Читать книгу Six Cousins Again - Enid blyton - Страница 4

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The three children on horseback got to Holly Farm before their cousins did. The bus had to go a round-about way on the roads, but the three riders took short cuts over the fields. They arrived at the trim little farmhouse with pleasure.

“Let’s tie our horses here,” said Jack. “The stables may be locked. They’ll stand at this gate all right. Susan, tie Boodi as far away from Merrylegs and Darkie as you can—I don’t want him nibbling their tails!”

“All right,” said Susan, obligingly. Boodi was her own pony, a real character. He had come from Iceland, and was like a little barrel, sturdy and strong. But he had several bad little tricks of his own, and one was nibbling the tail of any horse in front of him.

Susan tied him up a good distance from Darkie and Merrylegs. “All the same, I do think it’s silly of the others to keep standing with their tails touching his nose,” she said, giving Boodi a loving pat. “If I was a horse and knew Boodi, I’d always face him. I wouldn’t give him a chance of nibbling my tail.”

The three of them waited for their cousins to arrive, and soon they heard them coming up the lane. “Buck up,” shouted Jack. “Come and have a good look at your new home.”

Jane stood and looked at the pretty little farmhouse, where her three cousins were so soon going to live. It was whitewashed, and shone in the pale December sun. It was not so old and rambling as Mistletoe Farm, nor did it look so untidy, because the creeper on the house was neatly trimmed, and flower-beds nearby were neatly dug. The crazy paving paths were neat too, and not a weed grew in the cracks. No moss grew on the roofs, as it did at Mistletoe Farm, and not a scrap of ivy had been allowed to grow anywhere.

Holly trees and bushes stood all about. They had given the little farm its name. Trim holly hedges enclosed a square farm-garden. Jane pointed to it.

“You’ll be working there next year, Melisande, growing lettuces and radishes and parsley and mint, just like we do. And flowers for the house. It’s not quite as big a garden as ours, so you ought to be able to manage by yourself, if your mother helps you.”

For the first time Melisande’s heart sank. She had helped in the garden at Mistletoe Farm—she had thinned out a few lettuces, and weeded a few beds. But now she suddenly realised that quite probably she would be the only one here at Holly Farm who would have either time or inclination to do the garden. A farm garden was always supposed to be women’s work—no farmer dreamed of sparing one of his precious men to help with that. The farmer’s wife and daughters did it.

And Melisande’s heart sank because she felt sure that her mother wouldn’t know a thing about the garden—and she, Melisande, would have to do it all by herself! Things wouldn’t be quite such fun at Holly Farm as they were at Mistletoe Farm—there wouldn’t be so many people to do them with, for one thing. And for another, who, except her father, would know how to do anything? Certainly her mother wouldn’t know when to plant seeds, or how to thin lettuces.

“And what’s more I don’t believe she’ll want to know,” thought Melisande. Then she cheered up. “But after all, when Mother’s really here, running this dear little place, she’ll surely love to learn everything. I’ve quite enjoyed all the things we did at Mistletoe Farm—though it’s true that at first I hated everything. Oh dear—I do hope Mother won’t hate things.”

Cyril was looking with pleasure at the farm-house, and the farm beyond. How well-kept—how neat and trim! Not a tile was missing from the barns, not a fence was broken anywhere. The hedges were well-trimmed, the ditches were clean. It certainly was a model little place.

“I could almost run this myself!” said Jack, suddenly to his cousin. “It’s in such ship-shape order! Nothing to be mended, nothing to be altered—you’ve only just got to run it as it is. Your father’s lucky, Cyril.”

“Yes. And Mother will be lucky too,” said Cyril, going up the neat path to the gleaming front door. “This will be play to run properly—not like Mistletoe Farm with its bad lighting and no hot water, and leaky roof. Let’s go in and look.”

Cyril pictured his pretty, smiling mother in Holly Farm. Surely it would suit her? He remembered his old home. Three Towers—his mother must have run that beautifully for there were always punctual meals, excellently cooked, the house was always shining and spotless, with lovely soft cushions everywhere, and well-swept carpets. He thought of the carpets at Mistletoe Farm.

“Worn and old, with holes you catch your feet in,” he thought. “And dirty old cushions, because Crackers is allowed to jump on them, and the cats sleep there. And the curtains so faded. I’ve enjoyed my stay at Mistletoe Farm—but it will be lovely to have a beautiful home again, and well-polished silver on the table and things like that.”

