The Serial Garden: The Complete Armitage Family Stories

by Joan Aiken

  "But—ach, himmel—zen wvere is my room?"

  "Well, I suppose Mrs. Nutti has got it. This seems quite a nice room, though, don't you think?"

  Mr. Johansen gazed about it rather wildly, pushing long thin hands through his white hair until the strands were all standing on end and he looked like a gibbon.

  Mrs. Nutti's room was furnished in a much more stately way than the humble attic bedroom. For a start, there was a massive four-poster bed with crimson damask hangings. The walls, also, were covered with some kind of damask, which made the room rather dark. Two tall black polished cabinets on claw feet stood against the wall facing the windows. A lamp in a boat-shaped gilt container hung suspended by a chain from the ceiling and threw a dim light. A velvet curtain, held back by a tasseled cord, partly covered the doorway; a small organ stood to the right of the door. Strangest of all, opposite the doorway there was a fireplace with a large heavy pair of polished metal and irons and a massive white marble mantelpiece which appeared to have suffered from some accident. The right side of the mantel was supported by a large carved marble heraldic beast with a collar round its neck, but the beast that should have supported the left-hand side was missing; it had apparently been dragged out of the wall, like a decoration from an iced cake, leaving nothing but a jagged hole.

  "That's a bit of a mess,” Mark said. “I do think Mrs. Nutti should have put it right for you before she lent you her room. It's rather a shame; the monster on the other is awfully nice. A kind of furry eagle."

  "A griffin,” corrected Mr. Johansen absently. “Ze legs, you see, are zose of a lion. Head, zat of an eagle, also wvings. But wvere is zis Mrs. Nutti?"

  "Wherever she is, she's left her carpet-bag behind,” said Mark, picking it off the floor. “Blimey, what a weight. Hey, Mrs. Nutti? Are you downstairs?"

  He put the bag down again, walked through the open door, and stuck his head back through again to say, “She really has done a neat job, Mr. Johansen, it's still your landing outside."

  Bemusedly, Mr. Johansen followed him out and discovered that, as Mark had said, the transformation of the loft-room went no farther than the door; outside were Mr. Johansen's tidy bare landing, his coconut-matted stairs, and his prints of Alpine flora.

  They went down, expecting to find Mrs. Nutti in the music-room. But she had gone.

  "Back to wherever she came from, I suppose,” Mark said.

  "Taking my room wizz her,” Mr. Johansen murmured plaintively.

  "But really, sir, hers is quite a nice room, don't you think? And it has a smashing view. I know it's not London, which is what you wanted, but maybe they have concerts in this town, too. Where do you suppose it is?"

  "How should I know?” said poor Mr. Johansen, twisting his hair some more.

  "Do let's go back upstairs and have another look."

  But by the time they had gone back, full dark had fallen on the town outside the window of the new room, and not much could be seen except a wide prospect of twinkling lights. They could hear music from across the square, and smell delicious smells of herbs and grilled meat.

  "We'll have to come back in daylight,” Mark suggested. “Tell you one thing, though, this place must be east of England; it gets dark sooner."

  "Zat is so,” agreed Mr. Johansen. “In any case, I suppose zose towers are minarets; zis town is perhaps in Turkey or Persia."

  "What's Turkish music like, is it nice? Shall we have a wander round the streets and ask where the place is?"

  Mr. Johansen was somewhat hesitant about this; it took Mark a while to persuade him.

  But now they came up against a difficulty: they could see the town, but there seemed to be no way of getting into it. If they went downstairs and out through Mr. Johansen's front door, they merely found themselves in his ordinary garden, walking between neat rows of Canterbury bells towards the commonplace village street.

  "We'll have to jump out of the window,” Mark said.

  But it was a very much higher drop from Mrs. Nutti's window—and onto a cobbled street at that—than from Mr. Johansen's attic. Mr. Johansen demurred.

  "Never should I be able to face your dear muzzer if you wvere to break your leg. Besides, how should we get back?"

  Mark had not considered this problem.

  "I'll bring our fruit-ladder from home tomorrow morning,” he said. “Perhaps I'd better be off now; Mother gets worried if I'm more than three-quarters of an hour late for supper, and thinks I've fallen in a river or something."

  Harriet was greatly interested in the story of Mr. Johansen's room-exchange.

