The Borrowers Afield (10 page)

Chapter Thirteen

"Meat is much, but manners are more."
Louis XIV of France died 1715

[Extract from Arrietty's Diary and
Proverb Book, September 1st]

H
E MUST
have slid in with the lowering of the leaves—a shadow among shadows. Now she could see the blob of face, the tangled thatch of hair and that he carried two borrowing-bags, one empty and one full. And the bags, Homily realized with a sinking of the heart, were the bags which, that morning, she had handed to Arrietty.

"What have you done with her?" Homily cried, distraught. "What have you done with Arrietty?"

Spiller jerked his head toward the back of the alcove. "She's coming up over yon field," he said and his face remained quite expressionless. "I floated her off down the current," he added carelessly. Homily turned wild eyes toward the back of the alcove as though she might see through the sandy walls and into the field beyond: it was the field through which they had traipsed on the day of their escape.

"You what?" exclaimed Pod.

"Floated her off down the river," said Spiller, "in half of a soap box," he explained irritably, as though Pod were being dense.

Pod opened his mouth to reply—then, staring, remained silent: there was a sound of running footsteps in the ditch below; as they came abreast of the alcove and thundered past outside, the whole of the bank seemed to tremble and the bell-clapper fell off its nail—they heard the steady rasp of men's harsh breathing and the panting of a dog.

"It's all right," said Spiller, after a tense pause. "They cut off left, and across. Gypsies," he added tersely, "out rabbiting."

"Gypsies?" echoed Pod dully, and he wiped his brow with his sleeve.

"That's right," said Spiller. "Down there by the lane; coupla caravans."

"Gypsies..." breathed Homily in a blank kind of wonderment, and for a moment she was silent—her breath held and her mouth open, listening.

"It's all right," said Spiller, listening too. "They gone across now, alongside the cornfield."

"And what's this now about Arrietty?" stammered Pod.

"I told you," said Spiller.

"Something about a soap dish?"

"Is she all right?" implored Homily, interrupting. "Is she safe? Tell us that—"

"She's safe," said Spiller. "I told you. Box, not dish," he corrected and glanced interestedly about the alcove. "I slept in that boot once," he announced conversationally, nodding his head toward it.

Homily repressed a shudder. "Never mind that now," she said, hurriedly dismissing the subject. "You go on and tell us about Arrietty. This soap dish or box or whatever it was. Tell us just what happened."

It was difficult to piece the story together from Spiller's terse sentences but at last some coherence emerged. Spiller, it seemed, owned a boat—the bottom half of an aluminum soap case, slightly dented; in this, standing up, he would propel himself about the stream. Spiller had a summer camp, or hunting lodge, in the sloping field behind—an old blackened tea kettle it was—wedged sideways in the silt of the stream (he had several of these bases it appeared, of which, at some time, the boot had been one)—and he would borrow from the caravans, transporting the loot by water; this boat gave him a speedy get-away, and one which left no scent. Coming up against the current was slower, Spiller explained, and for this he was grateful for the hat pin which not only served as a sharp and pliable punt-pole, but as a harpoon as well. He became so lyrical about the hat pin, that Pod and Homily began to feel quite pleased with themselves as though, out of the kindness of their hearts, they had achieved some benevolent gesture. Pod longed to ask to what use Spiller had put the half nail scissor but could not bring himself to do so, fearing to strike a discordant note in a state of innocent joy.

On this particular afternoon, it seemed, Spiller had been transporting two lumps of sugar, a twist of tea, three leaden hair-curlers and one of those plain gold earrings for pierced ears, known as sleepers, across the wider part of the brook where, pond-like, it spread into their field, when (he told them) he had seen Arrietty at the water's edge, barefoot in the warm mud, playing some kind of game. She had a quill-like leaf of bulrush in her hand and seemed to be stalking frogs. She would steal up behind her prey, where innocently it sat basking in the sun, and—when she was close enough—she would tap the dozing creature smartly in the small of its back with her swaying length of wand. There would then be a croak, a plop, a splash—and it was one up to Arrietty. Sometimes she was seen approaching—then, of course, it was one up to the frog. She challenged Spiller to a match, completely unaware, he said, that she had another interested spectator—the gypsies' dog, a kind of mongrel greyhound, which stared with avid eyes from the woodland edge of the pond. Nor, he added, had she heard the crackling in the underbrush which meant that its masters were close behind.

Spiller, it seemed, had just had time to leap ashore, push Arrietty into the shallow soap box and, with a few hurried directions about the whereabouts of the kettle, shove her off downstream.

"But will she ever find it?" gasped Homily. "The kettle, I mean?"

"Couldn't miss it," said Spiller, and went on to explain

that the current fetched up close against the spout, in a feathery pile-up of broken ripples—and there the soap box always stuck. "All she got to do," he pointed out, "is make fast, tip the stuff out and walk on back up."

"Along the ridge of the gas pipe?" asked Pod. Spiller threw him a startled glance, shrewd but somehow closed. "She could do," he said shortly.

"Half a soap box..." murmured Homily wonderingly, trying to picture it. "...hope she'll be all right."

