Arnold

by Ray Jones

ARNOLD AND THE WITCH

  “Isn’t she like Mrs Beckett?” said Mrs Tibbs to her ten year old son Arnold. “She is, isn’t she? That witch is just like Mrs Beckett from the sweet shop.”

  Arnold and his mother were watching a comedy programme on television about an old witch who cast spells on people who annoyed her. She twiddled the wart on her chin, muttered some incomprehensible words and the spell was cast. They changed into donkeys, goats, turkeys, or any other animal that took her fancy.

  Mrs Tibbs was always seeing likenesses between people on television and people she knew, and usually they were nothing like one another. But this time, Arnold decided, his mother was right, the witch was like Mrs Beckett. She had the same wrinkled face, the same pointed nose, and she wore the same dark clothes. Mrs Beckett even had a wart on her chin similar to the witch’s wart.

  Arnold watched so much television that he often found it difficult to know the difference between what was make-believe and what was real. If the witch on television could cast spells then perhaps Mrs Beckett could also cast spells.

  The bell jingled as Arnold pushed open the sweetshop door. The shop was small, dark and old-fashioned. On the shelves were jars of sweets: humbugs, acid-drops, cough lozenges, dolly mixtures, liquorice-allsorts, sherbet dabs and bullseyes. They were what Mrs Beckett had always sold and she saw no reason to change.

  On the counter, next to an ancient set of scales, was an even more ancient aspidistra. Behind the counter was a door leading to Mrs Beckett’s living-room. It had window panes at the top covered by a faded lace curtain. The curtain lifted and a wrinkled old face looked through. Mrs Beckett came into the shop clutching a black shawl about her shoulders.

  Arnold stared at her. Yes he decided, she was definitely a witch.

  “Well,” said the old woman. “What do you want?” Arnold pointed to one of the jars..”Bullseyes?” she asked. He nodded.

  “Are you a witch?” he said as she was weighing the sweets.

  She glared at him. She didn’t like modern children. They were cheeky. She preferred the children of the past who were polite and well-mannered. But looking at this boy, with his big brown eyes and his credulous expression, she didn’t think he was one of the cheeky kind; although you could never tell with boys. She had known some who had looked as innocent as angels and who had run off with sweets without paying for them. No, you could never tell with boys.

  “Do you do spells, like the witch on the telly?” asked Arnold, “Changing people into donkeys and goats and that?”

  Now she knew what the boy was getting at. She’d watched that programme herself, before having her tea. It was one of her favourites. And it had been pointed out to her before that she looked like the actress who played the part of the witch.

  “I might do,” she said. “Yes, I might do spells.”

  “What kind of spells?”

  She leaned over the counter and put her face close to his. “I could change a certain boy into a frog if I wanted to,” she said.

  If she’d hoped that Arnold would run away she was disappointed. He just looked at her in wonder.

  “What other spells can you do?” he asked.

  Mrs Beckett had left the door into her living-room slightly ajar and she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, that her budgerigar Billy, who had been flying round the room, had flittered into the shop.

  “Well,” she said, “I could change myself into a budgie if I wanted to. Would you like to see me do that?”

  Arnold’s eyes had grown so big that they threatened to take over the whole of his face. “Yes,” he said simply, “I would.”

  She began to mumble some strange words, similar to those of the witch on television, at the same time twiddling the wart on her chin. Bending at the knees she slowly lowered herself down until she disappeared behind the counter. Billy the budgie, startled by his mistress falling down almost on top of him, fluttered up and perched on top of the counter.

  Arnold stared at the budgie in astonishment.

  “That’s a wonderful spell,” he said. “Wonderful!”

  Billy launched himself into the air and flew round the shop before coming to land on the aspidistra.

  “You’re a naughty boy,” he said, in a squawking imitation of Mrs Beckett’s voice. “A naughty, naughty boy.” It was the only phrase the old lady had managed to teach him.

  “No I’m not,” said Arnold.

  Tiring of the phrase, Billy flung himself from the aspidistra and flew round the shop again, watched by Arnold. While he was distracted Mrs Beckett took the opportunity of crawling on her hands and knees back into the living-room, where she had to hold her sides to prevent herself from laughing out loud.

