Rosemary waited until his gleaming leggings had disappeared up the first flight of stairs; then she said to John, who was looking extremely puzzled:
‘You are stupid! I only did that so that we could get the things in the car without being seen.’ And she closed the door.
‘All right, keep your hair on!’ said John cheerfully. ‘How was I to know that?’
‘I didn’t mean to be cross, but it was horrid when Jeffries thought I was being kind, and really I only wanted to get him out of the way, like Mummy thinking I was being thoughtful when I suggested taking the rug to cover the things.’
Rosemary moved the door so that they could see the cauldron behind it. Carbonel poked a ruffled head out from under the rug and said crossly:
‘I do not like being referred to as “Things”!’ and disappeared suddenly as they thought they heard Mrs Walker coming up from the basement.
The children put the cauldron on the floor in the back of the car, with the broom beside it, and the rug arranged carefully on top.
‘It doesn’t show too much,’ said John.
‘Have you got the book?’ asked Rosemary anxiously. He nodded.
‘About the only advantage of this silly get-up is that there is more room to hide things.’
‘To think we have got everything except the Hat!’ said Rosemary happily.
There was no time to discuss things any further, because just at that moment Jeffries opened the door of the car for Mrs Brown to get into the front seat.
‘Are you all right there?’ said the chauffeur. The two children nodded. He pressed the starter, and they were off to Walsingham Court.
22
The Fête
Walsingham Court was one of the show places of the neighbourhood. The gardens where the fête was held were magnificent. I am not going to describe them to you, any more than I am going to describe the fête, because if you think of the most beautiful rose gardens and yew walks, and rock gardens and herbaceous borders and orangeries that you have ever seen, you will know exactly what it was like. Just as you will know what the fête was like, with stalls and hoop-las, and tombolas and raffles, and Punch and Judy shows and fortune-tellers. It was hot and sunny, and the children and Mrs Brown wandered round enjoying every bit of it. They spent all their money within the first half-hour, but it did not seem to matter, because there was so much to look at.
Presently Mrs Brown said:
‘I simply must sit down! I think I shall watch the dancing display from a deck chair. Would you two like to go off on your own?’
This was the moment they had been waiting for. Rosemary nodded.
‘All right, dears. But be back by quarter to four because we have got tickets for the first tea.’
There was no time to reply, because the enclosure reserved for the dancers had already been invaded by a dozen little girls in very pink crinolines and poke bonnets. They were apparently showing their unwillingness to go walking with an equal number of little girls dressed as boys.
‘And I don’t blame them,’ said John. ‘Why can’t they just say, “Not likely!” or something, instead of this silly dumb crambo business? Come on. I saw where the Netherley Players are doing their stuff.’
Secretly Rosemary would like to have watched the dancing, but she knew that they had a great deal to do and not much time in which to do it. There was a series of notices which pointed the way to the Netherley Players. It seemed that they were giving three performances. The one at two-thirty was over and the next was at five, with a final one at seven. The arrows led to a green, grassy amphitheatre which sloped gently down to a broad paved terrace, behind which was a mass of flowering shrubs and trees.
‘What a lovely place for acting!’ said Rosemary. ‘And look, there is a summer-house over there. I expect that is where they change their clothes. Let’s go and see.’
They made their way down the aisle between the rows of empty chairs towards the summer-house. It was a wooden building with two low storeys and a thatched roof. Both children silently thought that it would be first-rate for playing in. When they reached the three shallow steps which led to the door, they became aware that someone was arguing inside.
‘I told you it was ridiculous to agree to do two plays,’ said a girl’s voice crossly.
‘And I told you that we should not have got the engagement if we hadn’t. Lady Soffit was sure that the same people would come twice if the second performance was something different,’ said a man’s voice. A third person said something that they could not hear and the man replied:
‘Well, now we’ve got to. The tickets and bills are all distributed. We must put on the Dream at five o’clock, if we have to do it in flannel bags. I know you didn’t mean to leave half the tunics behind, but can’t you make some more? You have got an hour and a half. There are those old curtains in the van you could cut up. I suppose you didn’t leave the sewing machine behind as well?’
