Mary Norton - Bed-Knob and Broomstick

Miss Price, gazing at the wall, did not reply.

Once again there was a faint film of dust (and two feathers) where the bed had stood. But this time the room looked barer still, with the rugs rolled up and the dressing-table drawers left slightly open. A crumpled piece of tissue flew lightly across the room and caught itself against the leg of the washstand.

She had gone. Where a minute before there had been bustle and flurry, tyings-up and tuckings-in, hurried good-bys and last-minute hugs, there was silence and emptiness.

The bed had been dangerously overloaded. The bathroom plumbing, dissected amateurishly by Charles and Emelius, and wrapped in ironing blankets and dust sheets, took up so much room to start with. And then, besides the clothes-basket and two suitcases, there were the last-minute things that Miss Price could not bear to leave behind. The silver cream jug, her extra hot-water bottle, an egg beater, a cake tin tied with string in which she had put her store of tea, some biscuits, a packet of Ryvita, and six tins of sardines. There were her apostle spoons and the best tea cloth, her father's sword, her photographs, a bottle of lavender water. . . . They had tied and retied it all with the clothesline, but, all the same, it looked terribly perilous with Miss Price and Emelius perched on top. In spite of everything, Carey pointed out, Miss Price would wear her best straw hat, which had been "done over" by a woman in the village. "Better to wear it than pack it," she had insisted, as if there had been no other alternative. She had cried a little when she said good-by to the children and reminded them that Mrs. Kit-hatten down the road was coming in to cook their breakfast; and that their tickets were on the mantelpiece in the dining room; and that Mr. Bisselthwaite would be there by nine-thirty; and to remind Mrs. Kithatten that the men would be along any time after one to check on the inventory; and that they were to boil up the rest of the milk in case it turned before morning.

And then Paul had wished, standing there beside the bedstead, and, suddenly, the room was empty, except for the rustling tissue paper and the curtains falling softly back in place as if there had been a wind.

They felt terribly alone. They went downstairs, and the emptiness of the house seemed to follow them. They walked through the kitchen into the scullery. The drainboard was still damp from the washing up of the supper things, a washing up Miss Price had shared. The door of the garden stood open, and they wandered out. There, by the garbage can, stood a pile of Miss Price's old shoes. One pair, very stiff and mud-caked, were the ones she kept for gardening in wet weather.

The sun was sinking behind the wood, but the hillside was bathed in golden light.

"They'll be there by now," Charles said at last, breaking the dreary silence.

Carey looked across the shadowed wood to the familiar, friendly slope of Tinker's Hill.

"I know what," she exclaimed suddenly. "Let's run up there! We'll be back before dark." "Well, we wouldn't see them or anything," objected Charles.

"It doesn't matter. Miss Price might sort of know." It was good to run and climb, panting, up the sandy paths, through the bracken, onto the turf. It was good to reach the wind and feel the sunshine as, rich and warm, it fell on their shoulders and sent long shadows bobbing on ahead across the grass.

When they reached the ruined house, Carey climbed alone to the highest spot on the wall. She sat with her chin in her hands, as if in a trance, while the wind blew the wisps of hair on her forehead and her motionless shadow stretched out across the blackberry bushes and up the sun-drenched hill. Charles and Paul just messed about among the stones, uneasily picking an occasional blackberry and watching Carey.

After a while Carey climbed down. She did not speak. She walked slowly past the boys. There was a faraway expression on her face, and her eyes were dreamy.

"I can see them," she said in a chanting kind of voice. She stood quite still, among the brambles of the "apple orchard." "Oh, come on, Carey," said Charles. He knew she was acting, but all the same he did not like it.

"I can see them quite plainly," went on Carey, as if she had not heard. She stretched out her hands in a "hushing" gesture and raised her face a little, like a picture they had at home called "The Prophetess." "They are walking slowly down the path, hand in hand." She paused. "Now, they have stopped under the apple tree. Miss Price has no hat on. Now they have turned and are looking back at the house-" "Oh, Carey, come on," said Charles uncomfortably. "It's getting dark." "Now," Carey dropped her voice respectfully, "Mr. Jones has kissed Miss Price on the cheek. He's saying-" Carey paused, as if thinking up the words. "He is saying," she went on triumphantly, " 'My own true love'. . ." Then suddenly Charles and Paul saw Carey's expression change. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. She looked round hurriedly, then she ran, almost leapt out of the brambles, and clambered awkwardly upon the wall. She stared downwards at the spot where she had stood.

"What's the matter, Carey? What happened?" cried Charles.

Carey's face was pale. She looked unnerved, but somewhere about her mouth was the shadow of a smile.

"Didn't you hear?" she asked.

"No," said Charles, "I didn't hear anything." "Didn't you hear Miss Price?" "Really Miss Price!" "Yes. It was her voice. Quite loud and distinct." Charles and Paul looked grave.

"What-what did she say?" stammered Charles.

"She said: 'Carey, come at once out of those lettuces.' "