The Little Broomstick, Page 3

  'Good morning,' said Mary. 'Please, have you seen Tib anywhere?'

  Zebedee shook his head and went on trundling.

  Mary trotted along beside the barrow.

  'We were going to look for Gib today, you see,' she explained, 'only Tib went out after breakfast, and I can't find him anywhere.'

  'Happen he'll turn up,' said Zebedee, still trundling. 'Cats do.'

  'Can I help you again, then, please?'

  'And break me flowers, likely?' said Zebedee, but he gave her a not unpleasant look from beneath the brim of the awful hat.

  'No, truly. Isn't there something easy I can do?'

  Zebedee set down the barrow, and took out of it a spade, a fork, and a garden-broom made of twigs tied to a stout handle.

  'There be leaves to sweep,' he said, and handed her the broom. 'A bad untidy month this be, September.

  There. Happen you can't do much harm sweeping if you don't break my broomstick forbye.'

  He gave the little wheeze that passed for a chuckle, and taking the spade, he began to dig the border under the windows of the house.

  Mary began to sweep up the leaves.

  It sounded such a simple job, but soon she discovered, as she struggled with the enormous besom, that it was not only difficult, but nearly impossible. She began by trying to sweep round her in great half-circles, but the leaves merely curled under the broom-twigs, and rustled happily back into their drifts under the trees. Then she seized the broomstick–which was some inches taller than she was–just above the head of twigs, and tried sweeping in short upright strokes, but this was exhausting, and merely seemed to have the effect of scattering the leaves further afield.

  And when she had at last scraped together a respectable pile of leaves, Tib, suddenly reappearing from somewhere, flung himself into the middle of it, rolled over twice, threw two pawfuls of dead leaves into the air, turned round three times, and darted off sideways with his tail held up like a question-mark.

  'Oh, Tib!' cried Mary, in exasperation. 'And you needn't think I'm coming to play with you now, after that! You can just wait till I've finished this job!'

  So she laboured on, and at length managed to get a good pile of leaves into the barrow, which she trundled off the way Tib had gone, towards the compost heap by the wall of the kitchen garden.

  She could not manage to tip the barrow, but she scooped her load out somehow and then was about to take up the shafts for the return journey, when her eye was caught by something flung carelessly among the sticks and rubbish of a waiting bonfire further along the wall.

  It was a little broomstick.

  Mary ran to the bonfire and pulled the little broom off the pile. It was just a perfect size for her, light and wieldy, with a head of good stiff birch-twigs.

  Pleased, she flung it on the barrow, and wheeled her find back to the lawn.

  'Zebedee, look what I've found!' she called, but the old gardener was once again invisible.

  And so was Tib. At least Mary thought so, until a crackling and swaying high up in a lime tree showed her the small black cat balancing delicately along a high bough.

  'Do be careful, Tib!' she cried, but soon, seeing how easily and lightly he moved, she went back to her task, and the leaves piled up in obedient drifts under the strokes of the little broomstick.

  The day, though grey, was sultry, and over the heavy-hanging leaves of the trees the sky brooded low, in great sagging spans of cloud. Now and again, rustling in the still air, leaves of lime and oak and copper beech would release their hold, and come floating down to swell the drifts of rust and ochre on the lawn. Somewhere, shrilly, the robin began to sing.

  One more barrow-load, thought Mary, then she would call Tib down from the lime tree, and they would go off together into the woods for lunch.

  Zebedee had already gone for his; there was no sign of him.

  She paused in her work and stood for a moment, leaning on the broomstick. The day was certainly warm. She pushed the hair back out of her eyes, and, as she did so, noticed a gleam of purple in the grass.

  A single fly-by-night flower was lying there. It must have fallen yesterday as she carried her prize home.

  She picked it up.

  But the flower, grown soft, crushed in her hand, and on her fingers the juice from its petals ran purple and red, and gold-dusty from the yellow tongue. She dropped the squashed flower into her pocket, and rubbed her sticky hand sharply down the handle of the broom.

  And turned back to her sweeping.

  Then it happened.

