Bed-Knob and Broomstick (3 page)

   
Carey and Charles looked at him as though they had never seen him before.

   
"Well?" said Miss Price rather sharply.

   
Charles found his voice. "He's sort of young," he pointed out, "for
so much responsibility."
But Miss Price was firm. "The younger the better, as I
know to my cost. Now run along, children." She turned away, but almost
immediately she turned back again, lowering her voice. "Oh, by the way,
I meant to tell you something else. You know I said the spell was better than
I hoped. Well, if you twist it one way, the bed will take you where you want,
in the present. Twist it the other way and the bed will take you back into the
past."
"Oh, Miss Price!" exclaimed Carey.

   
"What about the future?" asked Charles.

   
Miss Price looked at him as the bus conductor looks when you ask for a ticket
to a place off the bus route. Charles blushed and churned up the gravel path
with the toe of his shoe.

   
"Now, remember what I said," went on Miss Price. "Have a good
time, keep to the rules, and allow for the bed."
She turned to the milkman, who had been waiting patiently by the step. "Half
a pint, please, Mr. Bisselthwaite, and my butter."
THE PRELIMINARY CANTER
It was hard to get through the rest of the day, but evening came at last; by
the time it was Paul's bedtime, anticipation had made them tired and excitement
had grown stale.

   
"Look here, Paul," said Carey suddenly, as Paul was brushing his teeth.
"You wouldn't go and do it by yourself. You'll lie still till Charles and
I come to bed, won't you?"
Paul looked at her over the slowly revolving brush.

   
"If you went off on that bed by yourself," continued Carey, "and
it went wrong, no one could save you. You might get stuck in the past or anything."
Paul spat into the hole in the basin. He watched the hole, and then, carefully,
he spat again. He felt aggrieved; from the moment he had screwed on the bed-knob,
after getting back from Miss Price's, Carey and Charles had not let him out
of their sight for an instant. It was His bed after all, and, what was more,
his bed-knob. They might have let him have a trial run, just to the bottom of
the garden, say, and back. He hadn't wanted to go far, but he had wanted to
know if it really worked.

   
"You see, Paul," went on Carey, "suppose Elizabeth came upstairs
with your milk, and the bed was gone. What then?

   
We've got to be very careful. It may seem deceitful, but we did promise Miss
Price. You can't go tearing about on the bed in broad daylight, and things like
that."
Paul rinsed his mouth and swallowed the water, as was his custom.

   
"Do you see, Paul? We've got to wait until they're all in bed. Come here,
and I'll comb your hair while it's wet."
They followed him into his bedroom. They sat on the bed. They all looked at
the bed-knob, just above Paul's right ear; it looked just like the other three.

   
"I bet it doesn't-work," said Charles. "I bet you anything."
"Shush," said Carey, as Elizabeth came in with their milk on a tray.

   
"Don't spill on the sheet, now," she said, panting, "and bring
the tray down, Miss Carey, please; it's my evening out."
"Your evening out?" repeated Carey. She began to smile.

   
"Nothing funny in that, I hope," said Elizabeth tartly. "I've
earned it. And no tricks, now; your aunt's not herself. She's gone to bed."
"Gone to bed?" echoed Carey again. She caught back the rest of her
smile just in time. Elizabeth looked at her curiously.

   
"No tricks, now," she repeated. "There's something funny about
you children. Butter wouldn't melt in your mouths, but I'm not so sure."
They heard her sigh on the landing. They heard her turn the corner. Then they
kicked off their slippers and danced. Noiselessly, tensely, breathlessly, they
gyrated and whirled and leapt; then, panting, they fell onto Paul's bed.

   
"Where shall we go?" whispered Carey, her eyes shining.

   
"Let's try a South Sea island," said Charles.

   
Paul bit deeply into his bread. His cheeks bulged and his
jaws moved slowly. He was the calmest of the three.

   
"The Rocky Mountains," suggested Carey.

   
"The South Pole," said Charles.

   
"The Pyramids."
"Tibet."
"The moon."
"Where would you like to go, Paul?" asked Carey suddenly. Happiness
had made her unselfish.

   
Paul swallowed his mouthful of bread and butter. "I'd like to go to the
Natural History Museum."
"Oh, Paul," said Carey.

   
"Not that kind of place. You can go there any time."
"I'd like to see the Big Flea in the Natural History Museum," said
Paul. He remembered how Carey and Charles had gone with an uncle, without him,
when he, Paul, .had been in bed with a cold.

