‘Particularly in the dark,’ said Judy.
Mrs Manx ignored her. ‘But all I asked was a tail. A modest, simple tail. And you insulted me. You insulted me!’ Her voice rose almost to a mew. She leant forward and shook her paw in Judy’s face. ‘Well, let me tell you,’ she cried, ‘I shall have my tail. I shall buy it Somewhere Else. There is Another Place. And that is where I am going now!’
And before Judy could say another word she leapt over the tree trunk, whisked through the bush of may, and vanished in the undergrowth.
*
When Mrs Manx had gone, Judy began to shut up the shop, for it was nearly closing time, and she felt tired and depressed at the bad way in which everything was going.
She was just drawing the last branch over the counter when she heard a strange squeaky noise just behind her and a voice saying:
‘Excuse me!’
Judy started, and looked around her. Wherever did that funny little squeak come from?
‘Excuse me!’ There it was again. Like the scratchy sound that a pencil makes on a slate.
Suddenly she saw who it was. It was a very tiny, very old, very shabby tortoise, who was standing at the foot of the counter, blinking up at her with weak, bleary eyes.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Judy. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’
‘Yes, there is.’
Judy hesitated. ‘Well, we were just closing …’ she began.
‘Never mind. You can open again.’
Judy smiled. ‘Very well. What is it you wanted?’
Slowly the tortoise ambled towards her, then it stayed at her feet, still looking at her through its bleary eyes.
‘I wondered if you could do anything about my shell,’ he said.
Judy knelt down to examine the tortoise’s back.
‘Oh, it is in rather a bad way, isn’t it?’ she exclaimed.
And indeed it was. There were several holes in it, and it was wearing thin.
‘You’ve said it,’ said the tortoise.
‘Some of it seems to be … well …’ Judy hesitated for the right word; she did not want to hurt the tortoise’s feelings … ‘well, sort of missing.’
‘Sort of missing?’ The tortoise gave a croaking laugh. ‘I should say it was. It’s just an old patchwork. Hardly any of it’s really me. And what’s more, it leaks.’
‘Oh dear! Won’t you catch cold?’
‘Of course I shall catch cold. I’m always catching cold. That’s the worst of being your own house.’
‘I suppose it is,’ said Judy.
‘Nobody ever sees a tortoise’s point of view,’ he went on. ‘Supposing you were your own house? Supposing your back was your roof, and your chimneys grew out of your head and your spine was in the attic? Supposing that when you were ill you had to call in the plumber to mend your pipes? And supposing, when you wanted to lock up at night you had to lock yourself up, and draw in your head through your own front door? Like this!’
And suddenly Mr Tortoise drew in his head, and all that Judy could see was a shell, lying at her feet like a sort of little tank. It looked so funny that she could not help smiling.
‘It’s no laughing matter,’ squeaked the tortoise, darting his little head out again. ‘It’s a tragedy. Sometimes I wonder what I really am – a house or a person. In fact, if I ever had to put an advertisement in the papers, asking for a wife, I don’t know how I should word it. What do you think? Should it be “Distinguished tortoise (male) wishes to meet distinguished tortoise (female)?” Or should it just be “Desirable Residence to Let”?’
‘I don’t think I should bother about advertising,’ said Judy, who could not see the solution of this strange problem. ‘I’m sure you will meet her some day.’
‘Maybe I shall,’ sighed the tortoise. ‘In the meantime, I’m not a desirable residence.’
‘I’m afraid you are a little dilapidated,’ agreed Judy.
‘It’s the roof that’s the trouble,’ he went on. ‘If I had a proper roof I could go to sleep all the winter. But you can’t sleep if the rain’s trickling through your roof. That’s why I came to you. I want you to mend my roof.’
Judy thought for a moment. She wanted to help the tortoise but it would not be easy. It would be a long job, and the materials would all have to be specially ordered.
‘Tortoiseshell is very expensive,’ she began …
‘Oh, I’m not particular about what the roof’s made of,’ said the tortoise, ‘as long as it keeps out the rain. Any old thing will do. Bits of silver paper. Sealing-wax. Anything.’
