Carbonel and Calidor

by Barbara Sleigh

  ‘To the Sale?’ said Uncle Zack.

  ‘To the Sale, of course,’ said Miss Dibdin, hurriedly, as she dusted down her skirt. ‘Antiques ... so interesting! I only hope this dreadful weather will not keep your customers away.’ The rain was beating steadily on the window.

  ‘I’m afraid it is only too likely,’ said Uncle Zack ruefully. ‘There are only a few people here so far. But let me show you round, madam, while these two graceless children go down to the kitchen and get something to eat!’

  ‘And face the music,’ said Mr Sprules. ‘I don’t think Mrs Bodkin is very pleased with you! Good luck!’

  He was right. With the help of her married cousin, she was setting out cups and saucers on a number of trays on the kitchen table. When she saw John and Rosemary, she paused in her work for a moment, and rolled her eyes. She said nothing, but they recognized the cloud of crossness that Uncle Zack had described, in which she seemed to wrap herself. It was her married cousin who did the scolding. As they could not explain why they were so late, all they could do was to say they were very sorry, and put up with the reproaches. It was Mrs Bodkin who came to their rescue in the end.

  ‘Oh, give over, Daisy, do,’ she said. ‘At least they’re back now and no harm done. There’s some cold meat and salad on a couple of plates in the larder. You’d better go and eat it, somewhere out of the way.’

  ‘And then we’ll come and help with the teas won’t we, John?’ said Rosemary.

  ‘Raining cats and dogs, it is. Just your poor uncle’s luck!’ went on Mrs Bodkin. Oh, I nearly forgot. A parcel came for you when you were out, Rosie. I put it on your bed.’

  ‘I expect it’s my other coat,’ said Rosemary. ‘I asked Mum to send it.’

  The most ‘out-of-the-way’ place they could think of was Rosemary’s bedroom, at the top of the house. Dumpsie was already curled up, fast asleep, on the patchwork quilt, with the parcel beside her.

  ‘It seems a shame to disturb her,’ said Rosemary. ‘I’ll put the smelly old fish where she can see it when she wakes.’ She had been clasping the rusty tin wrapped in her handkerchief ever since they left Fallowhithe.

  As she expected, the parcel proved to be her old coat.

  ‘Isn’t it funny how friendly old clothes feel?’ she said as she slipped it on.

  ‘Just look at Dumpsie,’ said John.

  The smell of the fish was so strong, that even in her sleep her whiskers began to quiver, and her small black nose to twitch. Suddenly she was wide awake.

  ‘Oh, it’s you!’ she said, lifting her muzzle into the air, and moving it from side to side, with eyes half-closed, while she savoured to the full the richness of the smell. ‘Whatever is this delicious ...?’

  ‘It’s a present from your mother,’ said John. ‘We’ve just been to Fallowhithe Rubbish Dump, and ... for goodness’ sake eat it pretty quickly!’ he added, holding his hand over his nose.

  ‘But not on my bed!’ said Rosemary, and she hurriedly tipped the fish head on to a piece of paper in the hearth. ‘We’ll tell you all about everything while we eat our dinner,’ said John. ‘I’m rattling inside I’m so empty.’

  They climbed on to the patchwork quilt, and in between mouthfuls of cold meat and salad, they told Dumpsie all their adventures. The little cat actually paused in astonishment several times while polishing off her banquet.

  ‘And to think as you’ve been to the dear old Dump and talked to my ma!’ she said, when at last she had finished the haddock head and was washing her paws. ‘And did he really say “Give my undying love to my one and only Dumpsie”? Prince Calidor, I mean,’ she went on, purring rapturously. Rosemary nodded. ‘And tonight at moonrise, when you go to Tucket Towers, you’ll let me come too?’ she pleaded. ‘There’s no knowing but even the likes of me might come in useful. My paw hardly hurts at all now.’

  John and Rosemary looked at one another and nodded.

  ‘You’ll have to fly with us on the broom,’ said John. ‘I say, we left it downstairs! I’d better go and fetch it.’

  When he returned, Rosemary had tidied herself up and brushed her hair. She was standing in front of the long mirror, waving her arms about in a strange way.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ said John.

  ‘Trying to see if I could do funny floppy sort of movements; like Mrs Witherspoon, when she was making the Middle Magic.’

