel Pott. We shall need a good strong cardboard box, the shrimping net, and a lantern. Have we any new wicks?"

"Yes, plenty up in the attic."

"That's where we'll have to keep them—these ... er ... well, whatever they are."

"In the attic?"

"Yes, I've thought it all out, Mabel. It's the only room we always keep locked—because of the stores and that. We've got to keep them warm and dry through the winter while we get their house built. They
are
part of the stores in a manner of speaking. I'll put a couple of bolts on the door, as well as the lock, and a steel plate across the bottom. That should settle 'em. I've got to have time, you see," Mr. Platter went on earnestly, "to think out some kind of house for them. It's got to be more like a cage than a house, and yet it's got to
look
like a house, if you see what I mean. You've got to be able to see them inside and yet make it so they can't get out. It's going to take a lot of working on, Mabel."

"You'll manage, dear." Mrs. Platter encouraged him. "But"—she thought a moment—"what if
he
comes here and recognizes them? Anybody can buy a ticket."

"He wouldn't. He's so taken up with his own things that I doubt if he's ever heard of us or of Ballyhoggin or even Went-le-Craye. But say he did? What proof has he? He's been keeping them dark, hasn't he? Nobody's seen them—or the news would be all over the county. In the papers most likely. People would be going there in hundreds. No, dear, it would be his word against ours—that's all. But we've got to act quickly, Mabel, and you've got to help me. There are two weeks left to the end of the season; he may be keeping them to show next year. Or he may decide to show them at once—and then we'd be finished. You see what I mean? There's no knowing ..."

"Yes..." said Mrs. Platter. "Well, what do you want me to do?"

"It's easy: you've only got to keep your head. I take the cardboard box and the lantern, and you carry the shrimping net. You follow me ashore, and you tread where I tread, which you'll see by the lantern. I'll show you their house, and all you've got to do is to cover the rear side with the shrimping net, holding it close as you can against the wall and partly over the thatch. Then I make some sort of noise at the front. They keep the front door locked now—I've found out that much. As soon as they hear me at the front door—you can mark my words—they'll go scampering out of the back. Straight into the net. You see what I mean? Now, you'll have to keep the net held tight up against the cottage wall. I'll have the cardboard box in one hand, by then, and the lid in another. When I give the word, you scoop the net up into the air, with them inside it, and tumble them into the box. I clap the lid on, and that will be that."

"Yes," said Mrs. Platter uncertainly. She thought a while and then she said, "Do they bite?"

"I don't know that. Only seen them from a distance. But it wouldn't be much of a bite."

"Supposing one fell out of the net or something?"

"Well, you must see they don't, Mabel; that's all. I mean, there are only three or four of 'em, all told. We can't afford any losses..."

"Oh, Sidney, I wish you could take one of the men. I can't even row."

"You don't have to row. I'll row. All you have to do, Mabel, is to carry the net and follow me ashore. I'll point out their cottage, and it'll be over in a minute. Before you can say Jack Robinson, we'll be back in the boat and safely home."

"Does he keep a dog?"

"Abel Pott? No, dear, he doesn't keep a dog. It will be quite all right. Just trust me and do what I say. Like to come across to the island now and have a bit of practice on one of our own houses? You run up to the attic now and get the net, and I'll get the oars and the boat hook. Now, you've got to face up to it, Mabel," added Mr. Platter irritably, as Mrs. Platter still seemed to hesitate. "We must each do our part. Fair's fair, you know."

Chapter Nine

The next day it began to rain, and it rained on and off for ten days. Even Mr. Pott had a falling off of visitors. Not that he minded particularly; he and Miss Menzies employed themselves indoors at Mr. Pott's long kitchen table—repairing, remodeling, repainting, restitching, and oiling.... The lamplight shed its gentle glow around them. While the rain poured down outside, the gluepot bubbled on the stove and the kettle sang beside it. At last came October the first, the day when the season ended.

"Mr. Pott," said Miss Menzies after a short but breathy silence (she was quilting an eiderdown for Homily's double bed and found the work exacting), "I am rather worried."

"Oh," said Mr. Pott. He was making a fence of matchsticks, gluing them delicately with the aid of pincers and a fine sable brush. "In fact," Miss Menzies went on, "I'm very worried indeed. Could you listen a moment?"

This direct assault took Mr. Pott by surprise. "Something wrong?" he asked.