‘But wouldn’t that look rather odd?’
‘I can’t help it if it does. Beggars can’t be choosers. I haven’t a cent in the world.’
‘Oh dear!’ Judy was taken aback. She had not expected to make much money out of the tortoise, but she was so poor that she did not see how she could undertake such a big job for nothing, however anxious she was to help.
‘Does that make a difference?’ asked the tortoise. ‘Having no money?’
‘Well, it does rather,’ admitted Judy. ‘You see, this is a shop.’
‘And a shop has no soul.’ The tortoise sounded suddenly bitter.
‘Please don’t say that,’ protested Judy. ‘A shop has a soul. At least, I like to think that this one has.’
She looked up into the great branches, twisted and tangled against the sky, with their thousands of leaves shimmering in the dying sunlight, and all the lights and shadows and patterns that they made … and she felt that she had spoken the truth. And the Tree, as it had so often done before, seemed to give her a message. It seemed to say: ‘Be kind to this little creature … be kind, be kind!’ Not that Judy really needed to be told, for it was as natural to her to be kind as to sing or to smile.
So she bent down, gave the tortoise a stroke on the back, and said, ‘Follow me.’
The tortoise followed her, walking so slowly that Judy had to sit down after every few paces to wait for him to catch up. (She did not like to lift him for fear that he should be offended.) And then she began to work on his roof.
She found an old hair-brush with a tortoiseshell back and cut it into strips. There was not enough of this, however, so she cut off part of the lid of a biscuit tin, and painted it brown and stripped it into small squares. Then she measured the tortoise’s back, and shaped the pieces of shell and tin so that they fitted beautifully; and after that she drilled a lot of little holes and fastened it all on with strong brown string.
‘It’s not a bad fit,’ said Mr Tortoise, when it was all on. ‘Not at all bad. What do I look like? A tortoise or a salvage dump?’
Judy laughed out loud.
‘I like to see you laughing,’ observed Mr Tortoise with a twinkle in his eye, which was surprisingly bright for his age. ‘Why aren’t you always laughing?’
‘Well,’ said Judy … And her face became grave again. ‘I have not very much to laugh about just now.’
‘Come, come! That’s not the way for a pretty little girl to speak.’ He shook his head at her. ‘Look here! I can’t pay you for this job. Not with money.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Judy.
‘Oh, but it does matter. I don’t like being in debt. But though I can’t pay you in money, I can pay you in something else.’
He fumbled for a moment and then produced a small round object which he held out to her.
Judy took it and looked at it curiously. ‘It looks just like a bean,’ she said.
‘It is a bean,’ replied the tortoise. ‘But not an ordinary one. It’s a magic bean.’
‘Really?’ Judy was not very impressed. ‘What does it do?’
‘If you rub it, it makes you laugh.’
Judy was so surprised by this strange news that she began to laugh again.
‘There you are, you see!’ exclaimed the tortoise. ‘What did I tell you? You’re laughing.’
‘But I didn’t rub the bean,’ said Judy, ‘I only held it.’
&
nbsp; ‘Yes, you did. I saw you.’ (And indeed she had been rubbing it, without knowing.)
‘Well anyway, I’m not rubbing it now. And I’m not laughing.’
‘No, but you look much happier.’
‘Do I?’ Judy smiled and gave him a pat. ‘Thank you. That’s your doing.’
‘Thank you,’ replied the tortoise. ‘Now I must be off.’ And with a farewell wave he turned and went away.
When he had gone Judy stared at the bean, turning it over in her hand. What a strange idea! She gave it a rub, just to see, and sure enough, she began to laugh again. But then – she told herself – that wasn’t because of the bean itself – it was just because the whole idea was so funny. Judy was a modern little girl, and she was never quite sure how much she really believed in magic.
So she put the bean in her pocket and forgot all about it.
