The Fourth Pig

by Warner, Marina, Mitchison, Naomi

  “But—” said Minnie. Only just then the old witch turned her head and as she did so Sasha Sable flattened out, and his eyes were only beads and his paws went limp and dangled, and he was just the collar of the fur coat. The witch smiled at Minnie, but Minnie ducked her head over the parcel; she couldn’t smile back. She was thinking of the fairy tales her Dad used to tell her on lucky nights, and what the witches in the fairy tales used to do to children. She remembered knives and cauldrons and fires waiting, and how the children in the stories were fattened up to be eaten, and she wished she’d thought of that before starting to eat the chocolates, and she felt a bit sick.

  Now the Rolls-Royce was sliding along a wide road, with big houses on each side, set far apart from one another in gardens, and by and bye they turned into a drive and the headlights of the car lighted up thick, spiky looking, dangerous bushes which parted in front of them, and they came to the stone steps and the wide front door of the witch’s house. It was quite dark by now, but the headlights of the Rolls-Royce shining along the house showed Minnie that it was built of solid gold and silver, only both beautiful metals had been tarnished and dirtied over by the smoke of the Midlands, and ivy had been trained up the golden pillars to make them look more respectable. A butler in a black coat opened the great front door and the old witch walked in; and behind her came Billy and Minnie, hand in hand. Minnie hadn’t yet had time to explain to Billy what Sasha Sable had told her, and he wanted to go in; he thought there would be more trains and chocolates and meccano sets. Inside, the gold and silver house was papered with pound notes and ten shilling notes, and the drawing-room with crossed cheques for a thousand pounds apiece. The kitchen and pantry were papered in stripes with sheets of stamps, and the passages with postal orders; the lamp-shades were made of Bank of England five-pound notes, and the thick rustling carpets of dollars and francs and marks and lire and pesetas and yen and I don’t know what-all else. All that was the magic the old witch used when she wanted to bewitch people and kill them or enslave them or turn them into lizards and spiders and toads.

  Suddenly Billy said: “I want to go home. Oo, I do want to go home to Dad and Mum!” But the old witch said: “Not to-night, my dear, too late for little boys to go out now. To-morrow perhaps.” And Minnie pinched him to stop him answering back, for she was afraid that if he did they would both get snapped up at once. Then the butler in the black coat took them into a room where they found a lovely supper of cake and milk and fruit, and Billy began to gobble it up, but Minnie didn’t want to. They tried to talk to the butler, but it was no good; the witch had made him dumb with her enchantments.

  At last he went away and then Minnie whispered to Billy just what Sasha Sable had told her. “Oh Min, whatever shall we do?” said Billy, and he began to cry, but Minnie had more sense than that. So when he stopped crying, they peeped out of the room and went creeping about the house, trying to find a way out. But all the doors and windows were fastened up by great heavy golden bars, that they couldn’t begin to lift, and once or twice when they looked quietly round a corner, there’d be someone standing with his back to them at the end of a corridor, and he’d have that nasty green light round his head and shoulders, the same as the chauffeur had.

  Once they came into the room where the old witch was sitting, playing Patience beside a nice warm fire. But when they looked, they saw that it wasn’t good Derby brights on the fire, but a heap of blackened bones that the pretty flames were dancing about among. And they saw it wasn’t a pussy-cat on the hearth-rug, but a small tiger that was watching them. And they saw she wasn’t playing Patience with ordinary cards, because the clubs were fac-tories and rows of little houses, and the spades were acres of land, and the diamonds were stocks and shares, and the hearts were people’s lives, so whenever she discarded a heart it bled a little, and the blood dripped off the table, down its jade and ivory legs, and the cat that was really a tiger, only worse, lapped up the blood. And the witch looked up from her Patience and patted their heads, and seemed very satisfied, and then she told them to run along to bed.