‘Don’t rub it in, Bill. I am most terribly sorry. Of course I haven’t left the sewing machine behind. I’ll try. But I don’t see how I can do it all in time single-handed,’ said the girl’s voice.
‘Good heavens!’ replied the man. ‘Surely, with three women in the company, you can turn out something?’
‘You know quite well that Megs and Sara are completely ham-handed,’ said the first voice. ‘Nobody would dare to sit down in anything they had made!’
John and Rosemary on the step outside suddenly realized that they were eavesdropping, so John knocked on the door, which swung open as he did so. A man stood with his back to them, but hearing the knock he turned. It was the Occupier. His hair was standing on end as though he had just been running his hands through it, and he said ungraciously:
‘What do you want?’
‘It’s us, sir!’ said John.
‘Who on earth is “Us”? Good heavens, if it isn’t the Lathero twins! Now run away, there’s good children. We’re in a frightful jam. We’ve left half the clothes behind. There isn’t time to fetch them, and these useless women don’t seem capable of making any more in time!’ And he ran his fingers through his hair again so that it looked even wilder than before.
‘I know. We heard. We didn’t mean to listen, but you were talking so loudly that we couldn’t help it,’ said John. But Rosemary interrupted.
‘Well, I know who could make them for you if anyone could, and that is my mother. She is a real dressmaker.’
‘Well, that is not much use to us,’ said the Occupier irritably.
‘Don’t be cross with them, Bill,’ said the girl. It was their friend Molly. ‘Where is your mother, dear? Do you think we could possibly persuade her to help us? I feel so desperate that I could brave asking anybody!’
‘She is watching the dancing display. I’m sure she would help,’ said Rosemary. ‘Let’s go and ask her.’
She and Molly went off together in the direction of the sound of the tinny piano, and John was left standing awkwardly with the actors. Three men who had been sitting disconsolately on a couple of dress baskets, got up and sauntered off, and the two girls who were presumably the ham-handed Megs and Sara went on sorting clothes in the corner.
John followed the Occupier on to the little porch, where they both looked anxiously after Molly and Rosemary.
‘I say,’ said John. ‘You have still got the witch’s hat, haven’t you?’
‘Good heavens!’ said the Occupier, whose name was really Bill. ‘You’re not going to start that again, are you?’
‘You did say we could have it, you know,’ said John desperately, ‘when we had collected everything else for the Magic, and we have. Everything. The broom, the cauldron, the book of spells, and a high old time we had getting them, I can tell you!’
There was an awkward silence, during which Bill lit a cigarette. They were both relieved when Molly and Rosemary arrived accompanied by Mrs Brown.
Molly was talking volubly, and Rosemary was grinning from ear to ear, and her mother was sa
ying ‘I see’, and ‘I think I could’.
‘It’s all right!’ called Rosemary. ‘Mummy is going to help! I knew she would,’ she added confidently. ‘Now you won’t have to worry.’
The Occupier shook Mrs Brown warmly by the hand. ‘My dear Mrs Lathero…’
‘Brown!’ whispered John hurriedly.
‘… Mrs Brown. I can’t thank you enough…’
‘Thank me when we have got it done,’ smiled Mrs Brown. ‘We shall need every minute we can get.’ Then, turning to Molly, ‘Perhaps it would be quicker if I could cut out the clothes on the people who are going to wear them. We needn’t bother about such refinements as hems.’
‘What can I do?’ asked the Occupier humbly.
‘Go away and leave us alone,’ said Molly firmly. ‘Your clothes were not left behind, thank goodness, so we shan’t need you. We have exactly one hour and twenty minutes in which to do it all in! Come on Megs, fetch Harry and Adrian to be fitted. Sara, help us to carry these things upstairs to the upper floor. We had better do it up there.’
Rosemary nudged John. ‘Have you asked him?’ she whispered. But the Occupier’s sharp ears heard her.
‘What persistent youngsters you are! Yes, he has asked me.’
‘Look here, sir,’ said John. ‘We know that you bought the hat, and that it is a jolly rare thing. We don’t expect you to give it us. But won’t you lend it just for half an hour, so that we can do the spell now? Then we would never bother you again.’