However, she laughed again several times before she went to bed that night. She felt strangely happy, as though she had found a friend. Which indeed she had … a very great friend indeed.
But we cannot tell you why, not just yet.
Chapter Ten
THE WICKEDNESS OF MISS SMITH
IF JUDY HAD known of all the wicked plots that Sam was preparing at The Shop in the Ford, she would not have felt at all like laughing.
For Sam had made up his mind to ruin her. Although he was doing very big business – particularly since he had made poor Bruno his ‘partner’ – he was still unsatisfied. He was not content with a fair share; he wanted All.
The problem was – how to get it?
‘I’ve been thinking things over,’ he said to Old Sam, ‘and we want some new blood in this place.’
‘We’ve got Bruno,’ replied Old Sam. ‘Ain’t he new blood?’
‘He ain’t blood at all.’ Sam spat contemptuously in Bruno’s direction. ‘He’s fur and water, that’s what he is. We want somebody with pep.’
‘Human or animal?’ inquired Old Sam.
‘A bit of both, I guess.’ He scratched his head. ‘Say, that’s an idea … a bit of both. What about a witch?’
‘Witches run expensive, these days,’ grumbled Old Sam.
‘Well, we can afford it. We made a nice turnover on that honey I borrowed.’ (By ‘borrowing’ Sam meant that he had raided the hives of the bees, in just the same way that he had raided the nests of the ants.)
‘Besides,’ he went on, with growing enthusiasm, ‘if we get a witch she’ll be able to tell us how to deal with those two she-cats in the Willow Tree. “Set a witch to catch a witch” – that’s my motto.’
‘She’ll be terrible expensive,’ repeated Old Sam. ‘And she’ll probably want to sleep in the cave and turn me out. And the nights’ll be getting nippy soon.’
‘And I hope they freeze that old goat’s beard of yours,’ snapped Sam. ‘If I say it’s going to be witches, it’s going to be witches, see?’
‘That’s easy said, but how’ll you get her?’
‘Advertise, of course.’
‘But there ain’t no newspapers in these parts.’
‘Not in the wood, there ain’t, but there’s newspapers outside, ain’t there? I’ll take the day off.’
So Sam took the day off. And when he got outside he went to the nearest Wicked Newspaper Shop. Of course only a very bad boy would have been able to find it, for the Wicked Newspaper Shops are always hidden away in dark alleys and crooked side streets. A red candle splutters in the window, the blinds are half drawn, and a raven sits on the doorstep, uttering gloomy squawks. If you ever get lost, and pass such a shop, never, never, go inside. It is full of the most dreadful books and pictures which will make you wish you had never been born.
However, all these things were nothing to Sam, and as soon as he had found the shop he went inside, aiming a careless kick at the raven, who flapped away to the nearest chimney, spitting curses at him.
‘What’s the best paper to advertise for a witch?’ he demanded, throwing down a silver coin.
The old hag behind the counter stretched out her hand to grab the coin, but Sam was too quick for her and snatched it back.
‘Business first,’ he chuckled, ‘that’s my motto. Come on. Out with it.’
‘Well, there’s The Weekly Cauldron,’ wheezed the hag.
‘Too highbrow. The last time I saw a copy the leading article was all about Vested Interests in Broomsticks. And most of the letters were from refugee witches complaining about conditions in this country. They ought to be darned glad that we let ’em come in at all.’
‘That’s true,’ agreed the hag, nodding her withered head. She looked through a pile of magazines. ‘What about the Hag’s Home Journal? That’s very well spoken of.’
‘Too respectable,’ growled Sam. ‘Full of articles on how to make salads out of toadstools.’
‘Well, then, that only leaves The Witch’s Evening Wail.’
‘That’s the one,’ exclaimed Sam. ‘Nice and spicy.’
‘Now, what shall I put in?’ asked the hag.
‘Say, “Witch wanted for Country Shop. Must hate animals, old women and children. Extra wages if prepared to be thoroughly disagreeable.”’
‘That’s a nice advertisement,’ agreed the old woman. ‘They’re always more willing to take a job where they feel they’ll have a chance of expressing themselves.’