  "I wonder why Mrs. Nutti wanted to swap?” she pondered, and made Mark tell her over and over the few not particularly enlightening things the old lady had said.

  "She seemed worried about the burglars? And part of the fireplace was missing? Perhaps burglars had gone off with it?"

  "You'd hardly think anyone would pinch half a fireplace,” Mark objected. “Still, it was gone, that's true. Maybe she wanted to make sure no one could go off with the other half."

  "What was in the carpet-bag she left behind? Did you look? Do you think she left it by mistake or on purpose?"

  "I didn't look. It was jolly heavy, whatever it was. Maybe she got fed up with carrying it about."

  "When you go down tomorrow, I'm coming, too,” Harriet said firmly.

  "Good, then you can help carry the ladder."

  Taking the ladder was a waste of time, however, as they soon discovered. They leaned it up against the front of the house, so that its narrow top was wedged firmly against what appeared to be the window of Mr. Johansen's attic.

  Then they rang the door-bell and the music master let them in.

  "Is the room still there, sir? Has Mrs. Nutti been back? Did she fetch her bag? Can you still see the city?"

  "Ja—ja—ze room is still zere, and ze bag also. But Frau Nutti has not returned. You wvish to see it?” he asked Harriet kindly.

  "Oh yes, please!"

  Mark and Harriet ran eagerly upstairs, Mr. Johansen following more slowly.

  "There!” said Mark with pride, pointing to the view.

  "Coo!” breathed Harriet, taking it all in.

  It was blazing daylight now, and obviously hot, hot weather, most unlike the gray, chilly June day they had left behind downstairs. Dogs lay panting in the shade under the big tree. Men in caps like chopped-off cones sat sipping coffee and cool drinks. Boats with coloured sails plied to and fro across the river.

  "What a gorgeous place,” said Harriet. “Do let's go down. Oh—where's the ladder?"

  "Not there,” said Mark sadly.

  "What a swindle. I've an idea though—next time we come, we'll bring a rope. Then we can tie it to the window-catch and climb down."

  Mark cheered up at this practical plan. “It's bad luck about your concerts, though, sir; still, I suppose it's only for three months."

  "Is no matter. I can listen to zose men across ze square; zeir music is most uncommon. Also, I have ze organ to play on."

  He sat down at the little organ, fiddled around with bellows and pedals, and suddenly produced a short, sweet, powerful snatch of melody.

  "Oh, do go on!” cried Harriet, as he stopped.

  But he, looking round, said, “Wvat wvas zat noise?"

  A kind of crack or tap had come from the other side of the four-poster. Harriet ran round.

  "It sounded like an electric bulb going. Oh, is this Mrs. Nutti's bag? Heavens, it's heavy—whatever can there be in it?"

  Harriet parted the flaps of the bag, which was not fastened, and began lifting out masses of empty paper bags, crumpled old magazines, newspapers, tissues, paper napkins, and other wadding.

  "What a lot of junk. There's something hard and heavy right at the bottom though—quite big, too. Oh, it's an egg."

  Mr. Johansen got up from the organ-stool and came to look over their shoulders at the contents of the carpet-bag.

  An egg it certainly was, and no common egg either. It was a goo
d deal bigger than a rugby ball; it might just have fitted into the oval kind of washing-up bowl. It was plain white, but veined over with faint greenish-blue lines. Egg-shaped.

  "How queer that Mrs. Nutti should have forgotten about it—” Harriet was beginning, when the sound came from the egg again—crack!

  "It's hatching!"

  At this, Mr. Johansen suddenly became very upset.

  "No, no, zis I cannot have. Zis is too much! Her room, yes, I do not object, provided she take goot care of my room, I wvill do ze same for hers. But to have care of an egg, no, no, zat is ze outside, das tut mir zehr leid, I am not an incubator! Ze doggies I haf give up, because I can no longer take sufficient care—"

  "I'll hatch it, I'll look after it!” said Harriet eagerly. “I've hatched lots of owls’ eggs, I'll put it in our airing-cupboard, I'll look after it carefully, Mr. Johansen. I'm sure Mother won't mind. Oh, do you suppose it could be a roc?"

  "Not big enough,” said Mark.

  Mr. Johansen looked doubtful and distressed. “Suppose Frau Nutti come back? It is, after all, her egg?"

