‘If two screws hadn’t vanished into thin air, I could,’ he snapped. ‘You might try to find them instead of sitting there doing nothing.’
‘I’ve been working twice as hard as you!’ said Rosemary. ‘I’ve been making up a flying rhyme for tonight all the time I’ve been sewing!’ But she put down her work and looked for the screws. ‘They can’t have vanished,’ she said. ‘Have you seen them, kittens?’
Pergamond and Calidor were staring with deep interest at a curled-up wood louse. They looked up, to the wood louse’s relief.
‘Screws?’ asked Calidor. ‘What’s screws?’
‘Do they roll?’ asked Pergamond.
Rosemary nodded.
‘Then they’re down there,’ said Calidor, peering through the pierced pattern of the iron grille covering the pipes under the floor which once had warmed the greenhouse.
‘We were pretending they were mice,’ said Pergamond, ‘so they had to go down a hole.’
Both kittens peered down into the darkness. They could see the hot water pipes, but not the screws.
‘Come on, Rosie, help me pull up the grille!’ said John. They pulled and pulled, but it would not budge.
‘Rusted in, I suppose,’ said John disgustedly. ‘Of all the stupid interfering animals!’
The kittens hung their heads. Rosemary scooped them up and put one on each shoulder. They were so very soft and light! She listened to the quick beating of their hearts.
‘Don’t be cross with them,’ she said, and two small rough tongues rasped her hands gratefully as she lifted them into her lap. ‘They didn’t mean to be a nuisance. I’ll hold them here and keep them out of mischief while you finish.’ The kittens quarrelled drowsily in the hollow of her skirt. John put the lock together again and screwed it to the door. The key turned silently in the newly-oiled works.
‘It looks splendid to me!’ said Rosemary hopefully.
‘My good girl, a lock on the door is not much use without the plate on the doorpost for it to fit into!’
They looked up as footsteps scrunched toward them on the gravel path. It was Mr Featherstone.
‘Hello! I thought I would find you here. Well, this makes a very snug little kitten garden. I’ve been suggesting to your mother that, as it’s wet, we might all four of us go to the pictures this afternoon. There’s a very funny film at the Parthenon, I’m told. What do you say?’
Of course they both said yes.
‘Good. Can’t stop now, see you later,’ said Mr Featherstone, who went whistling down the path. Both John and Rosemary were glad for something to fill in the time before their perilous adventure that night. It seemed to grow more perilous the more they thought about it.
‘We can buy a couple more screws on our way home,’ said John.
‘Come on, it’s time we got cleaned up,’ said Rosemary, looking at his oily hands. ‘We can wedge the door shut till this evening.’
The film was so funny that they saw it twice, quite forgetting about the screws, and when they came blinking out into the daylight with their cheeks still creased with laughter, the shops had closed.
‘Well, the door will just have to stay wedged until tomorrow,’ said John. ‘I expect it’ll be all right.’
‘I hope so,’ said Rosemary anxiously. ‘Don’t forget, eleven thirty sharp in my bedroom.’
Rosemary decided to undress as usual that evening. When Mrs Brown came to say good night, she would notice if her daughter’s clothes were not folded at the foot of the bed.
‘Mother, I do like Mr Featherstone, don’t you?’ asked Rosemary, as her mother tucked her in. ‘It was nice this afternoon when we all had tea together.’
Mrs Brown smoothed the bedspread with unusual care. She laughed, but she did not answer.
‘Go to sleep now, poppet,’ was all she said as she bent to kiss her daughter good night.
Rosemary was determined to do nothing of the sort. Both she and John had decided that, rather than take the risk of oversleeping, it would be wiser to stay awake. But one minute she was going over the rhyme that she had made up for the flying spell, and the next, John was shaking her by the shoulder.
‘Wake up, you owl! It’s twenty to twelve!’ he whispered.
Rosemary shot up from the bedclothes. ‘Why ever didn’t you wake me sooner?’
‘I couldn’t,’ said John. ‘Your mother was pottering about in the sitting room for ages, so I couldn’t get through. And then I had to wait till I was pretty certain she was asleep. You haven’t time to dress. Come on, you’ll just have to put on your dressing gown.’
Rosemary tied the cord of her old red dressing gown around her waist and pushed her toes into her shoes. Then she picked up the newly embroidered antimacassar.
‘Let’s go!’ she whispered.
The house was full of small night noises as they crept out. Boards creaked and the curtains stirred in a little breeze. Once John fell over a stool, but Mrs Brown did not seem to wake. They tiptoed down the stairs and out into the moonlit garden.
It was strangely transformed by the pale light, with a magic that had nothing to do with Mrs Cantrip and her kind. The familiar back of the house had become a mysterious palace, with gleaming, moon-touched windows. The blues and purples of the garden had disappeared. Only the pale flowers gleamed silver in the strange light. The tobacco plants raised their white trumpets to the sky and, together with the clumps of white stock, filled the air with a heavy perfume. Jasmine starred the shadowy porch, and the Mermaid rose dropped slow, pale petals on the weedy path. A moth fluttered by, sighing something that Rosemary could not quite hear.
‘John!’ she said. ‘Anything could happen on a night like this!’
‘Well, I’ll tell you what will happen if we don’t hurry up,’ said John. ‘We won’t get to that roof-top place until the meeting is over. We should look pretty silly turning up there when they’ve all gone home again.’
He seized Rosemary’s hand, and together they ran down the path, in and out of light and shadow.
‘It’s us, chair! John and me!’ called Rosemary softly when they reached the Green Cave.
They dived into the moon-chequered darkness under the currant bushes.
‘I’ve brought it. I promised I would! The antimacassar, I mean,’ said Rosemary. ‘I embroidered your initials on it specially,’ she said proudly, as she tied it on to the back of the chair with two hair ribbons. The chair seemed to give a pleased little jump as Rosemary fluffed out the bows.
‘For goodness’ sake!’ said John impatiently. ‘I bet that rocking chair is a female the way it carries on about its appearance,’ he growled. ‘No male chair would be so soppy!’
‘Hush,’ said Rosemary quickly. The chair had stopped rocking abruptly. ‘I hope you haven’t hurt its feelings.’
John was not listening.
‘You sit on the seat,’ he said, as they carried it from the shelter of the bushes and stood it on the garden path. ‘I’ll stand on the rockers behind and hold on to the back.’
Rosemary opened her mouth to say something, but John said, ‘Do hurry! There’s no time to argue.’
She sat cautiously in the chair and held firmly on to the arms. It was lucky she did. Neither of them knew quite how it happened, but no sooner had John balanced on the rockers behind her than the chair gave a lurch and overbalanced. Rosemary had not far to fall, but John picked himself up ruefully with a grazed knee.
‘I thought you’d offended it!’ said Rosemary. ‘Do say you’re sorry and then we can get on. It must be growing awfully late.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ growled John. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings!’
The chair bridled slightly. John dabbed at his knee with a handkerchief, which even in the moonlight looked grubby. Then, very gingerly, he squashed into the seat beside Rosemary. They could just manage it.
‘Now then, we must rock with our feet and hope for the best!’ said Rosemary. ‘Together! One! Two!’ The chair rocked, reluctantly at first, then, as Rosemary repeated the rhyme she had prepared, settled into a steady, swinging motion.