There was a knock on her door—that is, three quick knocks and a slap.
“Come in, Ben,” she said.
Ben opened the door but didn’t come in. “Can I have another piece of your cake? Dad said I should ask you.”
“Yes, but leave some for me.”
“Okay.” He closed the door again.
In the end, what had she lost? Nothing real—just a brief fantasy. She would rededicate herself to the piano, and maybe she would indeed someday take up a second instrument, just like she’d told Iantha. Not the clarinet, though. The cello, maybe. Or the double bass! What a good idea. Double basses were often included in jazz combos—so she could still tour with Jeffrey and his dad. It would be much better than singing, because the bass is always at the back of the stage, and the player is practically hidden behind it anyway. Much better for a shy girl than singing at the microphone, front and center.
Her thoughts were interrupted by another knock, or rather an erratic pounding, by what sounded like suspiciously small fists. Batty sprang up and rushed to open the door before Lydia had time to do heaven knows what out there in the hall. But she was safely ensconced in her mother’s arms, scrubbed and ready for bed.
“We want to make sure you had a good birthday,” said Iantha.
“Yes, I did, Mom.” Batty wrapped her arms around both of them, forming a kind of Lydia sandwich. “Thank you again for my presents.”
Iantha had gone a bit overboard, getting Batty a pile of books, including several more by Frank Cottrell Boyce, an adorable plaid jacket with a hood and extra-big pockets, and a gift certificate to the store in Wooton that sold sheet music.
“I am stuck,” said Lydia.
Batty unwrapped herself. “What you are is goofy.”
“Sing, Batty?”
“Not tonight, Lydia.”
Then they were gone, too, and Batty could lie down again. She wondered how long it would take Lydia to forget Batty’s former and glorious singing voice. Not too long, please. Though she wasn’t optimistic—look at how Lydia was still clinging to poor dead Frank in his box.
She wondered when to tell Jeffrey about her double bass idea. Not that she was likely to have the chance to talk to him about anything for a long time. She was almost glad of that, though. No, she was glad she wouldn’t see him for a long time. It would give her a chance to let the memory of singing drift so far away that she didn’t miss it anymore. The next time she saw Jeffrey—which would be when Skye had softened, or maybe when the moon turned to cheese—Batty would be happy and complete, with no regrets and perhaps even some knowledge of the double bass.
This helped with one of her decisions: Yes, she should keep up the dog-walking business. Double basses were sure to be expensive.
Now there was a tap on her door, but before Batty could get up, Jane had opened it and stuck in her head.
“Thought you’d want to know that Rosalind and Tommy just left for a walk, and they were holding hands. Isn’t that great?”
“Yes! Does Ben know?”
“I’ll tell him. And may I give Artie a piece of your cake?”
“Just leave me one more piece, okay?”
As for her other decision—that would really be Mrs. Grunfeld’s to make. Batty hoped to continue going into the music room every Tuesday at recess, if only to talk about music, now that she couldn’t sing.
There was another knock. Surely, Batty thought, she was running out of family members. This person was politely waiting for her to answer, so she got up and opened the door. It was her dad.
“Why, it’s one of my many daughters,” he said. “But which one?”
“The best one,” Batty answered, hugging him. How lucky she was to have such a father.
“Good girl. Also, you should know that Rosalind and Tommy just left for a walk, holding hands.”
“Jane already told me.”
“Did she. Hmmm. I wonder if she’s writing about it yet.”
“Probably. Dad, did you want another piece of my cake?”
“No, thanks. Just wanted to tell you happy birthday again and I love you and want for you everything that’s wonderful in the world.”
“Thank you.”
“And there are no more big, scary secrets, right?”
“No,” she said. Just a little, not-scary secret about a marvelous voice that had been hers for too short a time.
“And you’re not interested in boys yet, right?”
“No, Daddy. I promise.”
“Good.” He left and shut the door.
Should she lie down again? There was no one left to visit her, not with Rosalind out on a walk with Tommy. Except Skye, but Skye never visited. Even with the beginnings of their new understanding, that wasn’t about to change. They still had too little to talk about.
She started back down to the floor, but—good grief—someone was knocking, and then speaking without waiting for the door to be opened.
“It’s me, Skye, and I know Rosalind already gave you an extra gift, but I’ve got one, too, and mine’s much better than hers.”
“But I really liked your first gift,” said Batty through the door. Skye’s gift was one of the best of the day—a donation in Batty’s name to an animal shelter.
“This one’s different. Kind of annoying, and you can’t keep him forever, and he’s on strict orders to leave me alone, but I figured it was what you wanted the most. Have fun. Talk about music.”
The door opened, Jeffrey came in, and the door shut again behind him.
