The Penderwicks

by Jeanne Birdsall

  “Hound!” she cried, and threw her arms open. He leapt right into them, and the two tumbled to the ground and rolled over and over in a frenzy of joyful reunion. But the happiness didn't last, for within seconds Batty heard shouting. She raised her head and saw Jeffrey racing toward her and, behind Jeffrey, her three sisters, all of them frantically yelling. And although Batty couldn't understand a word—for they were still too far away—she knew it had to be about poor Yaz and what a terrible child she was. She jumped up, took hold of Hound's collar, and tried to haul him toward the road. “C'mon! We have to get away!”

  Hound dug his four feet into the ground and resisted. There was no way he was letting Batty cross that road. She tugged and he tugged back until, in despair, she let go of his collar. If he wouldn't go with her, she'd just have to keep going alone. Batty closed her eyes again and ran out into the road, just as a car came into view.

  “It was amazing, Daddy! Jeffrey snatched her right out of the jaws of death,” said Jane.

  “You're scaring him,” said Skye. “The car wasn't even close.”

  “I was scared,” said Rosalind. “I was terrified.” She reached over and took hold of Batty's little arm. She never wanted to let go of it again.

  “And Jeffrey gave me a piggyback all the way to the cottage,” said Batty, snuggling cozily with Funty in Mr. Penderwick's lap. “Now, Rosalind, tell again how Hound rescued Yaz.”

  “We've already heard that one four times. We need to put you to bed,” said Mr. Penderwick. The family was still gathered around the kitchen table after dinner.

  “No, Daddy, not yet,” said Batty comfortably.

  “A little while longer, then.” Mr. Penderwick would have denied his youngest nothing that night. “But I need to talk to your sisters seriously, so no more Yaz stories for a few minutes, okay?”

  “Okay,” Batty said, and fell instantly asleep with her head on his shoulder.

  “Mrs. Tifton called me this afternoon,” said Mr. Penderwick.

  “Uh-oh,” said Skye.

  “She was rightly upset about Hound racing around her gardens and I apologized and assured her that it would never happen again. As it will not,” he said, looking under the table at Hound, who was finishing off a steak grilled just for him. “But that wasn't the difficult part of the conversation. Mrs. Tifton also let me know in strong language that I don't exercise enough control over you girls.”

  “Oh!” said Rosalind, offended.

  “What did you say?” asked Skye.

  “Satis eloquentiae, sapientiae parum.” His daughters looked at him with blank faces. “Yes, well, Mrs. Tifton doesn't know Latin any more than you girls do, thank heavens. It wasn't a particularly polite thing to say, especially as she may be right.”

  “Of course she's not right,” said Rosalind.

  “Look at what happened today,” he said. “Could I ever have forgiven myself if we'd lost Batty for good?”

  “But we didn't,” said Skye.

  “Mrs. Tifton doesn't know what she's talking about, Daddy,” said Jane. “You're a perfect father.”

  “Not perfect, Jane-o.” Mr. Penderwick shook his head. “There's more. Mrs. Tifton seems to believe that the Penderwicks are a bad influence over Jeffrey. According to her, when she told him to go back to Arundel Hall after the Hound incident, not only did he refuse, but he didn't come home for another hour.”

  “He was busy finding Batty!” said Skye.

  “I know that, and you all know that, but Mrs. Tifton's idea is that Jeffrey is suddenly rebellious and it's because of you girls.”

  “If Jeffrey is rebelling, which I don't admit for an instant, it's because of awful Dexter, not us,” said Skye.

  “And Dexter is—?”

  “Mrs. Tifton's boyfriend,” said Rosalind. “He is— not nice.”

  “Though not as un-nice as Mrs. Tifton,” said Jane.

  “Almost,” said Skye darkly. “It's a wonder even she can put up with him.”

  “People sometimes make unexpected choices when they're lonely,” said Mr. Penderwick.

  “Mrs. Tifton lonely!” Rosalind hadn't thought of that.

  “Good grief, don't start getting all sympathetic,” said Skye. “You can't feel sorry for someone who thinks that we—the Penderwicks!—are a bad influence on Jeffrey.”

  “We're not, are we, Daddy?” said Jane.

  “I see nothing in Jeffrey to make me think he's under any bad influence whatsoever, let alone yours. He's a great boy. And now that he's saved Batty's life—”

  “Twice!” said Jane.

