by Mary Norton
After this, toward the end of October, there did come some halcyon days—about ten of them: sun and butterflies and drowsy heat; and a second burst of wild flowers. There was no end to Arrietty’s amusements out-of-doors. She would climb down the bank, across the ditch and into the long grass and, stretched between the stems, would lie there watching. Once she became used to the habits of the insects, she no longer feared them: her world, she realized, was not their world and for them hers had little interest; except, perhaps for that bug-like horror (an ethic to Pod) which, crawling sluggishly across bare skin would bury its head and cling.
Grasshoppers would alight like prehistoric birds on the grasses above her head; strange, armor-plated creatures, but utterly harmless to such as she. The grass stems would sway wildly beneath their sudden weight and Arrietty, lying watchful below, would note the machine-like slicing of the mandibles as the grasshopper munched its fill.
Bees, to Arrietty, were as big as birds are to humans; and if honey bees were pigeon-sized, a bumble bee in weight and girth could be compared to a turkey. These, too, she found, if unprovoked, were harmless. A quivering bumble bee, feeding greedily on clover, became strangely still all at once when, with gentle fingers, she stroked his fur. Benignity met with benignity: and anger, she found, was only roused through fear. Once she was nearly stung when, to tease it, she imprisoned a bee in that bloom called wild snapdragon by closing the lip with her hands. The trapped bee buzzed like a dynamo and stung, not Arrietty this time, but the enclosing calyx of the flower.
A good deal of time she would spend by the water-paddling, watching, learning to float. The frogs fought shy of her: at Arrietty’s approach, they would plop away with bored bleats of distaste, their bulging eyes resigned but nervous; “Look where it comes again . . .” * they seemed to croak.
After bathing, before putting on her clothes, sometimes, she would dress up: a skirt of violet leaves, stalks uppermost, secured about the waist with a twist of faded columbine and, aping the fairies, a foxglove bell for a hat. This, Arrietty thought as she stared at her bright reflection in the stagnant water of a hoof crater, might look all right on gnomes, elves, brownies, pixies and what-not, but she had to admit that it looked pretty silly on a common-or-garden borrower: for one thing, if the lip fitted the circumference of her head, the whole thing stood up too high like some kind of pinkish sausage or a very drawn-out chef’s cap. Yet if, on the other hand, the lip of the bell flowed out generously in a gentle, more hat-like curve, the whole contraption slid down past her face to rest on her shoulders in a ku-klux-klan effect.
And to get hold of these bells at all was not easy: fox-glove plants were high. Fairies, Arrietty supposed, just flew up to them with raised chins and neatly pointed toes, trailing a wisp of gauze. Fairies did everything so gracefully: Arrietty, poor girl, had to hook down the plant with a forked stick and sit on it as heavily as she could while she plucked any bells within reach. Sometimes the plant would escape her and fly up again. But usually, by shifting her weight along the stalk, she would manage to get five or six bells—sufficient anyway to try some out for size.
Spiller, gliding by in his cleverly loaded boat, would stare with some surprise: he was not altogether approving of Arrietty’s games. Having spent all his life out-of-doors, fending for himself against nature, he had no picture of what such freedom could mean to one who had spent her childhood under a kitchen floor. Frogs were just meat to Spiller; grass was “cover”; and insects a nuisance, especially gnats; water was there to drink, not to splash in; and streams were highways which held fish. Spiller, poor harried creature, had never had time to play.
But he was a fearless borrower; that even Pod conceded; as skillful in his own way as ever Pod had been. The two gentlemen would have long discussions of an evening after supper, on the finer points of a multiplex art. Pod belonged to a more moderate school: the daily sortie and modest loot—a little here, a little there—nothing to rouse suspicion. Spiller preferred a make-hay-while-the-sun-shines technique: a swift whip-round of whatever he could lay hands on and a quick getaway. This difference in approach was understandable, Arrietty thought as, listening, she helped her mother with the dishes. Pod was a house-borrower, long established in traditional routine; whereas Spiller dealt exclusively with gypsies—here today and gone tomorrow—and must match his quickness with theirs.
