The Kingdom of Carbonel (8 page)

‘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!'

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,
That's for the likes of me,
Food for a witch's bee!'

‘Of course I do like your song, but
please
tell me where I am!' said Rosemary once more.

The bee stood on the lip of the foxglove bell, which dipped with its weight, and paused to clean its back legs.

‘A hearing human, eh?' it said. ‘I've heard of 'em of course, but never met one before. Full of surprises, this garden is. Whose is it? That'd be telling. Where are you? Where you'd much better
not be!' And it boomed off, still humming to itself, ‘Busycum, buzzycum.'

‘Oh, dear!' said Rosemary. ‘That's not much help. I expect I had better knock at the door. It's going to be awfully difficult to explain how I got here.'

She tiptoed up to what was clearly the back door of the house and knocked. While she was waiting for an answer, she looked through the window beside it. There was a window box on the sill, full of brightly coloured toadstools. The room inside looked unpleasantly familiar. There was still no answer, so she tried the door and, finding it unlocked, tiptoed in.

‘Oh, dear!' said Rosemary for a third time. ‘It
is
Mrs Cantrip's kitchen! How silly I have been! When I said “home”, the rocking chair took me to the only one it knew!

‘Is there anyone here?' she called in a rather wobbly voice. There was no answer. ‘Well, there couldn't be,' she said with relief, ‘because it will take them a long time to walk all the way back from Figg's Bottom.'

Rosemary looked around the kitchen curiously. It was much the same as the last time she had seen it. It was quite tidy. The hearth was swept and the fire banked up. Dandelions, which had decorated the table, had been changed for a bunch of dead
nettles. On the rag rug by the hearth lay a long wooden stick and a pile of twigs. Then her eyes were caught by a small cupboard hanging on the wall by the fireplace.

The door was open, so she went over and looked in. On the top shelf were sugar and tea, cornflakes and nutmeg, and all the usual things found in a cupboard. But a screw of paper caught Rosemary's eye on the lower shelf. ‘It looks like the Prism Powder Mrs Cantrip left in her apron pocket.'

Next to it was an old can, which had a label gummed crookedly on to the side which said,
DISAPPEARING POTION
, but it was empty. Next to that was a jam jar with some purple liquid at the bottom, labelled
FLYING PHILTRE, USE SPARINGLY
, and beside that was a pickle jar with a few grains of coarse powder at the bottom. The label on this said
MINUSCULE MAGIC
.

‘So Mrs Cantrip really did have some magic left over!' said Rosemary.

As she spoke, she heard the Market Hall clock strike six o'clock. ‘I must start home. It will take me ages to walk to Cranshaw Road!' She went through to the second room which opened on to the street and tried the door. To her horror it was locked! There was no key to be seen.

‘I expect Mrs Cantrip has taken it with her. Whatever shall I do?' She ran to the window which
looked on to the street, but it had been built as a shop window and it did not open. She walked back to the kitchen slowly as the situation dawned on her. There was no way out, and at any minute Mrs Cantrip and her companion might be back.

She looked out of the kitchen window which opened on to the little garden. The rocking chair was on the small square of grass. It looked rather forlorn, lying on its side by the skid marks it had made when it landed.

Rosemary ran out. She picked it up and dusted it with her handkerchief. ‘Rocking chair,' she pleaded, ‘it was very clever of you to bring me here. I expect it is your home, but I want desperately to get to
my
home in Cranshaw Road. Please, will you take me there now? If you will, I'll polish you up so beautifully that the Queen herself would be proud to sit in you!'

She was not sure if she imagined it, but she thought the chair gave a faint rock of its own accord.

‘Now I'll try and do just what I did before. I said a rhyme, I remember, three times over, and all the while I was rocking.'

Rosemary sat herself in the chair and put her hands over her eyes to help her think, and began to rock. It was a little while before she could make her whirling thoughts obey her. ‘It's not a very
good rhyme,' she said at last, ‘but it will have to do. I can't think of a better one.'

Anyone who has had to make up a rhyme with the words ‘one hundred and one' in it, will realize her difficulty. She rocked the chair steadily, and at last she gripped the arms firmly and said:

‘Please take me home to Cranshaw Road.
One hundred and one is my abode.
My bedroom window's open wide,
So kindly take me right inside.'

As she got to the last line, she heard footsteps coming along the pavement on the other side of the wall. It sounded like two people, both of them limping a little.

‘It's Mrs Cantrip! Someone must have given them a lift!' said Rosemary to herself. ‘I must hurry!'

She rocked higher and faster, saying the rhyme for a second time. As she reached the last line, she heard a key grating in the lock. It made such a noise that it was clearly as large as a church key. The lock needed oiling.

She said the last line for the third time, and just as the door opened on its creaking hinge, the rocking chair rose from the ground with a swoop, spiralling steeply. She was just wondering if she
ought to have added the postal number to the address when it straightened out. She opened her eyes and looked down. Already the little walled garden was no bigger than a green pocket handkerchief beneath her. Straight as an arrow, the chair headed for Cranshaw Road.

John and Mrs Brown ate a silent, uncomfortable supper by themselves. He was a truthful boy and, being unable to think of anything better to say, repeated his story of someone having given Rosemary an unexpected lift. The unexpected part was certainly true.

‘But who could it have been?' asked Mrs Brown anxiously for the tenth time. ‘It's so unlike Rosemary!' She broke off, to John's intense relief, startled by a crash from Rosemary's bedroom. The room was not much larger than a cupboard, and its only door led into the sitting room. John dropped his pudding spoon and rushed in.

As Rosemary said later, the rocking chair was ‘willing but not very good at landing'. When John flung the door open, the chair was lying on its side, and Rosemary, looking slightly dazed, was picking herself up from the floor. With great presence of mind, he pushed the chair behind the door, and
stood so that, as far as possible, it was hidden from Mrs Brown. Then, winking violently in an effort to convey that she had better think up something quickly, he said loudly, ‘Hello, Rosie!'

For once Mrs Brown was extremely cross.

‘Rosemary! You are a very naughty girl! I can't think why you should do something so childish as to hide in your bedroom while I have been so anxious. And what possessed you to leave Mr Featherstone and come home with someone else?'

‘I'm very sorry, Mummy,' said Rosemary penitently. ‘I really didn't mean you to be anxious. It was all a mistake, honestly. I promise I won't ever do it again. Please, just this once,' she went on earnestly, ‘will you trust me and not ask questions? It is a most particular secret!'

Mrs Brown looked at her daughter's pleading face for an anxious moment. Then at last she said, ‘You promise the secret is not wrong?'

‘Promise faithfully!' said Rosemary.

‘Very well, dear. I will trust you. But you must not be inconsiderate either. You have been rude to Mr Featherstone as well as making me anxious. But come and have your supper now, Rosie. It's in the oven. You must be starving.'

‘Are the kittens all right?' asked Rosemary, between mouthfuls of fish pie.

‘Right as rain,' said John. ‘But I think we ought
to feed them as soon as possible,' he went on, winking violently again, hoping that Rosemary would understand that he wanted to talk to her privately.