“Good day, Mrs. Poovey,” she said. “I—I am so pleased to have met you.”
But Mrs. Poovey might well have been a chair or a table. She never smiled, or even so much as blinked. Feeling dejected and hopeless, Emily left to find the room described by Tilly as belonging to Mr. Bottle and Mr. Dobbs.
“Mr. Bottle’s the one what’s got the hankerchee, case you needs to know,” Tilly had said. At the time, Emily had wondered why they couldn’t tell her themselves which was which, but after the meeting with Mrs. Poovey, she was beginning to understand. Perhaps though, with two in the room, things might be a little cheerier. Knocking lightly on the open door to announce her presence, she entered.
Wearing patched, thin sweaters, and baggy, threadbare trousers, Mr. Bottle and Mr. Dobbs were seated across from one another on the only two chairs in the room, chairs as straight and stiff as old wooden skeletons.
Mr. Dobbs was snoring, with his chin dropped so far into his hollow chest it seemed intent on working its way to the opposite side. He looked as if he might have fallen asleep over his reading, except that there was nothing to read in his lap unless you considered two gnarled hands to be a book or a newspaper.
The other sound in the room came from Mr. Bottle’s thin, red nose. He was, just as Tilly had said, the one with the “hankerchee,” a tattered, grey piece of cloth that might have been retired from duty as a cleaning rag because there was so little service left in it. Besides honking into this relic, Mr. Bottle was also studying a small scrap of paper. It was a wrinkled, worn soap wrapper Emily discovered later when she made up his bed, because as soon as she came in, he quickly thrust it under the mattress. It was as if he was actually afraid to be caught reading!
As for any cheer or conversation, Emily soon learned that neither would ever come from that room. Mr. Dobbs never did wake up while she was there, and Mr. Bottle only gave muffled replies in one word—or less—from behind his handkerchief, to every attempt at conversation that Emily made. The only sounds that came from the room were whooshing, thumping and swishing, accompanied by the mournful chorus of honking and snoring.
Emily’s next sad encounter was with Mrs. Quirk, a lady so tall and thin she seemed like a piece of elastic stretched as far as it could go, then allowed to grow old and brittle in that position so it never could spring back. Emily felt that if Mrs. Quirk swallowed a marble, you would see it travel all the way down her. Moldy bread lumps and fish head stew—no wonder she was wasting away to a shred!
At the moment Emily entered Mrs. Quirk’s room, the old lady was seated on her chair waving her fingers about in the most curious way. As soon as she caught sight of Emily, she quickly laid her hands down on her lap, but not before Emily guessed what was happening. She was doing make-believe embroidery, without embroidery thread, needle, or canvas!
Emily, however, could no more start a conversation with Mrs. Quirk than she could with anyone else. But while she was doing her chores in the sad, silent room, she came to a decision. For the moment, she would forget about Uncle Twice, about the missing ballroom, and all the other mysteries of Sugar Hill Hall. She would devote all her energies toward bringing some happiness, no matter how little, to the pitiful old residents who lived, silent and forgotten, in the upper reaches of this evil mansion. Filled with thoughts of how she might accomplish this, most of them hopeless, she finished her chores and then decided she had better find Tilly for more instructions.
Where was Tilly now? Suddenly the mansion seemed filled with a gloomy hush. Emily set down her bucket and crept quietly down the narrow attic stairs to the floor below. Then she made her way down the hall, room by room, peering through one half open door after another. Some were empty. In others, the old people sat hunched in their chairs, staring and silent like Mrs. Poovey. But Tilly was nowhere to be found. Emily decided finally that she would have to try the floor below. Carefully, she tiptoed down the next flight of steps.
Creak! Pop! Snap! The wooden steps under her feet sounded loud as firecrackers. Mrs. Plumly’s room lay almost directly at the foot of the stairs and she wanted to get past it as quickly and quietly as possible. Two more steps to go. One more step to go. No more steps to go—and there was Mrs. Plumly’s door. It had been closed when Emily had come up the stairs with Tilly, but now it was a gaping hole! Emily shrivelled back into the safety of the dark stairwell.
