The Well-Wishers (6 page)

Since it was my turn for an adventure, everybody had to agree. But I think they all liked the idea, too. We decided to start right out and investigate the wells on our own Silvermine Road first. But we took our bikes along, because there was no telling how far the organization might spread. Gordy rode Deborah on his handlebars as usual.

But first I went over to our own well and looked down. "Thank you for the message," I told it. "Did we get it right? Now just keep on cooperating, please."

And we started up Silvermine Road.

The first well we came to was awfully pretty, with iron curlicues all over it and vines trained around. But when we looked down, we saw that it wasn't a real well at all, but just decoration. Some people would do anything for show.

The next well had a sign on the lawn saying, "Beware of the dog," and we didn't and we wished we had. I don't know how many wells we missed before the dog got tired of chasing us and went home.

The third well ought to have been the lucky one, but while we were investigating it, a little old lady came out of the house and said yes, it was a wishing well, and every morning when the morning glories said good morning to her, a dear little fairy looked out of the well and said good morning, too. This was discouraging, but we were polite about it.

But some of the other wells belonged to quite understanding people who said that they hadn't tried wishing yet, but they certainly would at the first opportunity. I wrote their names down in my notebook, and they promised to let us know what happened. And one of them gave us a whole half of a Lady Baltimore cake. But it seemed that if there was a secret club called the Well-Wishers, we were the only members.

The Lady Baltimore cake was delicious, though. We ate it in the little old forgotten cemetery by the corner of Wilton Road. Kip says picnicking in cemeteries is grisly, but I like this one. It is quiet, and old enough to feel historical. And there is nothing like munching some good cake in a quiet place to make a person think, I find.

Sure enough, just as I was finishing the last crumbs, I had an idea.

"You know what?" I said. "That part of the letter about the railroad station. That could mean something, too."

"Like a clue?" said Kip.

"Why not? Magic doesn't just go round saying things at random. It's all supposed to add up. I think we ought to head for the station right now, and see what happens." So it turned out to be a good thing we'd brought our bikes along. But maybe the magic had attended to that, too.

When we came down Elm Street, a train had just pulled in that Kip said was the one-eighteen. He is good with timetables. There were only two passengers left on the platform, and as we coasted into the station yard, they drove off in a taxi. James and Lydia were sure they were part of the magic, and wanted us to jump in the next taxi and say, "Follow that cab!" and see what adventure the people would lead us to.

But we only had fifty cents among us, and besides, I had seen who the two people were and I knew where they would lead us. It was Florence Squibb and her mother, back from the dentist's in Stamford, and the only place they would lead us would be the Squibbs' house on Whiffle tree Lane. And Florence Squibb is a perfectly nice girl, and fine for trading movie stars' pictures with when all else fails, but there is no magic in her.

"No," I said, "I think we're meant to stick to wells. I think we're meant to start from the station and try the first well we see." So we went along Park Street, because it was closest.

But there are no wells on Park Street. It is all neat houses in rows, almost like being in the city. Later on, though, it runs into Old Stamford Road, and there is country again. We went^jast the Bird Sanctuary, and Gordy revealed hidden depths, telling us what the different birds were and all about them, till we begged him to stop.

It is wonderful what magic can do for people. I have never heard Gordy even mention a robin before. But now it is almost as if
he
were the Sleeping Beauty and Sylvia had broken the spell and wakened
him
up.

But there was no well in the Bird Sanctuary. We didn't count the birdbath.

We were beginning to be discouraged when we heard a voice calling us ahead. That seemed like a hopeful sign, and we urged our flagging bikes forward.

The voice turned out to belong to a little old man at a roadside stand, and now we could hear his words.

"Apples, ripe apples, Winesaps, Northern Spies, Greenings!"

And we saw the apples piled round on shelves, bright red and light green and mixed, and all rounder and juicier-looking than you'd ever find in any store. We saw the orchard, too, stretching out on all sides, the trees thick with fruit. Next to the stand was a sign, "Appledore Orchard, Adam Appledore, Prop." Judging by looks, we felt sure the little old man could only be Adam Appledore himself. His face was the shape of an apple and the color of an apple, too. A red one, that is.