  ‘Like a Meccano model when it hasn’t been screwed up properly,’ said John. ‘You’ll never do it. You’re not scrawny enough.’

  Rosemary turned suddenly from the mirror, and stood, hands plunged in the pockets of her coat, staring out of the small latticed window at the rain-soaked view.

  ‘It must be exciting to be able to make real magic,’ she said in a far-away voice. ‘Not just flying on broomsticks. What did Mrs Witherspoon mean when she said I was twice the witch that Miss Dibdin was?’

  ‘Search me!’ said John. ‘Have you noticed how different Miss Dibdin is since she packed in the witch business? She’s nice now, and quite sensible.’

  Rosemary did not answer. Instead, she turned suddenly from the window and said: ‘If I was a witch I’d wish you good at football. Would you like that?’ John shook his head.

  ‘It wouldn’t be any use. I should know it was only the magic, not me being good at it.’ Then he laughed. ‘A corny old witch you’d make, Rosie! Why, what’s the matter?’

  Rosemary had taken off her coat and was feeling the hem. ‘I’ve just found a hole in one of the pockets, and I think something has slipped through into the lining.’

  After a few minutes’ poking, she produced a small screw of paper.

  ‘Bet it’s only an old shopping list,’ said John, as she smoothed it out; but it wasn’t a shopping list.

  ‘It’s a sort of poem,’ said Rosemary, and began to read:

  ‘Choose your wishes carefully:

  Seven steps to gramarye.’

  She broke off. ‘I think grammar’s boring. Whoever ...’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ interrupted John. ‘Isn’t “gramarye” an old word for magic? Nothing to do with grammar — verbs and nouns and things. Read it again. All of it.’

  ‘Choose your wishes carefully:

  Seven steps to gramarye.

  Build them one upon another,

  Each wish built upon another.

  Seven stages then you’ll be

  On the road to witchery.

  Learn your lesson:

  Learn it fast:

  The seventh wish will be your last.’

  Rosemary’s voice faded into silence, and they stood and looked at one another. ‘What double-dyed idiots we’ve been,’ said John at last. ‘It’s the instructions that came in the purple cracker, about how to use the Golden Gew-Gaw.’

  ‘And we thought it was just a stupid cracker motto. I must have shoved it in my pocket, and it went through the hole, and it’s been there all the time!’ said Rosemary.

  ‘Only seven wishes,’ went on John. ‘How many have we had already?’ He began to count them on his fingers. ‘There was the first one at the bus stop when you wished you could fly ...’

  ‘Only the ring fell off, but I suppose that counts,’ said Rosemary. ‘And then I wished the Scrabbles would come alive. That’s two.’

  ‘And that lighter-than-air business. That makes three.’

  ‘And Mother Boddles and the washing, makes four.’

  ‘And Mrs Witherspoon wishing Miss Dibdin away to the Ladies’ Waiting Room makes five,’ said John. ‘So there are only two more wishes left! And Mrs Witherspoon has got the ring. She may even have used up the other two by now!’

  ‘And all our wishes have been so silly,’ said Rosemary. ‘We haven’t done any of this “build-them-one-upon-another” business. What a waste!’

  ‘Let’s hope Mrs Witherspoon still doesn’t know the Gew-Gaw is a wishing ring,’ said John. ‘She couldn’t have been more surprised when she magicked Miss Dibdin away with it. We’ve got to get it back somehow, be
fore she wishes something frightful.’

  ‘But we don’t even know where she is now!’ said Rosemary. ‘What a mess! What can we do?’

  ‘Go and help Mother Boddles for a start,’ said John. ‘Come on ...’

  ‘There’s still only a handful of people come to the Sale,’ he said a few minutes later. They were standing by the Cromwellian table, which had been moved to one of the showrooms, on which the cups and saucers had been arranged.

  ‘Poor Uncle Zack!’ said Rosemary. ‘He’s looking so worried. I wish there was something we could do to help.’

  ‘Well, there’s one thing you can do, and that’s take a cup of tea and some biscuits to the young lady over there,’ said Mrs Bodkin drily. ‘The one in pink.’ John and Rosemary turned to look in the direction of her nod. Standing talking to an elderly man with a drooping moustache was young Mrs Witherspoon. She was wearing a flowery hat and white lacy gloves.