  At the touch of the purple juice the little broomstick gave a leap, a violent twist, a kick like the kick of a pony. Instinctively Mary clung to it, but it had

  twisted between her legs, and she fell.

  But she never reached the ground.

  For as she tipped forward, clinging along the handle of the little besom, with the head of twigs between her knees, the broomstick reared, shook itself violently, and then soared up towards the tree tops with a swish like the rustle of a little wind.

  And as it tore past the upper boughs, with Mary clinging for dear life to the handle, there was a scream and a crackle of twigs, and, with paws stretched like a flying squirrel, Tib flung himself out of the lime tree and on to the back of the besom. The broomstick jerked slightly under the impact, and then tore on, up, straight as a spear, towards the sagging clouds.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Up Above The World So High…

  Then all at once they had reached the cloud, had burst through its low edges, and were tearing through the swirling grey. What had seemed to be a canopy of cloud sagging like wet canvas proved, as the flying broomstick speared into it, to be a whirling, tossing mass of lighted foam. The broomstick rode it like a sea, ripping soundlessly through the foggy eddies, while the mist streamed out behind like spindrift in a speedboat's wake.

  'Oh, Tib!' screamed Mary, and her words were whirled away to drown in the rushing cloud. Tib, what shall we do? It's a witch's broom!'

  There was no answer from Tib, and Mary, alarmed in case he had fallen in their mad flight upwards, twisted her head to look. This made the broomstick rock so violently that, terrified, she gave up the attempt, and concentrated all her attention on gripping the shaft of the broom with hands and knees.

  But out of the corner of her eye she had caught a glimpse of Tib, flattened along the broom-twigs like a black slug, his claws driven deep into the wood, his green eyes blazing, and his black tail streaming behind like a pennant.

  Then suddenly, with a rush like a lift, they hurtled up out of the misty grey into the blazing sunshine.

  The broomstick, slackening speed, levelled off and began to cruise smoothly along over the upper surface of the cloud.

  Above them arched the immense and brilliant sky, and around, on every hand as far as the eye could reach, stretched a dazzle of cloud like a floor of living snow and tossing rainbow spray.

  Mary gasped with wonder, fear, and excitement, as her strange steed sailed easily across the sparkling floor of the sky.

  'And I said nothing could happen! But Tib, how on earth do we get downT

  As if in reply, the broomstick veered slightly to the left, and Mary heard Tib spit with annoyance as a clawhold slipped.

  Straight ahead towered a cumulus cloud, a thunderhead.

  It seemed to be bearing down upon them, so high slowly, like a majestic and enormous iceberg thrusting through piling floes. But between the white sea over which they sailed, and the flashing base of the thunderhead, Mary could glimpse a gulf, a great dark-green gap in the cloud, like a chasm. Towards this, with a quiver that shook it from tip to bristles, the magic broomstick headed at an increasing rate.

  'Tib!' shrieked Mary. 'Hang on! I think we're going down-Oh!'

  This last exclamation as the broomstick, with a sudden rush, flew straight out from the edge of cloud, over the green gulf that fell away below.

  Mary caught a glimpse, framed in a ring of cloud, of green country, si
lver-threaded with rivers, stretched like a map away beneath …then the whole expanse veered, tilted, and swung up as the broomstick dropped its nose and went into a long dive.

  Down, down, down …and the air tore the breath out of her body as she tried to crouch closer to the broomstick.

  Down, down, down, and the green-and-silver map came rushing up to meet her …became green hills and curving rivers …became woods and fields and hedgerows …became copses and trees and banks of flowers …till presently she was sailing past the leafy treetops, and the broomstick, levelling out once more, ran at a rapidly dwindling speed above the hedges of a curling lane.

  The hedge on the left gave way to a high wall with a gate in it, a huge gate flanked by pillars where stone griffins ramped. The gate was shut, but the little broomstick sailed easily over it, missed a griffin's upraised paw by about six inches, then cruised across the wooded park towards a distant glimpse of chimneys at the end of the long driveway.