"Yes, I think something is wrong. I haven't seen Arrietty for three days. Have you?"

"Come to think of it, no," said Mr. Pott.

"Or any of them?"

Mr. Pott was silent a moment, thinking back. "Not now you mention it—no," he said.

"I had an appointment with her on Monday, down by the stream, but she didn't turn up. But I wasn't worried. It was raining anyway, and I thought perhaps Spiller had arrived. But he hadn't, you know. I know now where he keeps his boat, and it wasn't there. And then, when I passed their cottage, I saw the back door was open. This isn't like them, but it reassured me, as I assumed they wouldn't be so careless unless they were all inside. When I passed again on my way home for tea, the door was still open. All yesterday it was open, and it was open again this morning. It's a bit—"

"—rum," agreed Mr. Pott.

"—odd," said Miss Menzies—they spoke on the same instant.

"Mr. Pott, dear," went on Miss Menzies, "after I showed them to you, so very carefully, you remember—you didn't go and stare at them or anything? You didn't frighten them?"

"No," said Mr. Pott, "I been too busy closing up for winter. I like to see 'em, mind, but I haven't had the time."

"And their chimney isn't smoking," Miss Menzies went on. "It hasn't been smoking for three days. I mean, one can't help being—"

"—worried," said Mr. Pott.

"—uneasy," said Miss Menzies. She laid down her work. "Are you still listening?" she asked.

Mr. Pott tipped a matchstick with glue, breathing heavily. "Yes, I'm thinking..." he said.

"I don't like to look right inside," Miss Menzies explained. "For one thing, you can't look in from the front because there's not room to kneel in the High Street, and you can't kneel down at the back without spoiling their garden, and the other thing is that, say they
are
inside—Pod and Homily, I mean—I'd be giving the whole game away. I've explained to you what they're like about being 'seen'? If they hadn't gone already, they'd go then because I'd 'seen' them. And we would be out of the frying pan into the fire..."

Mr. Pott nodded; he was rather new to borrowers and depended on Miss Menzies for his data. She had, he felt, through months of study, somehow got the whole thing taped. "Have you counted the people?" he suggested at last.

"Our people? Yes, I thought of that—and I've been through everyone twice. A hundred and seven, and those trwo being mended. That's right, isn't it? And I've examined them all very carefully one by one and been through every railway carriage and everything. No, they're either in their house or they've gone right away. You're sure you didn't frighten them? Even by accident?"

"I've told you," said Mr. Pott. Very deliberately, he gave her a look, laid down his tools, and went to the drawer in the table.

"What are you going to do?" asked Miss Menzies, aware that he had a plan.

"Find my screw driver," said Mr. Pott. "The roof of Vine Cottage comes off in a piece. It was so we could make the two floors ... remember?"

"But you can't do that. Supposing they
are
inside, it would be fatal!"

"We've got to take the risk," said Mr. Pott. "Just get your coat on now and find the umbrella."

Miss Menzies did as she was told; relieved, she felt suddenly, to surrender the leadership. Her father, she thought, would have acted just like this. And so, of course, would have Aubrey. In times of stress and indecision, it was good, she realized, to have a man about.

Obediently, she followed him into the rain and held the umbrella while he went to work. Mr. Pott took up a careful position within the High Street, and Miss Men-zies (feet awkwardly placed to avoid damage) teetered slightly beside the back garden. Stooping anxiously, they towered above the house.

Several deft turns of the screw driver and a good deal of grunting soon loosened the soaking thatch. Lidlike, it came off in a piece. "Bone-dry inside," remarked Mr. Pott as he laid it aside.

They saw Pod and Homily's bedroom—a little bare it looked, in spite of the three pieces of dollhouse furniture that once Miss Menzies had bought and left about to be borrowed. The bed, with its handkerchief sheets, looked tousled as though they had left it hurriedly. Pod's working coat, carefully folded, lay on a chair, and his best suit hung on a safety-pin coat hanger suspended against the wall; while Homily's day clothes were neatly ranged on two rails at the foot of the bed.

There was a feeling of deadness and desertion—no sound but the thrum of the rain as it pattered on the soaked umbrella.

Miss Menzies looked aghast. "But this is dreadful—they've gone in their night clothes! What could have happened? It's like the Marie Celeste..."

"Nothing's been inside," said Mr. Pott, staring down, screw driver in hand. "No animal marks, no sign of what you'd call a scuffle.... Well, we better see what's below. As far as I remember, this floor comes out all in a piece with the stairs. Better get a box for the furniture."