  Billy, having explored the shop to his satisfaction, now flew back into the living-room. There was a loud squawk as Mrs Beckett caught him and put him into his cage, but Arnold thought this was just the effect of the spell wearing off.

  “Well,” said the old woman when she came back into the shop, “what did you think of that spell?”

  “It was fantastic,” said Arnold. “I’ve never seen anything better than that. “Not even,” he said, paying her the highest compliment possible, “on the telly.”

  As he left the shop, sucking a bullseye, Arnold never doubted for a moment that what he had seen was magic and that Mrs Beckett was a real witch. He decided to ask her to do another spell for him.

  There were lots of enemies in Arnold’s life. There was his dad who was always making beer in the kitchen when he wanted to draw at the kitchen table; there was his brother Baz who stuck posters of rock bands on the walls of their bedroom and wouldn’t let him put up any of his pictures, and there was his sister Fiona who had thrown his toy boats out of her window when she had wanted to take a bath. He would ask Mrs Beckett to change one of them into a pig, or a black beetle, to teach them a lesson, but he couldn’t decide which of them to choose.

  A week later Arnold decided not to revenge himself on any member of his family. Instead he would ask Mrs Beckett to cast a spell on his teacher, Miss Warren. She had called him a sloth, just because he had been looking out of the window instead of doing his work.

  “Do you know what a sloth is, Arnold?” she’d said. “It’s an animal with two large toes, like hooks, from which it hangs upside down in the trees and dreams. That’s all it does, dreams. Just like you, Arnold.” And everyone in the class had laughed. Arnold didn’t like being laughed at and so he decided to take his revenge on Miss Warren.

  “Will you put a spell on Miss Warren for me?” asked Arnold as Mrs Beckett was weighing out bullseyes for him. “Miss Warren is my teacher. I want you to change her into a sloth.”

  “What’s a sloth?” asked Mrs Beckett.

  “It’s an animal,” explained Arnold. “It has large toes like hooks and it hangs upside down from trees. That’s all it does. It just hangs upside down.”

  “It could be difficult,” she said, doubtfully. “Come here on Tuesday and I’ll see what I can do.”

  When Arnold left the shop, happily sucking a bullseye, Mrs Beckett smiled to herself. Miss Warren was her niece and she always came to tea on Tuesdays. She wondered what she would say if she knew that one of her pupils wanted her to be changed into a sloth. She imagined her hanging upside down by her toes and her smile changed to cackling laughter.

  As soon as he had eaten his tea on Tuesday Arnold went to the sweet shop. Miss Warren’s car was parked outside. He wondered what kind of magic Mrs Beckett had used to lure her there.

  The old woman shushed him to silence when she came out of her living-room.

  “You’ve come too soon,” she whispered. “It’s a hard spell and it takes a long time. Come back in an hour. I should have finished it by then.”

  An hour later, when he returned, Arnold saw that Miss Warren’s car had gone and he wondered how Mrs Beckett had spirited it away. When she came into the shop she carried a small wooden box which she placed on the counter. Arnold looked at it with awe. />
  “Is the sloth inside?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t do a sloth,” said Mrs Beckett. “Well there’s not much call for sloths you see. Not round here.”

  Arnold was disappointed. He’d wanted to see what a sloth looked like.

  “I’ve changed her into a mouse instead,” said Mrs Beckett.” She turned the box round and Arnold could see that it was a cage with a white mouse inside, a mouse with pink eyes and tiny pink feet. “You can take her home if you like. Give her some bread and water for her supper. And bring her back in the morning before you go to school so that I can take the spell off. You don’t want to go without your lessons do you?”

  Arnold wasn’t so sure about that, but he agreed to bring Miss Warren back next day. Perhaps if she went all night with no food but bread and water it would teach her not to call people names in future, and not to have other people laugh at them.

  When he got home Arnold took the cage up to his bedroom and put it on his chest of drawers.

  “You shouldn’t have called me a sloth, Miss Warren,” he said to the mouse. “It’s not nice calling people names and making people laugh at them.”

