Mrs Cantrip and Miss Dibdin were panting up the hill from Figg’s Bottom. They looked up at the disappearing chair and waved angrily.
‘Stop thief! Stop thief!’ called Miss Dibdin shrilly.
They had not seen John, so he slipped back to the half-built house, and hid in what was going to be the kitchen. He held his breath as the hurrying feet came near. He could distinguish the flap, flap of Mrs Cantrip’s shoes and the click, click of Miss Dibdin’s neat, high heels. As they drew level with his hiding place, the footsteps stopped.
‘You must wait a minute, Katie. I’ve got a stone in my shoe, and if you think I’m going to run all the way home to Fairfax Market, you’re very much mistaken,’ Miss Dibdin said tartly. ‘You must admit it’s a pretty how-do-you-do. No rocking chair to take us home and no money for a bus, thanks to your saying witches don’t carry handbags.’
‘It’s them children again, I’m sure of it!’ growled Mrs Cantrip. ‘I knew there’d be trouble the minute I set eyes on ’em.’
John could hear the sound of an approaching car, but did not dare to look up to see if it was Mr Featherstone.
‘And now how are we to get there tomorrow night, I should like to know?’ Miss Dibdin asked. ‘The highest building in Broomhurst you said it was. We shall just have to hurry up with that broom. Oh, I know you can’t do anything, but you can tell me how to finish it.’
‘What, both of us ride tandem on a young broom that’s not been broken in?’ said Mrs Cantrip. ‘Madness, I call it! You’d ruin its temper for life. But we’ll get there somehow, if it’s only to get even with those children. Not that it isn’t as nice a bit of mischief as I’ve seen in a month of wet Mondays. Don’t be all day with that shoe!’
‘Well, I suppose there’s nothing for it,’ said Miss Dibdin briskly. ‘We shall just have to walk the six miles home. You can teach me that handy little spell for turning milk sour as we go.’
As John listened to their retreating footsteps, a car passed his hiding place and drew up a little farther on. He looked cautiously over the wall. The two women had started off at a rapid pace. He saw with relief that Mr Featherstone was standing by the van. He raced up to him.
‘Hello!’ he said. ‘Where’s Rosie? Had a good time?’
‘Super!’ said John. ‘Rosie… er… was given a lift home by someone she knows,’ he said lamely.
‘Really? How very strange of her,’ said Mr Featherstone in a puzzled voice. ‘Have you two had a row? You sound rather gloomy. Well, if she gets back safely I suppose that’s all that matters.’
John most heartily agreed.
It was a silent drive home. John was far too busy with his thoughts for conversation. Quite clearly, Mrs Cantrip, although she had retired from being a witch herself, was instructing Miss Dibdin, and both of them were planning mischief with the cats of Broomhurst. Worse still was his anxiety about Rosemary.
When they reached home, John thanked Mr Featherstone and rushed to the greenhouse to see if the kittens were safe. He burst in at the door.
‘Are they safe, Woppit?’ he asked. ‘The kittens, I mean?’
‘They’re safe enough,’ said Woppit.
‘Look here, no matter what happens don’t let them out of your sight for a minute,’ said John. ‘There may be trouble brewing. I’ll come and explain as soon as I can, but I must go now. I know I can trust you!’
‘Trust me?’ said Woppit indignantly. ‘And who better, I’d like to know. To the last whisker!’
9
The Walled Garden
Rosemary had seen Mrs Cantrip and Miss Dibdin burst into a run when they caught sight of the rocking chair climbing steeply into the air, but when she saw John hide himself in the half-built house, she gave a sigh of relief. It gave her something else to think about besides the dizzy feeling in her head and the sudden emptiness of her inside.
‘This must have been what Mrs Cantrip meant when she said, “There’s other ways than walking.”’ Rosemary said to herself. ‘I don’t expect I’ve anything to be frightened about,’ she went on severely, taking a firm grip of the arms of the chair. ‘I suppose because I said “I wish I was home,” and three times, too, that’s where the chair is taking me. How surprised Mum will be!’
By this time, she could bring herself to look down without feeling giddy. Behind, she could see the tip of the pink wedge that was the new houses leading from Broomhurst, and the thought that John was there gave her courage. Suddenly, roofs and chimneys swirled and dipped beneath her. Few people looked up, but those who did scarcely had time to rub their eyes and look again before the rocking chair was too far away to be distinguished.
The chair flew over the railway station where, such a short time ago, Rosemary and her mother had met John. A curious swallow swooped alongside. ‘Flying humans! What next?’ it said, and swooped away again.
Then, Rosemary noticed with alarm that the chair was losing height. ‘My goodness, we’re going down! Chair do be careful!’
The rows of crooked chimneys seemed to be coming straight up at her. She shut her eyes tightly, but even so, she had a sinking, going-down-in-a-lift feeling. Then there was a violent bump, and the chair overturned, throwing her in a heap on to a patch of long grass. She opened her eyes and sat up, surprised to find that, except for a few bruises, she was none the worse for her fall. She looked around cautiously.
She was in a little garden. It was very small and surrounded on three sides by a high wall, with broken glass along the top. The fourth side was the back of a very shabby, small house. She got up and looked at the flower beds which ran around the little patch of grass. ‘It’s a very strange garden!’ Rosemary said. It was very neat, but there were no flowers, as she knew them.
‘Somebody has actually been growing weeds on purpose!’ There was a clump of stinging nettles carefully staked and tied, and another of hemlock, and there was a neat edging of dandelions. There were a great many plants that Rosemary did not recognize, nearly all of them with small, greenish flowers.
‘That bush is deadly nightshade! I know it is, because the berries are poisonous, and someone has put a net over it to keep off the birds, just as you do with raspberries!’ There was a clumsy garden seat made from packing cases. A seed box stood beside it with a label which said, MANDRAKE SEEDLINGS. SPARROWS KEEP OFF.
Rosemary watched a bee back clumsily out of a foxglove bell, and for the first time noticed the hum of a small thatched beehive. It stood in an angle of the garden wall. The bee hummed a little song which sounded like this:
‘Busycum, buzzycum,
Nectar and honeycomb.
Lilac and lime on the tree,
Roses and lilies
And daffydown dillies,
Are not for the likes of me.
Not for a witch’s bee!’
‘Excuse me,’ said Rosemary, ‘but can you tell me whose garden this is?’
The bee took no notice, but buzzing busily, pushed itself into the next foxglove bell. When it backed out again, it went on humming its song as though she had not spoken.
‘Busycum, buzzycum,
Pains in the tummy cum,
Sowthistle, poisonous pea,
Henbane and hellebore,
That’s what I’m looking for,