They waited breathlessly. The young man blew out a cloud of smoke; then he stubbed out his cigarette.
‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘You win. I’ll lend you the hat for half an hour, but you must let me come with you to see fair play. I shan’t be needed here for a bit, so let’s go and fetch it. It isn’t being used today, so it is in the property van behind the greenhouses. Lead on, my young Witch of Endor!’
‘Right,’ said John. ‘You go with him and get the hat, Rosie, and I’ll go to the car and fetch the things. Meet you behind the glasshouses as soon as I can.’
‘What things?’ asked Bill.
This was better, thought Rosemary, and, tucking her hand in his arm, she told him the whole story: how they had searched for the cauldron, about the Wishing Magic and the china, and how they had found the Book of Spells and so nearly lost the withered plait of creepers. She had only just finished by the time they had reached the van. The young man disappeared inside it. Presently he called down, ‘Catch!’ Rosemary held out her arms and something black and furry landed in them. It was the Hat at last!
‘The moths have had a regular banquet off some of it,’ he said cheerfully as he jumped down again. ‘Pretty indigestible, I should think, witch’s hat. Hallo, here is John!’ Coming down the path was John with the cauldron in one hand and the broom in the other, and Carbonel trotting sedately beside him. When the cat saw the dilapidated Hat he gave a little ‘Purrup!’
‘Well,’ said Bill, ‘he is certainly a splendid animal. But I can’t hear him talking.’ And he laughed in a bless-your-little-fancies way.
‘That is because you aren’t holding the broomstick. Here you are, sir,’ said John, and he pushed the wooden handle towards the young man so that he, too, could hold it.
‘Do him good,’ said Carbonel. ‘Too cocky by far, he is.’
The Occupier started violently.
‘Do you know, I really did think I heard the cat speak!’ he said.
‘I did,’ said Carbonel drily. ‘I said, you are too cocky by far.’
‘Good heavens!’
‘It is a bit upsetting at first,’ said Rosemary kindly, ‘but you soon get used to it. I dare say it is harder for you, being grown-up, I mean.’
‘Well, we aren’t here to make polite conversation,’ said Carbonel. ‘I noticed a small enclosure behind that asparagus bed, with a bonfire burning there already, and no one about. Follow me.’
They all followed, the Occupier, as though in a dream, clutching the broom, and unable to take his eyes off the black cat.
The enclosure was made by a privet hedge which hid a small tool shed, a heap of grass cuttings, and a small, smouldering bonfire.
Rosemary removed the precious withered plait from between the pages of the book of spells. Then she propped the book up against a wheelbarrow.
‘You can read it if you like,’ she said to the young man. ‘But not aloud, because it is a Silent Magic.’
With a dazed expression he turned his fascinated eyes from Carbonel.
‘I say, what about a pipkin?’ said Rosemary. ‘It says “fill the cauldron with seven pipkins of puddle water”.’
‘What is a pipkin?’ asked John.
‘A small earthenware jar,’ said Carbonel. ‘A flower pot with the hole stopped up will do. Rosemary, you can see to that, while someone else gets the fire going.’ He turned to the dazed young man. ‘That may as well be your job.’
‘Yes, yes, of course!’ said the Occupier, and at once feverishly began to collect twigs and sticks which he pushed into the smouldering fire, while John got down on his knees and blew on the embers. Rosemary rolled up her handkerchief and pushed it into the hole at the bottom of a flower pot. It took rather a long time to find enough puddle water to fill the flower pot seven times, but by then the fire had been coaxed into blazing quite merrily. At last the three legs of the cauldron were supported above the flames on two large stones and an old brick, and Rosemary put on the Hat. It was much too big, and only by bending her ears down could she keep it up at all. They removed the shoe-bag from the end of the broom. In spite of their care a number of twigs had fallen off inside the bag. In silence they knelt in a ring, waiting for the cauldron to boil. The sounds of the fête drifted in to them, very faint and far away. A great bumble bee buzzed heavily by, intent on his own business, and a thrush was tapping a snail shell insistently on the brick path outside the enclosure. Then the water began to bubble. Rosemary took a deep breath.