  The mouse said nothing. It just looked at Arnold with its little pink eyes and waggled its whiskers. Arnold fed it with some bread and water and put it in the top drawer of his chest of drawers. Then he went down stairs to see what was on television.

  Baz, Arnold older brother, came home with a new poster. He unrolled it on his bed and stepped back to admire it. It was a picture of the latest rock group, four young men with hair like candy floss and dyed different colours: pink, green, orange and purple. Baz decided to stick it up on the wall at the end of his bed. He tore down the picture already there and held up the new one. Yes, it would look good there. He searched round for some sticky tape but couldn’t find any. He went to Arnold’s chest of drawers; he’d be sure to have some. He opened the top drawer and found himself looking into a pair of pink eyes.

  A mouse! Arnold had brought a nasty, smelly mouse into his bedroom! He’d go downstairs and tell the wretched kid what he thought of him. But then he had a better idea.

  Mrs Tibbs and Fiona were sitting at opposite ends of the settee watching television. Baz sat down between them. He opened his fingers and the mouse crawled out of his hand. It ambled along Baz’s leg, then leapt on to Mrs Tibbs’s flowered apron.

  Mrs Tibbs was a ponderous woman. She never did anything in a hurry, but when she saw the mouse on her lap she leapt up with the speed of an athlete. The mouse flew through the air and landed next to Arnold who was sitting on the floor. Then it ran to Fiona, seeking shelter between her feet. Fiona screamed and leapt up on to the settee.

  Terrified, the mouse ran round and round the room looking for a way of escape.

  Mr Tibbs was in the kitchen bottling his home-made beer. He opened the door into the living-room to see what the noise was about. Before him there was a scene of confusion. Mrs Tibbs was hopping from one foot to another, squealing; Fiona was standing on the settee clutching her skirt round her knees: Baz was snorting with laughter; and Arnold was running round and round the room calling out “Miss Warren! Miss Warren!”

  The mouse, seeing a way of escape, ran past Mr Tibbs into the kitchen. Arnold ran after it, barging into his father who held a jug of beer which flew from his hand, the beer forming a fizzing pool on the kitchen floor.

  The mouse squeezed under the door leading to the back yard.

  “What’s happening?” said Mr Tibbs.

  “She’s gone under the door,” said Arnold.

  “Who has?”

  “Miss Warren,” said Arnold.

  “It’s his mouse,” said Baz.

  “Miss Warren!” said Mr Tibbs. “That’s a daft name for a mouse.”

  Arnold ran across the kitchen and opened the back door, followed by Baz. They stood on the back yard. There was no sign of the mouse.

  Baz pointed to the garden path where Satan, their next door neighbour’s cat was contentedly licking its chops.

  “He’s eaten it,” said Baz. “I’m sorry, Arnold. It was just a joke. I’ll buy you a new mouse tomorrow.”

  “It wasn’t a mouse,” said Arnold. “It was my teacher.”

  Arnold walked to school next day with a heavy heart. He realised that he hadn’t disliked Miss Warren at all. In fact he’d liked her. He’d have to go and tell the head teacher that she wouldn’t be coming to school ever again. He rehearsed to himself what he was going to say:

  “She’s been eaten by Satan, that’s our next door neighbour’s cat. She was changed into a mouse by Mrs Beckett from the sweet shop. She should have changed her into a sloth, that’s an animal that hangs upside down by its toes, but she couldn’t because there isn’t any call for sloths, not round here.

  As he turned into the school gates he was surprised to see Miss Warren’s car parked in its usual place and even more surprised when he went into the classroom to see her seated at her desk. He stood and stared at her. What had happened? Had Satan not eaten her after all? The spell must have worn off before he could gobble her up. But why hadn’t he and Baz seen her on the back yard? It was all very perplexing.

  “What is it, Arnold?” said Miss Warren, noticing Arnold staring at her. “Do you want something?”

  He shook his head and went to his desk. Yes, he liked Miss Warren, he decided. He’d try and do everything she told him to do in future.

  Arnold still went to Mrs Beckett’s shop to buy sweets. He didn’t say anything to her about the important things to think about in his life, such as what would be on television that evening.