Sometimes a whole week would elapse without their seeing Spiller, but he would leave them well-stocked with cooked food: a haunch of this or that, or a little stew flavored with wild garlic which Homily would heat over the candle. Flour, sugar, tea, butter—even bread—they had now in plenty. Spiller, in his nonchalant way, would sooner or later provide almost anything they asked for—a piece of plum-colored velvet out of which Homily made a new skirt for Arrietty, two whole candles to augment their stub; four empty cotton reels on which they raised their table and, to Homily’s joy, six mussel shells for plates.
Once he brought them a small glass medicine bottle, circular in shape. As he uncorked it, Spiller said: “Know what this is?”
Homily, wry-faced, sniffed at the amber liquid. “Some kind of hair-wash?” she asked, grimacing.
“Elder-flower wine,” Spiller told her, watching her expression. “Good, that is.”
Homily, about to taste, suddenly changed her mind. “‘When wine is in,’” she told Spiller—quoting from Arrietty’s Diary and Proverb Book, “‘Wit is out.’ Besides, I was brought up teetotal.”
“He makes it in a watering can,” explained Spiller, “and pours it out of the spout.”
“Who does?” asked Homily.
“Mild Eye,” said Spiller.
There was a short silence, tense with curiosity. “And who might Mild Eye be?” asked Homily at last. Airily pinning up her back hair, she moved slightly away from Spiller and began softly to hum below her breath.
“He that had the boot,” said Spiller carelessly.
“Oh?” remarked Homily. She took up the thistle-head and began to sweep the floor—without seeming to be rude she managed to convey a gentle dismissal of the now-I-must-get-on-with-the-housework kind. “What boot?”
“This boot,” said Spiller, and kicked the toe.
Homily stopped sweeping; she stared at Spiller. “But this was a gentleman’s boot,” she pointed out evenly.
“‘Was’ is right,” said Spiller.
Homily was silent a moment. “I don’t understand you,” she said at last.
“Afore Mild Eye pinched ’em,” explained Spiller.
Homily laughed. “Mild Eye . . . Mild Eye . . . who is this Mild Eye?” she asked airily, determined not to be rattled.
“I told you,” said Spiller. “The gypsy as took up the boots.”
“Boots?” repeated Homily, raising her eyebrows and stressing the plural.
“They was a pair. Mild Eye picked ’em up outside the scullery door—” Spiller jerked his head—“that big house down yonder. Went there selling clothes pegs and there they was, set out on the cobbles, pairs of ’em—all shapes and sizes, shined up nice, set out in the sunshine . . . brushes and all.”
“Oh,” said Homily thoughtfully—this sounded a good “borrow,” “and he took the lot?”
Spiller laughed. “Not Mild Eye. Took up the pair and closed up the gap.”
“I see,” said Homily. After a moment she asked, “And who borrowed this one? You?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Spiller, and added, as though in part explanation, “He’s got this piebald cat.”
“What’s the cat got to do with it?” asked Homily.
“A great Tom comes yowling round the place one night and Mild Eye ups and heaves a boot at it—this boot.” Again Spiller kicked at the leather. “Good and water-tight this boot was afore a weasel bit into the toe. So I gets hold of her, drags her through the hedge by the laces, heaves her into the water, jumps aboard, sails downstream to the corner, brings her aground on the mud and dries her out after, up in the long grass.”
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Spiller laughed. “You should have heard old Mild Eye in the morning. Knew just where he’d heaved the boot, cussin’ and swearin’. Couldn’t make it out.” Spiller laughed again. “Never passes the way,” he went on, “but he has another look.”
Homily turned pale. “Another look?” she repeated nervously.
Spiller shrugged. “What’s the difference? Wouldn’t think to look this side of the water. Knows where he heaved the boot, Mild Eye does: that’s what he can’t fathom.
“Oh, my,” faltered Homily unhappily.
“You’ve no call to worry,” said Spiller. “Anything you’m wanting?”
“A bit of something woolen, I wouldn’t mind,” said Homily. “We was cold last night in the boot.”