  Soon Mary could see the house clearly. It was a biggish building which looked as if it had once been a castle. It was built of grey stone, and had battlements, but in places it had been mended with red brick, and the top of the biggest tower had been taken off and replaced with a glass dome shaped like an onion, while yet another tower had a flat roof with something jutting from it that looked uncommonly like a diving-board.

  In the centre of the main block of the building was a wide flight of steps leading up to a big door. To one side of this centre block stretched a lower wing of buildings; these were one storey high and looked modern. On the other side, the right as they approached, was what looked like the old stable yard; this was a cobbled courtyard green with weeds, surrounded by stables and coachhouse and approached from the park by an arched tunnel crowned with a clock-tower where a gilded weathercock spun in an agitated manner.

  As if, thought Mary, the little broomstick were a magnet, and its approach set a compass-needle spinning…

  The broomstick banked to avoid the clock-tower, skimmed the coach-house roof, then sank smoothly down to a perfect landing.

  Somewhere, excitedly, a cock was crowing.

  Mary's feet went thankfully out to either side to touch the solid earth.

  'Oh, Tib–!' she began again, but never finished the sentence, because the little broomstick proceeded, quite methodically, to buck her off.

  At the first buck Tib sprang, with a startled hiss, to the ground. At the second Mary, flying through the air, landed with a thump on the weedy cobbles, right at the feet of a little man who, from his seat on an ancient mounting-block, had watched the whole proceeding with a complete lack of surprise.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ride a Cock-Horse…

  He was a strange little man, not a dwarf, but made on so small a scale, so thin and wizened and bent in on himself, that he was scarcely as big as Mary. He had a sharp, brown face, lined and seamed like cracked leather, and his eyes were small and green and shining. He was dressed in wrinkled breeches and an old green jacket.

  As Mary, feeling shaken, puzzled, and remarkably foolish, picked herself up from the cobbles, the little man took a straw from his mouth, and spoke.

  'You'll be needing a few lessons,' he said.

  Mary dusting down her coat, stared at him. 'Lessons?'

  He nodded. 'Riding lessons. You shouldn't have tumbled off like that–though it's not a good ride, that besom. Tricky. You were lucky to get as far as this.'

  Here he addressed the broomstick sharply, in what sounded like a foreign language. It had been frisking about nearby, but when the little man spoke it dropped to the ground and lay still.

  He got off the mounting-block and picked it up.

  'But I don't understand!' cried Mary. 'Who are you? Where is this? How did it happen?'

  The little man paid no attention. He patted the broomstick, and tucked it under one arm. 'It'll stand quiet now, but we'd better be putting it in the stable till you'll be wanting it again. Come and I'll show you.'

  And, carrying the broomstick, he led the way across the yard to where a half-door stood shut and bolted across the dark interior of a stable. He undid the half-door and led the way in. Mary followed. In the shaft of sunlight that sloped through the open door, motes of dust danced like fireflies. The floor was of ribbed stone, and there was a pleasing muddle of boxes and straw and sacks and ropes, such as you might find in any stable. There were even empty hay-racks fixed to the wall. But no horses.

  Against the wall opposite the door, each in a little compartment like a bicycle-stand, stood about a dozen brooms. Some were battered, and old fashioned in design like Mary's, while some looked almost new.

  Towards these the little man, as he propped Mary's broomstick between two big, rather grubby garden besoms, gestured with contempt.

  'Modern stuff,' he said, with a twist of his leathery face. 'Mechanised, that's the word they use for it. Goes much faster, of course, but give me a good old-fashioned besom that takes a bit o' riding. Like this one.' He bestowed a pat upon the little broomstick.

  He seemed to take all the bewildering events so much for granted that Mary, afraid of seeming too ignorant, bit back her questions and merely said, with caution: 'Yes, they do look newer, Mr–Mr Er?'

  'Flanagan's the name. Danny Flanagan. I'll take it kindly if you'd call me Danny. Newer, is it? Take a look at that, now.'

  He pointed to one bright new handle where a label still hung which bore the legend, HARRODS.