"She'll be all right," said Spiller, "and there b'ain't no scent on the water."

"Why didn't you get in too," asked Pod, "and go along with her, like?"

Spiller looked faintly uncomfortable. He rubbed his dark hand on the back of his moleskin trousers; he frowned slightly, glancing at the ceiling. "There b'ain't room for two," he said at last; "not with cargo."

"You could have tipped the cargo out," said Pod.

Spiller frowned more deeply as though the subject bored him. "Maybe," he said.

"I mean," Pod pointed out, "there you were, weren't you? Out in the open, left without cover. What's a bit of cargo compared to that?"

"Yes," said Spiller and added uncomfortably, referring to his boat, "she's shallow—you ain't seen her: there b'ain't room for two."

"Oh, Pod—" cried Homily, suddenly emotional.

"Now what?" asked Pod.

"This boy," went on Homily in ringing tones, "this—Well, anyway, there he stands!" and she threw out an arm toward Spiller.

Pod glanced at Spiller: yes, indeed, there he stood, very embarrassed and indescribably grubby.

"He saved her life," went on Homily, throaty with gratitude, "at the expense of his own!"

"Not expense," Pod pointed out after a moment, staring thoughtfully at Spiller. "I mean he's here, isn't he?" And added reasonably in surprised afterthought, "And she's not!"

"She will be," said Homily, suddenly confident. "You'll see; everything's all right. And he's welcome to the hat pin. This boy's a hero." Suddenly herself again, she began to bustle about. "Now you sit here, Spiller," she urged him hospitably, "and rest yourself. It's a long pull up from the water. What'll you take? Could you do with a nice half of rose hip filled with something or other? We haven't much," she explained with a nervous laugh. "We're newcomers, you see...."

Spiller put a grubby hand into a deep pocket. "I got this," he said and threw down a sizeable piece of something heavy which bounced juicily as it hit the slate table. Homily moved forward; curiously, she stooped. "What is it?" she asked in an awed voice. But even as she spoke she knew: a faint gamey odor rose to her nostrils—gamey but deliciously savory, and for one fleeting, glorious second she felt almost faint with greed: it was a roast haunch of—

"Meat," said Spiller.

"What kind of meat?" asked Pod: he too looked rather glassy-eyed—an exclusive diet of hips and haws might be non-acid-forming but it certainly left corners.

"Don't tell me," Homily protested, clapping her hands to her ears. And, as they turned towards her, surprised, she looked apologetic but added eagerly, "Let's just eat it, shall we?"

They fell to, slicing it up with the sliver of razor-blade. Spiller looked on surprised: surfeited with regular protein, he was not feeling particularly hungry. "Lay a little by for Arrietty," Homily kept saying and every now and again she remembered her manners and would press Spiller to eat.

Pod, very curious, kept throwing out feelers. "Too big for field mouse," he would say, chewing thoughtfully, "yet too small for rabbit. You couldn't eat stoat.... Might be a bird, of course?"

And Homily, in a pained voice, would cry, "Please, Pod—" and would turn coyly to Spiller. "All / want to know is how Spiller cooks it. It's delicious and hung just right."

But Spiller would not be drawn. "It's easy," he admitted once to Homily's bewilderment: how could it be "easy" out here in a grateless wilderness devoid of coke or coal? And, natural gratitude apart, she made more and more fuss of Spiller: she had liked him, she was convinced now, from the first.

Arrietty returned in the middle of this feast. She staggered a little when she had pushed her way through the tight-packed screen of leaves, swayed on her two feet, and sat down rather suddenly in the middle of the floor.

Homily was all concern. "What have they done to you, Arrietty? What's the matter? Are you hurt?"

Arrietty shook her head. "Sea-sick," she said weakly. "My head's all awhirl." She glanced reproachfully across at Spiller. "You spun me out in the current," she told him accusingly. "The thing went round and round and round and round and round and round and—"

"Now, that's enough, Arrietty," interrupted Homily, "or you'll have us all whirling. Spiller was very kind. You should be grateful. He gave his life for yours—"

"He didn't give his life," explained Pod again, slightly irritated.

But Homily took no notice. "And then came on up here with the borrowing-bags to say you were all right. You should thank him."

"Thank you, Spiller," said Arrietty, politely but wanly, looking up from her place on the floor.

"Now get up," said Homily, "that's a good girl. And come to the table. Not had a bite since breakfast—that's all that's the matter with you: we've saved you a nice piece of meat...."

"A nice piece of what?" asked Arrietty in a dazed voice, not believing her ears.

"Meat," said Homily firmly, without looking at her.

Arrietty jumped up and came across to the table; she stared blankly down at the neat brown slices. "But I thought we were vegetarians...." After a moment she raised her eyes to Spiller: there was a question in them. "Is it—?" she began, unhappily.

Spiller shook his head quickly; it was a firm negative and settled her misgivings. "We never ask," put in Homily sharply, tightening her lips and creating a precedent. "Let's just call it a bit of what the gypsies caught and leave it at that."

