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

"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.