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.
Miss Price stood aside on the threshold. "Come in," she said. "Go right in." The children filed past her and then they stood silent, gazing at the shelves.
"Well?" exclaimed Miss Price sharply. "It's very nice, isn't it?" "Yes," said Carey huskily.
There was no alligator; no chart of the Zodiac; no exercise books; no newts' eyes; no boxes that might have held dried mice. Instead there was row upon row of bottled fruits and vegetables in every shade of color, from the pale jade of gooseberries to the dusky carmine of pickled cabbage.
Miss Price ran her finger along the labels: "Tomatoes, apple pulp, plums, greengages, elderberries-they mix very well with black currants. Do you know that?" "No," said Carey, "I didn't." "Red currants, sliced pears, tarragon in vinegar, green tomato chutney. . . . What's this? Oh, I know-mushroom catchup. The label's come off." She held the jar to the light. "Looks a bit mottled-" She pushed the jar back out of sight. "Some of these are last year's," she explained hastily. "Red currants, loganberries, and rose-hip cordial." She rubbed her hands together. "Well?" she said again, as if waiting for praise.
"It's-" Carey swallowed. "It's very nice." Paul's eyes were round and his face unhappy. "Where's the crocodile?" he asked bluntly.
Miss Price colored. "You see, Paul, I-" Carey came quickly to her rescue. "People don't keep things for always, Paul." She glanced at the shelves. "Think of the puddings! Think of the lovely, lovely puddings." "Yes," said Paul.
"You see, Paul," said Miss Price more calmly, "sometimes people do things for a bit and then they give them up. Smoking, for instance. People often give up smoking." Paul looked bewildered.