The Borrowers Collection

by Mary Norton

  And Arrietty, looking down, could see the missing piece of stone had left a small pit.

  They were in the kitchen now, a room almost as dark and gloomy as the game larder, lit only by a long, narrow window set high in a far wall. The floor seemed to go on and on, the stone flags patched up here and there with dingy-looking concrete. Immediately on her right, as she stood just within the doorway, she saw the great black stove. It seemed to be a slightly newer model of the one discarded in the game larder, except in this case the surface gleamed and shone and gave out a heartening warmth. Beside it, on a roughly made table covered with oilcloth, stood an earthen jar filled with wooden spoons. On one end of the stove stood a large copper stockpot. It too was polished and gleaming. A faint wisp of steam escaped from under the lid and, with it, a savory smell.

  “It’s better really,” Peagreen was saying, “to go round this kitchen keeping close to the walls. But as the human beings are out and, perhaps, your family is waiting, do you think you could face the open floor?”

  Arrietty looked across the vast expanse, where, she realized, there was no hope of cover. Almost opposite, in the far distance, it seemed, she saw the outline of a door. “If you think it’s all right,” she said uncertainly. Peagreen, she remembered, could not walk very quickly.

  “Then come on,” he said, “let’s chance it for once. It takes an age if you have to stick to the walls.”

  It seemed a longish walk anyway, and Arrietty had to fight an almost overwhelming instinct to run, in order to match her steps to Peagreen’s. Never in her whole life had she felt so exposed as she did on this journey across the vast, empty kitchen, where only the stove and the wooden table created a kind of warm oasis.

  When at last they approached the far door, she could make out some patches of cloth hanging loosely on its surface. Green baize? Yes, that was it: it was (or might have been) a padded baize door like the one she remembered at Firbank. Yes, now she could see the rusty brass studs that once had secured the padding. Did all old houses have them, she wondered, to keep out the noise and smells from the kitchen? But, on this particular door, the baize was stained and moth-eaten, and some of it hung in tatters. She also noticed, as they drew closer, that the door swung slightly in the draft.

  Arrietty stopped sharply in her tracks. She gripped Peagreen’s arm. From somewhere far behind them, she had heard a sound, the fiddling of a key in a lock. Peagreen had heard it too. Both stood rigid as they caught the mutter of voices. A far door slammed to, and footsteps echoed loudly in the flagstone passage. Another door opened, and the footsteps died away.

  “It’s all right,” breathed Peagreen. “They’ve gone into the annex. Come on! We’d better hurry—”

  They had barely taken three paces when, once again, they froze. This time they heard the voice more clearly as the footsteps clattered out again. It was a woman’s voice, calling back to someone, “. . . must just take a look at my stew.” And the footsteps came hurrying nearer.

  Like a shot thing, Peagreen dropped to the floor, pulling Arrietty with him. “Don’t move,” he breathed in her ear, as they lay there prostrate. “Not a muscle!”

  Arrietty’s heart was beating wildly. She heard the scrape of wood across the flagstones. The kitchen door, through which they had sidled, had been flung open more widely. Then the footsteps paused. It was a sudden, startled pause. They had been seen.

  There were a few moments of complete silence before the footsteps began cautiously to approach them. A thought flew through Arrietty’s mind as she lay there, rigid with terror, beside Peagreen: “Mrs. W. had seen something, but in this dim light and at that distance, she could not quite make out what it was . . .”

  At that moment, there was a sudden hiss from the stove, then a spitting sound, the clumsy bumping of a lid, and the acrid smell of burning fat. Lying there, unable to see or even turn her head, she heard the sudden rush of feet towards the stove, the sound of some heavy object pushed with short gasps across some uneven surface, followed by a sharp cry of pain. The hissing ceased immediately, and Arrietty heard a faint whimper as the footsteps hurried away into passage.

  Peagreen sprang to his feet, more deftly than Arrietty would have believed possible. He seized her wrist, pulling her up beside him. “Come,” he said, “quickly, quickly!”