"Not leave it..." murmured Arrietty dreamily: quite recovered she seemed suddenly: and arranging her skirts she joined them at the low table round which they sat picnic-wise on the floor. Tentatively she took up a slice in two fingers, took a cautious bite, then closed her eyes and almost shuddered, so welcome and downright was the flavor. "
Did
the gypsies catch it?" she asked incredulously.

"No," said Pod. "Spiller did."

"I thought so," Arrietty said. "Thank you, Spiller," she added. And this time, her voice sounded heartfelt—alive and ringing with proper gratitude.

Chapter Fourteen

"Pull gently on a weak rope."
First Balloon Ascent in England, 1784

[Extract from Arrietty's Diary and
Proverb Book, September 15th]

M
EALS BECAME
different after that—different and better—and this had something to do, Arrietty decided, with their stolen half nail scissor. Stolen? An unpleasant-sounding word, seldom applied to a borrower. "But what else can you call it?" Homily wailed as she sat one morning on the edge of the alcove while Pod sewed a patch on her shoe, "or expect, even, of a poor, homeless, ignorant boy dragged up, as they say, in the gutter...."

"Ditch, you mean," put in Arrietty drowsily, who was lying below on the bank.

"I mean gutter," repeated Homily, but she looked a little startled: she had not known Arrietty was near. "It's a manner of speaking. No," she went on primly, adjusting the hem of her skirt to hide her stockinged foot (there was a slight hole, she had noticed, in the toe), "you can't blame the lad. I mean, with that sort of background, what could he learn about ethics?"

"About whatticks?" asked Pod. Homily, poor ignorant soul, occasionally hit on a word which surprised him and, what surprised him still more, sometimes she hit on its meaning.

"Ethics," repeated Homily coolly and with perfect confidence. "You know what ethics are, don't you?"

"No, I don't," Pod admitted simply, sewing away on his patch. "Sounds to me like something you pick up in the long grass."

"Them's ticks," said Homily.

"Or," Pod went on, smoothing the neat join with a licked thumb, "that thing that horses get from drinking too quick."

"It's funny..." mused Arrietty, "that you can't have just one."

"One what?" asked Homily sharply.

"One ethic," said Arrietty.

"That's where you're wrong," snapped Homily. "As a matter of fact there is only one. And Spiller's never learned it. One day," she went on, "I'm going to have a nice, quiet, friendly talk with that poor lad...."

"What about?" asked Arrietty.

Homily ignored the question: she had composed her face to a certain kind of expression and was not going to change it. "'Spiller,' I'll say, 'you never had a mother—' "

"How do you know he never had a mother?" asked Pod. "He must have had," he added reasonably after a moment's reflection.

"Yes," put in Arrietty, "he did have a mother. That's how he knows his name."

"How?" asked Homily, suddenly curious.

"Because his mother told him, of course! Spiller's his surname. His first name's Dreadful."

There was a pause.

"What is it?" asked Homily then, in an awed voice.

"Dreadful!"

"Never mind," snapped Homily. "Tell us: we're not children."

"That's his name: Dreadful Spiller. He remembers his mother saying it one day, at table: 'A Dreadful Spiller, that's what you are,' she said, 'aren't you?' It's about all he does remember about his mother."

"All right," said Homily, after a moment, composing her features back to gentle tolerance. "Then I'll say to him (she smiled her sad smile), 'Dreadful,' I'll say, 'dear boy, my poor orphan lad—'"

"How do you know he's orphaned?" interrupted Pod. "Have you ever asked him if he's orphaned?"

"You can't ask Spiller things," put in Arrietty quickly. "Someones he tells you, but you can't ask him. Remember when you tried to find out how he did the cooking? He didn't come back for two days."

"That's right," agreed Pod glumly. "Couple o' days without meat. We don't want that again in a hurry. Look here, Homily," he went on, turning suddenly toward her, "better leave Spiller alone."

"It's for his own good," protested Homily angrily, "and it's
telling,
not
asking!
I was only going to say—(again she smiled her smile) 'Spiller, my poor lad...' or 'Dreadful' or whatever his name is—"

"You can't call him Dreadful, Mother," put in Arrietty, "not unless he asks you—"

"Well, 'Spiller' then"—Homily threw up her eyes—"but I got to tell him."

"Tell him what?" asked Pod, irritated.

"This
ethic!
" Homily almost shouted. "This what we all been brought up on! That you don't never borrow from a borrower!"

Impatiently Pod snapped off his thread. "He knows that," he said. He handed the shoe to Homily. "Here, you, put it on."

"Then what about the hat pin?" persisted Homily.

"He give it back," Pod said.

"He didn't give back the nail scissor!"

"He skins the game with it," said Arrietty quickly. "And we get the meat."

"Skins the game?" pondered Homily. "Well, I never...."

"That's right," agreed Pod, "and cuts is up. See what I mean, Homily?" He rose to his feet. "Better leave well alone."

Homily was struggling absent-mindedly with the laces of her shoe. "Wonder how he does cook?" she mused aloud after a moment.

"Wonder away," said Pod: he crossed to the shelf to replace his tools. "No harm in that, so long as you don't ask."

"Poor orphaned lad..." said Homily again: she spoke quite lightly but her eye was thoughtful.