The Serial Garden: The Complete Armitage Family Stories

by Joan Aiken, Garth Nix

  Evidently Mrs. Epis counted as one of the family or else she had a guilty conscience. Mark and Harriet soon found that visitors to the house who had episodes in their past of which they had cause to be ashamed were apt to notice the Erinyes in a patchy, nervous way and hurry away with uneasy glances behind them, or else break into sudden and embarrassing confessions.

  And Ladon was a thorough nuisance. As long as Harriet kept on the fan heater in her room, he would lie in front of it rolling luxuriously on his back and only snapping at anyone who approached him. But at bedtime, when she turned the fan off—for she hated a warm room at night—he became fretful and roamed snarling and clanking about the house. Even Uncle Gavin tripped over him then and blamed the children furiously for leaving what he thought was a rolled-up tent lying in the passage.

  "Things can't go on like this,” Mark said despondently.

  "We've certainly got to get rid of them all somehow before Mother and Father come home next week,” Harriet agreed. “And Uncle Gavin's plainly going to be no help at all."

  Uncle Gavin was even more tetchy than usual. Christie's had sent him a letter saying that, in view of the apple's unique historical interest, it was virtually impossible to put a price on it, but in their opinion it was certainly worth well over a million pounds. They would return the apple by the next registered post pending further instructions. And the advertisement which appeared in The Times every day, “Will person who persuaded young boy to exchange valuable new bicycle for metal apple on August 20 please contact Box XXX,” was producing no replies.

  "Nor likely to,” said Mark. “That chap knows when he's well out of trouble."

  When Mark had finished his horn bow, he tried shooting at the Furies with it. The operation was a total failure. The arrows, which he had decided to make out of slivers from a fallow-deer's antler, were curved and flew on a bias, missing the visitors nine times out of ten. If they did hit, they merely passed clean through, and, as Mark told Harriet later, he felt a fool having to pick them up under the malign, snakey-and-bonneted gaze of Alecto, Megaera, and Tisiphone.

  Harriet, however, came home in good spirits. She pulled out and showed Mark a paper covered with Professor Grimalkin's atrocious handwriting.

  "What is it?” he asked.

  "Recipe for a friendship philter. You've heard of a love philter? This is like that, only milder. I'm going to try it in their milk. Now don't interrupt, while I make it up."

  She put her crucible on to bubble. Mark curled up at the end of her bed and read his bird book, coming out only when Harriet tripped over Ladon and dratted him, or asked Mark's opinion about the professor's handwriting.

  "Is this ‘verdigris’ or ‘verjuice,’ do you think? And is that ‘Add sugar’ or ‘Allow to simmer?’”

  "It'll be a miracle if the stuff turns out all right,” Mark said pessimistically. “Anyway, do we want the Furies friendly?"

  "Of course we do, it'll be a tremendous help. Where was I now? Add bad egg, and brown under grill."

  Finally the potion was finished and put in a cough-mixture bottle. ("It smells awful,” Mark said, sniffing. “Never mind,” Harriet said, “how do we know what they like?") A spoonful of the noxious stuff was divided between three bowls of milk, which were placed on the front step, at the feet of the unresponsive Erinyes.

  However, after a moment or two they began to snuff the air like bloodhounds on the track of a malefactor, and as Harriet tactfully retired, she had the pleasure of seeing the three of them lapping hungrily at the mixture. So far, at least, the spell had worked. Harriet went hopefully to bed.

  Next morning she was awakened by a handful of earth flung at her window. “Miss Harriet!” It was Agnes on the lawn. “Miss Harriet, you'll have to make the breakfast yourself. I'm taking a week's holiday and so's Mrs. Epis. And things had better be different when we come back or we'll give in our notice; and you can tell your ma it was me broke the Crown Derby teapot and I'm sorry about that, but there's some things that a body can't bear. Now I'm off home."

  Sleepy and mystified, Harriet went to the kitchen to put on the kettle for Great-uncle Gavin's tea. There, to her dismay, she found the Furies, who greeted her with toothy smiles. They were at ease in basket chairs round the stove, with their long skirts turned back so as to toast their skinny legs and feet, which rested on Ladon. Roused by the indoor warmth, the snakes on their heads were in a state of disagreeable squirm and writhe, which Harriet, too, found hard to bear, particularly before breakfast; she quite sympathized with the cook's departure.