The furniture! thought Miss Menzies as she squelched back to the house, picking her way with great Gulliverlike strides over walls and railway lines, streets and alleyways. Just beside the churchyard, her foot slipped on the mud, and to save herself, she caught hold of the steeple. Beautifully built, it held firm, but a bell rang faintly inside: a small sad ghostly protest. No, the furniture, she realized, was too grand an expression for the contents of that little room. If she had known, she would have bought them more things or left more about for them to borrow. She knew how clever they were at contriving, but it takes time, she realized, to furnish a whole house from leftovers. She found a box at last and picked her way back to Mr. Pott.

He had lifted out the bedroom floor with the ladder stairway attached and was gazing into the parlor. Neat but bare, Miss Menzies saw again: the usual matchbox chest of drawers, a wood block for a table, bottle-lid cooking pots beside the hearth, and Arrietty's truckle bed pushed away in a corner; it was the deeper half of a velvet-lined case, which must once have contained a large cigar holder. She wondered where they had found it—perhaps Spiller had brought it to them. Here, too, the bedclothes had been thrown back hurriedly, and Arrietty's day clothes lay neatly folded on a pillbox at the foot.

"I can't bear it," said Miss Menzies in a stifled voice, feeling for her handkerchief. "It's all right," she went on hurriedly, wiping her eyes, "I'm not going to break down. But what can we do? It's no good going to the police—they would only laugh at us in a polite kind of way and secretly think we were crazy. I know because of when I saw the fairy ... people would be polite to one's face, but—"

"I wouldn't know about fairies," said Mr. Pott, staring disconsolately into the gutted house, "but
these
I seen with my own two eyes."

"I am so glad and thankful that you did see them!" exclaimed Miss Menzies warmly, "or where should I be now?" For once, it was almost a conversation.

"Well, we'll pack up these things," said Mr. Pott, suiting the action to the word, "and set the roof back. Got to keep the place dry."

"Yes," said Miss Menzies, "at least we can do that. Just in case..." Her voice faltered and her fingers trembled a little, as carefully she took up the wardrobe. It had no hooks inside, she noticed—toymakers never quite completed things—so she laid it flat and packed it like a box with the little piles of clothes. The cheap piece of looking glass flashed suddenly in a watery beam of sunlight, and she saw the rain had stopped.

"Are we doing right?" she asked suddenly. "I mean, shouldn't we leave it all as we found it? Supposing quite unexpectedly they did come back?"

Mr. Pott looked thoughtful. "Well," he said, "seeing as we got the place all opened up like, I thought maybe I'd make a few alterations."

Miss Menzies, struggling with the rusty catch of Mr. Pott's umbrella, paused to stare at him. "You mean—make the whole place more comfortable?"

"That's what I do mean," said Mr. Pott. "Do the whole thing over like—give them a proper cooking stove, running water, and all."

"Running water! Could you do that?"

"Easy," said Mr. Pott.

The umbrella shut with a snap, showering them with drops, but Miss Menzies seemed not to notice. "And I could furnish it," she exclaimed, "carpets, beds, chairs, everything..."

"You got to do something," said Mr. Pott, eying her tear-marked face, "to keep your mind off."

"Yes, yes, of course," said Miss Menzies.

"But don't be too hopeful about their coming back; you got to keep ready to face the worst. Say they had a fright and ran off of their own accord: that's one thing. Like as not, once the fright's over, they'd come back. But, say, they were
took.
Well, that's another matter altogether—whoever it was that took them, took them to
keep
them. See what I mean?"

"
Whoever?
" repeated Miss Menzies wonderingly.

"See this," said Mr. Pott, moving aside his wooden leg and pointing with his screw driver to a soggy patch in the High Street. "That's a human footprint—and it's neither mine nor yours; the pavement's broken all along, and the bridge is cracked as though someone has stood on it. Neither you nor me would do that, would we?"

"No," said Miss Menzies faintly. "But," she went on wonderingly, "no one except you and me knew of their existence."

"Or so we thought," said Mr. Pott.

"I see," said Miss Menzies, and was silent a moment.

Then she said slowly, "I am thinking now, whether they laugh at us or not, I must report this loss to the police. It would stake our claim. In case," she went on, "they should turn up somewhere else."

Mr. Pott looked thoughtful. "Might be wise," he said at last.