Witch's Business Page 8

  “Mummy,” she said, that evening, “suppose Biddy Iremonger really was a witch. What would we do?”

  “Nothing, of course,” said Mrs. Pirie. “There is no such thing as witches.”

  “There are,” said Jess. “And I think Biddy is. I know four things she did.”

  “Jess!” said her mother. “Biddy is a poor old lady, a bit mad, and very well educated indeed. She knows Greek.”

  “And magic,” said Jess. “Bad magic, Mummy.”

  Mr. Pirie suddenly rose out of his chair. “Jessica, that’s enough! If I catch you talking like that again, I’ll stop your pocket money till Christmas.”

  Jess had to stop, partly because of the threat and partly because it was plainly no good trying to convince her parents. So, before she went to bed, she caught Frank and gave him the little brown Eye.

  “There,” she said. “That’s all I can think of. If we keep together, we’ll both be protected. Thread it on your tiepin and wear it. I’ll wear my bracelet, with the blue Eye on it.” She made sure Frank did as she told him, then and there.

  “Who did you say liked ordering people about?” said Frank.

  “Vernon Wilkins,” said Jess, and went to bed.

  EIGHT

  The next morning, before they set off for the Mill House, Frank asked Jess if she had put up the CLOSED FOR GOOD notice.

  “Oh, good heavens!” said Jess. “Not yet. And I do want it up, because it looks as if it says we closed because we want to do good in future.”

  “It could just as well mean we only do bad things,” Frank objected as he followed Jess down the garden. “Why not just take down the first notice?”

  “Not yet,” said Jess. “It was such a good idea. I want everyone to know.”

  “There’s someone knowing now,” said Frank, as they reached the shed.

  Sure enough, someone was outside the window, reading the notice. When they got near enough, they saw, to their surprise, that it was Mr. Adams. He was laughing, in a dreamy sort of way, as if the notice amused him.

  “Good morning,” he called through the glass.

  Jess politely opened the window and said “Good morning” back. But, she thought, if he wants to be a customer, we’ll just have to say we’re closed.

  “I’ve got a message for you two,” said Mr. Adams, “but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was.”

  “From Frankie and Jenny?” suggested Frank. Mr. Adams really was the most absentminded-looking person he had ever seen. It did not surprise him at all that he had forgotten the message.

  “No,” said Mr. Adams. “It wasn’t them.”

  “Your aunt,” said Jess. “I mean—er—Miss Adams, is she? She wants to paint us.”

  “Probably,” said Mr. Adams. “I know she’s expecting you, so it must be. Perhaps if we walk down together the message will come back to me.”

  A little shyly, Frank and Jess let themselves out into the allotment path and walked along beside Mr. Adams. He seemed, as Jess said, to be a nice man, but he was so vague that he rather alarmed them. He said suddenly, “Her name’s Mrs. Andrews. She’s a widow.” And they had not the faintest idea what he meant at first.

  “You mean your aunt?” Frank asked.

  “She’s my sister,” said Mr. Adams. “She wants to paint you.” As he said this, he opened the gate into the allotments, to go down the path.

  “And Vernon and Martin,” said Jess. “It’s much nicer by the road.”

  “But this way’s shorter,” said Mr. Adams. “Come on.”

  They felt they had to follow him, even though it meant going past Biddy’s hut. Jess had a sudden horrible suspicion. Suppose Mr. Adams had come to lure them into Biddy’s clutches? The idea made her shake in her shoes, until she remembered the way Buster had been driven off by the two Eyes. If Mr. Adams had been evil, he would not have been able to walk so near them. And, remembering the Eyes, Jess felt better, because—surely—they would protect her and Frank from Biddy. All the same, she would have given a great deal not to have to go this way with someone supposed to be in Biddy’s power.

  Frank felt the same, although he thought he did not believe Mr. Adams was in anyone’s power. His feelings came out when he asked, rather rudely to Jess’s mind, “Why aren’t you at work, like everyone else?”

  “I’m on holiday,” said Mr. Adams. “Like you. I’m a teacher, you see, and you wouldn’t deny me the holidays you get, would you?”

