Читать книгу Hollow Tree House - Enid blyton - Страница 3

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Two children stood outside the kitchen door of their home, and listened. From inside came the sound of a scolding voice.

‘You’ve sat in that chair and slept for two whole hours, you lazy thing! You go out and bring me in some wood!’

‘She’s in a bad temper again,’ said Peter to his sister Susan. ‘It’s no good asking her today.’

The children went away from the kitchen door and sat down on a pile of logs in a corner of the garden. Susan looked at Peter.

‘Well, if we don’t ask soon, we shan’t be able to go,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to take the money tomorrow.’

Peter and Susan lived with their Aunt Margaret and their Uncle Charlie. They dimly remembered a time when they had lived with someone pretty and merry—their mother, who had died when they were very small. Then they had gone to live with their aunt and uncle.

They were afraid of Aunt Margaret. She was bad-tempered and spiteful, with a scolding tongue. Uncle Charlie was afraid of her, too. He was a lazy, good-tempered man, who could never keep a job for long, and that made Aunt Margaret crosser still.

Peter was eleven, and Susan was nine. It was easy to see that they were brother and sister, for they had the same deep blue eyes and black wavy hair—very like their uncle’s. They looked unhappy now. If only Aunt Margaret would let them, they could have a fine treat—but if she happened to feel extra bad-tempered, they would have to go without the treat.

‘Everyone else in the school is going, simply everyone,’ said Susan. ‘A whole day by the sea! Think of it! And all for a pound.’

‘I know. I wish we had a pound each, then we could go without asking Aunt Margaret,’ said Peter. ‘We never have even ten pence pocket money, as other children do. It’s only when Uncle gives us ten pence on the sly that we ever have anything to spend. And then, if Aunt Margaret finds it, she takes it away!’

‘Well, Peter, we simply must ask about the school treat tonight,’ said Susan. ‘If we don’t take the money tomorrow, our teacher won’t buy a ticket for us—and we shan’t be able to go. We’re the only ones who haven’t taken the money yet.’

Still the scolding voice came out from the open kitchen door.

‘Sitting there with the newspaper in front of you all day long! Lost your job again—and no wonder! The only thing you’re ever on time for is your meals. What with you to look after, and your tiresome nephew and niece, I’m just about fed up!’

There was the bang of an iron on the table as Aunt Margaret spoke. She was ironing, and the children could tell by the bangs of the iron what a bad temper she was in.

They waited for a while. Then their uncle came out with a sulky look on his face. He caught sight of the two children.

‘One of these days I shall walk right out of this house and never come back!’ he said to them. ‘There’s no peace in this place at all! Nag—nag—nag, all day long.’

‘Uncle—I suppose you couldn’t possibly let us have a pound each, could you?’ said Peter, rather hopelessly, for when his uncle had no job, he usually had no money either.

‘A pound each! Whatever for?’ asked Uncle Charlie.

‘To go to the school treat,’ said Susan eagerly. ‘It’s a whole day by the sea!’

‘I haven’t a pound for myself, let alone for you!’ said her uncle, dipping his hands into his pocket. He brought up a few pence, and that was all. ‘Your aunt takes all she can get. Better ask her!’

He went off down the lane, and the children watched him. They liked him, but they did not admire him. He was so lazy and weak, and even when he got a good job, he lost it through being late in the mornings, or being careless. Perhaps Aunt Margaret might have been a bit better-tempered if Uncle Charlie had been a finer man.

Suddenly their aunt came to the door and saw them. ‘Now what are you idling out there for?’ she called out, in her usual sharp voice. ‘Susan, come on in and help me with the ironing. Peter, get me some wood. If you think I’m going to let you grow up lazy and good-for-nothing like your uncle, you’re wrong.’

That wasn’t a fair thing to say, because neither Peter nor Susan was lazy. They worked well at school and were top of their classes. At home they did plenty of odd jobs for their aunt, and did them well.

Susan went indoors with a sigh. It was hot and ironing would make her feel much hotter. Peter went to get the wood that his uncle had forgotten to take in. He was always doing things that his uncle had forgotten to do, or was too lazy to do.

Bang, bang, bang, went the iron. Aunt Margaret was still in a bad temper. Susan said nothing. She began to iron the handkerchiefs and fold them neatly. Then she took the towels to iron. She was a good little worker. She did her best hoping that Aunt Margaret would feel pleased with her. Then perhaps she might ask her aunt if they could go to the school treat.

Peter made up the fire, and filled the wood-box. Then he stood near the two ironers, wondering if he dared to ask for the two pounds now.

‘What are you standing there for, doing nothing?’ said his aunt, sharply. ‘Want to get something out of me, I suppose! Well, what is it?’

Aunt Margaret was clever at reading people’s thoughts. Peter knew he would have to ask her now.

