Bed-Knob and Broomstick (12 page)

   
"Yes," concluded Emelius with a sigh, "my father's ambition was
his son's undoing. In.truth I have amassed some small store of gold, but would
I had remained a simple horse doctor in the vale of Pepperinge Eye."
"Of Pepperinge Eye," exclaimed the little girl. "That's close
to where we're staying."
"In Bedfordshire," said Emelius, his gaze still caught up in the past.

   
"Yes. Near Much Frensham."
"Much Frensham," said Emelius. "Market day at Much Frensham .
. . then were great doings!"
"There are still," said the little girl excitedly. "I dare say
there are lots of new houses, but the main road doesn't go through there, so
it isn't much changed."
They began to exchange impressions. Emelius it seemed had bathed in their brook;
Lowbody Farm had still been called Lowbody Farm; "a fine new residence"
Emelius called it, and he, too, had roamed the short grass on the tiered mound
known as Roman Remains.

   
"Five of the clock," called the watchman, as he passed below the window,
"and a fine, clear, windy morning."
They drew back the curtains. The dim room shrank from the clear light, and dust
danced golden in the sunbeams.

   
"I wish you could go back to Pepperinge Eye," cried the little girl.
"I wish you could see it as it is now."
Then they, in their turn, told him of their lives, of the war, of their first
visit to the country, of the magic bed. They told him how they had left the
bed a few yards down the road in a walled churchyard. It was then they remembered
the string bag, tied fast to the bed rail, with the cheese sandwiches and the
Thermos of hot cocoa. Emelius, his housekeeper being still "abed,"
was much put to it to
find food, but at length he produced from the larder two legs of cold roast
hare and a jug of beer. He was deeply relieved to hear that it was no spell
of his that had called these children from the mysteries of the future and was
more than anxious to go with them to the churchyard so that he might see the
bed.

   
They set out, a strange procession, Emelius carrying the jug of beer with the
hare wrapped neatly in a napkin. The yard gate was open, and there, behind the
biggest tomb, they found the bed just as they had left it, with the string bag
tied securely to the foot.

   
It was there they had their early breakfast, while the hungry cats prowled around
and the city slowly woke to the clang and rumble of a seventeenth-century day.
And it was there, without mentioning her name, that they told about Miss Price.

   
A VISITOR
Miss Price slept in Carey's room the night the children were away. She had a
restless night. She was not feeling at all happy about having let them go off
on their own. She had been caught between two sets of fairnesses. What was fair,
she thought, to the children was hardly fair to their parents. Besides, a trip
into the past could not be planned with any degree of accuracy. They had seen
first how many twists the bed-knob allowed, and then they had made a rough calculation
of period. They had aimed for the time of Queen Elizabeth, but goodness knew
what they had got. Charles rather cleverly had made a scratch with a pin, from
the side of the knob, across the crack, and down the base of the screw. And
when Paul twisted, he was supposed to twist until the two ends of the scratch
met evenly. All very rough and ready, as neither Miss Price nor the children
knew if the period covered by the bed-knob embraced the beginning of the world
or just the history of England from 1066 onwards. They had assumed the latter.

   
"Oh, dear," muttered Miss Price to herself, tossing and turning in
Carey's bed. "If they come back safe from this trip, it will be the last,
the very last, I shall allow."
She had tried to be careful and to take all sensible precautions. The bedclothes
had been carefully folded and put away and the mattress covered by a waterproof
ground sheet. She had provided the children with a Thermos of hot cocoa, bread
and cheese, and a couple of hard-boiled eggs. She had given them an atlas and
a pocket first-aid kit. Should she have furnished them with a weapon? But what?
She had no weapon in the house barring the poker and her father's sword.

   
"Oh, dear," she muttered again, pulling the bedclothes round her head
as if to shut out a persistent picture of the children timidly wandering through
a bleak and savage England inhabited by Diplodocus Carnegii and saber-toothed
tigers. And that Neanderthal man, she told herself unhappily, would be utterly
useless in an emergency. . . .

   
Toward morning she fell into a heavy sleep and was awakened by the sudden opening
of the bedroom door. The bright sunshine streamed in through the partially drawn
curtains, and there, at the foot of her bed, stood Carey.

   
"What time is it?" asked Miss Price, sitting bolt upright.