It had been a long pull from the cemetery to the station, and by now the Lady Baltimore cake seemed long ago and far away. So we put our fifty cents together and Mr. Appledore made us up a wonderful basket, of all the kinds he had except the cooking ones.

James bit into a Delicious. "And rightly named," he said.

"Eat your fill," said Mr. Appledore. "It's your last chance."

And then we noticed another sign, to one side. "This property is condemned," it said.

"Poor orchard. What's it done?" said Deborah, when we had explained to her what "condemned" meant.

"Not a thing," said Mr. Appledore, "except earn a living for me and mine these forty year. And for my father before me and his father before him."

"But that's terrible," I said. "A beautiful big orchard like this."

"Ayeh," said Mr. Appledore. "That it is. Beautiful in fall with the fruit of them and beautiful in spring with the bloom of them and beautiful in winter with just the shape of them, them trees are. What with feeding and spraying and picking 'em, them trees has been like friends of mine, from a boy. And it's sad to see one friend pass on at my time o' life, not speakin' o' two thousand and two, that being the sum in question."

"Where are they passing on
to?
" said James. "What's going to happen to them?"

"Lumberyard," said Mr. Appledore, "or firewood. All cut down to make room for this newfangled railway station!"

At that we all looked at each other. And I was sure we were on the right track.

"Couldn't they build their station someplace else?" asked Lydia.

"No place else near the railroad line big enough for the parking lot," said Mr. Appledore. "Pesky overgrown station wagons! Danged commuters!"

"The town's paying you, isn't it?" said Kip in rather a peculiar voice.

"Ayeh," Mr. Appledore admitted. "They're paying me well enough. But where can I find another orchard this size without emigratin' to foreign parts? Nearest one is three miles across town. And I like this here neighborhood right here. There've always been Appledores on Old Stamford Road."

"Mr. Appledore," I said, "do not despair. We'll save you. We were
sent
to save you. I don't know how just yet, but we will."

"That's as may be," said Mr. Appledore.

And then I gave the others a look, and we moved on, because I thought it would be more delicate to discuss Mr. Appledore's problem in private. There wasn't a doubt in my mind, or James's or Lydia's or Gordy's or Deborah's, about the good turn the magic wanted us to do. We walked slowly, wheeling our bikes, so as to have more breath for talking.

"We've got to save those apples," I said. "Only how?"

"I don't see why we need a new station in the first place," said James, and I agreed. Personally we hadn't been near the station since we first moved here from New York City, until today. Because who would want to go anywhere when we had the country, and magic, too?

"I
think there ought to be a town meeting," said Lydia, "like before."

She was thinking of the time when the town wanted to build a new school and some people tried to stop it. But we worked our magic on the town meeting, and today the new school is going up and almost finished.

Kip spoke for the first time in quite a while. He was frowning, which was unusual, because he is mostly a happy-go-lucky type without a serious thought in his head.

"I don't think this is quite the same thing," he said. "I think this time there're two sides to it."

I looked at him, surprised.

"It's all very well for you," he went on, to James and me. "Your father's a writer and works at home. And Lydia's grandmother's an artist and Gordy's mother's just rich and doesn't do anything. But
my
Pop's a businessman and his business is in New York. He goes in there every day so we can stay out here. And if he's willing to make that sacrifice, I think at least he ought to have a place to park his car. And the old station lot isn't half big enough; I've heard him say so."

There did seem to be some sense to this. Somebody has to be in New York, I suppose, or they wouldn't have it. "But those wonderful apples!" I said.

"I'm sorry about them," said Kip, "but I think maybe they'll have to go. I think maybe if you try to save them, you'll be like those people who didn't want the new school because it would spoil our lovely old village quality. I think you'll be standing in the way of progress. And you can't. Nobody can."