  ‘Well don’t just stand there with your mouths open,’ said Mrs Bodkin. ‘Go on! And mind you get the right change.’

  Rosemary took the cup of tea and John the plate of biscuits. Very slowly they walked towards Mrs Witherspoon.

  21. The Sale

  ‘I’M scared!’ whispered Rosemary anxiously out of the side of her mouth as they crossed the room.

  ‘Me too,’ John whispered back. ‘But I shouldn’t think she’d want to make a scene here; not in public.’

  ‘You never know with witches.’

  The ‘lady in pink’ didn’t notice the two children at first. She seemed to be listening with great interest to her companion, who appeared to be telling her about a burglary.

  ‘The grand piano I bought from old Mrs Witherspoon some years ago. You say you are her niece? What a curious coincidence!’ (John and Rosemary exchanged glances at this. Pretending she’s her own niece! they thought.) ‘A very fine instrument, that piano,’ went on the man. ‘Perhaps you knew it?’

  ‘Very well indeed!’ said young Mrs Witherspoon.

  ‘Stolen in broad daylight, this very morning!’

  ‘Good gracious!’ Mrs Witherspoon said, pretending great surprise.

  ‘I don’t know what things are coming to. I understand there have been a number of similar burglaries today,’ he went on. ‘The police can’t discover how the thieves got in; and, what is really surprising, how they got the grand piano out without anyone noticing. My wife was writing letters in the next room and did not hear a sound. I have to admit it was very cleverly done.’

  ‘You might almost say brilliantly clever,’ said Mrs Witherspoon, with so much energy that the man looked a little surprised.

  ‘Well, I must go and look round all these beautiful things!’ He waved his hand at the furniture ranged for sale in the showroom. ‘And I mustn’t keep you from your tea. Please give my regards to your aunt. Skeffington is my name. Major Skeffington.’ He bowed politely, and wandered off to examine an old Welsh dresser at the end of the room. Mrs Witherspoon shook with silent laughter, but she stopped laughing abruptly when she turned and saw John and Rosemary standing behind her. Her dark eyes widened.

  ‘You!’ she said. ‘You two again! What are you doing here, you tiresome little busybodies?’

  ‘We live here,’ said John shortly. ‘However did you get away from the roundabout?’

  ‘Small thanks to you, and that foolish Dibdin!’ she replied, and her eyes flashed with anger. ‘My tricycle was a complete wreck. I thumbed a lift from a lorry. I had no difficulty, I assure you.’ She put up her hand and patted her hair. ‘But poor Gullion had to walk. I will thank you to keep your inquisitive noses out of my affairs in future.’

  ‘But it was your nose in our affairs when you tried to stop us flying to Fallowhithe on the broom,’ said Rosemary indignantly. Mrs Witherspoon looked at her thoughtfully for a moment.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘was it really you or was it Dorothy Dibdin who worked the Flying Magic then?’

  ‘Well, I helped her to get it right,’ said Rosemary, and added, ‘because of not wearing spectacles.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ said Mrs Witherspoon, looking at her curiously. ‘You have the makings of ...’

  ‘Yes, but look here —’ broke in John.

  ‘Do not interrupt, you silly little boy!’ said Mrs Witherspoon sharply.

  ‘I’m not silly, and I’m not little!’ said John angrily, and his anger gave him courage. ‘And we want our ring back, now. So there!’

  ‘What ring? I don’t know what you’re talking about!’

  ‘The one you stole from the kitchen window-sill. You were the only person who went to the back door that afternoon. Mrs Bodkin said so.’

  ‘Oh, that wasn’t me. It was ...’ She paused, and went on roguishly. ‘It was my aunt!’

  ‘It wasn’t your aunt,’ went on John, now thoroughly roused. ‘I don’t believe you’ve got an aunt! It was you, before you magicked yourself young! We saw it happen, because we watched you make the Middle Magic. And after that you wished Miss Dibdin away, and then we saw the ring on your finger!’

  ‘And you couldn’t have sent Miss Dibdin off like that without the wishing ring!’ added Rosemary. As soon as she had spoken she clapped her hand over her mouth, but it was too late.

  ‘That’s torn it!’ said John reproachfully.

  ‘It’s a wishing ring? Thank you for telling me, child,’ said Mrs Witherspoon. ‘Then I shall certainly not give it back to you. I thought there was a strange fire smouldering in that crimson stone.’

