Bedknob and Broomstick by Mary Norton
Paul swallowed his mouthful of bread and butter. "I'd like to go to the Natural History Museum."
"Oh, Paul," said Carey. "Not that kind of place. You can go there any time."
"I'd like to see the Big Flea in the Natural History Museum," said Paul. He remembered how Carey and Charles had gone with an uncle, without him, when he, Paul, had been in bed with a cold.
"It was only a model. Think of another place, Paul. You can have first turn, as it's your bed. But somewhere nice."
"I'd like to go to London," said Paul.
"But you can go to London almost anytime," Charles reminded him.
"I'd like to go to London to see my mother."
"Don't say 'my mother.' She's our mother, too."
"I'd like to see her," repeated Paul simply.
"Well, we'd like to see her," admitted Carey. "But she'd be kind of surprised."
"I'd like to see my mother." Paul's lips began to tremble, and his eyes filled with tears. Carey looked worried.
"Paul," she tried to explain, "when you get a thing as magic as this, you don't make that kind of wish, like seeing your mother and going to museums and things; you wish for something absolutely extraordinary. Don't you see, Paul? Try again."
Paul's face turned crimson, and the tears rolled out of his eyes and down his cheeks.
"I'd like to see my mother, or the Big Flea." He was trying not to sob aloud. He closed his lips, and his chest heaved up and down.
"Oh, dear," said Carey desperately. She stared down at her shoes.
"Let him have his turn," Charles suggested in a patient voice. "We can go somewhere else afterward."
"But don't you see—" began Carey. "Oh, all right," she added. "Come on. Get on the bed, Charles." She began to feel excited again.
"Let's all hold on to the rails. Better tuck in that bit of blanket. Now, Paul, take hold of the knob—gently. Here, I'll blow your nose. Now, are you ready?"
Paul knelt up, facing the head of the bed and the wall. He had his hand on the knob. "What shall I say?"
"Say Mother's address. Say, 'I wish to be at No. 38 Markham Square,' and twist."
"I wish to be—" Paul's voice sounded thick. He cleared his throat.
"At No. 38," prompted Carey.
"At No. 38."
"Markham Square."
"Markham Square."
Nothing happened. There was an awful moment of suspense, then Carey added quickly, "S.W.3."
"S.W.3," repeated Paul.
It was horrible. It was a swooshing rush, as if the world had changed into a cinema film run too quickly. A jumble that was almost fields, almost trees, almost streets, almost houses, but nothing long enough. The bed rocked. They clung to the railings. The bedclothes whipped round Carey and Charles, who clung to the foot, blinding them, choking them. A great seasick lurch. Then bang ... bump ... clang ... and a sliding scrape.
They had arrived.
They felt shaken and breathless. Slowly Carey unwound a blanket from her neck and head. Her mouth was full of fluff. The eiderdown was blown tight round Charles and hung through the brass rails of the bed. Paul was still kneeling on the pillow. His face was scarlet and his hair was blown upright.
"Gosh," said Charles after a moment. He looked about him. They were indeed in Markham Square. The bed had come to rest neatly alongside the pavement, nearly touching the curb. There was No. 38 with its black front door, its checkered steps, and the area railing. Charles felt extraordinarily conspicuous. The bed was so very much a bed and the street so very much a street, and there was Paul crossing the pavement in his bare feet to ring the front doorbell. Paul, in his pajamas and with such untidy hair, standing on Mother's front steps in broad daylight—a warm, rich evening light, but nonetheless broad daylight.
Charles prayed for the door to open quickly. He was by nature extremely retiring.
A red bus rolled by at the end of the square. For the moment, the pavement was empty.
"Ring again," he cried fervently. Paul rang again.
They heard the echo of the bell in the basement, a polite, regretful, empty sound. The dark windows stared blankly.
"There's no one at home," said Carey when they had waited a minute or two longer. She uncurled her legs. "Mother must have gone out to dinner," she announced, standing up. "Well, we'll have to wait. Let's tidy the bed."