“Like a bit of sheep’s fleece?” asked Spiller. “There’s plenty down to the lane along them brambles.”
“Anything,” agreed Homily, “providing it’s warm. And providing”—she added, suddenly struck by a horrid thought—“it ain’t a sock.” Her eyes widened. “I don’t want no sock belonging to that Mild Eye.”
Spiller dined with them that night on cold boiled minnow with sorrel salad. He had brought them a splendid wad of cleanish fleece and a strip of red rag off the end of a blanket. Pod, less teetotal than Homily, poured him out a half hazel shell of elderberry wine. But Spiller would not touch it. “I’ve things to do,” he told them soberly, and they guessed he was off on a trip.
“Be away long?” asked Pod casually as, just to sample it, he took a sip of wine.
“A week,” said Spiller, “ten days, maybe. . . .”
“Well,” said Pod, “take care of yourself.” He took another sip of wine. “It’s nice,” he told Homily, proffering the hazel shell. “You try it.”
Homily shook her head and tightened her lips. “We’ll miss you, Spiller,” she said, batting her eyelids and ignoring Pod, “and that’s a fact. . . .”
“Why have you got to go?” asked Arrietty suddenly.
Spiller, about to push his way through the screen of leaves, turned back to look at her.
Arrietty colored. I’ve asked him a question, she realized unhappily; now he’ll disappear for weeks. But this time, Spiller seemed merely hesitant.
“Me winter clothes,” he said at last.
“Oh,” exclaimed Arrietty, raising her head—delighted. “New?”
Spiller nodded.
“Fur?” asked Homily.
Spiller nodded again.
“Rabbit?” asked Arrietty.
“Mole,” said Spiller.
There was a sudden feeling of gaiety in the candle-lit alcove: a pleasant sense of something to look forward to. All three of them smiled at Spiller and Pod raised his “glass.” “To Spiller’s new clothes,” he said, and Spiller, suddenly embarrassed, dived quickly through the branches. But before the living curtain had stopped quivering, they saw his face again; amused and shy, it poked back at them framed in leaves. “A lady makes them,” he announced self-consciously and again he disappeared.
Chapter Sixteen
“Every tide has its ebb.”
Burning of the Tower of London, 1841
[Extract from Arrietty’s Diary and Proverb Book, October 30th]
NEXT MORNING early Pod, on the edge of the alcove, summoned Arrietty from the boot. “Come on out,” he called, “and see this.”
Arrietty, shivering, pulled on a few clothes and, wrapping the piece of red blanket around her shoulders, she crept out beside him. The sun was up and the landscape shimmered, dusted over with what, to Arrietty, looked like powdered sugar.
“This is it,” said Pod, after a moment, “the first frost.”
Arrietty pushed her numbed fingers under her armpits, hugging the blanket closer. “Yes,” she said soberly, and they stared in silence.
After a bit, Pod cleared his throat. “There’s no call to wake your mother,” he said huskily. “Like as not, with this sun, it’ll be clear in less than an hour.” He became silent again, thinking deeply. “Thought you’d like to see it,” he said at last.
“Yes,” said Arrietty again and added politely, “it’s pretty. . . .”
“What we better do,” said Pod, “is get the breakfast quietly and leave your mother sleeping. She’s all right,” he went on. “She’s deep in that fleece.”
“I’m perished,” grumbled Homily at breakfast, her hands wrapped round a half hazel shell filled with piping hot tea. There was less need, now they had Spiller, to economize on candles. “It strikes right through to the marrow. You know what?” she went on.
“No,” said Pod—it was the only reply. “What?”
“Say we went down to the caravan site and had a look round? There won’t be no gypsies: when Spiller goes, it means they moved off. Might find something,” she added, “and in this kind of weather, there ain’t no sense in sitting around. What about it, Pod? We could wrap up warm.”
Arrietty was silent, watching their faces: she had learned not to urge.
Pod hesitated. Would it be poaching, he wondered—was this Spiller’s preserve? “All right,” he said uncertainly, after a moment.
