Mary Norton - Bed-Knob and Broomstick

"Well, we'd like to see her," admitted Carey. "But she'd be kind of surprised." "I'd like to see my mother." Paul's lips began to tremble, and his eyes filled with tears. Carey looked worried.

"Paul," she tried to explain, "when you get a thing as magic as this, you don't make that kind of wish, like seeing your mother and going to museums and things; you wish for something absolutely extraordinary. Don't you see, Paul? Try again." Paul's face turned crimson, and the tears rolled out of his eyes and down his cheeks.

"I'd like to see my mother, or the Big Flea." He was trying not to sob aloud. He closed his lips, and his chest heaved up and down.

"Oh, dear," said Carey desperately. She stared down at her shoes. x "Let him have his turn," Charles suggested in a patient voice. "We can go somewhere else afterwards." "But don't you see-" began Carey. "Oh, all right," she added. "Come on. Get on the bed, Charles." She began to feel excited again.

"Let's all hold onto the rails. Better tuck in that bit of blanket. Now, Paul, take hold of the knob-gently. Here, I'll blow your nose. Now, are you ready?" Paul knelt up, facing the head of the bed and the wall. He had his hand on the knob. "What shall I say?" "Say Mother's address. Say, 'I wish to be at No. 38 Mark-ham Square' and twist." "I wish to be-" Paul's voice sounded thick. He cleared his throat.

"At No. 38," prompted Carey.

"At No. 38." "Markham Square." "Markham Square." Nothing happened. There was an awful moment of suspense, then Carey added quickly, "S.W.3." "S.W.3," repeated Paul.

It was horrible. It was a swooshing rush, as if the world had changed into a cinema film run too quickly. A jumble that was almost fields, almost trees, almost streets, almost houses, but nothing long enough. The bed rocked. They clung to the railings. The bedclothes whipped round Carey and Charles, who clung to the foot, blinding them, choking them. A great seasick lurch. Then bang . . . bump . . . clang . . . and a sliding scrape.

They had arrived.

They felt shaken and breathless. Slowly Carey unwound a blanket from her neck and head. Her mouth was full of fluff. The eiderdown was blown tight round Charles and hung through the brass rails of the bed. Paul was still kneeling on the pillow. His face was scarlet and his hair was blown upright.

"Gosh," said Charles after a moment. He looked about him. They were indeed in Markham Square. The bed had come to rest neatly alongside the pavement, nearly touching the curb. There was No. 38 with its black front door, its checkered steps, and the area railing. Charles felt extraordinarily conspicuous. The bed was so very much a bed and the street so very much a street, and there was Paul crossing the pavement in his bare feet to ring the front door bell. Paul, in his pajamas and with such untidy hair, standing on Mother's front steps in broad daylight-a warm, rich evening light, but nonetheless broad daylight.

Charles prayed for the door to open quickly. He was by nature extremely retiring.

A red bus rolled by at the end of the square. For the moment, the pavement was empty.

"Ring again," he cried fervently. Paul rang again.

They heard the echo of the bell in the basement, a polite, regretful, empty sound. The dark windows stared blankly.

"There's no one at home," said Carey when they had waited a minute or two longer. She uncurled her legs. "Mother must have gone out to dinner," she announced, standing up. "Well, we'll have to wait. Let's tidy the bed." As they made the bed, drawing up the blankets, turning back the sheets, plumping up the pillows, Charles marveled at Carey's and Paul's lack of concern. Didn't they think it odd, he wondered, to be making a bed there in a London street? He glanced longingly toward the area steps. "Shall we try the back door?" he suggested-anything to be away from the bed and down below the level of the pavement. He couldn't go far because he hadn't any shoes on.

They crept down the area steps. They rattled and pulled at the tradesmen's door. It was locked. They peered in at the kitchen window. A cup and saucer lay on the drainboard; the rest of the kitchen was curiously tidy and deathly still. The window was fastened. Even breaking it would have done no good. It was barred against burglars.

"We must just sit on the bed and wait," sighed Carey.

"Not on the bed," said Charles hastily. "Let's stay down here, where no one can see us," he added.

They all squeezed together on the bottom step, facing the dustbin. The area smelled of wet tea leaves, and the step was cold.

"I don't call this much of an adventure," said Charles.

"Nor do I," agreed Carey. "It was Paul's idea." It grew darker. Looking upwards, they saw that the light was draining quickly from the street above. There was mist in the air.

They began to hear passers-by. The footsteps always paused at No. 38, and the children, listening, realized how much grownups think alike. They nearly all said, with deep surprise, "How funny! A bed!" or "A bed! How funny!" Always they heard the word "Bed-bed, bed, bed" and footsteps. Once Charles spoke for them. As he heard the footsteps pause, he said aloud, "How funny, a bed!" It was almost dark then, and a form peered down at them over the area railings. "Some children," muttered a voice, as if explaining to a second person. As the footsteps died away, Charles called after them, "And a bed." "Don't, Charles, it's rude. You'll get us into trouble." It became quite dark, a darkness laced with mist. "River fog," said Charles, "and if you ask me, I think Mother's gone away for the week end." Paul was already asleep against Carey's shoulder. Carey had a sudden brain wave.

"I know!" she exclaimed. "Let's get into the bed! It's quite dark now. If it's foggy enough, no one will see us." They went up the steps again and crossed the pavement. Ah! It was good to crawl under the blankets and to pull up the eiderdown. Above them the sky looked grayish between the steep black roofs. The stars had disappeared.

"I honestly don't call this much of an adventure," whispered Charles.

"I know," Carey replied. "But it's the first time. We'll get better at it." Between them, Paul breathed deeply, exuding a pleasant warmth.

Carey must have been asleep for some time when the shock came. At first, shaken out of a dream, she lay quite still. Damp darkness . . . her legs felt pinioned. Where was she. Then she remembered.

"Please!" she cried, with an agonized squeak. The fog had deepened. She could see nothing.

There was a hoarse gasp. "Well, I'll be-" "Please," cried Carey again, interrupting. "Please get off my foot." A light flashed on, a terrifying dazzling circle; shining straight in their eyes as it did, it felt like a searchlight.

The gruff voice said again, "Well, I'll be blowed-kids!" The weight lifted itself, and thankfully Carey curled back her legs, blinking at the glare. She knew suddenly, without being able to see a thing, that behind that light was a policeman. She felt a policeman, large and tall and fat and creaking.

He switched off his flashlight. "Kids!" he said again in a surprised voice. Then he became stern. "Can't 'ave this, you know." He breathed heavily. "Can't 'ave beds, like this, in the street. Danger to the public. Caught me on the shin, this bed did. A street's no place for beds. Where's your mother?" "I don't know," said Carey in a low voice.

"Speak up," said the policeman. "What's your name?" "Carey Wilson." On went the light again and out came a notebook. Again the policeman sat down. The bed creaked, but Carey's toes were out of reach.

"Address?" Charles sat up sleepily. "What?" he said.

Carey had a sudden vision of Aunt Beatrice's face, the tight lips, the pink-rimmed eyes. She thought of her mother, worried, upset. Letters, policemen, complaints, fines, prison.