As they made the bed, drawing up the blankets, turning back the sheets, plumping up the pillows, Charles marveled at Carey's and Paul's lack of concern. Didn't they think it odd, he wondered, to be making a bed there in a London street? He glanced longingly toward the area steps. "Shall we try the back door?" he suggested—anything to be away from the bed and down below the level of the pavement. He couldn't go far because he hadn't any shoes on.
They crept down the area steps. They rattled and pulled at the tradesmen's door. It was locked. They peered in at the kitchen window. A cup and saucer lay on the drainboard; the rest of the kitchen was curiously tidy and deathly still. The window was fastened. Even breaking it would have done no good. It was barred against burglars.
"We must just sit on the bed and wait," sighed Carey.
"Not on the bed," said Charles hastily. "Let's stay down here, where no one can see us," he added.
They all squeezed together on the bottom step, facing the dustbin. The area smelled of wet tea leaves, and the step was cold.
"I don't call this much of an adventure," said Charles.
"Nor do I," agreed Carey. "It was Paul's idea."
It grew darker. Looking upward, they saw that the light was draining quickly from the street above. There was mist in the air.
They began to hear passersby. The footsteps always paused at No. 38, and the children, listening, realized how much grown-ups think alike. They nearly all said, with deep surprise, "How funny! A bed!" or "A bed! How funny!" Always they heard the word "Bed—bed, bed, bed" and footsteps. Once Charles spoke for them. As he heard the footsteps pause, he said aloud, "How funny, a bed!" It was almost dark then, and a form peered down at them over the area railings. "Some children," muttered a voice, as if explaining to a second person. As the footsteps died away, Charles called after them, "And a bed."
"Don't, Charles, it's rude. You'll get us into trouble."
It became quite dark, a darkness laced with mist.
"River fog," said Charles, "and if you ask me, I think Mother's gone away for the weekend."
Paul was already asleep against Carey's shoulder. Carey had a sudden brain wave.
"I know!" she exclaimed. "Let's get into the bed! It's quite dark now. If it's foggy enough, no one will see us."
They went up the steps again and crossed the pavement. Ah! It was good to crawl under the blankets and to pull up the eiderdown. Above them the sky looked grayish between the steep black roofs. The stars had disappeared.
"I honestly don't call this much of an adventure," whispered Charles.
"I know," Carey replied. "But it's the first time. We'll get better at it."
Between them, Paul breathed deeply, exuding a pleasant warmth.
Carey must have been asleep for some time when the shock came. At first, shaken out of a dream, she lay quite still. Damp darkness ... her legs felt pinioned. Where was she? Then she remembered.
"Please!" she cried, with an agonized squeak. The fog had deepened. She could see nothing.
There was a hoarse gasp. "Well, I'll be—"
"Please," cried Carey again, interrupting. "Please get off my foot."
A light flashed on, a terrifying dazzling circle; shining straight in their eyes as it did, it felt like a searchlight.
The gruff voice said again, "Well, I'll be blowed—kids!"
The weight lifted itself, and thankfully Carey curled back her legs, blinking at the glare. She knew suddenly, without being able to see a thing, that behind that light was a policeman. She felt a policeman, large and tall and fat and creaking.
He switched off his flashlight. "Kids!" he said again in a surpr
"I don't know," said Carey in a low voice.
"Speak up," said the policeman. "What's your name:
"Carey Wilson."
On went the light again and out came a notebook. Again the policeman sat down. The bed creaked, but Carey's toes were out of reach.
"Address?"
Charles sat up sleepily. "What?" he said.
Carey had a sudden vision of Aunt Beatrice's face, the tight lips, the pink-rimmed eyes. She thought of her mother, worried, upset. Letters, policemen, complaints, fines, prison.
"Look," said Carey, "I'm terribly sorry we hurt your shin. If you just move, we'll take the bed away, and then you won't be troubled anymore. We'll take it right away. Really."
"This 'ere's an iron bed," said the policeman. "This 'ere bed's good and heavy."
"We can take it," urged Carey. "We brought it here. We have a way of taking it."
"I don't see no way of taking this bed anywhere—not in this fog."