  So the dumb butler in the black coat took them to another beautiful room where there were two little beds with knobs of rubies and emeralds, and two little suits of pyjamas with a £ sign embroidered on the pocket. Neither of them had ever had a bed like that; it reminded Minnie of the week she’d been in hospital with her bad leg, only it was even grander, and the sheets whiter, and the blankets softer. So they got into the pyjamas, which were like what they’d seen in shop windows, and danced about in them a bit, only the embroidery on the pocket seemed to burn rather and gave them a pain over the heart. So they got into bed, but they were afraid to talk to one another, because they thought that the emerald and ruby knobs might be listening.

  The next thing that happened was that they heard steps outside and in came the old witch to tuck them up and say good-night. She kissed Billy who was just lying staring at her, but Minnie was pretending to be asleep and had burrowed her face down under the blanket, so the witch couldn’t get at her. When she went out, she put out all the lights, except for a little lamp that was made to look like a lighthouse, and on the very top of it was an old-fashioned golden sovereign, like I remember when I was a kid myself years and years ago, but you don’t. And the horrid thing was that every now and then a pretty pale moth would come fluttering up and bang against the light, and burn its wings. Not that moths don’t do that anywhere where there’s a light, let alone in witches’ houses, but somehow there were more moths in that room than there’d any right to be in a city like Birmingham. And hearing the moth’s wings sizzle and the soft plopping down of their silly little bodies as they fell and died, was more than Minnie could stand. She’d been wondering hard how to do in the witch, remembering the way the children in the fairy tales used to manage it, tipping her up into her own oven and turning her into gingerbread—only there didn’t seem to be any oven here and she didn’t know what else would do. So now, what with lying awake, and watching the nasty little lighthouse lamp and the glitter on the ruby and emerald knobs, and hearing the sizzle and drop of the burnt moths, one after the other, she began to call in a whisper for Sasha Sable to come and help her. But as to Billy, after the witch had kissed him he went to sleep and began to dream about more and better trains and model aeroplanes and parlour-games and baby cinema sets and small-scale jazz bands and all the other things that the witch had put into his head with her enchantments.

  So now it was only Minnie Mouse who lay awake, biting her fingers and whispering for Sasha Sable and feeling the £ mark on her pyjama pocket burning and biting her. She was, as you might say, all alone, for that snoring little Billy wasn’t any comfort. And first it struck the half hour and then it struck the hour, and then there came a pattering and rustling of little furry feet, and all of a sudden the lighthouse went out and the ruby and emerald knobs stopped glittering, and Minnie knew that Sasha Sable had come alive again.

  “Minnie Mouse, Minnie Mouse!” said the little dusky beast, “did you let her kiss you?”

  “No!” said Minnie. “Oh, where are you?” And she reached out in the dark till her fingers fell on and fondled his soft warm fur.

  “Then you can get away,” said Sasha Sable. “You’ve only got to follow me and I’ll show you the back door that they always forget to bolt.”

  Minnie jumped out of bed; she was beginning to be able to see in the dark. She pulled off the pyjamas and got back as quick as she could into her old patched vest and her serge knickers and frock, and her socks that were more holes and darns than anything else, and her old black shoes that had come from the Church Jumble, the same as her mother’s coat and about as bad a fit—but she didn’t mind that now. Then she began to shake her brother. “Billy!” she said, “Wake up, can’t you! Oh Billy, wake up!”

  But it was no good. Billy slept like a log, and when she bent right over close to him she could see he was smiling in a silly sort of way. Sasha Sable jumped onto the bed. “There’s only one
thing to be done,” he said, “or else we’ll never wake him.” And he bit Billy’s finger with his sharp white teeth and then stuffed his tail into Billy’s mouth to stop him making a noise crying. But that woke Billy up all right, though at first he didn’t like being woke, for he’d been in the middle of dreaming that he’d got a bicycle and was riding it up and down an enormous shop full of toys and games, choosing things as he went along. Still, after he’d rubbed his eyes for a minute or two he began to see sense, and Minnie pulled off his pyjama jacket and helped him into his things. “Come along,” said Sasha Sable.

  Minnie was just coming when she stumbled over her parcel. “Oh!” she said, “can I take my work-basket?”

