The Borrowers Collection

by Mary Norton

  Down she went in careless haste, sliding, dropping, missing footholds. Why had she thought there was nothing scratchy in this bush? There seemed plenty of scratchy things now.

  Once on the ground, she dashed across the path, too hurried to notice that not one robin but two were feasting on her crumbs. They flew away into the bushes at her approach. She hardly bothered to avoid the nettles and nearly got stung several times (and a nettle sting is a big sting to a borrower) before she reached the hole under the door; dashing through it in her dew-wet boots, she came to a sliding stop and looked around wonderingly at the silent, seated group.

  Chapter Eleven

  Her entrance did not cause the stir she had expected. Homily only said, “No need to come in like a thunderbolt,” but her voice sounded dispirited, as though she had other matters on her mind. Arrietty had a feeling that, when she entered, they had all been sitting in silence. No, Spiller was not sitting exactly—he was lounging against the wall, idly running a lump of beeswax along the string of his bow.

  She prized out a bit of tile and sat down facing them, her back towards the garden. A little tray of food lay, untouched, on the ground between them: why had nobody eaten? The tray, she realized, was a rather battered tin ashtray. No one spoke, and no one seemed to notice her disheveled appearance. What had been happening? she wondered. To what decision had they come?

  At last Pod said, “Well, that’s how I see it,” and gave a great sigh.

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Homily glumly.

  “I don’t see what else there is to do. We can’t keep on holding up Spiller’s boat forever . . . He’ll be needing it soon. It’s his livelihood, as you might say, borrowing for others.” Homily did not reply, and Spiller, having raised his eyes for a moment, looked down again at his bow. “And there should be a good bright moon tonight,” Pod added, as though to introduce a more cheerful note, “and we’ve practically nothing to pack.”

  So that was it: they were going! This lovely house, this dear house, had been found wanting. Although at first it had seemed so promising, for some reason now it would not do. Arrietty felt the tears pricking her eyes, and bowed her head so that they would not show.

  “We might try the church, of course,” said Pod. “The Hendrearys seem to have managed to get along there . . .”

  Homily threw up her head, her eyes flashing. “Nothing,” she exclaimed, “absolutely nothing, Pod, would persuade me to stay with Lupy again! Not wild horses, with wings of fire, down on their bended knees! Remember the last time we stayed with them!”

  “Well, I didn’t rightly mean stay with them,” said Pod. “That church is a big place, Homily.”

  Homily’s eyes were still angry. “Not even under the same roof!” she said firmly. “However big . . .”

  Pod knew when he was beaten. Once more there was silence. Homily now sat again with her head bowed; very depressed, she looked, and very tired. Why, Arrietty wondered, did all these decisions have to be made so quickly?

  Her mother’s next listless words seemed to echo her thought: “Why don’t we just sleep on it tonight, Pod?” she suggested wearily.

  “Because the weather might change,” said Pod.

  Arrietty brushed a hand across her eyes and raised her head again, and then, suddenly, she began to smile. She was looking at the double doors that led into the library: it was Peagreen! He stood there, hesitating a little shyly! He seemed ready to slip away again.

  “Peagreen!” she exclaimed, and jumped to her feet.

  Pod and Homily turned sharply. Even Spiller straightened himself against the wall.

  “Papa, this is Peagreen! We met this morning. Peagreen, this is my father and mother, and our friend Spiller. Peagreen, come in. Do . . .”

  “Yes,” said Pod, slowly rising. “Come in and sit down. Arrietty, get him a piece of tile . . .”

  Peagreen bowed, and as he limped shyly forwards, his usually pale face looked faintly flushed. “How do you do?” he said, as Arrietty placed a tile for him. He sat down on it a little uncertainly and rather towards the edge.

  There was a short, surprised silence, and then Pod said, “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” Homily just stared.

  “Yes,” said Peagreen.

  “Not that I’ve been out of doors yet,” Pod went on.

  “I have,” Arrietty put in conversationally. “I climbed that bush outside. It was lovely. You can see for miles.”