   
"It's nearly nine o'clock. The boys are dressed. I didn't like to wake
you-"
"Thank heaven you're back safely!" exclaimed Miss Price. "You
can tell me all your adventures later. Is breakfast ready?"
"Yes, and the boys have started. But-" Carey hesitated.

   
Miss Price, who had put her feet out of bed and was fumbling for her slippers,
looked up.

   
"But what?"
"We've got to lay another place," said Carey uncomfortably.

   
"Another place?"
"Yes-I, we- You see, we brought someone home with us."
"You brought someone home?" said Miss Price slowly.

   
"Yes-we thought you wouldn't mind. Just for the day. He needn't stay the
night or anything." Carey's eyes seemed to plead with Miss Price. She grew
pinker and pinker.

   
"He?" repeated Miss Price.

   
"Yes. His name is Emelius Jones. Mr. Jones. He's a necromancer. He's awfully
nice, really, underneath."
"Mr. Jones," echoed Miss Price. She hadn't had a man staying in the
house since her father died, and that was more years ago than she cared to remember.
She had forgotten all their ways, what things they liked to eat and what subjects
they liked to talk about.

   
"What did you say he was?" asked Miss Price.

   
"He's just a necromancer. We thought you wouldn't mind. He lived near here
once, with an aunt. We thought you'd have a lot in common."
"Who's going to take him back?" asked Miss Price. She frowned. "No,
Carey, I do think this is thoughtless of you. I had made up my mind this was
the last trip the bed was going to make, and there you go picking up strange
necromancers who you know perfectly well have to be taken home again, which
means another journey." She pushed her feet into her bedroom slippers.
"Where did you say he was?"
"He's in your bedroom," said Carey. "On the bed."
Miss Price looked really put out. "Oh, dear," she said. "What
ever next?" She slipped her arms into her blue-flannel dressing gown. "How
am I to get my clothes, or do my hair, or anything? I really am annoyed, Carey!"
She gave a vicious tug as she tied up her dressing gown.

   
"You must take him down to breakfast, and I'll have to see about him later."
Emelius meekly followed Carey down the stairs. He looked dazed and gazed wanly
about him. As he took his place at the breakfast table, he staggered slightly
against Paul, who was halfway through his porridge.

   
Carey looked worried. "Mr. Jones, are you all right?"
"Yes, I am well enough."
"You look so pale."
Emelius ran a limp hand across his wind-blown hair. "Small wonder,"
he remarked, smiling faintly.

   
Carey gazed at him uneasily; she was thinking of Miss Price. Would he, she began
to wonder, give quite the right impression? In the bright light of day Emelius
looked far from clean: his tousled hair hung wispily about his ears and his
pallid skin was grayish. The long thin hands were stained, she noticed, and
the nails were rimmed with black. The velvet of his fur-trimmed robe, though
rich, was sadly spattered; and when he moved, he smelled of cottage kitchens.

   
There was no time to do anything about it, however; Miss Price came in almost
immediately, looking slightly flustered. She was wearing her best pink blouse,
the one she kept for trips to London. Emelius rose to his feet-long and thin,
he towered above the table.

   
Miss Price, in one swift glance, took in his appearance from top to toe. "So
this is Mr. Jones?" she remarked brightly-not, it seemed, to anyone in
particular.

   
"Emelius Jones. Your servant, madam. Nay"-he bowed deeply-"your
slave-"
"How do you do," put in Miss Price quickly.

   
"-humbly content," Emelius persisted, "to raise his eyes to one
whose subtle craft, maturing slowly through the ages as a plant in the dark
earth spreads its roots and sucks its sustenance, bripging forth shoot and stem
and branching foliage to burst at length into dazzling blossom, blinding in
this your twentieth century the reverent gaze of one who dared to doubt . .
."
Miss Price, blushing slightly, moved to her place behind the teapot. "Oh,
well," she exclaimed and gave a little laugh, "I wouldn't say that
exactly. Do you take milk and sugar?"
"You are bountiful," exclaimed Emelius, gazing at her spellbound.