  Skye frowned horribly at her to shut up, but luckily Hound chose that moment to toss his steak bone into his water bowl, and the resulting flood distracted Rosalind and Mr. Penderwick. When the mess was cleaned up, Mr. Penderwick started again.

  “As I was saying, in some cultures it's believed that when a person saves someone from death, he or she forever owns a part of that someone's soul. So Jeffrey is now linked to our family, whether he likes it or not.”

  “That's kind of romantic,” said Jane.

  “Romantic, shmomantic. What the heck would Jeffrey do with Batty's soul?” said Skye.

  Batty opened her eyes sleepily. “He could marry me,” she said.

  “Marry you!” Jane and Rosalind laughed while Skye fell off her chair and rolled around the floor like Hound when his back itched.

  “Nevertheless,” said Mr. Penderwick seriously. His daughters knew that tone. Everyone quieted down and Skye got back into her chair. “We must remember that we're guests here at Arundel. I know that Mrs. Tifton is not the warmest of women, and the one time I met her with Cagney, she tried to impress me with her knowledge of Campanula persicifolia—she pronounced it Campanula perspicolia—well, that's beside the point. What I'm trying to say is that whatever you think of Mrs. Tifton, you must still be on your best behavior in her home.”

  “You're right, Daddy,” said Rosalind. “We'll be perfect ladies.”

  “I won't,” said Skye. “I will, however, be gentlemanly.”

  “It's the same thing in the end,” said Jane.

  “It's not the same thing at all.”

  “Yes, it is—”

  “Enough. Tacete.” Mr. Penderwick stood up, Batty still in his arms. “Let's all put ourselves to bed. It's been a long day.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sir Barnaby Patterne

  THE THREE OLDER PENDERWICK SISTERS AGREED not to tell Jeffrey about owning Batty's soul and possible marriage. And Batty herself didn't discuss it with Jeffrey. On the other hand, Hound heard a great deal about the wedding and about how he would be dog of honor, but since Hound was good at keeping Batty's secrets, Jeffrey didn't have to be troubled with the information. The boy was under enough strain as it was.

  It wasn't just the looming threat of military school and Dexter as a stepfather, or the now obvious disdain Mrs. Tifton had for the Penderwick girls, or even Jeffrey's first golf lesson at the country club, which would have made him hate golf more if he hadn't already hated it with all his heart. It was also the Garden Club competition. Mrs. Tifton had discovered that the judge was going to be that distinguished English gardener, Sir Barnaby Patterne. Mrs. Tifton could not bear to fail in the eyes of a man with Sir in front of his name. No, never, never. And so her obsession with the visit became a frenzy She was even spotted once in shorts and sneakers, pulling up weeds and muttering to herself.

  It was not calming for Jeffrey and the Penderwicks. As much as they could, they stayed on the cottage side of the hedge, waiting impatiently—after all, the Penderwicks were leaving Arundel at the end of the week—until the Garden Club competition had come and gone. They shot lots of rubber-tipped arrows, they practiced soccer, they even played hide-and-seek when desperate, until finally the competition day itself arrived. Now all they had to do was stay away from the gardens for one more day, let Mrs. Tifton win her prize from Sir What's-his-name, and then all would be back to normal.

  “You're late. You we
re supposed to be here for breakfast,” said Skye to Jeffrey, who had just arrived. She and Jane were sitting on the cottage porch.

  “We saved you some.” Jane pointed to a plate of cold blueberry pancakes.

  “I had to wait until I could sneak this out of the house,” said Jeffrey, pulling a pamphlet out of his pocket and handing it to Skye.

  “Pencey Military Academy. Where Boys Become Men and Men Become Soldiers,” said Skye, reading from the pamphlet.

  “Look at that poor kid.” Jane pointed to a photograph of a young boy standing stiff as a ramrod in a tight blue military uniform.

  “And check out the list of courses on the back,” said Jeffrey. “There's no music except for the brass marching band. I'd die there. Go nuts and die.”

  “Darn that Dexter. Double darn that lousy rotten no-good creep,” said Skye.

  Rosalind and Batty came out onto the porch just in time to catch the end of Skye's outburst.

  “Talking about Dexter again?” said Rosalind.