   
"It was only a model. Think of another place, Paul. You can have first
turn, as it's your bed. But somewhere nice."
"I'd like to go to London," said Paul.

   
"But you can go to London almost any time," Charles reminded him.

   
"I'd like to go to London to see my mother."
"Don't say 'my mother.' She's our mother, too."
"I'd like to see her," repeated Paul simply.

   
"Well, we'd like to see her," admitted Carey. "But she'd be kind
of surprised."
"I'd like to see my mother." Paul's lips began to tremble, and his
eyes filled with tears. Carey looked worried.

   
"Paul," she tried to explain, "when you get a thing as magic
as this, you don't make that kind of wish, like seeing your mother and going
to museums and things; you wish for
something absolutely extraordinary. Don't you see, Paul? Try again."
Paul's face turned crimson, and the tears rolled out of his eyes and down his
cheeks.

   
"I'd like to see my mother, or the Big Flea." He was trying not to
sob aloud. He closed his lips, and his chest heaved up and down.

   
"Oh, dear," said Carey desperately. She stared down at her shoes.
x
"Let him have his turn," Charles suggested in a patient voice. "We
can go somewhere else afterwards."
"But don't you see-" began Carey. "Oh, all right," she added.
"Come on. Get on the bed, Charles." She began to feel excited again.

   
"Let's all hold onto the rails. Better tuck in that bit of blanket. Now,
Paul, take hold of the knob-gently. Here, I'll blow your nose. Now, are you
ready?"
Paul knelt up, facing the head of the bed and the wall. He had his hand on the
knob. "What shall I say?"
"Say Mother's address. Say, 'I wish to be at No. 38 Mark-ham Square' and
twist."
"I wish to be-" Paul's voice sounded thick. He cleared his throat.

   
"At No. 38," prompted Carey.

   
"At No. 38."
"Markham Square."
"Markham Square."
Nothing happened. There was an awful moment of suspense, then Carey added quickly,
"S.W.3."
"S.W.3," repeated Paul.

   
It was horrible. It was a swooshing rush, as if the world
had changed into a cinema film run too quickly. A jumble that was almost fields,
almost trees, almost streets, almost houses, but nothing long enough. The bed
rocked. They clung to the railings. The bedclothes whipped round Carey and Charles,
who clung to the foot, blinding them, choking them. A great seasick lurch. Then
bang . . . bump . . . clang . . . and a sliding scrape.

   
They had arrived.

   
They felt shaken and breathless. Slowly Carey unwound a blanket from her neck
and head. Her mouth was full of fluff. The eiderdown was blown tight round Charles
and hung through the brass rails of the bed. Paul was still kneeling on the
pillow. His face was scarlet and his hair was blown upright.

   
"Gosh," said Charles after a moment. He looked about him. They were
indeed in Markham Square. The bed had come to rest neatly alongside the pavement,
nearly touching the curb. There was No. 38 with its black front door, its checkered
steps, and the area railing. Charles felt extraordinarily conspicuous. The bed
was so very much a bed and the street so very much a street, and there was Paul
crossing the pavement in his bare feet to ring the front door bell. Paul, in
his pajamas and with such untidy hair, standing on Mother's front steps in broad
daylight-a warm, rich evening light, but nonetheless broad daylight.

   
Charles prayed for the door to open quickly. He was by nature extremely retiring.

   
A red bus rolled by at the end of the square. For the moment, the pavement was
empty.

   
"Ring again," he cried fervently. Paul rang again.

   
They heard the echo of the bell in the basement, a polite, regretful, empty
sound. The dark windows stared blankly.

   
"There's no one at home," said Carey when they had waited a minute
or two longer. She uncurled her legs. "Mother must have gone out to dinner,"
she announced, standing up. "Well, we'll have to wait. Let's tidy the bed."
As they made the bed, drawing up the blankets, turning back the sheets, plumping
up the pillows, Charles marveled at Carey's and Paul's lack of concern. Didn't
they think it odd, he wondered, to be making a bed there in a London street?
He glanced longingly toward the area steps. "Shall we try the back door?"
he suggested-anything to be away from the bed and down below the level of the
pavement. He couldn't go far because he hadn't any shoes on.

   
They crept down the area steps. They rattled and pulled at the tradesmen's door.
It was locked. They peered in at the kitchen window. A cup and saucer lay on
the drainboard; the rest of the kitchen was curiously tidy and deathly still.
The window was fastened. Even breaking it would have done no good. It was barred
against burglars.