  "Then you tell her to come up the road to us,” Mark said. “My sister really knows a lot about eggs, sir, she's an expert chick-raiser."

  "In zat case, best to get it home before it hatches quite out, nicht wahr?"

  This proved a difficult task. The carpet-bag was so heavy that it took them all their united strength to get it down the stairs.

  "And you said Mrs. Nutti was a little old lady?” said Harriet, scarlet with effort. “How can she ever have carried it all the way from—"

  "All the way from wherever she came from?"

  "Well, we certainly can't carry it from here to home. Mr. Johansen, could we possibly borrow your wheelbarrow?"

  "Jawohl, yes indeed,” said Mr. Johansen, only too glad to be rid of the responsibility of the egg before it hatched. They balanced the fruit-ladder across the barrow and put the carpet-bag on top of the ladder, and so set off for home. Mr. Johansen watched them anxiously until they were out of sight; then he started upstairs, going slowly at first but faster and faster. He entered Mrs. Nutti's room, sat down at the organ, and was soon lost, deaf, and regardless of anything but the beautiful music he was making.

  When Harriet and Mark reached the Armitage house and unloaded the carpet-bag, they were disconcerted to find that the egg's weight had bent the ladder into a V like a hockey-stick.

  "Oh dear,” Harriet said. “I'm afraid Father's not going to be very pleased."

  Luckily their parents were out, so they were able to manhandle the egg upstairs without interference. A cast-iron cannonball would not have been much harder to deal with.

  "What kind of bird can it possibly be?” panted Harriet.

  Mark had a theory, but he wasn't going to commit himself just yet.

  "Maybe it comes from some planet where the atmosphere is less dense. Anyway, whatever it is, it seemed to enjoy Mr. Johansen's music. Perhaps we ought to play to it, to help it hatch."

  "No organ, though; it'll have to be satisfied with recorders."

  The egg took longer to hatch than they had expected; perhaps the recorder music was not so stimulating. A couple of weeks went by. Occasional cracking noises came from the airing-cupboard, but Harriet had carefully swathed the egg in winter blankets, so that it was not visible; Mrs. Armitage said absently, “I do hope the immersion heater isn't going to blow up again,” but she was busy making strawberry jam and did not investigate the noises. “Why have you children taken to playing your recorders on the upstairs landing all day long? Can't you find anything better to do?"

  "Rehearsing for the fête,” Harriet said promptly.

  "It seems a funny place to rehearse."

  "Well, it's warm, you see—just by the airing-cupboard."

  At last the egg burst.

  "Good God, what's that?” said Mr. Armitage, rushing in from the garden, where he had been thinning out lettuces.

  "Oh my gracious, do you think someone's planted a bomb on us?” exclaimed his wife, dropping a pot of jam on the kitchen floor.

  "More likely something those children have been up to,” said their loving father.

  Mark and Harriet had been eating their elevenses—apples and cheese—in the playroom.

  At the tremendous bang they looked at each other with instantaneous comprehension of what had happened, and raced upstairs.

  "Heavens! The smell!” gasped Harriet.

  It was very strong.

  "Sulphur,” said Mark knowledgeably.

  There was a good deal of mess about, too. The airing-cupboard door was a splintered wreck, and the floor and the walls for some distance round were splashed with yellow goo, like egg-yolk, only more so. Several windows were cracked.

  A tangle of damp and soggy blankets and towels on the upstairs landing made it difficult to get to the airing-cupboard.

  Mr. and Mrs. Armitage arrived.

  "What happened?” cried Mrs. Armitage.

  "Harriet put an egg to hatch in the airing-cupboard,” Mark explained.

  "An egg? What kind of an egg, would you be so kind as to explain?"

  "Well, we don't know yet—someone left it with Mr. Johansen, you see, and he didn't feel quite equal to the worry—"

  "Oh, delightful,” said Mr. Armitage. “So he just passed it on to us. Mr. Johansen is an excellent music teacher but I really—"

  "Listen!” said Harriet.

  From the sodden mass of household linens still inside the cupboard came a plaintive sound.

  It was a little like the call of a curlew—a kind of thin, bubbling, rising, sorrowful cry.