It was not a simple expedition. Spiller having hidden his boat, they had to ferry themselves across the water on a flat piece of bark and it was rough going when, once in the wood, they tried to follow the stream by land: both banks were thickly grown with brambles, ghastly forests of living barbed wire which tore at their hair and clothes; by the time they had scrambled through the hedge onto the stretch of grass beside the lane, they were all three disheveled and bleeding.
Arrietty looked about her at the camping site and was depressed by what she saw: this wood through which they had scrambled now shut off the last pale gleams of sun; the shadowed grass was bruised and yellow; here and there were odd bones, drifting feathers, bits of rag, and every now and again a stained newspaper flapped in the hedge.
“Oh dear,” muttered Homily, glancing from side to side. “Somehow, now, I don’t seem to fancy that bit o’ red blanket.”
“Well,” said Pod after a pause, “come on. We may as well take a look round. . . .” And he led the way down the bank.
They poked about rather distastefully and Homily thought of fleas. Pod found an old iron saucepan without a bottom: he felt it might do for something but could not think for what; he walked around it speculatingly and, once or twice, he tapped it sharply with the head of his hat pin which made a dull clang. Anyway, he decided at last as he moved away, it was no good to him here and was far too heavy to move away.
Arrietty found a disused cooking stove: it was flung into the bank below the hedge—so sunk it was in the grasses and so thickly engrained with rust that it must have been there for years. “You know,” she remarked to her mother, after studying it in silence, “you could live in a stove like this.”
Homily stared. “In that?” she exclaimed disgustedly. The stove lay tilted, partially sunk in earth; as stoves went it was a very small one, with a barred grate and a miniature oven of the kind which are built into caravans. Beside it, they noticed a pile of whitish bones.
“Not sure she isn’t right,” agreed Pod, tapping the bars of the grate. “You could have a fire in here, say, and live in the oven like.”
“Live!” exclaimed Homily. “Be roasted alive, you mean.”
“No,” explained Pod. “Needn’t be a big fire. Just enough to warm the place through like. And there you’d be”—he looked at the brass latch on the door of the oven—“safe as houses. Iron, that is.” He rapped the stove with his hat pin. “Nothing couldn’t gnaw through that.”
“Field mice could slip through them bars,” said Homily.
“Maybe,” said Pod, “but I wasn’t thinking so much about field mice as about”—he paused uneasily—“stoats and foxes and them kind of cattle.”
“Oh, Pod,” exclaimed Homily, clapping her hands flat to her cheeks and making her eyes tragic, “the things you do bring up! Why do you do it?” she implored him tearfully. “Why?
You know what it does to me!”
“Well, there are such things,” Pod pointed out stolidly. “In this life,” he went on, “you got to see what is, as you might say, and then face up to what you wish there wasn’t.”
“But foxes, Pod,” protested Homily.
“Yes,” agreed Pod, “but there they are; you can’t deny ’em. See what I mean?”
“I see all right,” said Homily, eyeing the stove more kindly, “but say you lit it, the gypsies would see the smoke.”
“And not only the gypsies,” admitted Pod, glancing aside at the lane, “anyone passing would see it. No,” he sighed, as he turned to go, “this stove ain’t feasible. Pity—because of the iron.”
The only really comforting find of the day was a piping-hot blackened potato: Arrietty found it on the site of the gypsies’ fire. The embers were still warm, and, when stirred with a stick, a line of scarlet sparks ran snakewise through the ash. The potato steamed when they broke it open and, comforted, they ate their fill, sitting as close as they dared to the perilous warmth.
“Wish we could take a bit of this ash home,” Homily remarked. “This is how Spiller cooks, I shouldn’t wonder—borrows a bit of the gypsies’ fire. What do you think, Pod?”
Pod blew on his crumb of hot potato. “No,” he said, taking a bite and speaking with his mouth full, “Spiller cooks regular-like whether the gypsies are here or not. Spiller’s got his own method. Wish I knew what it was.”
Homily leaned forward, stirring the embers with a charred stick. “Say we kept this fire alight?” she suggested, “and brought the boot down here?”
Pod glanced about uneasily. “Too public,” he said.