Unless she retreated all the way back up the stairs, there was no way to escape going by that door, and she must find Tilly. After waiting a few moments to gather courage, Emily took a deep breath, locked it in her chest, and started out again. She intended to skitter past the doorway like a small insect, not looking through it. But when she reached it, an unbearable curiosity drew her eyes in. She let out her breath with a gasp. There was no one in the room, but what a room it was!
A fire crackled invitingly in a red brick fireplace. Pictures of laughing children danced across wallpaper as sprigged with violets and rosebuds as an old English garden. Crocheted doilies lay on plump chairs and gleaming walnut tables like patches of spring snow. On a tiny mahogany chest of drawers, red-breasted berries nested in a brown china bowl beside a basket spilling over with tangled skeins of yellow wool as soft looking as eiderdown. The room was as cozy as Mrs. Plumly herself. Emily wondered how the thought of it could have made her shiver with fright. Now she could stand and gaze at it for hours. But the gloomy clock in the dining room was already tolling the hour of eleven, and Tilly must be found at once. Quickly, Emily crept past the enticing room.
But as she rounded the balcony, she glanced at the giant mirror that rose up from the first landing, reflecting the whole grim parlor below as clearly as a stereopticon slide. And what she saw brought her to a dead stop. Her heart seemed to jump into her throat and lay there frozen.
Standing before the great oak door of Sugar Hill Hall, just as when Emily had first walked through it, were Mrs. Meeching and Mrs. Plumly. Aunt Twice was in the reflected picture, too, opening the door to four people, two women, a man, and a boy. All four of them were enormously fat. The man had a round, pink face, tremendous jowls as smooth as silk, and tiny, slanted eyes. He was dressed in an expensive black suit with a rich gold chain resting on his stomach. The boy, except for being shorter, seemed to be his exact copy. One of the two women, very much older than the other, though no less fat, was sobbing violently into an impossibly tiny lace handkerchief.
Something in the back of Emily’s mind warned her, “If you can see in the mirror, you can also be seen!” Swiftly, she crouched down behind the balcony railing. Then held by a kind of dreadful fascination, she watched the scene being enacted in the room below, revealed in deadly clarity by the mirror.
“So, Mr. and Mrs. Porcus, you have brought us Mrs. Loops,” said Mrs. Meeching.
“Yes, Mrs. Meeching, you see we have brought her, just as we said we would,” Mr. Porcus said nervously. “Er, just as we said we would,” he repeated, looking quite miserable. His arms waved about in a distracted manner as if he were trying to find something to hang on to.
The older woman, who Emily suspected was Mrs. Loops, began to sob again into her small handkerchief.
Mrs. Porcus dropped her first chin consolingly into her second, which in turn dropped into her third. “There, there, dear Aunty,” she said, “look at this grand parlor. I’m certain you will be quite comfortable here.”
Mr. Porcus looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Perhaps, Lucine, we should reconsider—”
“Your wife is quite right, Mr. Porcus. Your aunt will indeed be completely comfortable.” Emily had trouble recognizing this soothing voice as belonging to Mrs. Meeching, though it did.
Mr. Porcus, who now looked as if he had just floated through a warm oil bath, beamed expansively at Mrs. Meeching. “Well, in that case …”
Another heartrending sob from Aunty Porcus (otherwise Mrs. Loops) seemed to have no effect on anybody.
All the while this was going on, the boy was staring at the bowl of peppermints across t
he parlor, his jaws moving mysteriously inside his fat cheeks as if he were actually chewing one. At last, he began pulling rudely on his mother’s coat sleeve and pointing.
“If Albert might be spared one of your delicious peppermints?” inquired Mrs. Porcus of Mrs. Meeching.
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Meeching with a shade less soothing oil in her reply. Then the whole joyous party processed across the parlor to the peppermint bowl.
What astonished Emily was that no one in the Porcus family seemed to pay any attention, much less even see, the other old people lined up on either side of the parlor. No one, that is, except Aunty, who looked fearfully from left to right, and then threw a fresh wave of useless sobs into her sodden handkerchief.
“We have these for the pleasure of our boarders, although we don’t encourage the habit,” said Mrs. Meeching as they all stood worshipfully around the glistening bowl. “Bad for the teeth!” she hissed at Albert. Then her lips stretched out like two thin rubber bands in what must have been intended for a smile.