  Peagreen smiled. “So you’ve found my lookout?” he said.

  “Your lookout?” repeated Pod. He sounded interested.

  “Yes,” said Peagreen, turning courteously towards him. “You’ll find it very useful—almost indispensable, in fact. I’m not much of a walker, but, luckily, I can climb.”

  Homily was still looking amazed. So this was an Overmantel! Nothing like those she had ever heard about, except perhaps the voice, which she thought rather affected.

  “Have you lived here long?” asked Pod politely.

  “All my life,” said Peagreen.

  “So you know all the ins and outs?”

  “You could put it like that,” said Peagreen, smiling, “but in my case, it’s more ins than outs. I’m not an open-air type—except by necessity.”

  “And it’s a nice old house,” Pod said. “We’re sorry to be leaving it.”

  Peagreen looked surprised. “But this young lady here . . . your daughter . . . well, I gathered from her you had only just come?”

  “That’s true,” said Pod, “but there are difficulties . . .” He sighed.

  “I’m sorry,” said Peagreen, still looking puzzled. He was too polite to ask what these difficulties might be.

  “Well, it’s like this,” began Pod, and hesitated, but looking back into that simple, boyish face, he felt encouraged to go on. “It’s just this: there seems no place on this ground floor, no place at all, where it would seem safe for a family of borrowers to live. Not to settle down in, like. Not to start a new life in. I like the house, no doubt about that, but you’ve got to face facts, hard as it may be. And it will be hard for us . . .”

  Peregrine leaned forwards on his seat. “I . . . I could make a suggestion,” he said after a moment.

  “I’d be glad if you would,” said Pod, but there was not much hope in his voice.

  “I don’t know what you’d think of it. It isn’t much. And it’s rather inconvenient, I’m afraid, but my old house is free now. And you’d be very welcome to it. For the time being, at least . . . I mean, until you can find somewhere better.” His flush had deepened, and he seemed rather embarrassed. Nevertheless, his face looked eager and smiling.

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Pod, wary of committing himself, “very kind indeed. But you see, my missus and I, we’ll soon be getting on a bit, and any house we settled in would have to be on the ground floor, like.”

  “But my house is on the ground floor,” said Peagreen.

  “I can’t think where,” said Pod.

  Peagreen jerked his head towards the double doors. “In there . . .”

  “In the library? Impossible!” exclaimed Pod.

  Peagreen smiled. “I can show you if you like. It isn’t far . . .” He rose to his feet.

  “If it isn’t too much trouble,” said Pod. He still looked very mystified, having searched—several times over—every crack and cranny in the library.

  “No trouble at all,” said Peagreen. “I’d better lead the way,” he added, and began to limp ahead.

  Spiller, Arrietty noticed, had slung his bow over his shoulder and was making for the garden door. She took a few steps towards him. “Aren’t you coming, too, Spiller?”

  He turned as he reached the door and shook his head. Then he slipped away through the hole.

  Feeling slightly disappointed, Arrietty followed the others into the library; they were grouped, she noticed, in front of that strangely modern fireplace. Why had Spiller not come? she wondered. Was he shy? Was he a little suspicious of Peagreen?
Or, being an outdoor borrower, was he just not interested in any kind of indoor home?

  As Arrietty came up to them, she noticed, where Peagreen was standing, a wide dark stain on the lighter wood of the floorboards. Peagreen glanced down. “Yes,” he said, “they used to put a rug over that. I’ll explain later . . .” He turned again to Pod. “The thing to remember,” he said, “is that it’s the third tile from the end.” Crossing the hearth, he gave the tile in question a slight kick. Nothing happened, so he kicked it again, slightly harder.

  This time, the top of the tile slid forwards a little from the base of the tile just above it. Peagreen, stretching his arms, got his fingers on the protruding edge and, with an effort, managed to pull it forwards. Pod hurried up, anxious to save the tile from falling, but Peagreen said, “It’s all right; it won’t fall. These tiles were made to fit exactly.” He tugged once more, and, with a grating sound, the tile came free, Pod supporting it in front and Peagreen at the side. They paused a moment for breath. Then Peagreen said, “Now, we just have to push it along a little . . .” This they did, and leaned it gently against the tile beside it. A gaping hole was revealed, very dark and somewhat forbidding.

