Carbonel and Calidor

20. The Motto

THE return flight to Highdown passed off without further adventure. As they flew over the roundabout, they all three peered down in search of Mrs Witherspoon.

‘I can’t see anything pink there now,’ shouted Rosemary.

‘Nor can I, but I think I saw the remains of the tricycle,’ called John. ‘Wherever can she be? — I say,’ he said, as they sped on, ‘more clouds ahead and it’s beginning to rain. We shall get simply soaked!’

‘Not if you tell the broom to fly above the rain clouds,’ said Miss Dibdin. ‘It won’t like its twigs getting wet.’

‘Up! Up!’ cried John, clapping the broomstick with his knees, and it responded gallantly. Soon they were flying in brilliant sunshine, the tumbling clouds, so dark and grey on their underside, glistened white and bright as sugar icing from above. The country below was completely hidden, and it was not till some time later, when the broom began to lose height, that they guessed they were nearing home. Soon they were surrounded by the damp grey mist of the rain cloud once more.

‘I wish you’d told the broom to land us at the bottom of the garden,’ said Rosemary. ‘You simply said “Take us to Uncle Zack”, and he may be anywhere; having a bath, or crossing the road ...’

‘Not now, you owl,’ said John. ‘The Sale will have started, I should think, so he’s sure to be in one of the showrooms.’

‘Which may be even more awkward,’ said Miss Dibdin. ‘It may be full of customers.’

‘They’ll have a fit if they see us come swooping in on the broom,’ said Rosemary.

‘So undignified for an elderly school teacher!’ complained Miss Dibdin.

‘Well, it can’t be helped now,’ said John. ‘I did wonder about the garden, but I couldn’t think of anything to rhyme with it except “pardon”, and I was blowed if I was going to apologize to any old besom!’ The broom bucked uncomfortably at this. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,’ he went on hurriedly.

They had dropped below the clouds now, and were being well and truly rained upon. The roof of Roundels was racing up to meet them.

‘Hold tight! And keep your heads down!’ yelled John, as the broom dived suddenly. It swooped through the open front door, turned sharply to the left, overturning the umbrella-stand as the twigs swished round, and landed with a clatter, exactly as it had been commanded, at the feet of Uncle Zack. It so happened that he was standing by Mr Sprules, with his back to the room, studying some papers on a table which had been pushed against the wall. Neither of them saw the broom’s arrival; they only heard it, and turned quickly to see Miss Dibdin struggling to her feet.

‘My dear madam!’ said Uncle Zack, hurrying to give her a helping hand. ‘I trust you are not hurt?’

‘No, no,’ she replied rather breathlessly. ‘Only a little shaken.’

‘And as for you two children! What are you doing sitting on the floor? And where on earth have you been all this time? We finished lunch ages ago.’

‘Now, I beg you, don’t be cross with them,’ said Miss Dibdin. ‘We are old friends from Fallowhithe, we met just ... just outside the village, and they both insisted that I should come with them to ... to ...’

‘To the Sale?’ said Uncle Zack.

‘To the Sale, of course,’ said Miss Dibdin, hurriedly, as she dusted down her skirt. ‘Antiques ... so interesting! I only hope this dreadful weather will not keep your customers away.’ The rain was beating steadily on the window.

‘I’m afraid it is only too likely,’ said Uncle Zack ruefully. ‘There are only a few people here so far. But let me show you round, madam, while these two graceless children go down to the kitchen and get something to eat!’

‘And face the music,’ said Mr Sprules. ‘I don’t think Mrs Bodkin is very pleased with you! Good luck!’

He was right. With the help of her married cousin, she was setting out cups and saucers on a number of trays on the kitchen table. When she saw John and Rosemary, she paused in her work for a moment, and rolled her eyes. She said nothing, but they recognized the cloud of crossness that Uncle Zack had described, in which she seemed to wrap herself. It was her married cousin who did the scolding. As they could not explain why they were so late, all they could do was to say they were very sorry, and put up with the reproaches. It was Mrs Bodkin who came to their rescue in the end.

‘Oh, give over, Daisy, do,’ she said. ‘At least they’re back now and no harm done. There’s some cold meat and salad on a couple of plates in the larder. You’d better go and eat it, somewhere out of the way.’

‘And then we’ll come and help with the teas won’t we, John?’ said Rosemary.

‘Raining cats and dogs, it is. Just your poor uncle’s luck!’ went on Mrs Bodkin. Oh, I nearly forgot. A parcel came for you when you were out, Rosie. I put it on your bed.’

‘I expect it’s my other coat,’ said Rosemary. ‘I asked Mum to send it.’

The most ‘out-of-the-way’ place they could think of was Rosemary’s bedroom, at the top of the house. Dumpsie was already curled up, fast asleep, on the patchwork quilt, with the parcel beside her.

‘It seems a shame to disturb her,’ said Rosemary. ‘I’ll put the smelly old fish where she can see it when she wakes.’ She had been clasping the rusty tin wrapped in her handkerchief ever since they left Fallowhithe.

As she expected, the parcel proved to be her old coat.

‘Isn’t it funny how friendly old clothes feel?’ she said as she slipped it on.

‘Just look at Dumpsie,’ said John.

The smell of the fish was so strong, that even in her sleep her whiskers began to quiver, and her small black nose to twitch. Suddenly she was wide awake.

‘Oh, it’s you!’ she said, lifting her muzzle into the air, and moving it from side to side, with eyes half-closed, while she savoured to the full the richness of the smell. ‘Whatever is this delicious ...?’

‘It’s a present from your mother,’ said John. ‘We’ve just been to Fallowhithe Rubbish Dump, and ... for goodness’ sake eat it pretty quickly!’ he added, holding his hand over his nose.