They were now inside the farm-house. It wasn’t really like a farm-house at all—it was more like a town band-box of a house. The rooms were trim and small, most of them square. There were built-in cupboards in every bedroom so that no wardrobes would be needed—and to Melisande’s enormous joy, there were fitted basins there too!

She ran to turn on a tap. Water spouted out at once. “Look!” she said. “It’s just like we had at Three Towers, Roderick—basins in our bedrooms. Look, Jane—won’t you envy me, being able to wash in my own bedroom, and not even having to pour the dirty water away! No wardrobes, no wash-stands—my, this place will be easy to run.”

It was completely modern. A gas-stove stood in one corner for cooking. A boiler stood on the big hearth, excellent for heating water all over the house. Jane looked at it silently.

“I suppose all this does save a lot of work,” she said, reluctantly. “But I do like our big old range at home, where Dorcas does the cooking—I love all her pots and pans and kettles on top, and the great big oven. It’s nice to sit by too.”

“You’re old-fashioned,” said Melisande, looking into the larder. “Look here—tiled all round too, just like the kitchen—and there’s even a ‘frig’! We can have ice-cream whenever we want it!”

“Good,” said Roderick. This was the first word he had spoken so far. He hadn’t liked the inside of Holly Farm-house at all. It didn’t feel right to him, after the friendly cosiness of the rooms at Mistletoe Farm. Everything here was so proper, he thought. He was sure he wouldn’t like it as much as dear old Mistletoe Farm. Still—he would have his mother again. He had missed her very much, more than either Cyril or Melisande had. It would be lovely to have her again.

He pictured her sitting at the head of the table at high tea each evening, just as his Aunt Linnie did at Mistletoe Farm. Aunt Linnie had a very nice face, he thought loyally, but his mother was so pretty, and her hair was never untidy like his aunt’s. Yes, decidedly it would be lovely to have her here at Holly Farm, looking after him, and fussing him as she used to do.

The children examined the house and the farm thoroughly from top to bottom. The house was just big enough to take them all, if Daddy didn’t have a dressing-room, but kept all his things in Mother’s room, or out in the cupboard on the landing.

“Mother won’t like that much,” thought Melisande. “But I expect she’ll soon get used to it. Roddy’s got a dear little room—he’ll like that. But he’ll certainly miss his cistern!”

The barns were in excellent order, and so were all the sheds. What machinery the recent owner had left for Cyril’s father to buy was gleaming like new in its own shed. There was a tractor there, and Roddy’s eyes gleamed when he saw it.

“I hope Dad will let me drive that,” he said to Cyril. “Is he going to have a car?”

“Of course,” said Cyril. “He’ll have to, to get to market and back, and fetch and carry things from the station.”

There was no live-stock on the farm at all. Mr. Roker, the last owner, had taken it all with him to a bigger farm. Cyril’s father was going to re-stock Holly Farm with the help of his brother at Mistletoe Farm, That would be exciting, Roddy thought.

“When do we move in?” asked Roddy. “I want to be here in good time for Christmas. I want to have my Christmas dinner here for the first time this year. When is Mother coming?”

“She’s coming soon, with Daddy, to get the house ready for us, and to have everything ship-shape for Christmas,” said Melisande. “I wish it wasn’t still term-time—it would be fun to help to get everything straight. Perhaps we could come over on Saturday and Sunday and do a few jobs ourselves.”

They had spent about two hours wandering over the house and farm. Reluctantly they decided it was time to go home. “Though ‘Home’ will soon mean here, and not Mistletoe Farm!” thought Melisande. “It will be nice to have a home again—just our own family, and not anyone else—though I do like Jack, Jane and Susan. Still, we shall often see them.”

She and Cyril and Roderick went off to catch the bus. The others untied their horses and cantered over the field-paths home.

“What do you think of Holly Farm?” asked Susan, after a while.

“It’s nice—but it’s a toy-farm, not a real one!” said Jack. “Give me Mistletoe Farm every time!”

And on the bus Cyril was asking Melisande the same question. “What do you think of Holly Farm?”

“Oh, it’s lovely!” she was answering. “It’s not old and dark and overgrown like Mistletoe Farm. Give me Holly Farm every time!”