   
"We must just sit on the bed and wait," sighed Carey.

   
"Not on the bed," said Charles hastily. "Let's stay down here,
where no one can see us," he added.

   
They all squeezed together on the bottom step, facing the dustbin. The area
smelled of wet tea leaves, and the step was cold.

   
"I don't call this much of an adventure," said Charles.

   
"Nor do I," agreed Carey. "It was Paul's idea."
It grew darker. Looking upwards, they saw that the light was draining quickly
from the street above. There was mist in the air.

   
They began to hear passers-by. The footsteps always paused at No. 38, and the
children, listening, realized how much grownups think alike. They nearly all
said, with deep
surprise, "How funny! A bed!" or "A bed! How funny!" Always
they heard the word "Bed-bed, bed, bed" and footsteps. Once Charles
spoke for them. As he heard the footsteps pause, he said aloud, "How funny,
a bed!" It was almost dark then, and a form peered down at them over the
area railings. "Some children," muttered a voice, as if explaining
to a second person. As the footsteps died away, Charles called after them, "And
a bed."
"Don't, Charles, it's rude. You'll get us into trouble." It became
quite dark, a darkness laced with mist. "River fog," said Charles,
"and if you ask me, I think Mother's gone away for the week end."
Paul was already asleep against Carey's shoulder. Carey had a sudden brain wave.

   
"I know!" she exclaimed. "Let's get into the bed! It's quite
dark now. If it's foggy enough, no one will see us."
They went up the steps again and crossed the pavement. Ah! It was good to crawl
under the blankets and to pull up the eiderdown. Above them the sky looked grayish
between the steep black roofs. The stars had disappeared.

   
"I honestly don't call this much of an adventure," whispered Charles.

   
"I know," Carey replied. "But it's the first time. We'll get
better at it."
Between them, Paul breathed deeply, exuding a pleasant warmth.

   
Carey must have been asleep for some time when the shock came. At first, shaken
out of a dream, she lay quite still. Damp darkness . . . her legs felt pinioned.
Where was she. Then she remembered.

   
"Please!" she cried, with an agonized squeak. The fog had deepened.
She could see nothing.

   
There was a hoarse gasp. "Well, I'll be-"
"Please," cried Carey again, interrupting. "Please get off my
foot."
A light flashed on, a terrifying dazzling circle; shining straight in their
eyes as it did, it felt like a searchlight.

   
The gruff voice said again, "Well, I'll be blowed-kids!"
The weight lifted itself, and thankfully Carey curled back her legs, blinking
at the glare. She knew suddenly, without being able to see a thing, that behind
that light was a policeman. She felt a policeman, large and tall and fat and
creaking.

   
He switched off his flashlight. "Kids!" he said again in a surprised
voice. Then he became stern. "Can't 'ave this, you
know." He breathed heavily. "Can't 'ave beds, like this, in the street.
Danger to the public. Caught me on the shin, this bed did. A street's no place
for beds. Where's your mother?"
"I don't know," said Carey in a low voice.

   
"Speak up," said the policeman. "What's your name?"
"Carey Wilson."
On went the light again and out came a notebook. Again the policeman sat down.
The bed creaked, but Carey's toes were out of reach.

   
"Address?"
Charles sat up sleepily. "What?" he said.

   
Carey had a sudden vision of Aunt Beatrice's face, the tight lips, the pink-rimmed
eyes. She thought of her mother, worried, upset. Letters, policemen, complaints,
fines, prison.

   
"Look," said Carey, "I'm terribly sorry we hurt your shin. If
you just move, we'll take the bed away, and then you won't be troubled any more.
We'll take it right away. Really."
"This 'ere's an iron bed," said the policeman. "This 'ere bed's
good and heavy."
"We can take it," urged Carey. "We brought it here. We have a
way of taking it."
"I don't see no way of-taking this bed anywhere-not in this fog."
"If you'd just move a moment," said Carey, "we'll show you."
"Not so fast, miss." The policeman was getting into his stride. "I'm
not moving anywhere, just at present. Where did you bring this 'ere bed from?"
Carey hesitated. Trouble-that was what they were heading for. She thought again
of Aunt Beatrice. And of Miss
Price-oh, Miss Price, that was almost the worst of all; to tell about Miss Price
would be the end of everything-yet no good ever came of lying.