  'Newer, is it?' he demanded again, his voice cracking with scorn. 'Made yesterday, that's what it is, and of what? Not twigs, no, not good birch like a solid well-bred besom. Not any more. All sorts of fancy stuff they're using now, with the grand names to it, like you'll get in Madam's labs. Nylon they call it.' He spat. 'Nylon. And three-speed gears. What next? What next, I ask you? Engines, they'll be using next! See that paper on the wall? Brought it with her last week, one o' them did. Thought I'd be interested, she said. Interested! Take a look at it!'

  Mary took a look. The offending paper was a page from a sales catalogue, which was tacked to the stable wall. It carried a picture of a cheerful and very smart lady sitting side-saddle on a complicated looking pink contraption, pouring steaming liquid from a coffee-pot as she sailed through clouds like soapsuds. Above this was printed, in big black letters: witches! Harrods offer you the helibroom!

  Underneath, in smaller letters, was a paragraph where Mary glimpsed the phrases 'remote control …pastel colours …two-stroke engine made of aluminium …matching telescope and coffee percolator…' And at the bottom, in very small letters indeed: 'Price 874 pounds 75 pence.'

  'Well?' demanded Mr Flanagan. He was glaring fiercely at Mary. She thought she had never seen such bright green eyes.

  'It's awfully expensive,' she ventured.

  He snorted. 'Even if I'd twice the money for a broom like that, d'ye think I'd ever be using it? Me? Me on a pastel-coloured ladies' ride with an aliminion engine? Helibroom!' The contempt in his voice was biting. 'Ye'd get me sooner on a feather mop, or one o' them new-fangled Hovercraft. It's the likes o' them that's going to take the bread and-butter out o' me mouth.'

  'Oh?' said Mary, startled by this very normal remark. 'Do you have bread and butter here?'

  Mr Flanagan stared. 'And why wouldn't we? Do you not have it, yourself? You must be coming from a quare place indeed not to be having that.'

  'Oh, but we do. In fact, I've got some here. I brought a picnic lunch with me.' She took her lunch packet out of her pocket, and began to open it.

  'Would you like a sandwich, Mr Flanagan?'

  He shook his head. 'I'll be getting me own later. But you'd better eat yours now, there isn't much time. Come on out into the sun.' And before she could ask him what he had meant, he led the way out of the stable and shut the half-door behind them.

  The sun was beautifully warm. Mr Flanagan went back to his old seat on the mounting-block, and patted the stone beside him, inviting Mary to sit. To her great relief (for until t
hat moment she had forgotten all about him) Mary saw Tib there, sitting placidly in the sunshine, washing his face. She sat down beside Mr Flanagan and started to eat.

  'Why did you say those new broomsticks would take the bread-and-butter out of your mouth, Mr Flanagan?'

  'Danny.'

  'Why, then, Danny?'

  'It's me job,' said Mr Flanagan simply. 'All me life I've taught riding. And I mean real, genuine riding, that's not just pulling of levers and pushing of knobs, but how to stick on, whatever happens, in all the weathers, at all speeds–and how to be managing a bucking broomstick at a thousand feet or so on a moonless midnight, with a storm coming up–' He nodded at Mary, his green eyes glittering. 'That's riding,' he said. 'And not only that–it's knowing the words to use.'

  'Like the words you said to my broom?'

  'Them words is simple enough. They're the stopping words. But there's a lot to learn. And you, my girl,' said Mr Flanagan sternly, 'have a lot to learn, I'd say. I misremember seeing you before–how long have you been coming for lessons?'

  'For lessons?' echoed Mary blankly. 'I–I've never been before. You mean riding lessons, on that broomstick?'

  'Fine I know you've had no riding lessons from me,' said Mr Flanagan. 'Or you'd not have been falling off at me feet the way you'd make a hole in the yard. No, it's the other lessons you'll be having at the College.'

  'College?' echoed Mary again. 'What College?'

  He pointed across the yard to where, under the clock-tower, the arched tunnel led from the stable yard out into the park. To one side of the archway was a notice fastened to the wall. Mary could read it quite easily from where she sat.

  ENDOR COLLEGE

  All Examinations Coached

  for by a Competent Staff of

  Fully-qualified Witches.

  Under the Supervision of

  MADAM MUMBLECHOOK,

  M.M., B.Sorc., Headmistress