  “I see,” said Pod. “Very clever.” He ran his hand along the edge of the tile. “You scraped off the cement?”

  “Yes. At least the Wainscots did. There wasn’t much cement—”

  “No, there wouldn’t be,” said Pod, “not with tiles that fit like these.”

  “Who were the Wainscots?” asked Arrietty.

  “The borrowers who took me in. Shall I go in first?” he said to Pod, who was peering into the hole. “It’s a bit dark at the entrance . . .”

  “Thanks,” said Pod. “Come along, Homily,” and he put out a hand to guide her. Arrietty brought up the rear.

  They all trooped in through the cavernlike hole. Arrietty noticed it had been hacked out by hand and was almost a short tunnel. They found themselves in a vast, dimly lit space, drafty and cold after the warmth of the sunlit conservatory. Looking up to find out the source of light, she saw a patch of blue sky. They were somewhere inside the old chimney itself.

  “There should be a bit of old candle end about,” Peagreen was saying. “I usually left one here, and a few safety matches. To tell you the truth,” he went on, as he fumbled about in the semidarkness, “I don’t use this entrance much myself.”

  “Is there another?” asked Pod.

  “Yes. But that’s not too easy either. Ah!” he exclaimed in a satisfied voice: he had found the candle and was striking a light.

  What a strange place it was! A cathedral sort of place, the soot-blackened walls going up and up, with the sky as a far-distant canopy. The cracked floor was littered with twigs and sticks and, in one corner, a neat but high pile of ash, beside which, to Arrietty’s surprise, she recognized the eyecup. But Peagreen now was moving the light towards the far wall, so dutifully she followed its gleam. “This is really what I wanted to show you,” Peagreen was saying, holding the candle high; and Arrietty saw, propped up at either end by two piles of slatey-looking stones, the prongs of a narrow hand fork minus its handle: it was the kind of weeding fork, Arrietty realized, that a lady gardener might use—someone like Miss Menzies, for instance. And now, when she came to think of it, Miss Menzies had owned such a fork, but hers had had a handle, and she kept it very clean. This one, in the flickering candlelight, looked very worn and blackened.

  “You can cook on these prongs,” Peagreen told them. “They found it in the conservatory,” he added. “Makes a kind of grill.”

  Homily, hearing this, ventured a little closer; the expression on her face was one of extreme distaste. This was not her idea of a cooking stove, nor was this vast, dusty cavern her idea of a kitchen.

  “What about the smoke?” she whispered to Pod.

  “There wouldn’t be any smoke,” Pod told her, “at least not that anyone would notice, not with this great hearth and the chimney so high. What little there was the walls about absorb it, like. Think of the size of our fire compared with the ones this was built for!”

  “Our fire?” echoed Homily. Her whisper was bitter: was Pod really thinking she would consent to live in this awful place?

  “What on earth did they use to cook in?” It was only the second time Homily had addressed Peagreen directly.

  “Tin lids mostly.” He nodded his head towards a deeply shadowed wall. “There are some shelves over there.” He turned away from the grid, holding the candle high. “Well, then, I’ll show you the rest—such as it is. Careful of the wood,” he warned them as he kicked some branches aside. “The jackdaws drop it down; every spring they try to nest on the corner of the chimney, and every spring they fail. It’s too wide.” He was leading them towards the entrance hole. “As long as those jackdaws keep on building, you’ll never be short of fuel. And keep on building they will . . .”

  Pod paused for a moment to look at the tottering pile. “Could do with a bit of stacking,” he said.

  Peagreen paused too and glanced at the untidy mess. “I didn’t bother,” he said, “you see, I can’t cook—at least, not much. I just used that grill to heat up water. For my bath,” he added, “or an occasional cup of tea.”

  Yes, thought Arrietty, looking at Peagreen in the candlelight, that was what had struck her at their first meeting: that he looked so very clean. How she longed for a bath herself: perhaps later it could be managed?