  They reached the broken baize door, which swung, rather drunkenly, to Peagreen’s light touch, and suddenly, almost magically it seemed, they were in the sunlight of the long main hall.

  Arrietty, white and trembling, leaned against the outer jamb of the door.

  “I’m sorry,” Peagreen was saying. “I’m tremendously sorry. We should have gone round by the walls—”

  “What happened?” asked Arrietty in a faint voice.

  “She burned herself. Or scalded herself. Or something. It’s all right. We’re safe now. Whitlace will be seeing to her hand. It’s all right, Arrietty. Neither of them would come along here . . . at least not for the moment anyway.” He put a hand under her elbow and began to lead her down the hall. He still looked very distressed, but, all the same, he tried to distract her, pausing at the foot of the great stairway. “The drawing room’s up there,” he told her. “They used to call it the saloon. And all kinds of other rooms. You can get to some of them from outside by climbing the ivy . . .”

  But Arrietty did not seem to look at anything; her troubled eyes were gazing straight ahead. She was still aware of the acrid smell of burned stew. Yes, that was what these baize doors were for: to keep out such odors.

  “And here’s the front door,” Peagreen went on. “I think you’ve seen it from outside. And there’s the telephone, on the window sill, with its paper and pad. I borrow my paper from there, and the pencil when it gets down to a stub.”

  Arrietty turned then, her eyes suddenly wide. “Supposing it rang?”

  “They’d let it ring,” Peagreen said. “Come along.” He named several rooms on the left as they passed by the doors: dining room, gun room, smoking room. “All locked,” he told her.

  “And what’s that open door at the end?”

  “Surely you know?” said Peagreen.

  “How could I?”

  “It’s the library.”

  Arrietty’s face lost its sleep-walking expression. “So we’ve come right round?” she said in a relieved voice.

  “Yes, we’ve come right round. And now you’ve seen how your father can get to the larder without having to go out-of-doors.”

  “That’s what I can’t bear,” said Arrietty, as they approached the open door. “I can’t bear the thought of my father crossing that great, bare terrible floor—with no cover anywhere!”

  “He’ll go at night—when they’re safely upstairs and asleep. That’s what I always did. They never stir once they’ve gone upstairs. Dog-tired, they are, by then.”

  Once inside the library, Arrietty relaxed. It was strange to look down this long room from this unfamiliar end. Through the glass doors she could see a strip of the conservatory and into the garden beyond. Arrietty made a mental note of this danger zone. In future they would have to be careful to keep on either side of it.

  She paused for a moment to examine the middle window seat: their future home! Were her parents still inside, she wondered, or had Pod by this time learned all the tricks of the grating? Peagreen, by the fireplace, guessed her thoughts. “They won’t be in there,” he said, examining the fire surround. “The loose tile’s back in its place. And your father’s a wise man,” he went on. “He wouldn’t have left the grating open. They must be in the conservatory . . .”

  As they came through the glass doors, Arrietty noticed that all the floor tiles were neatly back in place. Her mother was by the stove, holding the tin ashtray as though it were a very large tray. “Oh, there you are!” she said with evident relief. “What an age you’ve been! We’ve kept a little food back for you. I was just going to put it away. Your father’s very strict now about leaving things about.”

  “Where
is Papa?” asked Arrietty.

  Homily nodded towards the garden. “Out there: he’s a bit worried about Spiller—”

  “Hasn’t Spiller turned up?”

  “Not a sign of him.”

  “Oh, dear . . .” exclaimed Arrietty unhappily. She too began to feel anxious. She turned towards Peagreen, but found he was no longer beside her. He was limping across the library towards the door that led into the hall. “Oh, Peagreen,” she cried, “where are you going? Do come back!” Then she clapped her hand to her mouth, aware she had called out too loudly.

  He turned and glanced at her, almost shamefacedly, and then his gaze flew to her mother. “I’ll be back later,” he mumbled and turned away again.

  So that was it, Arrietty realized suddenly: he did not, at that moment, wish to face either of her parents. He had taken a risk with their precious child’s safety and was keenly aware of it now. She watched him go without another word: she would reassure him later.