  "Oh, good morning,” she said, however, stoutly controlling her qualms. “Would you like some more milk?” She mixed another brew with potion (which was graciously accepted) and took up a tray of breakfast to Great-uncle Gavin, explaining that Mrs. Epis had been called away. By the time she returned, Mark was in the kitchen, glumly taking stock of the situation.

  "Feel like a boiled egg?” Harriet said.

  "I'll do it, thanks. I've had enough of your domestic science."

  They ate their boiled eggs in the garden. But they had only taken a bite or two when they were startled by hysterical screams from the window cleaner, who, having arrived early and started to work on the kitchen window, had looked through the glass and was now on his knees in the flowerbed, confessing to anyone who would listen that he had pinched a diamond brooch from an upstairs bedroom in West Croydon. Before he was pacified, they had also to deal with the electrician who came to mend the fridge and seemed frightfully upset about something he had done to a person called Elsie, as well as a French onion seller, who dropped eight strings of onions in the back doorway and fled crying, “Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon crime est découvert! Je suis perdu!"

  "This won't do,” said Mark, as he returned from escorting the sobbing electrician to the gate. Exhaustedly mopping his brow, he didn't look where he was going, barked his shins painfully on Ladon, who was stalking the cat, and let out an oath. It went unheard; the Furies, much cheered by their breakfast and a night spent in the snug kitchen, were singing their bloodthirsty hymn fortissimo, with much clashing of tambourines. Ladon and the cat seemed all set for a duel to the death; and Great-uncle Gavin was bawling down the stairs for “less row while a man was breakfastin', dammit!"

  "It's all right,” Harriet soothed Mark. “I knew the potion would work wonders. Now, Your Kindlinesses,” she said to the Erinyes, “we've got a beautiful grotto ready for you, just the sort of place you like, except I'm sorry there isn't an ilex tree, if you wouldn't mind stepping this way,” and she led them to the coal cellar, which, being peaceful and dark, met with their entire approval.

  "I daresay they'll be glad of a nap,” she remarked, shutting the door thankfully on them. “After all, they've been unusually busy lately."

  "That's all very well,” said Mark. “They'd better not stay there long. I'm the one that fetches the coal. And there's still beastly Ladon to dispose of."

  Ladon, unlike his mistresses, was not tempted by milk containing a friendship potion. His nature remained as intractable as ever. He now had Walrus the cat treed on the banister post at the top of the stairs, and was coiled in a baleful bronze-and-green heap just below, hissing like a pressure cooker.

  "Perhaps bone arrows will work on him,” said Mark, and dashed to his bedroom.

  As he reappeared, a lot of things happened at once.

  The postman rang the front doorbell and handed Harriet a letter for Uncle Gavin and a registered parcel labeled GOLD WITH CARE. Ladon made a dart at the cat, who countered with a faster-than-light left hook, all claws extended. It caught the dragon in his gills, and he let out a screech like the whistle of a steam locomotive, which fetched the Furies from their grotto on the double, bass-studded batons out and snakes ready to strike.

  At the same moment Mark let fly with his bow and arrow, and Uncle Gavin burst from his bedroom exclaiming, “I will not have this bedlam while I'm digestin’ my breakfast!” He received the arrow intended for Ladon full in his slippere
d eel and gave a yell that quite drowned the noise made by the cat and the dragon.

  "Who did that? Who fired that damned thing?” Enraged, hopping, Uncle Gavin pulled out the bone dart. “What's that cat doin’ up there? Why's this confounded reptile in the house? Who are those people down there? What the devil's going on around here?"

  Harriet gave a shout of joy. “Look, quick!” she called to the Furies. “Look at his heel! It's bleeding!” (It was indeed.) “You said blood had to flow and now it has, so you've done your job and can leave with clean consciences! Quick, Mark, open the parcel and give that wretched dragon his apple and they can all leave. Poor Uncle Gavin, is your foot very painful? Mark didn't mean to hit you. I'll bandage it up."

