Chapter Twenty-five
There was a strange aura about Pod when he entered the room with Spiller: it was more than a night breath of leaves and grasses and a moon-cold tang of water; it was a strength and a stillness, Arrietty thought when she went to kiss him good night, but he seemed very far away. He received her kiss without a word and mechanically pecked at her ear, but as she went off toward the stairs, he suddenly called her back.
"Just a minute, Arrietty. Sit down, Spiller," he said. He drew up a chair, and once more they encircled the fire.
"What's the matter, Pod?" asked Homily. She put out a nervous arm and drew Arrietty closer beside her. "Is it something you've seen?"
"I haven't seen nothing," said Pod, "only moon on the water, a couple of bats, and this telltale smoke from our chimney."
"Then let the child go to bed; it's been a long day."
"I been thinking," said Pod.
"It seems more like two days," Homily went on. "I mean, now you begin to look back on it—" And incredible suddenly, it seemed to her, that on this very morning they had waked still as prisoners and here they were—home again and united about a hearth! Not the same hearth, a better hearth and a home beyond their dreams. "You take the dip now," she said to Arrietty, "and get yourself into bed. Spiller can sleep down here. Take a drop of water up if you'd like to have a wash; there's plenty in the tap."
"It won't do," said Pod suddenly.
They all turned and looked at him. "What won't do?" faltered Homily.
Pod waved an arm. "All this. None of it will do. Not one bit of it. And Spiller agrees with me."
Arrietty's glance flew across to Spiller; she noticed the closed look, the set gleam, and the curt, unsmiling nod.
"What could you be meaning, Pod?" Homily moistened her lips, "You couldn't be meaning this house?"
"That's just what I do mean," said Pod.
"But you haven't really seen it, Pod," Homily protested. "You've never tried the switch, yet. Not the tap either. You haven't even seen upstairs. You should see what they've done at the top of the landing, how Arrietty's room opens out of ours, like—"
"Wouldn't make no difference," said Pod.
"But you liked it here, Pod," Homily reminded him, "before that attic lot took us away. You was whistling again and singing as you worked, like you did in the old days at Firbank. Wasn't he, Arrietty?"
"I didn't know then," said Pod, "the thing that we all know now—that these humans knew we was here."
"I see," said Homily unhappily, and stared into the fire. Arrietty, looking down at her, saw Homily's hunched shoulders and the sudden empty look of her loosely hanging hands.
She turned again to her father. "These ones are different," she assured him. "They're not like Mabel and Sidney: they're tame, you see. I tamed Miss Menzies myself."
"They're never tamed," said Pod. "One day, they'll break out—one day, when you least expect it."
"Not Miss Menzies," protested Arrietty loyally.
Pod leaned forward. "They don't mean it," he explained. "They just does it. It isn't their fault. In that, they're pretty much like the rest of us: none of us means harm; we just does it."
"You never did no harm, Pod," protested Homily warmly.
"Not knowingly," he conceded. He looked across at his daughter. "Nor did Arrietty mean harm when she spoke to this Miss. But she did harm—she kept, us deceived, like; she saw us planning away and not knowing—working away in our ignorance. And it didn't make her happy; now, did it, lass?"
"No," Arrietty admitted, "but all the same—"
"All right, all right," Pod interrupted; he spoke quite quietly and still without reproach. "I see how it was." He sighed and looked down at his hands.
"And she saw us before we saw her," Arrietty pointed out.
"I'd seen her," said Pod.
"But you didn't know that she'd seen you."
"You could have told me," said Pod. He spoke so gently that the tears welled up in Arrietty's eyes. "I'm sorry," she gasped.
He did not speak for a moment, and then he said, "I'd have planned different, you see."
"It wasn't Miss Menzies' fault that Mabel and Sidney took us."
"I know that," said Pod, "but knowing different, I'd have planned different. We'd have been gone by then and safely hidden away."
"Gone? Where to?" exclaimed Homily.
"Plenty of places," said Pod. "Spiller knows of a mill—not far from here, is it, Spiller?—with one old human. Never sees a soul except for flour carters. And shortsighted at that. That's more the place for us, Homily."