Albert paid no attention to her. The little eyes in his round face stared greedily at the peppermints. All at once his pudgy hand darted out to snatch three of them and stuff them into his mouth. Then, as Mr. and Mrs. Porcus gazed at him fondly, he grabbed a whole handful and stuffed them into his pocket, his face turning scarlet with greed and excitement.
Mrs. Meeching’s mouth continued to smile, though the rest of her stiffened perceptibly. But when Albert showed no signs of stopping, her smile grew thinner and thinner, and finally disappeared altogether.
“Mrs. Luccock!” she snapped. “You may now show Mrs. Loops to her room!” Then she firmly steered the remaining Porcus family, with peppermint-flavored Albert trotting happily beside them, through the front door. Mr. and Mrs. Porcus, quite unaware of the sudden frost in the air, seemed so relieved to have gotten rid of Aunty that they offered no resistance at all.
Emily remained hidden until Mrs. Meeching returned to her room and Aunt Twice, accompanied by Mrs. Plumly, had led the sobbing Mrs. Loops up the stairs. Too shaken now to continue her search for Tilly, Emily slipped noiselessly down the stairs and made her way to the kitchen. One person she did not want to see there when she arrived was Kipper, but she needn’t have worried about that. When she arrived, the kitchen was empty. A few fish scales still clinging damply to the grey sink were the only signs that the fishmonger’s boy had even been there.
SEVEN
Peppermint Peril
It was two days later when Tilly announced that she was to be taken shopping with Mrs. Meeching. “Y’r aunt’s to be busy baking cakes, so I gets to help Mrs. Meeching buy the groceries,” said Tilly proudly. She sounded as if she were actually going to have her opinion sought in selecting strawberries out of season, the limes and the lettuces, instead of merely going along to serve as a beast of burden, weighted down with Mrs. Meeching’s packages.
“And since I hasn’t the time to dust the parlor”— Tilly was all importance this morning— “you gets to do it today, Emily.” To Tilly, dusting the parlor was clearly an honor not to be bestowed on anyone else except in cases of direst emergency, or as in the present instance, simply if something better came along. She handed Emily a rag and flounced off to prepare herself for her big excursion, leaving Emily alone in the parlor.
Well, not quite alone, because, of course, there were some of the old people in the room as well. From having cleaned their rooms, Emily could now attach names to several of the sad, wrinkled faces. Mr. Bottle and his handkerchief were in the parlor. So was Mr. Popple with the ears so big and thin you could see light through them. Also present was Mrs. Biggs, who still wore spectacles stiff as cat’s whiskers perched on her nose, even though the glass in them had long since been lost—or stolen.
But for all useful purposes, such as conversation or company, Emily was alone. And though Tilly might have numbered dusting the parlor with other treasured gifts from her gracious benefactors, Emily didn’t see it at all in the same light. She did not like being in the parlor on her own and wanted to get the chore done as quickly as possible.
It was so very quiet in the room. So very dim. So very frightening to be stared at by unseeing faces and to be in the presence of two doors, closed like lids over baleful eyes, doors that could spring open at any moment. Except for an occasional honk from Mr. Bottle, who sat hunched in a chair to one side of Mrs. Meeching’s closed door, the parlor remained deadly silent as Emily’s dust rag raced over the tables.
She had gone no more than halfway around the room when suddenly Mrs. Meeching’s door swung open. Emily gasped, her hand frozen in midair, as Mrs. Meeching appeared dressed for shopping in a black coat and hat that made her look strangely like a snake attempting to masquerade as a lady. She hurried silently across the parlor and climbed the stairs toward Mrs. Plumly’s room, but in her hurry, she had left behind an open door! Through it Emily could see a blood-red carpet, heavy, blood-red velvet draperies shrouding the windows, and furniture that gave the impression of being dark, oversized headstones.
Then all at once, the silent parlor was shattered with an explosion of sound. Ker! Ker! Choo! It was Mr. Bottle sneezing. He dove into the pocket of his sweater to retrieve the rag that passed for his handkerchief. And Plop! Along with the handkerchief, a peppermint flew right out of the pocket and fell to the floor. But instead of stopping where it fell, it went rolling. And rolling. And rolling. It did not stop until it reached the dead center of Mrs. Meeching’s carpet where it lay blinking like a knowing, wicked red-and-white eyeball. “Come and get me,” it taunted, “anyone who dares!”