  Sasha Sable made a grumbling noise between his teeth. At last he said: “Very well. But mind, you can’t take the chocolates, Minnie Mouse, and that silly brother of yours can’t take his parcel; it’s too big.” And he looked round over his shoulder and said: “If you whine, Billy, I’ll bite you again. So there.”

  Then Minnie opened the door of the room and they all three went out. Sasha Sable trotted in front of them down the passage, which was still lighted up, though there was no one about. Seeing him like that, so small and pretty and unafraid, made Minnie stop being frightened too. She bent down and whispered to him: “Can’t Billy and me kill the old witch? The kids in the fairy tales always do.”

  “Not yet,” said Sasha Sable, cocking up his muzzle and bright eyes at her. “Next time, perhaps. If you’re a good girl and remember all about it and never let the witch get at you again.” And then he added: “You might as well take one of those lamp-shades away with you. Your Dad and Mum’ll thank you, and perhaps it’ll help you to remember.”

  So Minnie and Billy stripped off the Bank of England notes that made the lamp-shade and put them into their pockets, and then they followed Sasha Sable down some steps and round a corner and so to a little door that seemed to be made of ordinary wood instead of gold or silver. They opened it quite easily. “Good-bye, Sasha Sable,” said Minnie, and held out her arms.

  He jumped into them and nestled all soft against her neck and chin for a minute. “Good-bye, Minnie Mouse,” he said, “I must go back or she’ll miss me from the collar of her grand coat. But remember , when the time comes, if you want help in the witch’s house, there’ll always be me—or someone else.” And then he jumped down and scuttled off into the house, and they shut the door carefully after him.

  They ran down the path and through the shrubbery; the spiky nasty evergreens tried to catch at them, but all they did was to tear a hole in Billy’s coat, and then they were out in the road and standing under an ordinary street-lamp, and very sleepy. Billy’s finger was still bleeding where Sasha Sable had bitten him, and neither of them had a hanky to tie it up, but he sucked it and said he was all right, and was a bit nice to Minnie, because now she was tired and crying a little and saying she’d never get home.

  Still, they did get home all right, and not more than an hour later, for when they got down onto the main road again, what should they do but get a lift from a lorry that was going their way. Whether Sasha Sable had anything to do with that, I don’t know. Most likely he hadn’t; a lorry driver’ll always give you a lift if you ask him nicely and he isn’t being speeded up so that he daren’t stop—and his boss isn’t looking. When he put them down they’d only a quarter of an hour’s walk home, but all the same Mr. and Mrs. Jones were in an awful state when they got back. They’d been round to the police and the hospital and everything and both of them burst out crying and hugging them, especially Mrs. Jones, she felt that bad about having turned them out earlier on. She was as pleased as pie when Minnie gave her the work-basket, and then the kids remembered about the lamp-shade and turned out their pockets, and sure enough, there were the Bank-notes, fivers and tenners, so that Mr. and Mrs. Jones couldn’t hardly believe their eyes.

  Then Billy and Minnie tried to explain all about their adventures, but no one believed them, no more than you do, I’ll be bound. But all the same the Bank-notes were good enough. Only Mr. Jones, being a sensible man and not wanting it to get round to the P.A.C. man, took them over to his cousin who was an upholsterer in Walsall and he changed them for him, only taking a shilling in the pound which wasn’t too bad. And Mrs. Jones paid up all her bills, and they both began to hold up their heads again with the neighbours, and altogether things took a turn for the better, as you might say. It ended with Mr. Jones moving over to Walsall and getting a job in the upholstery line with his cousin. Only he missed the allotment.

  But how Billy and Minnie grew up, and how later on they went back to the witch’s house, and how they and their friends killed the old witch—for she was still going strong—and made things so that she could never come back again to Birmingham or anywhere else, that’s another story and I haven’t time to tell it you to-day.

  BIRMINGHAM AND THE ALLIES

  The Chinese fairies go by with a wavering graciousness

  Curtseying to those who pass the State examinations.

