by Mary Norton
“Or, perhaps,” went on Lupy, “you’d prefer gooseberry: my own make?”
“This is fine,” Pod assured her, taking a sip. “Never was one for gooseberry wine—strong, gouty stuff.”
“Hendreary’s very partial to it . . .”
“Hope it’s partial to him,” said Pod. “A bit too acid for me.”
Hendreary then started to show Pod round the premises. “This,” he said, pointing out the entrance hole, “is where the pedals used to be. Up there”—he raised his head to the heights above them—“was where they had the bellows, but they took those out when they moved the broken harmonium to make room in the church for the organ. But we’ve still got the reeds: Lupy finds them useful for hanging the clothes to dry . . .”
“Hendreary looks very well,” said Homily, taking another delicate sip of wine. And Arrietty wondered why, when people had not met for some time, they must always tell each other they looked well. To her, Uncle Hendreary looked more scrawny than ever, and his funny little tuft of beard had become slightly grizzled. Did she herself look well? she wondered.
“He is and he isn’t,” Aunt Lupy was saying. “With the boys away, he’s finding the borrowing here rather heavy. But we manage,” she added brightly. “Spiller brings us things, and the ladies are here twice a week.”
“What ladies?” asked Homily. She wondered if they were anything to do with “the lord.”
“The ladies who do the flowers, and they always bring a little refreshment. And we have our ways with that. You see, they set their baskets down on the floor until Miss Menzies has laid the table. In fact, once they’ve finished the flowers, they sit down to a very hearty tea.”
Arrietty jumped up from her chair. “Miss Menzies?” she exclaimed. Only Timmus noticed her excitement.
“Yes, she’s one of them. I know most of their names. There’s Lady Mullings and Mrs. Crabtree. And Mrs. Witless, of course: she does most of the cooking: cakes, sausage rolls—all those sorts of things. And I must confess to you, Homily, that it’s quite an entertainment to listen to their talk. I just sit here quietly and listen. Since we last met, Homily, I’ve learned quite a lot about human beans. They come in all shapes and sizes. You wouldn’t credit some of the things I’ve heard.”
Arrietty sat down again slowly, and Timmus, on the arm of her chair, leaned against her. Something his mother had just said had obviously interested her: he wondered what it was. Her face was still a little pink.
“Does the lord live in the vestry?” asked Homily.
“Oh, dear me, no!” exclaimed Aunt Lupy—she sounded slightly shocked. “The Lord only lives in the church.” Something about the way she pronounced the word “Lord” warned Homily that it was one that should be spoken as though it began with a capital letter. Lupy’s normally loud voice had fallen respectfully to a note of awe. “The vestry,” she said gently, as though explaining to a child, “isn’t really part of the church.”
“Oh, I see,” said Homily, although she didn’t see at all. But she was determined not to reveal her ignorance.
“This church,” went on Lupy, “by human standards, is a very small church. And the rector is inclined to be high. Because of this, we don’t have a very large congregation.”
“Oh,” said Homily, but she could not quite see what the rector’s height had to do with it.
“He does not use incense or anything like that,” went on Lupy, “but he does like lighted candles on the altar. And thank goodness for it, because we can always get hold of the leftovers.”
“So I see,” said Homily, looking round the brightly lighted room.
“Because of this, a great many of the locals go to the church at Went-le-Cray.”
“Because of the candles here on the altar?” asked Homily, astonished.
“Yes,” said Lupy, “because the vicar at Went-le-Cray is very low.”
“Oh, I see,” said Homily again: a whole new world was opening before her. No wonder Lupy had said that human beans came in all shapes and sizes.
“Of course, this ‘little’ church—as they call it—is the more famous. It’s far older, for one thing. And tourists come from all over the world to see the rood screen.”
“Do they?” said Homily, wonderingly. She was feeling more and more puzzled.