Kip certainly can be convincing when he tries. Maybe because he doesn't try very often. But I felt like a balloon that somebody's pricked a hole in. "If the magic didn't mean us to save the apples," I said, "what
did
it mean?"

"The thing is," said James, "to find a way for Mr. Appledore to leave his orchard and have it, too."

We were so deep in thought and talk that we weren't looking around or noticing where we were going. But Deborah has sharp eyes and never misses anything.

"There's a well," she said now.

We had forgotten all about wells, but we looked, and there one was, in the middle of a big garden by the side of the road. There was a hedge all round the garden, and a gate at the entrance. The hedge was overgrown and the gate was off its hinges.

The mailbox by the gate said "Smith." Someone had painted a border of bright flowers around the name, but the paint was peeling and the mailbox hung all crooked.

The garden looked lovely at first, but when we came closer, we saw that the lawn was full of dandelions and plantains and there were tent caterpillars on the shrubs. Plants bloomed in the flower beds, but they hadn't been staked and the tall ones had fallen down and were lying all over the low ones.

We stood looking over the gate and now a lady came from the house. She was a very large lady and not very young or very beautiful, but she moved as if she thought she were both. She had on a lot of trailing scarves and a big garden hat, and as she came swaying down the path, she suddenly threw back her head and screamed. Or at least that's what I thought at first, but then I realized she was probably singing.

And Kip, who is a hi-fi fiend, said later that it was the "Jewel Song" from
Faust,
and grand opera.

"'Ah, what gems with their magic glare deceive my eye? Ah!'" She sang, going up higher than you would think anyone could, or would want to. She leaned over the well. "'Marguerite, is it you? Is it you, or some lovely vision?'" she sang, peering into the well as if she expected to find the truth at the bottom of it.

I led the way through the gate and up the path.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am," I said. "Is that a wishing well?"

The lady did not seem surprised to see six strange children in her garden. But then she is a very vague lady, as we were to learn.

"Who knows?" she said. "I was just wishing there were someone to hear me, and now there you are! So perhaps it is. Now you can tell your children and your children's children that you were the last to hear the golden notes of Marguerite Salvini!"

"Gosh," said Kip. "Is that who you are? My pop's got an old record of you."

"Records?" said the lady. "What are records? They are as nothing to those who have seen Marguerite Salvini in the flesh!"

And as we surveyed her ample curves, I am sure we were all ready to believe that this was true.

"The mailbox says Smith," said James, ever one for getting the facts straight.

"So it does," said the lady. "That was my secret. When crowned heads bowed before the great Marguerite Salvini, little did they think that she was born plain Maggie Smith. Yet plain Maggie Smith became the toast of Europe. In Paris they drank champagne from my slipper. In Rome they unharnessed my horses and pulled my carriage through the streets!"

"And then," I said, "I suppose you wearied of the vain pomp and show?"

"Yes," said the lady, "that's exactly what I did. What joy, I thought, to be plain Maggie Smith again and live in a cottage by the side of the road and be a friend to man! But it has riot worked out at all. The roof leaks and the peas failed and the corn got borers and the beans came up upside down!" And she raised her voice in song. "'Farewell to the bright visions I once fondly cherished. Already the roses that decked me have perished!'"

"There's a rose still," said Deborah, picking a late red one and handing it to her. The lady raised it to her nose and dropped it again. There was a Japanese beetle on it.

"You see?" she said. "And as for the apples..."

"Apples?" I said, excited. "You have apples?"

"A whole orchard full." She waved an arm, and for the first time I noticed apple trees covering the hill beyond the house for as far as I could see. "But alas. All wormy."

"If they're wormy, the trees must need spraying," said James.

"Sprrrraying?" said Madame Salvini, getting more trilled r's into it than you'd think one word could hold. "What do I know of spraying? Or digging or weeding or hammering nails? What has an artist to do with these?" And she was off again. '"Love and music, these have I lived for, nor ever have harmed a living being. The poor and distressful by stealth I have succored...."'