Homily was silent; she seemed to be thinking hard. Although her hands were gripped in her lap, her shoulders had straightened again.
"She loves us," said Arrietty, "Miss Menzies really loves us, Papa."
He sighed. "I don't see for why. But maybe she does. Like they do their pets—their cats and dogs and birds and such. Like your cousin Eggletina had that baby mouse, bringing it up by hand, teaching it tricks and such, and rubbing its coat up with velvet. But it ran away in the end, back to the other mice. And your Uncle Hendreary's second boy once had a cockroach. Fat as butter, it grew, in a cage he made out of a tea strainer. But your mother never thought it was happy. Never a hungry moment that cockroach had, but that strainer was still a cage."
"I see what you mean," said Arrietty uncertainly.
"Spiller sees," said Pod.
Arrietty glanced across at Spiller; the pointed face was still, but the eyes were wild and bright. So wildly bright, they seemed to Arrietty, that she quickly looked away.
"You wouldn't see Spiller in a house like this," said Pod, "with everything all done for him and a lady human being watching through the window."
"She doesn't," exclaimed Arrietty hotly. "She wouldn't!"
"As good as," said Pod. "And sooner or later, the word gets around once humans know where you are—or where you're to be found at certain times of day, like. And there's always one they wants to tell, and that one tells another. And that Mabel and Sidney, finding us gone, where do you think they'll look? Here, of course. And I'll tell you for why: they'll think this lot stole us back."
"But now we've got the fence," Arrietty reminded him.
"Yes," said Pod, "they've wired us in nice now, like chickens in a hen run. But what's even worse," he went on, "it's only a question of time before one of us gets caught out by a visitor. Day after day, they come in their hundreds and all eyes, as you might say. No, Homily, it isn't taps and switches that count. Nor dressers and eiderdowns neither. You can pay too high for a bit of soft living, as we found out that time with Lupy. It's making your own way that counts and being easy in your mind, and I wouldn't never be easy here."
There was silence for a moment. Homily touched the fire with a rusty nail, which Spiller had used as a poker, and the slack flared up with a sudden brightness, lighting the walls and ceiling and the ring of thoughtful faces. "Well, what are we going to do?" Homily asked at last.
"We're going," said Pod.
"When?" asked Homily.
Pod turned to Spiller. "Your boat's in ballast, ain't it?" Spiller nodded. "Well, as soon as we've got it loaded."
"Where are we going to?" asked Homily in a tone of blank bewilderment. How many times, she wondered now, had she heard herself ask this question?
"To where we belong," said Pod.
"Where's that?" asked Homily.
"You know as well as I do," said Pod. "Some place that's quiet-like and secret, which humans couldn't find."
"You mean that mill?"
"That's what I reckon," said Pod. "And I'm judging by Spiller—no human ain't never seen him. We got timber, water, sacks, grain, and what food the old man eats. We got outdoors as well as in. And, say Spiller here keeps the boat in trim, there's nothing to stop us punting up here of an evening for a quick borrow-round, like. Am I right, Spiller?"
Spiller nodded, and again there was silence. "But you don't mean tonight, Pod?" Homily said at last; s
he suddenly looked very tired.
He shook his head. "Nor tomorrow neither. We'll be some days loading, and better we take our time. If we play it careful and put this fire out, they've no call to think we're back. Weather's fair now and getting warmer. No need to rush it. I'll take a look at the site first and plan out the stuff we need..." He rose stiffly and stretched his arms. "What we need now," he said, stifling a yawn, "is bed. And a good twelve hours of it." Crossing the room, he took a plate from the shelf, and slowly, methodically, he scooped up the ashes to cover the glowing slack.
As the room became darker, Homily said suddenly, "Couldn't we try out the light?"
"The electric?" said Pod.
"Just once," she pleaded.
"Don't see why not," he said, and went to the switch by the door. Homily blew out the dips, and as almost explosively the room sprang to brightness, she covered her eyes with her hands. Arrietty, blinking hard, gazed interestedly about her; white and shadowless, the room stared starkly back. "Oh, I don't like it," she said.
"No more do I," said Homily.
"But you see what I mean, Papa," Arrietty pointed out as though still seeking some acknowledgment. "We could never have done this by ourselves!"