“Of course, when we first came here, we went through a few hard times. Yes, indeed. There was one week when we lived entirely on bull’s-eyes—”
“Bull’s-eyes!” exclaimed Homily. Whatever was she going to hear next?
“They’re those stripey sweets, shaped like pincushions—the choirboys always bring a few bags of them to suck during the sermons. The trouble with them is that when they get warm, they’re apt to stick together . . .”
The choirboys or the bull’s-eyes? Homily decided to keep silent.
“Little rascals, those choirboys. The gigglings, the goings-on in the vestry. And Timmus is beginning to pick up some of their expressions. And yet,” she went on, “when they go into church, they sing like little angels—and look like them, too.”
Timmus rose from his seat and came beside his mother: he looked as though he wished to ask her a question. Lupy put an arm round him, affectionately but absent-mindedly; she still had plenty more to tell Homily.
“Do you know, Homily, what were the first words we ever heard spoken in this church?”
Homily shook her head. How could she know?
“A voice was saying, ‘Come unto me all ye that travel and are heavy-laden and I will give you rest.’ We had traveled and we were heavy-laden—”
Yes, thought Homily, glancing again about the room, heavy-laden with a whole lot of household objects that had once belonged to them.
“Wasn’t that wonderful? And we did find rest. And have done ever since. And the hymns they sing! You can’t imagine!” With one arm round Timmus and the other held up as though to beat time, she broke out into a little air: “All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small . . . Great and small, Homily. Although no one knew we were here, you will understand that we could not help but feel welcome, if you see what I mean.” She followed the direction of Homily’s eyes. “Yes, dear, I think there are one or two things here that once belonged to you and Pod. We never thought you’d need them again, going off in the night like you did. But if there’s anything you’d like to take away—just to help you start up life in the Old Rectory, just say the word: we’d only be too delighted. Anything we can do to help—”
Homily’s astonished eyes swerved back to Lupy’s face. She could hardly believe her ears. Lupy offering things! And, seemingly, with real sincerity—although she did notice a little quiver about the lips and a slightly nervous flutter of the eyelids. Homily looked round for Pod, but Hendreary had taken him out into the vestry. Some great change had taken place in Lupy, and Homily needed Pod to witness it. She turned back again to those eager, questioning eyes. “Oh, Lupy,” she said, “you’re welcome to all that old stuff that came in the pillowcase. Up at the Old Rectory, we’ve got all we need now. And more.”
“Are you sure, dear? You’re not just saying that?” Homily could hear the relief in her voice.
“Quite sure. It’s a long story. I mean, there are some things that happened to us since then that you’ll hardly credit—”
“And the same with us, dear . . . What’s the matter, Timmus?” She turned to him impatiently: he had been whispering in her ear. “What are you saying? It’s rude to whisper . . .”
“Could I take Arrietty into the church?”
“I don’t see why not. If Arrietty wants to go?” And it might be a relief to get rid of two extra pairs of listening ears: there were still so many things she longed to recount to Homily.
As Arrietty and Timmus slipped away, Homily said, “Timmus is very brown. I suppose he spends a lot of time out of doors?”
“No, very little, as a matter of fact. We never let him go out alone.”
“Then how—?” began Homily.
> “All that brown? That’s just a fad of his. I’ll tell you about that later . . .” It was almost a relief to Homily to recognize a trace of Lupy’s old impatience. Lupy leaned forwards towards her. “Now where had we got to? You were just going to tell me . . .”
“Ours is a long story,” said Homily. “You tell me yours first.”
Lupy did not need asking twice.
As Arrietty and Timmus crossed the vestry, Pod and Uncle Hendreary emerged from between the curtains that separated it from the church, each with his nutshell in hand. They were deep in conversation. “Very fine,” Pod was saying, “never seen carving like that, not anywhere. No wonder the . . . the . . . what-you-call-’ems come.”
“Tourists,” said Hendreary, “from right across the world!”
“I can well believe it,” Pod went on as he and Hendreary, still talking, made their way into the harmonium.