  “Oh, no,” said Frank, rather thinking he would if he could.

  They squeezed round the neglected fence and walked among the rubbish and the muggy smell. When they got to the big bramble bush, Jess was holding her breath with nervousness. But Mr. Adams went on calmly following the path, where it took a big bend away from Biddy’s hut and twisted through a heap of broken bicycles. When they were opposite Biddy’s hut, Mr. Adams jumped, as if he had trodden on a prickle.

  “Of course!” he said. “I remember now. The message was from Miss Iremonger. She says you are to stop searching.”

  Frank said, very loudly, hoping Biddy would overhear: “That’s all right. We have stopped searching.”

  “For the moment,” Jess added, in a mutter, for the sake of truthfulness.

  “And what were you supposed to be looking for?” Mr. Adams asked politely.

  “Er …” said Frank, wondering if Biddy could hear still, “… er … the root of all evil.”

  “Money, you mean?” said Mr. Adams.

  “Sort of,” Jess answered. Jewels, she supposed, were the next thing to money.

  They followed Mr. Adams down to the bridge, under the bare willows, past the sprouting flags, and out across the planks. Mr. Adams said, “They may say money is the root of all evil, but it always strikes me as the root of most other things as well. I could do with more, whatever they call it. Couldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Frank and Jess devoutly.

  Mr. Adams reached the end of the bridge and turned to face them. “Is that why you put up that notice?” he asked.

  Jess and Frank stopped in the middle of the bridge, feeling rather frightened. Mr. Adams was blocking one end. If they went back, there would be Biddy. They could not understand why he should be asking, unless Biddy had told him to find out more about Own Back.

  “Yes,” said Jess. “We’d less than no money, you see.”

  “We owed ten pence,” said Frank.

  Mr. Adams laughed and wandered dreamily out into the field. Frank and Jess ran over the rest of the bridge in order to reach the field before he remembered to block their way again. But Mr. Adams did not try to stop them. He waited for them to catch up, and then he said, “It’s rather a good idea.” Jess gave Frank a proud smile. “Yes,” said Mr. Adams, “in the days of witchcraft, people would take such matters to a witch.” Jess stopped smiling and put her hand on Frank’s arm. “These days,” said Mr. Adams, “there’s no one to arrange revenge. You ought to do a roaring trade. May I ask what made you so hard up? I seem to be the kind of person who repels money—it goes whatever I do. Are you the same?”

  “Not quite,” said Frank.

  “A chair broke, you see,” Jess explained, “and our pocket money was stopped.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Adams. They were nearly at the Mill House. As Mr. Adams spoke, they saw Martin and Vernon come round the side of the house and stand waiting for them by the door. “The other sitters?” Mr. Adams asked. Frank and Jess nodded. “It occurs to me,” said Mr. Adams, suddenly sounding a good deal less dreamy, “that by painting your portraits my sister is probably depriving you of a morning’s earning for Own Back Ltd.”

  “Not really,” said Jess, because she was not at all sure that this was true. For one thing, there were no earnings. For another, they were being painted directly on Own Back business.

  Mr. Adams obviously thought she was just being polite. “It seems rather hard luck,” he said. Maybe the milkman had made a fuss, Frank thought, the time the Aunt caught and painted him. At any
rate, Mr. Adams went on, “I’ve rather a conscience about it. Did you know that professional models always charge a fee for being painted?”

  Frank said he had heard that they did, and watched hopefully, as Mr. Adams stood still and sorted vaguely in his pockets. Jess nudged Frank, and, when that did no good, trod on his toe, but Frank took no notice. It was worth it. Mr. Adams took his hand out of the fourth pocket he tried, holding a coin. It looked like five pence.

  “This is all I can find,” he said. “Will this do for a fee?”

  Frank put out his hand to it. Jess jumped on his foot and said, “No! No, Frank. I mean, I don’t want to be rude, but aren’t you buying us off with this, Mr. Adams?”

  Mr. Adams looked utterly astonished. It was not pretend astonishment, which makes grown-ups say things like “My dear child!” but real, deep-down amazement. It was plain he just had no idea what Jess was talking of, and no idea what to answer. Frank seized the moment, while Mr. Adams and Jess stared at each other, to take the money from Mr. Adams and his foot from under Jess’s shoe.