  “Obviously,” said Jane.

  “Grrr,” said Skye.

  “I've been thinking. It's not that I mind going away to school, especially after Mother marries Dexter.” Jeffrey shuddered. “But why not send me where I'd be happy? I know a kid whose sister goes to boarding school in Boston just so she can take viola classes at the New England Conservatory of Music on Saturdays. I'd really like something like that.”

  “Jeffrey, you've simply got to talk to your mother about this,” said Rosalind.

  “How can I?” Jeffrey cried out. “She hasn't even told me about marrying Dexter yet.”

  “Grrr,” said Skye again.

  “Poor Jeffrey.” Batty put her little hand on his cheek. “Rosalind and I are going to hunt for dandelion leaves for Yaz and Carla, because rabbits love dandelion leaves, Cagney says. Come with us. It'll be fun.”

  “He can't,” said Skye. “We need him for soccer.”

  “Another time, Battycakes,” said Jeffrey.

  “Skye and Jane, make sure you stay on this side of the hedge for the next several hours,” said Rosalind. “Churchie called to remind us that the Garden Club people are arriving soon.”

  “You already told us that,” said Skye.

  “I'm telling you again. Daddy's keeping Hound inside with him at least until after lunch. We can't go into the gardens until we're sure those people are gone. Okay?” No one answered. Skye and Jane were studying the Pencey pamphlet, and Jeffrey was moodily devouring cold blueberry pancakes. Rosalind raised her voice. “SKYE! JANE! Make sure you stay away from Arundel Hall until the Garden Club competition is over! And don't forget about being ladies, or gentlemen, or whatever.”

  “We know, Rosalind,” said Jane.

  “Really we do,” said Jeffrey.

  “We've been good for days,” said Skye. “We wouldn't be stupid enough to mess it up now.”

  “Because Mrs. Tifton—” said Rosalind.

  “We'll be fine. Don't worry about it.”

  “Come on, Rosalind.” Batty tugged at her hand. “We promised Cagney.”

  And Rosalind let Batty pull her away.

  “Listen,” said Jane, her nose still in the pamphlet. “At Pencey, we build strong moral character through hard work, strict discipline, and rigorous physical activity.”

  “I can't stand any more of that.” Jeffrey snatched the pamphlet and threw it onto the porch. “Let's play soccer.”

  It was Skye's turn to pick the drill. She chose two-on-one slaughter, a combination of cross-country running, guerrilla warfare, and monkey-in-the-middle, perfect for rough terrain like the land around the cottage, with all its trees and long grasses. It was even better with two balls, which they now had, as Mr. Penderwick had repaired the one bitten by Hound. Jeffrey's ball had been christened Dexter days ago. Now Skye spat on the other one, officially naming it Pencey Military Academy, and kicked it into the air. Two-on-one slaughter had begun.

  Jeffrey was a wild man that day, attacking the balls with a fury the other two had not yet seen. He gained control of the Pencey ball every chance he got and slammed it into trees, over rocks, anything he could find, until the girls thought the ball would explode. Not that Skye was all that civilized. Her blood was boiling over Jeffrey's possible fate, and while she couldn't punish Dexter for his part in it, she certainly could punish the Dexter ball. But Jane was the worst of the three. The combination of worry about Jeffrey and two-on-one slaughter brought out her most aggressive side, so much so that she needed to become someone a lot tougher than herself, tougher even than Sabrina Starr, to get through it. That's where Mick Hart came in. Mick Hart, the oh-so-talented center from Manchester, England, dreamt up by Jane six months earlier after a terrible game in which she was pummeled by a fullback twice her size. When Jane was Mick, she felt no pain, she could maneuver around any fullback on the face of the earth, she was adored by fans and teammates alike, and she had a big mouth. The big mouth was Jane's favorite part.

  “FISH HEAD!” she shouted over and over. “KNAVE! CHURL!”

  For a while, Skye was working too hard to care about the insults. Tripped by a jutting tree root, she fumbled, ended up as the monkey without a ball, then had to struggle mightily to intercept either Dexter or Pencey as they whizzed by her again and again. But Jane and Jeffrey were both at the top of their game, and the balls eluded her, and her frustration grew.

  “What's the matter, Skye?” taunted Jeffrey, neatly kicking Dexter over her head to Jane.