Timmus and Arrietty slipped through the curtains, and then, for a moment, Arrietty stood still. So this was the church!
The building was simple, with its pillars and arches and its rows of orderly pews. If the human beans called this a little church, what, thought Arrietty, could a big church be like? She almost trembled at the height and vastness. It had a strange smell and a strange feeling: it was a feeling she had never felt before. At the far end, behind the last row of pews, there was a pair of curtains very like the ones beside which she was standing. Beams of colored light streamed in through the stained-glass windows. She felt more than a little afraid. Where did the Lord live? she wondered. She moved slightly closer to Timmus. “What’s behind those curtains at the end?” she whispered.
Timmus answered in his ordinary voice. “Oh, that leads to the bell chamber and the stairs to the belfry,” he said, cheerfully. “I’ll show you in a minute. And there are stone stairs to the belfry. But I don’t use them myself.” His face suddenly filled with mischief. “You can get out onto the roof,” he told her gleefully.
Arrietty did not answer his smile. Stone stairs! How could creatures their size get up stone stairs built for humans? Carpeted stairs had been another matter—in the days when Pod had still had his tape and hatpin.
Timmus was pulling her sideways. “Come on. I’ll show you the rood screen.”
She followed him across to the center aisle. Here the stone flags had pictures engraved on them. Odd-looking pictures of stiff-looking people—right down the church they went, in all shapes and sizes, as far as the curtains at the end. But Timmus was looking in the opposite direction. “There it is,” he announced.
It was indeed a wonderful feat of carving, this rood screen, which divided the chancel from the nave. It rose from the floor at either side, with a wide arch in the middle. Through this arch she could see the choir stalls, which, unlike the pews, were set out lengthwise, and beyond these, facing her, she could make out the altar. Above the altar was a stainedglass window. Yes, there were the two branched candlesticks, which had once been stolen and since retrieved, and tall silver vases generously filled with flowers. The air was heavy with the scent of lilies of the valley.
Timmus was nudging her: evidently she was not paying enough attention to the rood screen. She smiled at him and took a few paces backwards down the aisle to study it from a wider angle.
The background (if anything so frail-looking could be called a background) was a delicate lattice of leaves and flowers, from among which peered a myriad of little forms and faces: some human, some angelic, others devilish. Some were laughing, others looked very solemn. These last ones, Arrietty was told later, were most likely actual portraits of dignitaries of the time. At the very top of the arch was a larger face, very gentle and calm, with flowing hair. On each side of this, a hand had been carved, the palms exposed, in a gesture that seemed to be saying, “Look.” Or was it “Come”?
Arrietty turned to Timmus. “That bigger face up there, is that a portrait of the man who carved all this?”
“I don’t know,” said Timmus.
“Or is it—” Arrietty hesitated, “a portrait of the Lord?”
“I don’t know,” said Timmus. “My mother calls it the Creator.” He pulled on her sleeve. “Now do you want to see the bell chamber?”
“In a minute,” said Arrietty: there was still so much to see in the rood screen. A little gallery, she noted, ran along the top of it, with a quaintly designed balustrade. Halfway along the balustrade was the carved figure of a dove, with wings outstretched. It looked, thought Arrietty, as though it had just alighted there. Or, perhaps, was just about to take off. It was very lifelike. The outstretched wings balanced and enhanced the outstretched hands just below them.
“It’s beautiful . . .” she said to Timmus.
“Yes, and it’s fun, too,” he told her, and as they turned aside to make their way down the aisle, he added suddenly, “Would you like to see me run as fast as a mouse?”
“If you like,” said Arrietty. She realized suddenly that Timmus, who was not yet allowed out of doors alone, had only this church for a playground. She hoped the Lord liked little children. She rather thought he must if Aunt Lupy had been right about “all creatures great and small.”