  Peagreen had paused by the hole that led to the library. He turned to Arrietty. “Would you take the candle for a moment?”

  She took it from him and tried to hold it high as she watched him kneel down on the cracked stone of the floor. Some flat thing lay there—something that when they had entered in nearly pitch darkness she had taken for a kind of doormat. Now she saw it was the back cover of a leather-bound book. He pushed it aside, and there was another hole, one that led downwards. Arrietty drew back from it with a little gasp of dismay. Was the rest of Peagreen’s house somewhere under the floor? If so, it would be beyond bearing. She thought of those early years at Firbank, the dusty passages, the dimly lit rooms, the long, monotonous days, the sense of imprisonment intermingled with fear. She had grown used to it—that she realized now—but only because she had known no other life. But now she had tasted freedom, the joy of running, the fun of climbing; the sight of birds, butterflies, flowers—of sunshine, rain, and dew . . . No, not that again, not under the floor!

  Peagreen gently took the candle from her and held it over the hole. She felt he had sensed her dismay and had mistaken it for fear. “It’s all right,” he assured her, “only a few steps down . . .” and slowly he disappeared from view. Pod went next and, after him, Homily—with almost as much unwillingness as Arrietty herself was feeling. There were about six steps made of stone and neatly set together.

  It was just as she had feared: a long, dark passage between the joists that supported the floor above, the library floor it must be; it was quite straight, and it seemed to go on and on. It was as dusty as the passages at Firbank had been and smelled of mice droppings. Bringing up the rear of the procession, she felt tears on her cheeks. No good feeling in her pocket for a handkerchief: she had left it in the stove. Her only ally, she felt, was going to be her mother, and that, not because of darkness, but because of the awful kitchen. Pod seemed unconcerned.

  At last, Peagreen paused at a second set of steps—these seemed to go upwards. He held the light steady until they had all caught up with him, and then he went on ahead.

  “These steps are well made,” remarked Pod. “Can’t think how the stones bind together.”

  “Wainscot made them,” Peagreen called down from above. “He was a better stonemason than carpenter. Some kind of sticky stuff he used,” he went on, as Pod’s head emerged to his level, “something he mixed with resin from the fir trees.”

  “Resin . . .” echoed Pod, as though to himself. In all the alterations he had made at Firbank, he had never thought of resin! And fir
trees there had been in plenty . . .

  Peagreen had passed the candle to Pod and seemed to be busy with his hands. Suddenly the small staircase was lit up by a stream of light from above. And, to Arrietty’s surprise and joy, the light was daylight! Pod blew out the candle.

  One by one, they emerged into what seemed, to them, a very long room. It was, Arrietty suddenly realized, the enclosed space below one of the window seats. It must be the one (if their long walk under the floorboards was anything to go by) below the window that faced the fireplace. The space was even longer than it had seemed at first because one end of it was filled with a stack of books that rose almost to the ceiling. Otherwise, it was empty and spotlessly clean. Checkered sunlight fell across the floor from what appeared to be a ventilation grating set into the outside wall. It was a grating very like the one she remembered at Firbank: the one that she used to call her grating and through which she would gaze for hours at the forbidden world outside. Her spirits lifted: perhaps, oh, perhaps, everything was going to be all right . . .

  Pod was staring up at the wooden ceiling. “You could get another story in here,” he said, “plenty of height . . .”

  “Yes, Wainscot thought of that,” Peagreen told him, “but decided in the end it would take too much material. He couldn’t think of a way to get the stuff in.”

  “We’d hit on something,” said Pod.

  Arrietty’s spirits began to rise even higher. She could tell from her father’s voice and the way he was looking about him that he was already making plans. He had now walked into the alcove that enclosed the grating. Heavy curtains, now drawn back, fell down on either side. In winter, Arrietty realized, these would cut off the draft.

  “I’m leaving the curtains,” said Peagreen as he came beside Pod. “I’ve no need for them where I’m going.” Where was he going? Arrietty wondered.