"If you'd just move a moment," said Carey, "we'll show you."
"Not so fast, miss." The policeman was getting into his stride. "I'm not moving anywhere, just at present. Where did you bring this 'ere bed from?"
Carey hesitated. Trouble—that was what they were heading for. She thought again of Aunt Beatrice. And of Miss Price—oh, Miss Price, that was almost the worst of all; to tell about Miss Price would be the end of everything—yet no good ever came of lying.
"Well," said Carey, trying to think quickly.
"We brought it from my room," put in Paul suddenly.
"Oh," said the policeman heavily. He had adopted a slightly sarcastic tone to hide his bewilderment. "And where might your room be?"
"Next to Carey's," said Paul. "At the end of the passage."
The policeman, who had switched off his light, switched it on again right into Paul's eyes. Carey and Charles, who up to that moment had thought little or nothing of Paul's looks, suddenly realized that he had a face like an angel. Two little wings could have been tied to his back and they would not have looked out of place. Even a halo would have suited Paul.
The policeman switched out his light. "Poor little shaver," he muttered, "dragging 'im round London at this time o' night."
This was more than Carey could stand. "Why," she cried indignantly, "it's all his fault. It was all his idea—"
"Now, now," said the policeman. "That's enough. What I want to know is, where did you get this 'ere bed? What part o' London, to be exact?"
"It didn't come from London at all," said Charles.
"Then where did it come from?" thundered the policeman.
"From Bedfordshire," said Carey.
The policeman stood up. Carey heard him catch his breath angrily.
"Joke, eh?"
"Not at all," said Carey.
"You mean to tell me you brought this 'ere bed all the way up from Bedfordshire?"
"Yes," said Carey.
The policeman sighed. Carey felt him trying to be patient. "By train?"
"No," said Carey.
"Then how, may I ask?"
"Well—" said Carey. She thought again of Miss Price. "Well, we can't really tell you."
"You tell me how you brought this bed up from Bedfordshire or you come along with me to the police station—where you're coming anyway," he added.
"All right," said Carey, feeling the tears sting into her eyes. "I'll tell you. If you want to know, we brought it up by magic."
There was a silence. A terrific silence. Carey wondered if the policeman was going to hit her with his truncheon, but when at last he spoke, he spoke very quietly. "Oh, you did, did you? By magic. Now I'll tell you something. You've 'eard of the law, 'aven't you? Well, the law is just and, in a manner of speaking, the law is kind, but there's one thing the law can't be—" He took a deep breath. "The law can't be made fun of. Now, all three of you, get out of that there bed and come along with me to the station!"
With a sinking heart Carey drew her legs from under the blankets.
"I haven't any shoes on," said Charles.
There was no reply. The policeman seemed drawn away from them in spirit, wrapped in lofty silence.
"Nor has Paul," pointed out Carey. "You'll have to carry him," she added.
5. The Police Station
It was not a long walk, but it was a trying one for Charles in his stocking feet. Never before had he realized quite how many different kinds of surface go to make a London street. Paul rode majestically in the policeman's arms, sharing the policeman's vast aloofness. Carey walked in dark depression. Every step they took away from the bed decreased their chances of escape. Prison! "Oh," she thought in desperation, "why didn't I tell Paul to wish the bed away with us, policeman and all?" But that might have been even more complicated; arriving back at Aunt Beatrice's with a policeman; trying to smuggle a policeman out of Paul's bedroom, to smuggle a policeman out of the house ... and he wasn't at all the kind of policeman who would lend himself to being smuggled anywhere. There was, Carey realized unhappily, practically no reliable method of getting rid of unwanted policemen. No, bad as it was, this possibly was the lesser of the two evils.
They were in the police station almost before they knew it. There was a long counter, a green-shaded light, and a gray-haired policeman without a hat. He had a tired, thin face, a soldier's face. Carey felt herself trembling.
"Well, Sergeant?" said the gray-haired officer wearily. "I thought we were through for tonight."