‘But not on my bed!’ said Rosemary, and she hurriedly tipped the fish head on to a piece of paper in the hearth. ‘We’ll tell you all about everything while we eat our dinner,’ said John. ‘I’m rattling inside I’m so empty.’

They climbed on to the patchwork quilt, and in between mouthfuls of cold meat and salad, they told Dumpsie all their adventures. The little cat actually paused in astonishment several times while polishing off her banquet.

‘And to think as you’ve been to the dear old Dump and talked to my ma!’ she said, when at last she had finished the haddock head and was washing her paws. ‘And did he really say “Give my undying love to my one and only Dumpsie”? Prince Calidor, I mean,’ she went on, purring rapturously. Rosemary nodded. ‘And tonight at moonrise, when you go to Tucket Towers, you’ll let me come too?’ she pleaded. ‘There’s no knowing but even the likes of me might come in useful. My paw hardly hurts at all now.’

John and Rosemary looked at one another and nodded.

‘You’ll have to fly with us on the broom,’ said John. ‘I say, we left it downstairs! I’d better go and fetch it.’

When he returned, Rosemary had tidied herself up and brushed her hair. She was standing in front of the long mirror, waving her arms about in a strange way.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ said John.

‘Trying to see if I could do funny floppy sort of movements; like Mrs Witherspoon, when she was making the Middle Magic.’

‘Like a Meccano model when it hasn’t been screwed up properly,’ said John. ‘You’ll never do it. You’re not scrawny enough.’

Rosemary turned suddenly from the mirror, and stood, hands plunged in the pockets of her coat, staring out of the small latticed window at the rain-soaked view.

‘It must be exciting to be able to make real magic,’ she said in a far-away voice. ‘Not just flying on broomsticks. What did Mrs Witherspoon mean when she said I was twice the witch that Miss Dibdin was?’

‘Search me!’ said John. ‘Have you noticed how different Miss Dibdin is since she packed in the witch business? She’s nice now, and quite sensible.’

Rosemary did not answer. Instead, she turned suddenly from the window and said: ‘If I was a witch I’d wish you good at football. Would you like that?’ John shook his head.

‘It wouldn’t be any use. I should know it was only the magic, not me being good at it.’ Then he laughed. ‘A corny old witch you’d make, Rosie! Why, what’s the matter?’

Rosemary had taken off her coat and was feeling the hem. ‘I’ve just found a hole in one of the pockets, and I think something has slipped through into the lining.’

After a few minutes’ poking, she produced a small screw of paper.

‘Bet it’s only an old shopping list,’ said John, as she smoothed it out; but it wasn’t a shopping list.

‘It’s a sort of poem,’ said Rosemary, and began to read:

‘Choose your wishes carefully:

Seven steps to gramarye.’

She broke off. ‘I think grammar’s boring. Whoever ...’

‘Wait a minute,’ interrupted John. ‘Isn’t “gramarye” an old word for magic? Nothing to do with grammar — verbs and nouns and things. Read it again. All of it.’

‘Choose your wishes carefully:

Seven steps to gramarye.

Build them one upon another,

Each wish built upon another.

Seven stages then you’ll be

On the road to witchery.

Learn your lesson:

Learn it fast:

The seventh wish will be your last.’

Rosemary’s voice faded into silence, and they stood and looked at one another. ‘What double-dyed idiots we’ve been,’ said John at last. ‘It’s the instructions that came in the purple cracker, about how to use the Golden Gew-Gaw.’

‘And we thought it was just a stupid cracker motto. I must have shoved it in my pocket, and it went through the hole, and it’s been there all the time!’ said Rosemary.

‘Only seven wishes,’ went on John. ‘How many have we had already?’ He began to count them on his fingers. ‘There was the first one at the bus stop when you wished you could fly ...’

‘Only the ring fell off, but I suppose that counts,’ said Rosemary. ‘And then I wished the Scrabbles would come alive. That’s two.’

‘And that lighter-than-air business. That makes three.’

‘And Mother Boddles and the washing, makes four.’

‘And Mrs Witherspoon wishing Miss Dibdin away to the Ladies’ Waiting Room makes five,’ said John. ‘So there are only two more wishes left! And Mrs Witherspoon has got the ring. She may even have used up the other two by now!’

‘And all our wishes have been so silly,’ said Rosemary. ‘We haven’t done any of this “build-them-one-upon-another” business. What a waste!’

‘Let’s hope Mrs Witherspoon still doesn’t know the Gew-Gaw is a wishing ring,’ said John. ‘She couldn’t have been more surprised when she magicked Miss Dibdin away with it. We’ve got to get it back somehow, before she wishes something frightful.’

‘But we don’t even know where she is now!’ said Rosemary. ‘What a mess! What can we do?’

‘Go and help Mother Boddles for a start,’ said John. ‘Come on ...’

‘There’s still only a handful of people come to the Sale,’ he said a few minutes later. They were standing by the Cromwellian table, which had been moved to one of the showrooms, on which the cups and saucers had been arranged.

‘Poor Uncle Zack!’ said Rosemary. ‘He’s looking so worried. I wish there was something we could do to help.’

‘Well, there’s one thing you can do, and that’s take a cup of tea and some biscuits to the young lady over there,’ said Mrs Bodkin drily. ‘The one in pink.’ John and Rosemary turned to look in the direction of her nod. Standing talking to an elderly man with a drooping moustache was young Mrs Witherspoon. She was wearing a flowery hat and white lacy gloves.

‘Well don’t just stand there with your mouths open,’ said Mrs Bodkin. ‘Go on! And mind you get the right change.’

Rosemary took the cup of tea and John the plate of biscuits. Very slowly they walked towards Mrs Witherspoon.