“Hi,” he said. “Happy birthday.”
Batty was rooted in place, unprepared, trapped. This was a shock, not a gift.
“Skye gave me the last piece of your cake.” Jeffrey was holding the plate with the cake, the last piece, as yet untouched. “Hope that’s okay.”
“I guess so.”
“Wow, you’re sure not glad to see me. You probably haven’t forgiven me for running out on our breakfast. Not that I blame you. That was a lousy thing to do.”
“No, I do forgive you.”
He took a bite of the cake. “But?”
Batty glanced around the room, looking for a source of strength. There—on top of her record player—the Beethoven symphonies Jeffrey had sent her.
“No buts,” she said. “Thank you for the presents. I tried to get to Boston to tell you in person, but that didn’t exactly work out.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. Gutsy move. Also insane.”
“I know.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, said hello to Funty and Gibson, and ate more cake. “Let me make it up to you. That special topic you told me about on Skye’s birthday? Can we talk about it now?”
“No.” She winced. Her Grand Eleventh Birthday Concert was dead and buried.
“Too late?”
“Yes, too late.” And to Batty’s fury, here came her tears again. Those awful tears, welling up in her eyes, sliding down her face, embarrassing her—hadn’t she run out by now?
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No, no, no.” How dare he make demands after leaving her on her own for so long. “I didn’t invite you here and I can’t tell you. And that’s my piece of cake you’re eating!”
“I only ate a few bites. I’ll leave the rest for you.” Carefully he set the plate down on her desk. “Batty, you’re supposed to tell me what I want to know. I’m your mentore, remember?”
“I can fire you. There, you’re fired, and not my mentore anymore. Go away.”
“No. I’m tired of Penderwicks telling me to go away when I’ve just gotten here. Batty, please, it’s your old friend Jeffrey.”
“If you won’t go away, I will.” But she couldn’t go out into the hall, not while crying like a fool. She went instead into her closet, sat on a box of games, and listened through her sobs as Jeffrey moved around the room. It sounded like he was looking for something.
“Batty, where�
�s the photograph of Hound I sent you? Did it get hurt during shipping?”
“No, it’s fine.” She owed him that.
“Where is it?”
“In here.”
“In the closet? Why?”
“None of your business, Jeffrey. Please go away.”
“No.” The closet door opened, and there he was, staring down at her.
She stared back up at him, his familiar face blurry through her tears. Already she could feel her anger slipping away. She never had been able to stay upset with Jeffrey for more than a few moments. Even that time years ago when he’d accidentally mixed Funty up with the dirty laundry and Batty thought for sure that the blue elephant would come to pieces in the washing machine. But Jeffrey had been just as upset as she was and, in the end, Funty had come out of the wash not only intact but also cheerful and much cleaner.
“Jeffrey, Skye said it wasn’t my fault that Hound died.”
“Of course it wasn’t.”
“That’s what Nick said, too.”
“Where did you get the idea that it was your fault? Hound was an old dog with heart disease who’d lived a good life.”
“But—”
“Listen to me, Batty. Dogs die. People die. Guinea pigs die! We do the best we can while they’re alive, and then they die anyway. Right? Tell me that I’m right.”
“You’re right,” she whispered.
“Thank you.” He smiled. “Ready for some Beethoven?”
“Yes, I think so.”
He went over to her record player, opened the box of symphonies, and put one on the turntable.
Two quick, crisp chords to start, then the quiet strings introducing the theme, one of Beethoven’s most beautiful and stirring.
The Eroica, Jeffrey’s favorite.
And now he was out there in her room, conducting. Batty leaned forward to better watch. She’d seen him do this for years—he called it play, swore he knew nothing of what he was doing—but to her it seemed that he was indeed bringing alive that magnificent music, thrilling to it, reveling in it, lost in it. And now Batty was lost in it, too, swept away by this outpouring of genius, coming to her from across the centuries, still fresh and alive. She listened and watched, and as she did, the theme returned, again and again, each time grander and more powerful, finally melting Batty’s one last shred of pain, washing it away on an exhilarating, superb flood of music.
The first movement came to an end, and Jeffrey lowered his imaginary baton and bowed his head.
“Jeffrey,” said Batty. “I’m ready now.”
“To finish your cake?” He stopped the record before the second movement could begin.
“I didn’t really care about the cake.” She came back into the room.
“Then to talk?”
“No.” She planted her feet and took two deep breaths. “To sing.”