  Homily was still talking away. “If anything has happened to Spiller or his boat . . .”

  “I know, I know!” cut in Arrietty. “I’ll go and speak to Papa.”

  “Don’t you disappear, too,” Homily called after her as Arrietty made for the hole under the door.

  Arrietty wove her way quickly through the weeds and grasses, and there was Pod on the path. He was standing quite still. “Papa,” she called softly as she emerged from the weeds. He did not turn.

  “I’m looking at the moon,” he said. And as Arrietty came beside him, puzzled because it was still daylight, Pod went on, “Have you ever seen such a moon? And not a cloud in the sky! What a waste . . . what a waste!”

  Arrietty never had seen such a moon. It hung pallidly in the sky, from which the color was slowly draining, like a ghostly tennis ball.

  “We could not have had a better moon,” said Pod, “not if we’d ordered it. Crossing the lawn to that river . . . all that unpacking. Several journeys it will take, with only that soap dish of Spiller’s. We’ll need every bit of light we can get. And no rain. By tomorrow, the weather might change . . .”

  Arrietty was silent. Then after a while she said, “Peagreen has a wagon.”

  “Maybe,” said Pod, “but a wagon doesn’t give light. And it’s light we want. The question is, Where is Spiller?”

  Arrietty pulled sharply on her father’s arm. “Look! I think . . . that’s him, isn’t it? He’s coming now . . .”

  In a startled way, Pod withdrew his eyes from the moon. Indeed, it was Spiller, coming round the corner of the house, dragging his soap dish behind him! And, as if turned to stone, Pod awaited his approach. His relief, Arrietty sensed, was too great for words.

  “Oh, there you are,” he said in a carefully composed voice as Spiller came to join them. “What have you got in that?”

  “Your tools,” said Spiller, “and I made a new quiver.” Spiller’s quivers were always made of short pieces of hollow bamboo, plenty of which grew on some marshy ground near the lake.

  “You’ve been down to the boat?” exclaimed Pod.

  “I brought the boat up here.”

  “Up here! You mean this end of the lake?”

  “It’s there among the rushes. Thought it would be quicker unpacking. To have it nearer, like.”

  “So that’s what you’ve been doing all day!” Pod stared at him. “But how did you know we had decided to stay?”

  “He offered you a house,” said Spiller simply.

  There was an amazed silence: he had known they would accept. Spiller, she realized, with his sharp, wild instincts, understood them better than they understood themselves. And now, with the heavily laden boat so near, how much easier he had made their move!

  “Well, I never!” said Pod, and a slow smile spread over his face. “Nothing to do now but wait for the night . . .” He sighed a deep, happy sigh. “Have you had anything to eat?”

  “I sucked a robin’s egg,” said Spiller.

  “That’s not enough. Better come inside and see what Homily can find.” He nodded towards the soapbox. “You can push that thing into the weeds.”

  When they had made their way in through the hole, Arrietty ran eagerly to her mother, seizing her by both hands. “Oh, Mother, wonderful news! Spiller’s back! And he’s brought the boat right up across the lake into the rushes. It’s taken him all day. And Papa says we can move tonight—everything’s quite near! And—”

  But just then the telephone shrilled. Homily, about to speak, turned round in a startled way. She had been standing near the stove. All four of them froze into stillness, their eyes on the library door. The telephone rang out four times, and then came the slow advance of heavy footsteps. None of the borrowers moved.

  A man’s voice said, “Hello—” There was a short silence before the deep voice went on: “Not tomorrow, she can’t.” Again there was silence while, in Arrietty’s imagination, some unknown female voice must still be twittering on. Then Whitlace said, “She’s hurt her hand, see . . .” Another silence. Then Whitlace said (it must be Whitlace), “Maybe the day after tomorrow.” Another small silence. An embarrassed grunt from Whitlace (he was not one for the telephone), and they heard him replace the receiver. The footsteps moved away.

  “They’re back,” said Pod, as soon as there was silence again. “At least, he is.”