‘Stand back!’ said Carbonel to the others. ‘And remember, if you love me, do not make a sound. Rosemary, whatever happens, I implore you not to cry out!’
She nodded. The young man sat down heavily on the wheelbarrow. Rosemary straddled the broom. Although her mouth had been dry with nervousness before, now she was wearing the Hat she felt quite calm and mistress of the situation. The broom quivered expectantly beneath her, and she patted it softly.
‘Now!’ said Carbonel, and she leant over and dropped the plait into the centre of the swirling water, which rose up to meet it in a froth of winking bubbles. Without thinking twice she said aloud:
While the mixture’s boiling hot,
Bear me round the reeking pot.
Widdershins, please fly designedly,
Seven times round. And thank you kindly.
The broom shook itself and rose slowly from the ground. At the same time a swirl of steam rose from the cauldron, so that she only caught glimpses of her friends below as she whirled round; John and the Occupier on the wheelbarrow and gazing upwards open-mouthed, and Carbonel sitting tense and upright on an upturned bucket. The broom was making wide circles at some speed, so that Rosemary’s pigtails flew out from beneath the witch’s hat, and what with keeping her balance and stopping the hat from slipping over her face like an extinguisher, she had her work cut out.
At the fifth time round, the steam from the cauldron began to sink, by the sixth it had become a mere trickle, and when the broom deposited her gently by the fire after the seventh circle there was no steam at all. Although the fire still burned brightly, the water in the cauldron was placid and still. Rosemary looked eagerly at its unmoving surface, and there, breaking the reflection of her own face, floated a garland made of seven different climbing plants. Very gingerly Rosemary bent over, and with the handle of the broom hooked it out, and lo and behold, there were flowers of wild rose and bryony. There were white trumpets of bindweed, delicately touched with pink, sweet-smelling clusters of honeysuckle, and little purple ve
tch, and the leaves and tendrils were as green and delicate as the day on which they were picked seven years ago.
As Rosemary knelt down with the garland on her lap, there fell a silence that seemed as though everything was listening, the sounds of the fête died away, the birds stopped their twittering, even the thrush stopped hammering his snail shell and stood motionless with his head on one side. Very carefully, very carefully, so that not one strand of the garland should break, Rosemary began to unravel the plait. And while she unravelled, quite silently in her head she said the spell that she had learnt by heart. (If you do not know how she could say it silently, remember the times you have repeated your homework to yourself quite clearly, without making a sound.) The vetch twined its pale green tendrils round her fingers as though to hinder her, the juice from the crushed berries of the bittersweet made the strands slip from between her feverish fingers, but she went on. And this is the spell she said:
Fingle fangle, warp and wind,
Weeds that strangle, climb, and bind,
Plants that trip unwary feet,
Bramble, vetch, and bittersweet.
… and with the handle of the broom hooked it out.
The scent from the honeysuckle rose sweet and sickly, and so strong that her head began to swim and she felt faint and drowsy, and when she shook off the drowsiness the thorns tore her fingers, but she closed her lips tightly so that no sound should escape, and went on untwisting, untwining.
Fangle, jingle, mickle muckle,
Bindweed, ivy, honeysuckle,
Climbing bramble, tendrilled vine,
Loose your hold, untwist, untwine
Silently, without a sound
Free the Slave and loose the Bound.
The scent from the honeysuckle was so strong that only by a tremendous effort was Rosemary able to finish. But with the last word of the spell the last twist unravelled itself beneath her torn and bleeding fingers, and fell to the ground. For a minute the seven strands lay there, strong and green in the sunlight, and then beneath her eyes they wilted and shrank, the flowers dropped their shrivelled petals and the leaves became dull, the glossy green gave way to dusty brown. And as a balloon withers and shrinks when the air escapes, so the strand of creepers diminished and shrank. And when Rosemary bent down to pick up the withered twig that had once been honeysuckle, it fell to powder between her fingers. A little breeze sprang up, and it was scattered and gone.
Carbonel: The King of Cats Page 12