  “Do shut up, Jess,” he said.

  “I really don’t understand,” said Mr. Adams.

  Jess would not let it rest. She pointed to Frank putting the five pence in his pocket. “Has he,” she asked, “just done a bad deed disguised as a good one?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Mr. Adams. “Where did you get that idea?”

  “A lady called Jessica,” said Jess. “She—”

  “Oh, a quotation,” said Mr. Adams, laughing rather uncomfortably. “I think your friends are waiting. Where was this lady?”

  “The big house on the London Road,” said Jess. “Frankie says it was yours.”

  “Frankie,” said Mr. Adams, “talks a great deal of nonsense. But we did live there once, for a while. That’s true.”

  Vernon and Martin were becoming impatient. Vernon called out, “Are you staying all day, or shall we knock now?”

  “Knock away,” Mr. Adams called back, and without saying anything more, he went wandering away toward the bushy garden of the cheese-colored house.

  Frank and Jess went to the door, while Vernon knocked. The Aunt, just as usual, arrived with a wagging cigarette and paint all over her.

  “Oh,” she said. “You came. I never thought you would. No blood, though. Can’t you manage any today? Just a little?”

  Martin looked at Vernon. “I know just where to hit you,” he said. “I could make it bleed if you want.”

  Vernon did not want, and looked rather fierce about it.

  “Not to worry,” said the Aunt. “I can remember it quite well.” Then she led the way to her painting room, and the four of them followed. Frankie and Jenny were standing at the door of their playroom. They looked at Vernon. Vernon nodded. Frankie and Jenny replied each with a fierce little nod and went hurrying away.

  There began, as far as Frank was concerned, another time as maddening as the first. They had to sit there, talking of this and that, so that the Aunt would not guess what was going on, listening to Frankie and Jenny ransacking the house. Frank longed to help them. He knew it would be more fun than being painted, and he was dying to make sure they looked everywhere. From the sound of it, they were being very thorough, but he wanted to make sure. He could attend to nothing but their scufflings and thumpings. He strained his ears for them and wondered what each noise meant. Then came a terrific crashing from somewhere near that even the Aunt wondered about. She raised her eyebrows.

  “All the saucepans,” she said. “What are those kids up to now?”

  “Getting dinner?” Vernon suggested.

  “Yes,” said Jess. “And you reach for the little saucepan at the top to do the scrambled eggs in, and you reach and you reach, and suddenly the whole pile goes down.”

  “Don’t think there are any eggs,” said the Aunt.

  “Spinach, then,” Jess said, hectically. “The big saucepan from the bottom of the pile. Pull that out and they all fall over.”

  “No spinach,” said the Aunt.

  “Spinach,” said Vernon, “is very good for you.”

  “But,” said Martin, “it goes down to nothing when you cook it.”

  “A big saucepan full of nothing, then,” Jess said brightly.

  “That’s what it sounded like,” said the Aunt. “About a hundred big saucepans full of nothing. Stop jigging, you lot.”

  They hastily sat as still as they could and listened while the search progressed round the rest of the house. There was a sound like books or boxes being thrown around, rattlings, trailings, and then slow, hollow thumping as the two little girls went upstairs, testing and searching each step as they went. After that, the search became rather more distant until, suddenly, they heard Jenny’s uneven feet treading across the ceiling. They all looked up, without meaning to.

  “Look in front,” said the Aunt. Then she shouted, startlingly loudly, “Jenny! Get out of my bedroom. There’s a wet canvas there.”

  There was a long silence from overhead. Jess, Frank, Vernon, and Martin looked straight ahead at the Aunt and knew that Jenny was still there. After a while, they heard a careful shuffle, then another. Frank held his breath. But the Aunt painted busily and did not seem to hear.

  “The weather’s improving,” Jess said wildly. “Going from bad to worse beautifully, don’t you think?”

  “Sure,” said the Aunt. “Tornadoes any day now.”

  “And all the roots are budding,” said Jess.

