"Norton, Mary - Bedknob and Broomstick 01-02 - Bedknob and Broomstick" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Mary)

Carey pushed the paper across. "See," she said, pointing with her finger.
He did not see at first. "Mink coat," he read aloud, "scarcely worn . . ."
"No, below that."
"Pale hands, my heart is singing . . ."
"No, here." She leaned over him, her braids snaking on the table. "Lady with small house . . ."
"Lady with small house in country willing accommodate two school children summer holidays. Moderate terms. Highest references. Reply E. Price, Much Frensham . . ." Charles's voice grew slower. ". . . Beds."
There was silence.
LOST AND FOUND 99
"Now do you see?" asked Carey.
Charles nodded. They were silent again.
"Little Alders?" said Charles after a moment. "Was that the name of the house?"
"Something like that. I can't quite remember."
"There must be lots of Prices in Much Frensham," protested Charles.
"But E. Price," said Carey. "Miss Price's name was Eglan-
tine."
"Was it?" said Charles. He, too, had become a shade paler.
"Yes. Eglantine Price," repeated Carey firmly.
They stared at each other without speaking. Then once more they leaned over the paper.
"It says only two children," Charles pointed out.
"Oh, Paul can sleep anywhere, if she knows it's us, don't you think?"
Both minds were working furiously. With a mother who was tied to her office, there was always this problem of the long summer holiday. Last year, they had gone to a farm in Cornwall and had enjoyed it very much; there seemed no reason why they should not be sent there again.
"But Much Frensham's much nearer London," Carey pointed out. "Mother could get down to see us. And when we tell her that Miss Price was a friend of Aunt Beatrice's-"
"Not a friend exactly."
"Yes. Remember the peaches?"
Charles was silent. "What about the bed-knob?" he said at last.
"What about it?"
"Where is it?"
Carey's face fell. "I don't know." She thought a moment. "It must be somewhere."
"Why? Heaps of things in this house aren't anywhere. I'd as soon go to Cornwall," Charles went on, "as go to Miss Price's without the bed-knob."
"Well, I would too," admitted Carey-at least there were beaches in Cornwall . . . and caves, and rock-climbing. She thought a moment. "Once it was in the knife box."
"It isn't now."
"Or was it the tool drawer?"
"Yes, it was in the tool drawer for ages. After they redid the nursery cupboards, remember? It isn't now."
"I don't know," mused Carey. "I've seen it somewhere- in a box or something. There were some old door handles, and some screws . . ."
"Old door handles?" exclaimed Charles. "I know where those are."
"Where?"
Charles jumped to his feet. "That canvas bag on a nail in the broom cupboard. . ."
That was just where it was-a little rusty and spotted with whitewash. They took it as a "sign."
Mrs. Wilson was puzzled. Bedfordshire instead of Cornwall? And why this undercurrent of excitement about so very zm-exciting a maiden lady? There was more in this, she suspected uneasily, than appeared on the surface. But to all her questions, they gave the most satisfactory replies. Miss Price, as a holiday chaperone, sounded almost too good to be true. Letters were exchanged and a meeting was arranged. The children mooned about in a torment of suspense. They need not have worried, however. Over tea and cakes with Miss Price at Fuller's, their mother's fears were laid. Although unable to discover the secret of Miss Price's
peculiar charm, Mrs. Wilson found her just as Carey had described her-quiet, reserved, a little fussy. Dignified but friendly, she expressed a guarded fondness for the children and her willingness to accommodate all three, provided they would be careful of her belongings and would help a little in the house.
"How wonderful . . . how wonderful!" sang Carey when she heard the news. She went on singing and dancing about the room, and even Charles felt impelled to try a handstand. Only Paul remained stolid. He sat on the hearth rug, watching them curiously.
"Will we sleep there?" he asked his mother, at last.
Mrs. Wilson turned to look at him-too bland, his face seemed, almost too candid. "Yes, Paul," she said, in a puzzled voice, "of course you will sleep there. . . ." Again, for some reason, she began to feel uneasy. "Why?"
Paul began to smile. It was a slow smile, which spread gradually over all his face. He turned away and began plucking at the carpet. "Oh, nothing," he said lightly.
AND LOST AGAIN
When they arrived at the station, it looked at first as though there was no one to meet them. Then Carey saw the milk cart on the far side of the level crossing. "Come on," she said, "there's Mr. Bisselthwaite." She was surprised when the name came so easily to her tongue. Mr. Bisselthwaite the milkman ... of course.
"She ordered an extra two pints," Mr. Bisselthwaite told them, as they climbed on the cart. "And she said it was you. Growed, hasn't he?" he added, nodding at Paul.
"We all have," said Carey. The train had gone, and the station was quiet. The grass by the roadside smelled of clover, and high up in the sky a lark sang. "Oh, it's lovely to be back in the country!"
Clop-clop-clop went the pony. The scent of horse mingled with the scent of fields, and deep country stillness spread away on all sides.
"There's Tinker's Hill," said Charles. Tinker's Hill? How oddly these names came back. And the Roman Remains. "Look, Paul, that grass-covered sort of wall-that was a Roman fortress once."