She watched, smiling, as Timmus darted away from her towards the curtains of the alcove at the end. Yes, he could run: the little legs almost flew; and he fetched up panting before a low bench set just in front of the curtains. This bench, Arrietty noticed when at last she came up with him and had climbed up on a hassock, held neat piles of pamphlets about the church, a few picture post cards, and a brass-bound wooden collecting box. There was an ample slit in the lid, almost long enough to take a letter. A notice, propped behind it, said THANK YOU.
“Do you think—” Timmus was saying, still panting a little, “that if I practiced, I could run as fast as a ferret?”
“Faster,” said Arrietty. “Even rabbits can run faster than ferrets: ferrets can catch rabbits only by chasing them down their holes.”
Timmus looked pleased. “Come on,” he said, and darting under the bench, he slipped through the gap in between the curtains.
The room inside was bare stone but with a white-plastered ceiling. Three kitchen chairs were set along one wall, and the staircase rose up along another. But what fascinated Arrietty most were the six round holes in the ceiling, through each of which protruded a long length of rope. A few feet up, along each rope, was a sausagelike piece of padding. So this was how they rang the bells! Since her family had been living in the Old Rectory, they had only heard a single bell, and this was only for the services on Sunday. Each piece of rope ended in a “tail,” which lay in coils on the floor. It was thinner than the main rope.
Timmus leaped upon the first rope, clung there for a moment, then slid downwards so that he sat astride the “tail.” “Watch me,” he said, and eased off his shoes. As they tumbled off, Arrietty recognized them as a pair her father had made—some years ago—for Timmus’s elder brother. She looked down at her own shoes, which had once belonged to Homily and were getting very shabby. She hoped that, when they were really settled in their new home, Pod would take up his trade again: he had been a wonderful shoemaker. All he would need was an old leather glove; and there must be plenty of those left in churches.
“Please look,” Timmus was begging. He was standing up now on the knot, his hands grasping the rope above his head. What was he going to do? She soon saw: if he could run like a mouse, he could climb like one, too. Up he went. Up and up, hands and feet moving like clockwork. Faster even than a mouse, more like a spider on a filament of web. Except the bell rope was no filament: the coarse weave was heavy and thick, providing invisible footholds.
Arrietty watched, amazed, until at last he reached the ceiling. Without looking down, he disappeared through the hole. In just those few moments, Timmus had vanished from sight. Rooted to the spot, Arrietty stood there dumfounded, craning her neck at the ceiling. Her neck began to ache, but she dared not look away. What hours of practice this must have cost him! And she
had thought that she could climb . . .
At last, the little face appeared, peering down at her through the hole. “You see,” he called out, “to get to the belfry, borrowers don’t need stairs!”
He came down more slowly, perhaps a little tired by the effort, and sat himself comfortably astride the rope. “You can get right up to the bells,” he told her, “and there’s a place where you can get right out onto the roof. There used to be six bell ringers, but now there’s only one—except at Easter and a day they call Christmas.”
“Oh,” cried Arrietty, “I know all about Christmas. My mother’s always talking about it. And the feasts they always had. When she was a girl, there were a lot more borrowers in the house, and that was the time—Christmas time—when she first began to notice my father. The feasts! There were things called raisins and crystal fruit and plum puddings and turkey and something called game pie . . . And the wine they left in glasses! My father used to get it out with a fountain-pen filler. He’d be up a fold in the tablecloth almost before the last human bean had left the room. And my mother began to see what a wonderful borrower he might turn out to be. He brought her a little ring out of something called a cracker, and she wore it as a crown . . .” She fell silent a moment, remembering that ring. Where was it now? she wondered. She had worn it often herself.
“Go on,” said Timmus: he hoped this might turn out to be one of her stories.
“That’s all,” said Arrietty.
“Oh . . .” Timmus sounded disappointed. After a while he said, “What’s it like up at the rectory?”
“Nice. You could come and visit us . . .”
“They don’t let me go out alone.”
“I could come and fetch you—”
“Could you? Could you really? Can you still tell stories?”
“I think so,” said Arrietty.