Sam threw her the coin, and gave her his name and address. While she was copying down the advertisement he turned over some of the magazines. What a wonderful, fascinating world they revealed! There was a murder on nearly every page. And there were stories of blackmail and theft and treachery, beautifully illustrated with pictures of the criminals and their victims. They made him long to live again in the Human world, which was so far better, so far more advanced than the silly wood, with its lonely dells, its foolish animals and its senseless birds … creatures who had never even heard of blackmail and would not know how to forge a cheque if you gave them one!
He felt quite homesick, and bitterly regretted having to return. Never mind; he’d take it out of those darned animals yet. And when he’d made his fortune he’d shut up the shop and leave the wood for ever. And then he’d be able to come to the Wicked Newspaper Shop every day of his life.
*
The witch arrived a few days later, but not at all in the way that Sam expected.
Evening was falling, and he was sitting at his desk playing patience. He was in a worse mood than ever; trade had been very bad all day; he had toothache; and now, as the last straw, the patience would not come out.
He was so annoyed that he began to cheat.
He was such a wicked boy that when he could not find anybody else to cheat he cheated himself. He took a black queen out of the pack and put it down where a red queen had been before. Now the patience was bound to come out.
He was just about to move a card when he paused and blinked. The black queen had turned red again! What on earth had happened? Surely he had put down the right card? He bent over to see if he was being fooled by some trick of the light. No – the queen was red as red. He supposed he must have made a mistake, though he could not understand how or why.
‘It’s this darned toothache,’ he muttered to himself. And once again he removed the red queen, searched the pack for a black one, and placed it firmly down on the table.
‘Now!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now I’ll be able to get on with it.’
He lifted his hand to play. But suddenly a gurgle of fear came from his lips and his hands remained poised in midair.
The black queen had turned bright green!
He stretched out his hand to touch the card and then drew it back hastily. Better not; it might give him a nasty shock: it might be red-hot; it might even be poisoned. If there was any touching to be done, Old Sam was the person to do it. He decided to go and fetch him.
He rose to his feet. And, as he did so, he got a sharp crack on the head.
‘In the name of all that’s holy, who’s that?’ he cried.
/> ‘Not in the name of all that’s holy, Mr Sam … in the name of all that’s wicked, if you please!’
It was a very sweet voice, and it came from directly behind.
He turned and he saw a very pretty young lady, dressed in a pink gown, with a pale blue feather in her hat.
It was Miss Smith, the witch.
*
Miss Smith held out a visiting card.
‘Was it you playing those tricks?’ demanded Sam.
‘Certainly,’ she replied. ‘Allow me to present myself.’
Still growling and rubbing his head, Sam took the card and examined it. This is what he read:
MISS SMITH
M.A., W.I.T.C.H., E.T.C.
Member of the Union of Hags
and Sorceresses
Haunting a Speciality
‘This you?’ asked Sam.
Miss Smith bowed.
‘Sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
Sam gave her a good look-over. She really was very pretty indeed. She had blue eyes and fair hair and her nose was slightly tilted.
‘You don’t look like a witch,’ he grunted. ‘Still, if you’re sure, I suppose it’s OK. In fact, it’s quite a pleasant surprise. How old are you?’
‘To be frank,’ replied Miss Smith, ‘I’m three hundred and eighty-three.’
‘Holy Smoke!’ gasped Sam.
‘That is to say, I shall be three hundred and eighty-three tomorrow. It’s my birthday tomorrow.’
‘You don’t get any present from me,’ snapped Sam.
‘I didn’t come here for presents,’ retorted Miss Smith, rather shortly. ‘I came here on business.’
‘Well, you can start right now,’ he replied. ‘I’ve got toothache. Get busy and do something about it.’
‘Really,’ she said, ‘that’s hardly my line. I came here to give people toothache, not to cure them of it.’
‘If you can’t cure this one you can hop it, right away.’
The Tree that Sat Down Page 8