  Homily turned a glowing face towards Spiller. “Oh, Spiller!” she almost gushed. “It’s good to see you, that I must say!” She ran towards him but stopped in sudden confusion. Had she been going to kiss him? Arrietty wondered. Not very likely, she decided, remembering how often in the past her mother had disapproved of Spiller. All the same, with Homily, one never knew . . .

  Pod was looking thoughtful. “It might be safer,” he said at last, “if we waited out of doors.”

  “Waited for what?” asked Homily.

  “For the night,” said Pod.

  Pod looked up through the glass panes. “The light’s fading already, as you might say. We won’t have so long to wait. Now, Homily, you and Arrietty go outside. Take something to wrap round you. And sit quietly in the grass at the edge of the path. Spiller and I will join you later. Spiller, will you come with me and give me a hand? I’ve got to open the grating while we’ve still got a bit of light indoors.”

  They all did as they had been asked, quietly and with no fuss, although it was a bit of a struggle to bundle one of Miss Menzies’s feather quilts through the narrow hole under the door. But it was a mild and beautiful evening for so early in April, and it was a joy to breathe in the soft air. As they settled themselves among the grasses, the coverlet round their shoulders, Arrietty looked up at the moon. It was becoming golden, and the sky around it, turning a gentle gray. There were sleepy murmurs with a few sharp, quarrelsome high notes as the birds, in the bushes opposite, began to settle in for the night. Arrietty slipped an arm below her mother’s and gave it a comforting squeeze. Homily squeezed hers back. After that, they sat in silence, each busy with her very different thoughts.

  By the time that Pod and Spiller joined them, the moon had become quite bright. “But the shadows will be black,” he told them as he squatted down. “We must treat the shadows as cover.” Spiller squatted beside him, bow in hand and a quiver full of arrows at his back.

  Pod, his hands linked upon his knees, was whistling softly through his teeth. It was an irritating sound, but Arrietty knew it of old: it meant that he was happy. All the same, after a while, she said, “Hush, Papa . . .” and laid a hand upon his knee. She had heard another sound, a good deal farther away. “Listen!” she said.

  It was a faint squeaking; very faint, but gradually growing clearer. After a moment or two, she recognized the sound. “It’s Peagreen with his wagon,” she whispered. They watched and waited until, at last, the tiny figure appeared in the middle of the path, indistinct in the strange half-light of dusk and brightening moon. He stood for a moment, undecided, by the door of the conservatory. He could not see them, half hidden as they we
re by the shadows of the grasses.

  “Peagreen,” Arrietty called softly. He started and looked about, and then he came towards them. He seemed surprised to see them, sitting there in a row.

  “We’re moving in tonight,” Arrietty told him in a whisper.

  “I guessed you might be,” he said, sitting down beside her. “I saw Spiller passing the corner of the house, and I saw the size of the moon.” He kicked out a foot towards his wagon, “So I brought this thing along.”

  “And very useful, too,” said Pod, leaning forwards to see it better.

  “It’s yours if you want it,” Peagreen said. “Where I’m living now, I don’t really need it.”

  “Well, we could share it, like,” said Pod, and, still leaning forwards to get a better view of Peagreen, he explained to him about the position of the boat and Spiller’s selfless journey. “With the grating open and the five of us to help, we can move that stuff within an hour.” He stood up and looked about him: in that strangely blended half-light, nothing looked very distinct. “I don’t see,” he said, turning around to them, “why we shouldn’t get going now. You see—” He broke off suddenly and dropped to the ground. An owl had hooted uncomfortably near.

  “Oh, my goodness . . .” muttered Homily, clinging more tightly to Arrietty’s arm.

  Peagreen remained calm. “It’s all right,” he said, “but it’s better not to move just yet.”

  “Why did he say it’s all right?” Homily whispered to Arrietty, in a trembling voice.

  Peagreen heard her. “You’ll see in a minute,” he said. “Keep your eyes on the top of that cedar tree.”

  They all stared at the cedar tree, which was now lit up by the moon. Pod eased himself into a more comfortable position. After a while, he asked in a whisper, “Are there many of them?”