‘Well, Aunt—you see, it’s the school treat tomorrow and our teacher is taking us all to the sea for a day,’ he began. ‘Our tickets are only a pound, and that pays for our tea as well. We have to take our own dinner. Everybody’s going, every boy and girl in the school. So Susan and I wondered if we could go too.’

Bang, bang, went the iron angrily, and Peter’s heart sank. ‘And where are you going to get the two pounds from?’ said his aunt.

‘Well—we thought perhaps you could spare them just this once,’ said Peter. ‘Or perhaps you could spare one pound, Aunt Margaret—for Susan to go. She has never seen the sea, and I have.’

‘Oh no, Peter—I couldn’t bear you to be the only one in all the school left behind!’ cried Susan.

BANG, went the iron. And then Aunt Margaret began one of her tiresome scoldings.

‘Two pounds! With your lazy uncle out of work again! And me working and slaving hard to make money to keep all four of us! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Peter Frost, and you too, Susan!’

Peter opened his mouth to speak, but his aunt swept on, banging the iron down at the end of each sentence.

‘It was a bad day for me when I married that lazy uncle of yours! And what does he do when his silly little sister dies, but bring you along here and tell me it’s our duty to look after you! Says he to me, “Their father’s dead, and now their mother’s gone, poor little orphans! We’ve no children of our own, Margaret,” he says, “so we’ll do our best by these!” And he too lazy to earn a penny to keep you!’

‘Aunt Margaret!’ began Peter, ‘it was kind of you to take us in—and we’ll both do our best when we’re grown-up to pay you back the money you’ve spent on us.’

Bang, bang, bang! Aunt Margaret snorted as she ironed.

‘Yes, I’ve heard tales like that before, from your uncle. You’ll be like him, when you grow up—there’s no good in your family. I don’t know why he brought you here, when you could have gone into some good children’s home. I didn’t want you. But I’ve put up with you for a good many years now, and paid out good money for you—and now you have no better sense than to ask me for pounds to go off on a treat!’

Susan was crying. ‘Don’t keep saying you don’t want us,’ she sobbed. ‘It’s awful not be wanted. I’m glad you didn’t let us go to a home for children. We really and truly will pay you back some day for all you’ve spent on us.’

‘Oh, go on out of doors if you’re going to cry all over the ironing,’ said her aunt, impatiently, but she looked a little ashamed of herself. Susan slipped out at once, and Peter followed her.

They went out of the gate and crossed to the wood that stretched for some miles over the countryside. They sat down on a bank of grass and Peter put his arm round Susan.

‘Don’t cry, kid,’ he said. ‘What’s the use? We know Aunt Margaret doesn’t want us and never did. But at any rate she gives us a home.’

‘It’s not a proper home,’ said Susan, wiping her eyes. ‘Proper homes aren’t like ours. Think of Angela’s home Peter—or Hilda’s—or Tom’s.’

Peter thought of them. Yes, they were homes, proper homes, no doubt about that. But then, there was a mother in each home, who loved the children there, and did not mind how much trouble and money she spent on them.

There was love in those homes, too. The children loved their parents, and the parents loved their children. Susan thought of how Hilda always ran to kiss her mother when she got back from school. She remembered how Joan’s father picked her up and put her on his shoulder when he came home from work. She thought of how Tom always rushed home to tell his mother about school.

‘I wish our mother hadn’t died,’ she said. ‘Oh, Peter, I do want a proper home and a mother.’

‘Well—we’re just unlucky about that,’ said Peter, and he put his arm round Susan again and gave her a squeeze. ‘But anyway, we’ve got each other, and that’s something. One day I’ll make a fine home for you, Susan.’

‘I know you will,’ said Susan. ‘You’re a darling. But I want a proper home now, while I’m little, with a mother in it. Somebody who will welcome me when I come home from school, and somebody who will come and see me when I’m in bed and say good night.’

‘Oh, Susan, you know that’s impossible,’ said Peter.

‘Well, when I say my prayers at night, I always put that in,’ said Susan, in an obstinate little voice.

‘What do you put in?’ said Peter, puzzled.

‘I ask for a proper home and a mother,’ said Susan. ‘I keep on and on asking God for those. He can do everything, can’t He?’

‘Well—He might think He has given you a proper home, with Uncle Charlie, and He has given you Aunt Margaret instead of a mother,’ said Peter.

Susan looked scornfully at her brother. ‘God knows quite well what I mean,’ she said. ‘I’m sure He wouldn’t make a mistake like that. One day you’ll see. He’ll give me what I ask.’

‘You’re still a baby,’ said Peter, with a sigh. ‘It’s no good asking and wishing for what’s impossible, Susan. We must make the best of what we’ve got.’