  ‘Then you admit you’ve got it?’ demanded John. ‘If you don’t give it back, we shall tell you stole it, and about the grand piano, and all the other things you sold and magicked back again!’

  ‘And about you being your own aunt!’ added Rosemary, though she was not sure if she made herself clear.

  ‘And who do you think would believe a single word of it?’ said Mrs Witherspoon coolly. ‘So let’s say no more about it.’

  Both John and Rosemary had to admit to themselves that nobody would believe their story.

  ‘And now I should like that cup of tea,’ said Mrs Witherspoon.

  ‘Tea and biscuits costs ten pence,’ growled John.

  ‘Then you may hold my gloves, boy, while I get the money from my purse,’ said Mrs Witherspoon. As she pulled them off, something red and sparkling flashed for a fleeting second through the white lace. John took the gloves from her while she felt inside her handbag. He held them at arm’s length at first, just in case they had some unexpected magic power. One of them felt slightly heavier than the other. Just as Mrs Witherspoon took out her purse, Major Skeffington came back again.

  ‘There’s a charming old tea-set on the Welsh dresser,’ he said, ‘I don’t know if such things interest you?’

  Under cover of the conversation that followed, Rosemary whispered:

  ‘What’s the matter? Why are you looking pop-eyed?’

  ‘There’s something hard in the finger of one of the gloves. Here, hold these biscuits while I see what it is.’

  Rosemary took the plate from him. John held the heavier glove by the tips of the fingers, and shook it into the palm of the other hand. Out fell the Golden Gew-Gaw! For a second they stood and stared at it.

  ‘What gorgeous good luck!’ breathed John. Only just in time he closed his fist round the ring.

  Major Skeffington had drifted away, and Mrs Witherspoon turned and held out the money for the tea. As she did so, she saw the bare finger which the ring should have circled. One look at John’s triumphantly grinning face told her what had happened.

  ‘You sly deceitful boy! Or is this some magic of yours?’ she said, turning to Rosemary.

  ‘Good gracious, no. I can’t do magic,’ said Rosemary. ‘I expect it’s because, now your finger isn’t old and knobbly any more, the ring slipped off into your glove.’

  ‘Give me back the ring!’ Mrs Witherspoon hissed, turning furiously on John.

  ‘No!’ said John. ‘I won’t. It isn’t yours!’<
br />
  Then Mrs Witherspoon pounced, but he was too quick for her. He turned and fled, and with a clatter of high heels she ran after him. When Rosemary had found somewhere to put the biscuits and the tea, now largely slopped in the saucer, she followed as fast as she could, with Dumpsie, a small dark shadow at her heels. The few customers strolling about looked up with surprise as John dodged round them. Once he nearly collided with Uncle Zack, who was so wrapped up in his worried thoughts that he hardly noticed.

  Down the stairs raced John, and out into the garden, with Mrs Witherspoon close behind. Indoors they had been fairly evenly matched, but outside she was handicapped by her high heels on the soft rain-sodden ground. On they ran, dodging and doubling behind shrubs and bushes, and as he panted on John said to himself: ‘I’ve got the Golden Gew-Gaw ... now I can wish something ... really useful! I can’t bear ... Uncle Zack looking so miserable. If only ... I was better at rhymes,’ he went on. ‘Uncle, carbuncle ... that won’t do! Wish, fish, bish ... no good either. I hope it won’t ... be me that makes a bish!’

  Now, anyone who has tried to make up a rhyming Wishing Magic in the rain, while dodging an angry young witch round dripping rhododendron bushes, will realize what a difficult job John had set himself; but he was determined to do it. He thought and thought as he darted from bush to bush. Rosemary and Dumpsie, who were doing their best to catch up, suddenly saw him disappear behind a particularly shadowy shrub.

  Mrs Witherspoon stood crouched, knees bent, fingers spread, ready for him to reappear, which he did, unexpectedly, several bushes away. As she turned to face him she lost one of her high-heeled shoes in Uncle Zack’s favourite rose-bed. While she stooped to rescue it, John threw up his arms with the crimson stone of the ring glowing on his finger, and sang out in a loud, clear voice:

  ‘I wish at once that everyone

  For miles and miles and miles,

  Shall come on foot or bus or car ...’

  Here he paused, frowning hard.