And thus Batty ended up with a Grand Eleventh Birthday Concert after all. Jeffrey let her sing only one song, “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows,” before hustling her downstairs to the living room, where she sang it again for the entire family. Even Lydia, who had been put to bed, was brought out for this—Jeffrey insisted on it. There had been no plan, no rehearsal, and Batty wore no special outfit. But the astonished pride on everyone’s face was just what she’d longed for. There were lots of tears, too, especially from her parents and Rosalind.
No tears from Batty, though. She was done with crying for now, and determined to keep it that way for a very long time.
IT WAS A SATURDAY AFTERNOON in late March when the Penderwicks waited for Lieutenant Geiger’s second return from war. Jane had put up freshly painted Welcome Home signs, helped again by Artie plus a few new boys, one of whom, to Mr. Penderwick’s great annoyance, was yet another Donovan. The two older sisters had sent messages to be given to Nick when he arrived. Rosalind from her college in Rhode Island, where she was studying fiercely and without distraction, her heart safely stowed in Delaware with Tommy, faithful and true. And Skye from her college in California, also studying fiercely but with a heart still very much her own. She and Jeffrey, who was now in college in Boston, continued to be friends, despite many battles since the previous spring. Especially the big one at his high school graduation party, which no one ever spoke of, the memory of it being too awful for those who loved them both.
Batty and Ben waited in their living room. Ben was at the window, watching for the familiar blue truck. Batty was at her piano, accompanying herself on songs that Ms. Hinkel—chosen jointly by Jeffrey and Mrs. Grunfeld to be Batty’s singing teacher—had assigned for their next lesson together, a lesson Batty would proudly help her parents pay for. Lydia ran in and out, hunting for anyone who would watch a demonstration of her latest passion, tap dancing—without taps, thank goodness. The rest of the family held vigil in their own ways, Jane upstairs, nervously reading from several books at once, a few pages here, a few pages there, and the parents in their study, talking softly together.
“Anything?” asked Batty, pausing in her music.
“Nope,” answered Ben. “Not yet.”
There had been much communication between Gardam Street and the remote mountains where Nick fought overseas: notes, pictures, boxes of food going out to him, reassuring news coming back when he could take time out from battles. At the coldest part of winter, his news had suddenly turned bad—a wound in his shoulder, much bleeding, a journey in a helicopter to the military hospital—but Nick had survived, healed, and gone back into service. Since then they’d longed for him to come home more than ever.
“Anything?” Batty asked again.
“Nope. Wait—I think—Batty, it’s him! He’s here! Mr. and Mrs. Geiger are coming outside!”
Scrambling off the piano bench, Batty shouted for Jane and their parents, then whistled, softly but with a certainty of being heard and obeyed. A big fluff of brown, with a plumed tail at back and at front a blunt nose and large, goofy eyes, rose up from his place beside the couch.
“Good boy, Feldspar,” she said.
Feldspar sniffed at a second dog, emerging from behind the couch, this one sleek and gray, impossible to imagine as Feldspar’s mother were it not for the eyes, just as silly on her as they were on him.
“Good girl, Sonata,” said Batty. “You’re finally going to meet Nick.”
Sonata looked worshipfully at Batty, her master, her everything, but with doubts about meeting Nick. She’d been half wild when the Penderwicks brought her home from the animal shelter, unwilling to separate her from Feldspar, her runt and the last of her litter. Though no longer wild, she still flinched from new situations.
“You’ll be fine.” Batty laid her hand gently on Sonata’s head, soothing her. “I’m with you.”
They went out into the hallway, where the others were gathering, excited and flustered. Mr. Penderwick had forgotten his shoes, and Lydia her crown, though that had been happening more and more lately, as she was at long last moving out of her princess phase.
“We’re all here?” asked Jane. “Father, mother, three sisters, one brother, two dogs?”
“Gato,” said Lydia.
“No, Asimov, you can’t come.” Iantha shut away the disgruntled cat, who’d fallen in love with Sonata and believed he should be able to go wherever she went.
Ben was jumping up and down like a yo-yo. “Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry!”
“A little more calm, please,” said Mr. Penderwick.
“We’re all set now,” said Iantha. “Ready?”
Batty grabbed two dog collars.
“Go!” exploded Ben.
Jane threw open the front door and out poured the Penderwicks, racing across Gardam Street to welcome home their hero.
When Jeanne Birdsall was young, she promised herself she’d be a writer someday—so that she could write books for children to discover and enjoy, just as she did at her local library. She is also the author of The Penderwicks, which won the National Book Award for Young People’s Literature, The Pe
nderwicks on Gardam Street, and The Penderwicks at Point Mouette.
Jeanne lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, with her husband and an assortment of animals, including a dog named Cagney. You can find out more about Jeanne, her books, and her animal friends at JeanneBirdsall.com.
The Penderwicks in Spring Page 24