  “Not a thing!” Skye spun around, just missing Pencey as it zipped past on its way to Jeffrey.

  “GOOSEBERRY LOUSE!” shouted Jane with great glee. “SILLY GIT!”

  Finally that was too much. Being called a fish head is one thing, but no one can stand being called a silly git by her younger sister, even when she doesn't know what a git is. Skye tossed away all the rules—not that there were that many rules—and faked a bad fall to the ground. Jane hesitated, sisterly love overcoming Mick Hart's ferocity for a split second, and Skye, laughing demonically, was suddenly on her feet and throwing herself at Pencey She walloped the ball toward Jeffrey.

  “Jane's the monkey!” she shouted triumphantly.

  Again they were off! Dashing, darting, weaving, panting, Skye and Jeffrey passed Dexter and Pencey back and forth between them. And again. And again. And again. Jane, shouting, whooping, threatening, made dive after dive, until finally, inspired, she made a stunning leap into the air and stopped Dexter with a textbook foot trap.

  Now Jeffrey was monkey He positioned himself between the two sisters, determined to get back into the game. But Jane and Skye were suddenly the perfect team. On and on they dribbled, through the trees, exchanging the two balls with precision passes, keeping them away from him. It was two-on-one slaughter at its best—even Jeffrey, in his fury, could see that. But he wasn't going to let it go on. He decided to ignore the balls that kept whizzing past his feet and charged straight at Skye.

  “SKYE! DANGER!” shouted Jane, lobbing Dexter high into the air.

  Skye saw Jeffrey coming at her and booted Pencey after Dexter.

  Up flew the two balls together, higher and higher and higher, while below them, the players charged forward. Then just when it seemed that the balls would keep going until they reached the sky, Pencey and Dexter paused, hovered—

  And began their slow, graceful descent over the top of the hedge and into the gardens.

  Did anyone think then about the Garden Club competition? Did anyone hesitate, vaguely remembering what they'd been told over and over—stay out of the gardens that day? No, no one thought or hesitated, not for an instant. Frantic and bloodthirsty savages, all three zoomed to the tunnel and piled through, with Jane yelling war cries for everyone. COME TO ME, PENCEY BALL! COME TO MICK! UP PENDERWICKS! DOWN DEXTER!

  And once through, when they still had a chance to save themselves, did anyone listen for the approaching murmur of voices? Did anyone notice the glimpses of color moving along behind the rose arbor?
Did anyone do anything sensible at all? Again, no. They had ears only for Jane's shouting and eyes only for the soccer balls landing—still in perfect synchronization—in front of the marble thunderbolt man, then bouncing and bouncing again, heading directly for the urn where Skye had hidden on her first day. An urn now full of glorious, lush, blooming pink jasmine.

  Toward the urn the three children raced in a dead heat, Jane still shouting. FOR CHURCHILL, NELSON, AND PRINCE WILLIAM! Faster they ran and faster, until finally, magnificently, all three players and both balls smashed into the urn at exactly the same moment, splattering jasmine and dirt in all directions, before collapsing to the ground in one glorious, ecstatic, and very dirty mess.

  “Now, that was a game of two-on-one slaughter,” breathed Jane with great satisfaction.

  “Amen,” said Jeffrey.

  Skye was the only one to sense the approaching danger. Maybe—she said this later—it was because she was the OAP, or maybe she at long last remembered the Garden Club, but for whatever reason, some instinct made her turn her head.

  High heels, that's what she saw. A pair of navy blue high heels and, a little higher up, a white pleated linen skirt with a bit of crushed pink jasmine clinging to the hem. And that wasn't all. Next to the high heels was a pair of man's leather loafers, much too classy—too European—for Dexter to wear. And still that wasn't all, for behind the high heels and loafers were yet more high heels. A whole platoon's worth of high heels. A whole army's worth.

  “Jeffrey.” Skye spoke softly but with great urgency.

  He was too busy poking Jane to pay attention. “What is a git, anyway?”

  “A git is a—”

  “Jeffrey” said Skye again, staring helplessly at the hordes of advancing shoes. “Jane.”

  “—thoroughly useless person. Isn't it a great word? I found it in Daddy's Oxford English Dictionary.” Jane put on Mick Hart's thick accent. “I say, that bloke Dexter is most definitely a—”