  "It's the chick!” exclaimed Harriet joyfully, and she began pulling out pillowcases and tablecloths. Out with them came the lower half of Mrs. Nutti's egg, and, still crouched in it, filling it and bulging over the broken edges, they saw a bedraggled, crumpled, damp, dejected creature that seemed all bony joints and big eyes and limp, horny claws.

  "Well—it's rather a poppet,” Harriet said, after a pause.

  Mr. Armitage stared at it and made a thoughtful comment. “I'm not one for rash statements, but I don't think I ever, in all my born days, laid eyes on an uglier, scrawnier, soggier, more repulsive-looking chick. In the north country they'd call it a bare golly. What's it supposed to be, tell me that?"

  "And for this hideous monster,” wailed Mrs. Armitage, “all our sheets and blankets and tablecloths and the best monogrammed towels have to be ruined?"

  "Honestly, Ma, don't worry,” Harriet said. “Mark and I will take everything down to the coin-op dry-clean after lunch, I promise. I must just give the chick a rinse first, and set him on the playroom radiator to dry. You'll see, when he's cleaned up and fluffed out he'll look quite different."

  "He can look a whole lot different and still be as ugly as sin,” prophesied Mr. Armitage.

  "And what's he going to eat?” demanded Mrs. Armitage, as Harriet lifted up the chick, eggshell and all, and carried him away, staggering under his weight, to the playroom, calling to Mark over her shoulder as she did so to fetch a bucket of water and some soapless shampoo.

  While they were cleaning and disinfecting the sheets and blankets at the laundromat (it took three trips and the whole afternoon and all their next month's allowance) Mark said to Harriet, “Now do you know what the chick is?"

  "No, but he's a very queer shape, I must say. His back end isn't a bit like a bird, and he's got a funny, straggly tail with a tassel at the end. How big do you think he's likely to grow?"

  "I should think he's about a fifth of his full size now."

  "How do you reckon that?"

  "I think he's a griffin-chick."

  "A griffin?” said Harriet, dismayed. “Are you sure?"

  "Well, he's just like the one carved on Mrs. Nutti's mantelpiece."

  "Oh my goodness,” Harriet said sadly. “If only we'd known when he was in the egg, we could have exchanged him for a Himalayan bear."

  "No, we couldn't,” said Mark pri
mly. “He's not ours to swap. He's Mrs. Nutti's. I suppose she sent him to the country to hatch out."

  "Well, I think it was very neglectful of her to go off and just leave him."

  When they finally tottered home with the last piles of clean laundry ("Honestly,” grumbled Mark, “we shall have biceps like boa-constrictors after all the lifting we've done lately."), Harriet's disappointment over the loss of the Himalayan bear was greatly reduced.

  "Oh, I say!” she exclaimed, lifting a fold of newspaper in the laundry basket, which they'd left propped against the warm radiator. “Do look! He's dried off and he's furry!"

  At the sound of her voice, the griffin chick woke up, sleepily uncurled, and staggered out from among the crumpled newspapers.

  His appearance was now quite different. The dark, damp tendrils all over his back, sides, and legs were fluffed out into soft, gray fur, like that of a soft, gray-haired Persian cat. His stumpy little wings and head were covered with pale gray eiderdown. His beak, brown before, had turned red, and it was wide open.

  "Gleep. Gleep. Thrackle, thrackle, thrackle. Gleep. GLEEP!"

  "Oh heavens, he's starving! Just a minute, furry, hang on a tic, and we'll get you something to eat. Do you suppose he'll eat bread-and-milk?"

  "We can try,” said Mark.

  Bread-and-milk went down splendidly, when dolloped into the gaping red beak with a dessert spoon. One basinful was not enough, nor were two, nor were seven. But after the ninth bowlful, the baby griffin gave a great happy yawn, closed his beacon eyes simultaneously, clambered onto the lap of Harriet, who was kneeling on the floor beside him, tucked his head under a wing (from where it immediately slipped out again as the wing was not nearly big enough to cover it) and fell asleep.

  After about three minutes, Harriet said,

  "It's like having a cart-horse on one's lap. I'll have to shift him."

  Struggling like a coal-heaver, she shifted the chick onto the hearthrug. He did not even blink.

  Harriet and Mark sat thoughtfully regarding their new acquisition.

  "He's going to be expensive to feed,” Mark said.

  This proved an understatement.