"And you'll see what I mean," he said quietly, "when you get to be a little older."
"What has age got to do with it?" she replied.
Pod's glance flicked across to Spiller and back again to Arrietty. Very thoughtful he looked, as though carefully choosing his words. "Well, it's like this," he said, "if you can try to get my meaning. Say, one day, you had a little place of your own. A little family maybe—supposing, like, you'd picked a good borrower. D'you think you'd go making up to humans? Never," he said, and shook his head. "And I'll tell you for why: you wouldn't want to do nothing to put that family in danger. Nor that borrower either. See what I mean?"
"Yes," said Arrietty. She felt confused and glad suddenly that, facing Pod, she stood with her back to Spiller.
"You won't always have us to look after you," Pod went on, "and I tell you now there's nothing never been gained by borrowers talking to humans. No matter how they seem, or what they say, or which things they promise you. It's never been worth the risk."
Arrietty was silent.
"And Spiller agrees with me," said Pod.
Homily, watching from her corner by the fireside, saw the tears well up in Arrietty's eyes and saw Arrietty swallow. "That's enough for tonight, Pod," she said quickly. "Let's just put out the light now and get ourselves to bed."
"Let her just promise us," said Pod, "here under the electric, that she'll never do it again."
"No need to promise, Pod—she understands. Like she did about the gas. Let's get to bed now."
"I promise," said Arrietty suddenly. She spoke quite loudly and clearly, and then she burst into tears.
"Now, there's no need for that, Arrietty," said Pod, going quickly toward her as Homily rose to her feet. "No need to cry, lass; we was thinking of your own good, like."
"I know," gasped Arrietty from between her fingers.
"What's the matter, then? Tell us, Arrietty. Is it about the mill?"
"No, no," she sobbed, "I was thinking about Miss Menzies..."
"What about her?" said Homily.
"Now I've promised," gasped Arrietty, "there'll be no one to tell her. She'll never know we escaped. She'll never know about Mabel and Sidney. She'll never know about the balloon. She'll never know we came back. She'll never know anything. All her life, she'll be wondering. And lying awake in the nights..."
Above Arrietty's bowed head, Pod and Homily exchanged looks; neither seemed to know what to say.
"I didn't promise," said Spiller suddenly, in his harshest, most corncrakey voice. They all turned and looked at him, and Arrietty took her hands from her face.
"You—" she exclaimed, staring. Spiller looked back at her, rubbing his ear with his sleeve. "You mean," she went on, forgetting, in her amazement, her tear-stained cheeks and her usual shyness of Spiller, "that you'd come back and tell her? You who've never been seen! You who're so crazy about cover! You who never even speak!"
He nodded curtly, looking straight back at her, his eyes alert and steady. Homily broke the silence. "He'd do it for you, dear," she said gently. And then, for some reason, she suddenly felt annoyed. But I've got to try and like him, she excused herself irritably; I've really got to try. As she saw the disbelief on Arrietty's face change slowly to joyous surprise, she turned aside to Pod and said brusquely, "Put the light out, now, for goodness' sake. And let's all get to bed."
A Bonus Story about The Borrowers
To Lionel
Where, we sometimes ask ourselves, do all the sewing needles go? And the drawing pins, the matchboxes, the hairpins, the thimbles, the safety pins? Factories go on making safety pins, and people go on buying safety pins, and yet there never is a safety pin just when you want one. Where are they all? Now, at this minute? They cannot all just be lying somewhere about the house. Who takes them and why? It must—one begins to realize—be something or someone who is living quite close beside us, under the same roof; something or someone with human tastes and almost human needs; something (or someone) very secret, very hidden—under the floorboards, maybe, or behind the wall paneling. Very small, of course—that stands to reason—and very busy, always improvising, always "making do." And brave—they must be very brave to venture out into the vast human rooms (as dangerous to them as such rooms are to mice) seeking the wherewithal on which to sustain their lives. Who could grudge them the odd pencil stub, the occasional bottle top, the used postage stamp, or the leftover sliver of cheese? No (it takes all kinds, as they say, to make a world): we should accept their hidden presence and gently leave them alone. Children call them "The Borrowers."
