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

Paul gazed at the hazy green of the rounded hillside. It
seemed to him far away and, at the same time, quite close. It was part of the lovely dream of riding in a milk cart instead of in a taxi, part of the clip-clop of the pony's hoof on the flinty road, part of the rhythmic rise and fall of the dusty piebald back and the light swift rattle of the wheels.
"Miss Price's house is there, Paul," said Carey, "under that hill. You can't see it yet. Oh, you see that lane? That goes to-to Body-something Farm."
"Lowbody Farm," said Mr. Bisselthwaite.
"Lowbody Farm. Oh, and there's Farr Wood-"
"Look, Paul," broke in Charles. "You see those cedars- those dark trees just beyond the church spire? Well, Aunt Beatrice's house is in there. Where we stayed last time."
"The Water Board took it over," said Mr. Bisselthwaite.
"Oh," said Carey. "When?"
"About a twelvemonth after your aunt died."
"Oh," said Carey again. She was silent for a while, trying to imagine the dark old house without Aunt Beatrice; without the high sideboards and the heavy curtains; without the rugs and the tables and the palms in pots; without the . . .
"Mr. Bisselthwaite!" she said suddenly.
"Well?"
"Did the Water Board take the furniture?"
"No, the furniture was sold."
"Who to?"
"Well, there was a sale like. Dealers from London came down. And the village bought a bit. My old woman bought a roll of linoleum and a couple of chairs."
"Oh," said Carey.
So the furniture had been sold. Someone, somewhere, all unknowing, had bought Paul's bed, was sleeping on it at night, making it in the morning, stripping back the sheets, turning the mattress . . .
"Was everything sold?" Carey asked. "Beds and all?"
"I reckon so," said Mr. Bisselthwaite. "The Water Board wouldn't want no beds. Whoa, there," he called, bringing the pony to a walk. "Know where you are now?"
It was the Lane-Miss Price's lane that ran along the bottom of Aunt Beatrice's garden. Carey's heart began to beat as she saw a bright cluster of rambler roses among the hawthorns of the hedge, Miss Price's Dorothy Perkins-the ones that twined across her gate. They were thicker, higher, more full of bloom than they had been before. And here was the gate with "Little Alders" painted on it in white. She glanced at Charles. He, too, looked slightly nervous.
"Well," said Mr. Bisselthwaite as the pony came to a standstill, "here we are. I'll give ye a hand with the bags."
The gate squeaked a little as they opened it, and the latch clanged. They walked as if in a dream down the straight paved path between the flower beds, which led to the front door. It was silly, Carey told herself, to feel afraid.
The door opened before they touched the knocker, and there before them was Miss Price. It was almost a shock.
Miss Price-fresh and smiling, and rather flushed. "I heard the gate," she explained, taking Carey's bag. "Well, well, well. This is nice! Careful of the step, Paul; it's just been cleaned." She was as they remembered her, and yet, as people do when you have not seen them for a long time, she seemed somehow different. But something about her long pink nose comforted Carey suddenly. It was a kind nose, a shy nose, a nose that had had a tear on the tip of it once (so long ago it seemed); it was a reassuring nose; it was Miss Price.
A delicious smell of hot scones filled the little hall. Miss Price was saying things like: "Wait a minute while I get my purse. . . . Paul, how you've grown. . . . Put it down there, Mr. Bisselthwaite, please, just by the clock. . . . Three and six from ten shillings is. ... Paul, don't touch the barometer, dear. The nail's loose. . . . Now let me see. . . ."
And then Mr. Bisselthwaite was gone, and the front door was closed, and there was tea in the dining room where the square table took up all the space and the chairs nearly touched the walls. There were scones and jelly and potted meat. And there, through the lace curtain, beyond the window, was Tinker's Hill, steeped rich and gold in the afternoon sunshine, and Carey suddenly felt rested and happy and full of peace.
After tea Miss Price showed them their rooms.
It was a small house, neither old nor new. There were brass stair rods on a Turkey carpet, and at the top of the stairs a picture of "Cherry Ripe." Carey's room was very neat, but there were a lot of things stored there as well as the bedroom furniture. Cardboard boxes were stacked on top of the wardrobe, and a dressmaker's dummy, shaped like an hourglass, stood behind the mahogany towel rack. But there was a little jar of mignonette on the dressing table, and a spray of dog roses in a vase of the mantelshelf. Charles's room was neat too-and barer. It had an iron bed and cream-painted furniture. It had probably been a maid's room.
"Paul, I'm afraid," said Miss Price, "must sleep on the sofa in my bedroom. You see, I only said two children in my advertisement but"-she smiled round at them quickly and made a little nervous movement with her bony hands- "I never thought-I never dreamed it would be you."
"Weren't you surprised?" asked Carey, coming up to her. They were standing beside Charles's bed.
"Yes, yes, I was surprised. You see, I'm not very fond of strangers. I had to have someone."
"Why? "asked Paul.
"The rising cost of living," explained Miss Price vaguely. Then, in a sudden burst of frankness: "It was putting in the new kitchen sink, really. Stainless steel, you know. And what with the plumbing . . . well, anyway, that's how it was. And, on the whole, I prefer children to adults. Through the Times, I thought I might get two well-brought-up ones . . ."
"And you got us," said Carey.
"Yes," agreed Miss Price, "I got you. Had we only known," she went on brightly, "we could have done it all without advertising at all. Now you two had better unpack. Where are Paul's things?"
"They're mostly in with Charles's," said Carey. "Miss Price."
"Yes?"
"Could we-could we see the rest of the house?" A watchful look came over Miss Price's face. She folded her hands together and glanced down at them.
"You mean the kitchen and the bathroom?"
"I mean-" said Carey. She took a deep breath. "I mean -your workroom."
"Yes," said Paul eagerly, "could we see the stuffed crocodile?"
Miss Price raised her eyes. There was an odd trembling look around her mouth, but her glance was quite steady.
"There is no stuffed crocodile," she said.
"Alligator, he means," put in Charles.
"Nor alligator," said Miss Price.
There was a moment's embarrassed silence. All three pairs of eyes were fixed on Miss Price's face, which remained tight and stern.
"Oh," said Carey in a weak voice.
Miss Price cleared her throat. She looked round at them as if making up her mind. "I think," she said in a thin kind of voice, "it would be better if you did see my workroom." She felt in the pocket of her skirt and brought out a bunch of keys. "Come along," she said rather grimly.
Once more, after two long years, they were in the dark passage by the kitchen; once again Miss Price was putting a key in a well-oiled lock, and, as if in memory of that other time, Carey's heart began to beat harder and she clasped her hands together as if to stop them trembling.