"Well, sir, these 'ere children, sir. Thought I'd better bring 'em along. Out in the street, with a bed, sir. Obstructing traffic—public nuisance, as it were."
The inspector was reaching for his cap, which hung on a peg.
"Well, take their names and addresses and get hold of the parents." He paused and turned slowly. "Out in the street with a what?"
"With a bed, sir."
"A bed!"
"Yes, sir, an iron bed like, with brass knobs on."
The inspector looked wonderingly at Carey. Suddenly Carey knew she liked his face. She liked the screwed-up look of his eyes and the tired lines of his mouth. She wished terribly that she had not been brought before him as a criminal. He looked at all three of them for a moment longer, then he addressed the sergeant.
"Where is the bed now?"
"There in the street, sir. Markham Square."
"Better send the van to collect the bed." He sighed. "And hand these children over to Mrs. Watkins till you get hold of the parents. I'm dead beat, Sergeant. Court at nine-thirty, don't forget. I'll need you and Sergeant Coles."
"Yes, sir. Good night, sir."
As the inspector passed, on his way to the door, he glanced again at the children. "He would have talked to us," Carey thought, "if he hadn't been so tired." She felt very frightened. If only someone had scolded them, she would have felt less frightened. She felt as if something bigger than a person had got hold of them, something enormous, something of which the policemen themselves stood in awe. She guessed it was the "law"—the law that "could not be made fun of."
The sergeant was speaking into a telephone, which hung from a bracket on the wall.
"Yes, three of 'em ... No—just overnight ... No, 'e's gone off. Dead beat, 'e was ... Cup o' tea? Not if you got it made, I wouldn't ... Righty oh."
He brought out his notebook and wrote down their mother's address. "Why," he said, after some minutes of silent and ponderous calculation. "You was right by your own 'ouse."
"Mother's away," said Carey quickly, hoping to stop him ringing up.
"Did you say you brought the bed up from Bedfordshire?"
"We did," said Carey. "The house is locked up."
The policeman was busy writing. "Right by your own 'ouse," he murmured. "That's different."
"Well
He took the children down a passage, out of a back door into a pitch-dark courtyard. "Mind where you tread," he told them.
Paul took Carey's hand. "Are we going to prison?" he whispered.
"I don't know," Carey whispered back. "I think so."
"How many years," asked Paul, "will they keep us in prison?"
"I don't know," said Carey, "not many."
"Come on," said the sergeant. They felt he was holding a door open. They squeezed past his stomach into another passage. They were indoors again. The sergeant switched on a light. "Mrs. Watkins," he called.
Mrs. Watkins was a bustling kind of woman, a cross—Carey thought—between a cloakroom attendant and a nurse. She wore a white apron and a red woolen cardigan over it. She took them into a room in which there was a bed—like a hospital bed, thought Carey—two imitation-leather armchairs, a table, and an aspidistra in a pot. She bustled Paul onto the bed and covered him with a blanket. Then she turned to Charles and Carey. "Cocoa or tea?" she asked them.
Carey hesitated. "Whichever's easiest for you," she said politely.
"The sergeant's having tea."
"Well, tea if you've got it made," said Carey timidly. "Thank you very much," she added.
Mrs. Watkins stared at Carey for a minute. "Lost, are you?" she asked curiously.
Carey, sitting on the edge of the imitation-leather armchair, smiled uneasily. "Not exactly."
"Up to mischief?" asked Mrs. Watkins.
Carey blushed, and tears came into her eyes. "Not exactly," she stammered.
"Well," said Mrs. Watkins kindly, "you sit there quiet and be good children and you'll have a nice cup o' tea."
"Thank you," murmured Carey indistinctly.
As the door closed behind Mrs. Watkins and the key turned in the lock, Carey burst into tears. Charles stared at her miserably, and Paul, sitting up in bed with interest, asked, "What are you crying for, Carey?"
"This is all so awful," wept Carey, trying at the same time to stanch her tears with her handkerchief.
"I don't think it's so awful," said Paul. "I like this prison."
Charles glared at him. "Only because you're going to have a cup of tea, and you know you're not allowed tea at home."