Thoughts, each one more chilling than the one that came before it, darted through Emily’s head. Mr. Bottle clearly had not seen or heard the peppermint fall. She could tell him about it, and no doubt have a Mr. Bottle instantly dead with fright lying on the parlor floor. If Mrs. Meeching saw the peppermint upon her return, she would immediately suspect one of the old people, and the most likely culprit would be Mr. Bottle, since he was nearest the door. There was only one thing to be done, and that was for Emily to go for the peppermint.
Dropping the rag on the nearest table, she flew swiftly to the open door. Then with her breath as solid in her throat as a lump of moldy bread, she tiptoed into the dreaded room. And then she froze. In that deathly silent parlor, any sound could be heard, but most especially the sound of footsteps. Mrs. Meeching, having completed her business with Mrs. Plumly, was on her way back to her room!
There was another door in that room, closed, and two large wardrobes, also with doors closed. But it was already firmly implanted in Emily’s mind that closed doors at Sugar Hill Hall were to be avoided like the plague. Besides, with Mrs. Meeching’s breath practically felt in the room, there was no time to play musical doors. And then she saw the hiding place that offered her one slim hope. Scooping up the peppermint, she slipped behind the blood-red velvet folds of the draperies.
It was, however, a surprisingly noisy, rough Mrs. Meeching that finally entered the room. Clash! Crash! Bang! Emily heard what sounded like logs tumbling into the fireplace. And there was a voice that came with them.
“Ouch! Well, if that ain’t the catfish’s whiskers, as Pa always says. A blamed splinter! Ouch! Ouch!” The voice belonged to the fishmonger’s son.
Good, thought Emily, serves him right! But she was still frightened. This was not Mrs. Meeching, but how much better was Kipper? After the way he had behaved in the kitchen with Tilly, think how he would relish turning Emily over to Mrs. Meeching! If only he would hurry with his logs and leave so Emily could escape to the parlor. But he was still dawdling with them when Mrs. Meeching returned.
“How dare you enter my room without permission!” she hissed at him in a voice stiff with rage.
“Well, the door was open, mum, ’n’ I wanted to get the logs built so’s you could have a nice fire aroaring ’fore you got back.” Kipper was using the same brand of oil he had applied to Tilly.
“Oh, I suppose th
at’s all right. But see you don’t do it again.”
“Oh no, mum!” said Kipper earnestly.
For a few moments there was only the sound of wood being knocked against wood, and a drawer sliding open and shut. Then suddenly Mrs. Meeching said sharply, “What was that?”
“What was what, mum?”
“That sound. I heard something drop.”
Something had indeed dropped—the peppermint from Emily’s hand! It fell right by her feet, but unfortunately just beyond the edge of the velvet drapery for the whole room to see, if it looked in the right place.
“I didn’t hear anything, mum,” said Kipper brightly. “Expect it were a bit o’ wood falling.”
“Nonsense! I heard something.” Suspicion oozed from every letter of the word.
Then logs clattered noisily in the fireplace, and Mrs. Meeching hissed her displeasure.
“Sorry ’bout that, mum,” Kipper piped up.
“Oh, never mind!” snarled Mrs. Meeching. “But as long as I must put up with this, there are a few words I’ve been meaning to have with you.” She lowered her voice. “Have you met the orphan brat that’s come here to live?”
“Yes, mum. I met the skinny little thing in the kitchen th’other day. Ain’t worth much, I’d say.”
“Quite right, Kipper! I’m only keeping her here out of the kindness of my heart—to please Mrs. Luccock. But I’m afraid Emily isn’t to be trusted. Do you understand my meaning?”
“Oh yes, mum!” said Kipper soulfully.
“Well—” There was a long pause filled with meaning. “What I want you to do is keep an eye on her whenever you’re here. Report to me if you catch her doing anything— suspicious. Snooping about, as it were. If you do, there’s a packet of peppermints in it for you!”
Peppermints in the Parlor Page 6