   
"Not at all. Do sit down."
Emelius sat down slowly, still gazing. Miss Price, her lips pursed, poured out
two cups of tea in thoughtful silence. As she passed his cup, she said conversationally,
"I hear you have an aunt in these parts?"
"And a house," put in Carey quickly. To establish Emelius as a man
of property might help, in Miss Price's eyes, to enhance his status. "At
least, it will be his. On Tinker's Hill . . ."
"Really?" remarked Miss Price. She sounded dubious. She helped herself
to a boiled egg and began to tap it thoughtfully. "Is there a house on
Tinker's Hill?"
"Yes, indeed," Emelius assured her, "a comely, neat house-with
an apple orchard."
Miss Price looked noncommittal. "Really?" she said again, then, remembering
her manners, "Porridge, corn flakes, or rice crispies?"
He took porridge. Again there was silence-only comparative: Emelius was a noisy
eater and not, Carey noticed, a very tidy one. When he drank down his tea in
a series of gulps (as though it were medicine, thought Carey), Miss Price tightened
her lips and glanced at Paul. "You had better get down, dear," she
said.

   
"I haven't finished," complained Paul.

   
"Eat up, then. Quickly."
Paul, nothing loath, gobbled noisily, copying Emelius. Miss Price, averting
her face, took a dainty spoonful of boiled egg, which, closing her eyes, she
consumed very slowly. "Oh, dear," thought Carey, who knew this sign.
She glanced sideways at Emelius "who, having peeled one egg and eaten it
whole, was reaching for another. He picked off the shell abstractedly, deep
in thought. Suddenly he gave a large belch.

   
Miss Price opened her eyes, but she did not change her expression. "Some
more tea, Mr. Jones?" she asked sweetly.

   
Emelius looked up. "Nay, I am well enough," and, as he thought they
seemed puzzled, he added quickly, "but 'tis an excellent infusion. None
better. And good they say against the Falling Sickness."
"Really?" said Miss Price again, and hesitated. "Some toast and
marmalade?"
"Marmalade?"
"It's a preserve made from oranges."
"Ah, yes, indeed," exclaimed Emelius, "I am very partial to it."
He took the cut-glass dish, and, using the jam spoon, quite unhurriedly he scraped
it clean. Paul was fascinated; his eyes seemed to bulge and his mouth fell open.

   
"Now, get down, Paul," Miss Price said quickly when he seemed about
to speak; and she turned again politely to
Emelius who, more relaxed, was leaning back in his chair thoughtfully licking
the jam spoon. "The children tell me you are interested in magic?"
He laid down the spoon at once, all courteous attention. "Yes, that is
so. It is, as one might say, my calling."
"You practice for money?"
Emelius smiled, shrugging slightly. "For what else?"
Miss Price, quite suddenly, looked pleasantly flustered. "I don't know.
. . . You see-" Her face became quite pink. "A real professional!
I've never actually met one. . . ."
"No?"'
"No." Miss Price hesitated, her hands clasped together in her lap.
"You see-I mean-" She took a long breath. "This is quite an occasion."
Emelius stared. "But you, madam-do you not practice for money?"
"I? Oh dear me, no." She began to pour a second cup of tea. "I'm
only an amateur-the merest beginner."
"The merest beginner . . ." repeated Emelius, amazed. He stared even
harder. "Then-if I understand rightly-it was not you, madam, who caused
the bed to fly?"
"The bed-knob? Yes, that was me. But"-she laughed a little deprecatingly,
sipping her tea-"it was quite easy really-I just went by the book."
"You just went by the book," repeated Emelius in a stunned voice.
He drew out an ivory toothpick and, in a worried way, began to pick his teeth.

   
"Yes," (Carey felt happier now: Miss Price was almost prattling) "I
have to measure everything. I can't do a thing out of my head. I'd very much
like to invent a spell. That would be so worth while, don't you think? But somehow
. . ." She shrugged. "You, I dare say," she went on, dropping
her voice respectfully, "have invented many?"
For one panic-stricken moment, Emelius caught Carey's eye. He quickly looked
away again. "No, no-" he declaimed. Then, seeing Miss Price's expression,
he added modestly, "None to speak of." He gazed in a hunted way about
the room and saw the cottage piano. "That's a strange instrument,"
he remarked, as though to change the subject.

   
Miss Price got up and went toward it. "Not really," she explained,
"it's a Bluethner." As Emelius came beside her, she raised the lid
of the keyboard. "Do you play?"
"A little."
He sat down on the music stool and struck a few notes, half closing his eyes
as though listening to the tone. Then, head nodding and fingers skipping, he
swept into a little piece by William Byrd. He played with great feeling and
masterly restraint, using the piano as though it were a harpsichord. Miss Price
seemed quite impressed.