  Behind them the hoho birds droop from the classic rockeries,

  Filling the proud minds of the wild poets with bursts of plumes,

  Mozart liked wild strawberries with white wine in withy arbours,

  Handel liked sprigged muslin with high heels. There exist also

  Certain occurrences in the present, certain dispositions and persons:

  Things common and well known and not difficult,

  The boys listening to the music, the rain drops on the wind-screen,

  New bread at evening, the Pole Star over Stirchley,

  Tom Baxter, Walter Priest, Claud Ames and Harold Nash,

  Sid Hines, Len Edwards, Ted Simmons, Leon Thompson, May Cooke.

  The Chinese fairies respect learning, but have compassion on ignorance;

  The minds of the fierce poets are set on a fresh mood;

  European democracy in sprigged muslin is taking tea with Handel;

  The boys are looking at the Pole Star, the tension is broken by the rain.

  But there exists also Power,

  And flags and cruelty and an increasing profit on evil,

  The men with the large cheque-books and their laughing and ignorant women.

  Handel and Mozart did not write music suitable for cheque-books,

  Suitable for leaders in lime-light, suitable for stirring the passions

  Of hate and cruelty.

  They are no good to the men with the money. Nor are

  Learning and compassion and poetry or the remote Pole Star. Nor yet

  Democracy.·

  Nor yet Tom Baxter, Sid Hines, May and Alf Cooke, Claud Ames,

  Harold, Ted, Len, Ethel, Jo and Jack.

  You have been defeated once, and the next time

  Less will be left you. And the hoho birds have been snared

  To make hat plumage for the rich and ignorant women.

  Between one nightmare and the next nightmare

  We tum in our sleep, make certain dispositions:

  It would be well to have definite contacts, there or here,

  It would be well to consult the allies, to discuss tactics,

  Before darkness falls again and the driving of the blind nightmares.

  It is even possible that we might wake and find

  We had made ourselves a day.

  Breaking the nightmare with a great effort we may yet discover

  The learned and compassionate fairies going by at daybreak,

  We with the boys hearing the music, eating the new bread,

  The dawn rain-fresh over Stirchley, and our friends with us waking.

  We may discover we have been wise and wary,

  Twisting defeat

  Into a net for the men who snared the fairies.

  We may have snared ourselves power.

  And in the snaring changed it.

  (King’s Norton—Abbotsholme. Nov. 1935.)

  SORIA MORIA CASTLE

  (for G.D.H.C.)
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  About sunset, a castle had been constructed upon the sands; I had, in fact, a good deal to do with it myself. Shortly afterwards I had passed over the cardboard drawbridge and under the silver-paper portcullis, nor was it until the feathery and tinkling clang of the latter, falling into place with the utmost finality behind me, had aroused my hitherto bemused senses, that I began to ask myself whether, after all, I had been wise in the decision which it seemed certain I had but lately come to. It was by then, however, too late, and on the first bend of that sharp upward zigzag, cut, as I well remembered, with the larger blade of an old penknife, that I encountered the witch, with her skirts spread round her and her head bent over a half-knitted stocking of that curious dark murrey colour, as far removed from true purple as it is from clear red, which is the preferred underwear tint of all Unlikely Persons. She begged me to excuse her until she had finished the row of knitting, which, indeed, I was glad enough to do, since it gave me an excuse for considering my position, not of course that such consideration had any practical value at this juncture of affairs.

  She then conducted me up the various flights of the zigzag, talking in such a manner that I could never be certain whether it would be more tactful of me to join in or not to appear to be listening. There would certainly have been a fine view from the upper flights of the zigzag, had the refocussing of my vision, consequent upon the alteration of my scale of material standards, allowed of it; I must confess, also, that it became increasingly unpleasant to consider how much nearer, with each flight of the zigzag, we were approaching the mouth of the square entrance of the castle. The witch appeared to have guessed what I had in mind, for she turned to me and said in a most aggrieved voice: “If you hadn’t decided to come to Soria Moria castle, you didn’t need to have gone and built it!”

  “But,” I said, “there were reasons against the Castle East of the Sun.” And I remembered for a moment with extreme distinctness the committee meeting in which we had all so tediously, and as I thought at the time, so needlessly, discussed the necessity for realism.