  Mark tore the parcel open and tossed the golden apple to Ladon, who caught it with a snap of his jaws and was gone in a flash through the landing window. (It was shut, but no matter.) At the same moment the Furies, their lust for vengeance appeased by the sight of Uncle Gavin's gore, departed with more dignity by the front door.

  Alecto even turned and gave Harriet a ghastly smile. “Thank you for having us, child,” she said. “We enjoyed our visit."

  "Don't mention it,” Harriet mechanically replied, and only just stopped herself from adding, “Come again."

  Then she sat her great-uncle in the kitchen armchair and bathed his heel. The wound, luckily, proved to be no more than a scratch. While she bandaged it, he read his letter and suddenly gave a curious grunt of pleasure and astonishment.

  "God bless my soul! They want me back! Would you believe it?"

  "Who want you back, Great-uncle?” Harriet asked, tying the ends of the bandage in a knot.

  "The Mbutam-Mbutas, bless ‘em! They want me to go and help ‘em as Military and Economic Adviser. Well, well, well! Don't know when I've been so pleased.” He gave his nose a tremendous blow and wiped his eyes.

  "Oh, Uncle Gavin, how perfectly splendid!” Harriet hugged him. “When do they want you to go?"

  "Three weeks’ time. Bless my soul, I'll have a bustle getting me kit ready."

  "Oh, we'll all help like mad. I'll run down the road now and fetch Mrs. Epis; I'm sure she'll be glad to come back for such an emergency."

  Mrs. Epis had no objection at all, once she was assured the intruders were gone.

  Harriet had one startled moment when they got back to the house.

  "Uncle Gavin!” she called and ran upstairs. The old gentleman had out his tin tropical trunk and was inspecting a pith helmet. “Yes, m'dear, what is it?” he said absently.

  "The little brown bottle on the kitchen table. Was it—did you—?"

  "Oh, that? My cough mixture? Yes, I finished it and threw the bottle away. Why, though, bless my soul—there's my cough mixture! What the deuce have I been an’ taken, then, gel? Anything harmful?"

  "Oh no, perfectly harmless,” Harriet hastily reassured him. “Now, you give me anything you want mended and I'll be getting on with it."

  "'Pon me soul,” Uncle Gavin said, pulling out a bundle of spotless white ducks and a dress jacket with tremendous epaulets and fringes, “'pon me soul, I believe I'll miss you young ones when I'm back in the tropics. Come and visit me sometimes, m'dear? Young Mark, too. Where is the young rogue? Ho, ho, can't help laughing when I think how he hit me in the heel. Who'd have thought he had it in him?"

  "He's gone apple picking at the farm down the road,” Harriet explained. “He wants to earn enough to pay back that thirty-five pounds."

  "Good lad, good lad!” Uncle Gavin exclaimed approvingly. “Not that he need have bothered, mark you."

  And in fact when Mark tried to press the money on Uncle Gavin, he would have none of it.

  "No, no, bless your little hearts, split it between you.” He chucked Harriet under the chin and earnestly shook Mark's hand. “I'd never have thought I'd cotton to young ‘uns as I have to you two—'mazing thing. So you keep the money and buy something pretty to remind you of my visit."

  But Mark and Harriet thought they would remember his visit quite easily without that—especially as the Furies had taken quite a fancy to the coal cellar and frequently came back to occupy it on chilly winter nights.

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  The Serial Garden

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  * * * *

  Cold rice pudding for breakfast?” said Mark, looking at it with disfavor.

  "Don't be fussy,” said his mother. “You're the only one who's complaining.” This was unfair, for she and Mark were the only members of the family at table, Harriet having developed measles while staying with a school friend, while Mr. Armitage had somehow managed to lock himself in the larder. Mrs. Armitage never had anything but toast and marmalade for breakfast anyway.

  Mark went on scowling at the chilly-looking pudding. It had come straight out of the fridge, which was not in the larder.

  "If you don't like it,” said Mrs. Armitage, “unless you want Daddy to pass you cornflakes through the larder ventilator, flake by flake, you'd better run down to Miss Pride and get a small packet of cereal. She opens at eight; Hickmans doesn't open till nine. It's no use waiting until the blacksmith comes to let your father out; I'm sure he won't be here for hours yet."

  There came a gloomy banging from the direction of the larder, just to remind them that Mr. Armitage was alive and suffering in there.