  “Potatoes upward,” said the Aunt.

  Frank kicked Jess and was heartily glad when he heard a door softly close overhead.

  Then there was a time when none of them could tell what Frankie and Jenny were up to, followed by complete silence. After that, they suddenly heard them talking, somewhere outside by the window.

  “There’s a big clump of grass, Jenny. Help me pull it up.”

  There was a pause. Then Jenny said, “I don’t like wood lice.”

  Frank could not think what they were doing, until he heard their feet clattering on wood. Then he realized that they were on the big mill wheel, searching it slat by slat. He thought it was clever of them to have thought of that. It sounded fun, too. Their voices gradually came from higher and higher up, until they seemed to be right at the top of the wheel.

  “Jenny!” called Frankie. “I’ve found a nest of mice! Come and see. Ten baby mice.”

  Jenny’s irregular feet climbed past the wall. For a second, the models thought Frankie was pretending mice and meaning necklaces. But it seemed not. Jenny gave a little shriek. “Don’t let them run on me, Frankie!” Then they heard scutterings, and Jenny climbing down again, very fast.

  “Don’t be a baby,” Frankie shouted.

  “Mice,” said Vernon. “Funny, girls being afraid of mice.”

  “I’m not,” said Jess.

  “Kate Matthews is, though,” said Martin.

  “Jess is scared of worms,” Frank said.

  “Silly girl,” said the Aunt. “Would you all stop craning your heads? Go and catch the mice afterward, if you want. They’re just vermin.”

  Then there were noises outside, quite indescribable. A scraping and a crunching, and distant feet. Most unexpectedly, a piece of iron pipe dived past the window. Vernon winced.

  “Gutter!” he whispered.

  Frankie, it seemed, was up on the roof now. The little girls were being very thorough indeed. Jenny seemed to be halfway up the mill wheel, calling instructions.

  “Frankie, if you grab that piece of wall on the left—no, I mean right—no, right, Frankie. Then you can pull up on the chimney.”

  There were uncertain, clattering, faraway footsteps. A piece of slate dived past the window, followed by what looked like a chimneypot.

  “Be careful!” called Jenny.

  All four models began talking hard.

  “I always think,” said Jess, “that Wee Willie Winkie must have been a dreadful nuisance.”

  “Last time we had the swee
p,” said Martin, “he came in a white coat. And he was clean.”

  “We lost six slates last month, in the wind,” said Frank.

  “When I fell off our roof,” said Vernon, “I had to have stitches.”

  They were interrupted by a long, sliding rumble. Slates began raining past the window. Jenny was screaming instructions.

  “Drat those kids!” said the Aunt. “What are they up to?”

  The rain of slates stopped. There was a slow slithering. The models could almost feel Frankie sliding down the roof. Any moment, they expected her to dive past the window, too. Then they heard Mr. Adams shouting.

  “Frankie! Get down! Get down this minute. Jenny, get off the wheel. It’s quite rotten. Get down, Frankie.”

  Very distantly, Frankie said, “I can’t.”

  It was too much to bear. Vernon said, “Can we go and help her?”

  “You sit where you are,” said the Aunt. “He’ll cope.”

  They had to listen to Mr. Adams coping. They saw a ladder go past the window and heard it thump against the wall. They heard it being climbed. Mr. Adams was saying, “What is she doing up there, anyway?”

  Jenny answered from much lower down. “She’s looking for something I’ve lost.”

  “Oh, is she?” said Mr. Adams. “Well, it’ll have to stay lost.”

  They could not help exchanging glances at that. They listened to more thumping and watched another slate dive past the window. Then they heard the ladder and the voices going away. For a while, there was no noise at all.

  “Praised be!” said the Aunt. “Maybe you’ll sit still now.”

  They were doing their best to sit still, when the door was flung open and Frankie stood in the doorway, very grimy, with her apron in ribbons. “Aunt,” she said.

  “What is it now?” said the Aunt. “Go away.”

  Frankie, however, was looking at Frank and Jess, not at the Aunt. “I just came to say,” she said, “that Father’s gone for a walk. He went down to the river.”