"AND NOW," said Arrietty to Homily, "tell me what-you-used-to-do..."
The phrase, run together in one eager breath, had lost its meaning as words. It described an activity, a way of passing the time while engaged in monotonous tasks. They were unpicking sequins from a square of yellowed chiffon: Homily unpicked while Arrietty threaded the glimmering circles on a string of pale blue silk; It was a fine spring day, and they sat beside the grating let into the outside wall. The sunlight fell across them in crisscross squares, and the soft air moved their hair.
"Well," said Homily, after a moment, "did I ever tell you about the time when I lit the big candle?"
"And burned a hole in the floorboards—and in the carpet upstairs? And human beans shrieked—and your father beat you with a wax matchstick? Yes, you've told me."
"It was a candle my father borrowed to melt down for dips. It shined lovely," said Homily.
"Tell me about the time when the cook upstairs upset the boiling marmalade and it all leaked down between the cracks—"
"Oh, that was dreadful," said Homily, "but we bottled it, or most of it, in acorn cups and an empty tube called morphia. But the mess, oh dear, the mess—my mother was beside herself. There was a corner of our carpet," added Homily reflectively, "which tasted sweet for months." With a work-worn hand she smoothed down the gleaming chiffon, which billowed smokelike on the moving air.
"I know what," cried Arrietty suddenly. "Tell me about the rat!"
"Oh, not again," said Homily.
She glanced at herself in a sequin, which—to her—was about the size of a hand mirror. "I'm going very gray," she said. She polished up the sequin with a corner of her apron and stared again, patting her hair at the temples. "Did I ever tell you about Poor Stainless?"
"Who was he?" asked Arrietty.
"One of the Knife Machine boys."
"No...," said Arrietty, uncertainly.
"That was the first time I went upstairs. To look for Stainless." Homily, staring into the sequin, lifted her hair a little at the temples. "Oh dear," she said, in a slightly dispirited voice.
"I like it gray," said Arrietty warmly, gently retrieving the sequin. "It suits you. What about Poor Stainless—"
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"He was lost, you see. And we were all to go up and look for him. It was an order," said Homily. "Some people thought it wrong that the women should go, too, but there it was: it was an order."
"Who gave it?" asked Arrietty.
"The grandfathers, of course. It was the first time I ever saw the scullery. After that, once I knew the way, I used to sneak up there now and again, but no one ever knew. Oh dear, I shouldn't say this to you!"
"Never mind," said Arrietty.
"Poor Stainless. He was the youngest of that family. They used to live down a hole in the plaster on a level with the table where the knife machine used to stand. They did all their borrowing in the scullery. Practically vegetarians they were—carrots, turnips, watercress, celery, peas, beans—the lot. All the stuff Crampfurl, the gardener, used to bring in in baskets. Lovely complexions they had, every one of them. Especially Stainless. Stainless had cheeks like apple-blossom. 'Merry little angel' my mother used to call him. All the grownups were mad about Stainless—he had a kind of way with them. But not with us. We didn't like him."
"Why not?" asked Arrietty, suddenly interested.
"I don't know," said Homily. "He had mean ways—well, more like teasing kind of ways; and he never got found out. He'd coax black beetles down our chute—great things with horns they were—and we'd know it was him, but we couldn't prove it. And many a time he'd creep along above our floorboards with a bent pin on a string and hook at me through a crack in our ceiling: if we had a party, he'd do it, because he was too young to be asked. But it wasn't any fun, getting hooked by Stainless—caught me by the hair, once he did. And in those days," said Homily complacently, taking up another sequin, "my hair was my crowning glory." She stared into the sequin reflectively, then put it down with a sigh.
"Well, anyway," she went on briskly, "Stainless disappeared. What a to-do! His mother, it seemed, had sent him out to borrow parsley. Eleven-fifteen in the morning it was, and by evening he hadn't returned. And he didn't return that night.
"Now you must understand about parsley—it's a perfectly simple borrow and a quick one. Five minutes, it should have taken him: all you had to do was to walk along the knife machine table onto a ledge at the top of the wainscot, drop down (quite a small drop) onto the drainboard, and the parsley always stood in an old jam jar at