  "You're all right,” shouted Mark heartlessly as he passed the larder door. “There's nothing to stop you having cornflakes. Oh, I forgot, the milk's in the fridge. Well, have cheese and pickles then. Or treacle tart."

  Even through the zinc grating on the door he could hear his father shudder at the thought of treacle tart and pickles for breakfast. Mr. Armitage's imprisonment was his own fault, though; he had sworn that he was going to find out where the mouse had got into the larder if it took him all night, watching and waiting. He had shut himself in, so that no member of the family should come bursting in and disturb his vigil. The larder door had a spring catch that sometimes jammed; it was bad luck that this turned out to be one of the times.

  Mark ran across the fields to Miss Pride's shop at Sticks Corner and asked if she had any cornflakes.

  "Oh, I don't think I have any left, dear,” Miss Pride said woefully. “I'll have a look ... I think I sold the last packet a week ago Tuesday."

  "What about the one in the window?"

  "That's a dummy, dear."

  Miss Pride's shop window was full of nasty, dingy old cardboard cartons with nothing inside them, and several empty display stands which had fallen down and never been propped up again. Inside the shop were a few, small, tired-looking tins and jars, which had a worn and scratched appearance as if mice had tried them and given up. Miss Pride herself was small and wan, with yellowish gray hair; she rooted rather hopelessly in a pile of empty boxes. Mark's mother never bought any groceries from Miss Pride's if she could help it, since the day when she had found a label inside the foil wrapping of a cream cheese saying, “This cheese should be eaten before May 11, 1899."

  "No cornflakes I'm afraid, dear."

  "Any wheat crispies? Puffed corn? Rice nuts?"

  "No, dear. Nothing left, only Brekkfast Brikks."

  "Never heard of them,” Mark said doubtfully.

  "Or I have a jar of Ovo here. You spread it on bread. That's nice for breakfast,” said Miss Pride, with a sudden burst of salesmanship. Mark thought the Ovo looked beastly, like yellow paint, so he took the packet of Brekkfast Brikks. At least it wasn't very big.... On the front of the box was a picture of a fat, repulsive, fair-haired boy, rather like the chubby Augustus, banging on his plate with his spoon.

  "They look like tiny doormats,” said Mrs. Armitage, as Mark shoveled some Brikks into the bowl.

  "They taste like them, too. Gosh,” said Mark, “I must hurry or I'll be late for school. There's rather a nice cut-out garden on the back of the packet though; don't throw it away when it's empty, Mother. Good-bye, Daddy,” he shouted through the larder door, “hope Mr. Ell
is comes soon to let you out.” And he dashed off to catch the school bus.

  At breakfast next morning Mark had a huge helping of Brekkfast Brikks and persuaded his father to try them.

  "They taste just like esparto grass,” said Mr. Armitage fretfully.

  "Yes, I know, but do take some more, Daddy. I want to cut out the model garden, it's so lovely."

  "Rather pleasant, I must say. It looks like an eighteenth-century German engraving,” his father agreed. “It certainly was a stroke of genius putting it on the packet. No one would ever buy these things to eat for pleasure. Pass me the sugar, please. And the cream. And the strawberries."

  It was the half-term holiday, so after breakfast Mark was able to take the empty packet away to the playroom and get on with the job of cutting out the stone walls, the row of little trees, the fountain, the yew arch, the two green lawns, and the tiny clumps of brilliant flowers. He knew better than to “stick tabs in slots and secure with paste,” as the directions suggested; he had made models from packets before and knew they always fell to pieces unless they were firmly bound together with sticky tape.

  It was a long, fiddling, pleasurable job.

  Nobody interrupted him. Mrs. Armitage only cleaned the playroom once every six months or so, when she made a ferocious descent on it and tidied up the tape recorders, roller skates, meteorological sets, and dismantled railway engines, and threw away countless old magazines, stringless tennis rackets, abandoned paintings, and unsuccessful models. There were always bitter complaints from Mark and Harriet; then they forgot and things piled up again till next time.

  As Mark worked, his eye was caught by a verse on the outside of the packet:

  "Brekkfast Brikks to start the day

  Make you fit in every way.

  Children bang their plates with glee