‘Don’t you remember, Miss Dibdin said what a long time he was at the back of the shop doing up the parcel?’ went on Rosemary.
‘And that was why he cackled fit to “do himself a mischief”,’ went on John. ‘When he said it would reach Fairfax Market at the very same time that Miss Dibdin did. She was carrying it home herself after all, and she didn’t know!’ He exploded with laughter, but Rosemary was frowning.
‘But how could it be a Do-It-Yourself Kit?’ she said. ‘Do what yourself?’
‘Why, magic of course! That must be what her hobby was! A witch’s hat and a magic ring would be ...’ He broke off when he found he was talking to empty air. Rosemary had rushed out into the passage where she had obediently hung up her coat. Her muffled voice came from outside.
‘I’m sure it’s here somewhere. I shoved it in my coat pocket when the bus came.’
She returned with a handful of crumpled paper, which was all that was left of the purple cracker. Very carefully she smoothed it out among the supper knives and forks. The paper hat was there. She gave a sigh of relief. It had been screwed into a ball, but was still recognizable.
‘And we’ve got the ring,’ said John. ‘I suppose we’d better take them both to Fairfax Market tomorrow, and explain to Miss Dibdin what happened. But wait a minute ...’ He stopped, and then went on with a frown: ‘Didn’t Miss Dibdin say something about the instructions how to use the things being in the parcel too?’
Rosemary went hurriedly through every inch of the crumpled paper again. ‘Well, I can’t see anything that looks like instructions here,’ she said.
‘Crikey! What do we do now?’ said John. ‘I suppose the whole lot is useless, the ring and the hat, without knowing how to use them. I don’t much like the idea of telling Miss Dibdin what’s happened, even if it wasn’t our fault.’
‘Anyway, we can’t go to Fairfax Market tomorrow,’ said Rosemary. ‘Don’t you remember? Dad is taking us to the airport to watch the aeroplanes.’
‘Ooh, yes, we don’t want to miss that,’ said John. ‘I tell you what. Supposing we keep everything absolutely safe until we get to Highdown. It’s such a little place, we are sure to bump into Miss Dibdin some time or other. She may not want callers, but I bet she’ll be glad to see us if we’ve got the Golden Gew-Gaw, even if we have gone and lost the directions. I’ll put the ring, and the witch’s hat, rolled up small, as it was inside the purple cracker, in my box for Special Things.’
As he spoke he pulled a flat tin box from his pocket which had once held his father’s tobacco. Inside were some foreign stamps, a Turkish coin and an owl pellet. He put the ring and the screwed-up paper hat carefully inside, replaced the lid, and returned the box to his pocket.
‘Carbonel said: “Keep the ring always within sight or feel.” Well it’ll be within feel all right.’ He patted the bulge the box made in the pocket of his jeans, so that it gave a hollow rattle. ‘Agreed?’ he said.
Rosemary nodded. ‘And just suppose we do meet Crumpet ...?’
‘Wait till we do,’ said John. ‘And then ... well, we’ll just see what happens.’
As things turned out, quite a lot happened.
5. Highdown
SEVERAL days later Rosemary wrote:
Dear Mum
I felt a bit funny when I saw the car drive away without me, but it’s all right now. I love Highdown. I like Uncle Zack. He is adopting me as a niece for the holidays. Mother Boddles — that’s what John calls Mrs Bodkin, who is the housekeeper — is a bit grumpy because of the spring-cleaning. I mean, she can’t do it yet because of John and me, but Uncle Zack says she has a layer of niceness inside like a jam sandwich and to take no notice. Please send my old coat because my new one is much too hot. I must stop now because John and I are going round the village giving out leaflets about a sale in the antique shop on Saturday with refreshments.
With love from
ROSIE
PS. I know what a Cromwellian table looks like ... it has bulgy legs.
As Rosemary slid the letter into an envelope, John burst into the room.
‘What an age you’ve been over that old letter! Do buck up. Oh, and send my love to your Mum.’
‘Too late,’ said Rosemary. ‘I’ve just licked it up. I wonder why they don’t make envelope gum taste nice. They might have different flavours, like orange and peppermint.’
‘And chocolate-flavoured stamps,’ said John. ‘But for goodness’ sake put a spurt on. It’s so late I’ve asked Mother Boddles if she will make us some sandwiches, so that we shan’t have to waste time coming home in the middle of the leaflet business. Uncle Zack said I could.’
Rosemary had been writing with the pad on her knee sitting on the end of her bed, which is not the best way to write a letter; but she loved her tiny bedroom under the eaves.
Roundels, Uncle Zack’s house, stood on the outskirts of the village, a little way back from the road. A notice which said ‘Antiques’, on each of the gateposts of the semi-circular drive, was the only sign that there was a shop behind the bow windows of the two front rooms which opened off the stone-flagged hall. The living part of the house was at the back, overlooking the rambling garden.
‘Oh, buck up!’ said John impatiently, as Rosemary wrote the address. She slid off the patchwork quilt which covered the bed, and they ran down the two flights of stairs that led to the kitchen.
Mrs Bodkin was sitting at the well-scrubbed kitchen table, polishing silver, and singing in a tuneless way something that Rosemary thought she recognized as a hymn. She was an immensely fat person, who for all her size was surprisingly light on her small feet.
‘There’s your sandwiches,’ she said, nodding her head sideways in the direction of the two bulging paper bags at the end of the table, without looking up from her polishing. ‘Giving your orders like a young lord! I don’t know. I’ve put in a couple of rock cakes each, and there’s milk in the medicine bottle. Oh, and a bit of chocolate. And mind you don’t get into mischief.’
‘Thank you,’ said John. ‘I don’t know how long it will take us. The leaflet business I mean. We might not be back in time for tea.’
‘Then you won’t get none,’ replied Mrs Bodkin tartly. ‘Please yourselves.’
She looked up from her work for the first time, and her frowning face creased into a quick smile. ‘Get along with you! Do you think I wasn’t a nipper once myself? A bit of a limb I was too. I thought maybe you’d want to skip your tea, that’s why I put in the rock cakes. They’re the ones you won’t be eating if you’re not back in time.’
Rosemary was looking at Mrs Bodkin doubtfully.
‘Well, what are you staring at? You’ll know me next time!’
‘I was trying to imagine ...’ began Rosemary.
‘Me as a nipper?’ said Mrs Bodkin. ‘Skinny I was, believe it or not, with two pigtails. Well, you’d best be getting along, instead of hindering.’
‘All right,’ said John. ‘And thank you for the rock cakes.’
‘And the chocolate and everything,’ added Rosemary.
Mrs Bodkin gave her sudden smile and a flip of the duster in dismissal, and turned to her polishing and hymn singing. John and Rosemary went to collect the leaflets from Uncle Zack.
He was tall and thin, as John had described, dressed in the most shapeless tweeds that Rosemary had ever seen. He was in one of the showrooms, sitting in front of a small desk, pulling out each of the drawers and sliding it back again.
‘Uncle Zack ...’ began John, but his uncle held up a warning hand.
‘Sh!’ he said. ‘Listen!’ and slid the top drawer in and out again.
‘I can’t hear anything,’ said John after a pause.
‘Neither can I,’ said Rosemary.
‘That’s the point!’ said Uncle Zack triumphantly. ‘The drawers move like silk, without a sound! Made by a top-notch craftsman!’ He patted the rosewood surface of the desk affectionately, as though it was a favourite horse or a dog. ‘Isn’t she a beauty? But of course, you want the leaflets. They’re in a satchel on the table in the sitting-room.’