Читать книгу The Children at Green Meadows - Enid blyton - Страница 4

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February slipped into March, and the winds came, the mad March winds that shook the trees in the gardens of Green Meadows and “blew the birds about the sky”.

The days had gone by very quietly, and nothing much had happened except that Mr. Black had most unexpectedly mixed himself up in a fight with two other cats. This had caused great excitement at Green Meadows.

It had happened at night. Everyone but Sam had been suddenly awakened by a screaming, yowling, squealing noise just under the windows. Everyone had sat up straight in bed, their hearts beating fast. Oh, whatever could it be?

It was two strange cats fighting down in the garden. It sounded exactly as if they were killing one another. Daddy groaned. “If only I could get out of bed and walk to the window I’d empty a jug of water over them!” he said. “Making a row like this in the middle of the night. If it’s Mr. Black I’ll tell him what I think of him in the morning!”

But it wasn’t Mr. Black. Granny’s big black cat had been asleep as usual in his basket in Granny’s own room. The yowling had wakened him at once and he sat up, looking twice the size, his tail swelling out till it was as big as Granny’s best fur.

Mr. Black was furious. What were strange cats doing in his garden? How dare they? He leapt from his basket, jumped on to the window-sill, through the open window to a pear-tree below—and then leapt straight down on top of the two fighting cats. He must have seemed like a cannon-ball to them!

Granny was soon at her window, calling in anguish. “Mr. Black! Mr. Black! Stop it, now! Oh, he’ll get killed! Oh, I must stop this fight!”

And there was Granny scuttling down the stairs in her dressing-gown, ready to tear her beloved Mr. Black away from two clawing cats!

But before she or Francis could get there—Francis was close behind her—the cats had moved on over the wall, pursued by an extremely angry Mr. Black, who spat and hissed like a furious soda syphon, and used his enormous claws wherever he could. The noise dwindled into the distance, and Granny sat down suddenly on the seat in the porch.

“Oh dear—what a shock I got! Oh, Francis, where are they? What has happened to Mr. Black? He’ll be torn to pieces!”

“It’s all right, Granny. He’ll come back, all puffed up with pride, to tell you how he sent away two cat burglars!” said Francis, trying to make his grandmother laugh. She couldn’t help giving a little smile. “Help me up the stairs, Francis,” she said. “A sudden scare like that makes me feel an old woman!”

Mr. Black didn’t come back that night, so the next morning Granny was tired out. “I haven’t been to sleep all night,” she said. “Where can Mr. Black be?”

Clare nudged Sam. “Don’t you start your whistling again now,” she warned him. “Granny will be as cross as two sticks to-day!”

Sam nudged Clare back, but much harder. “Don’t keep on so about my whistling,” he said. “It’s a very new whistle, and I’ve got to practise it. Granny—I’ll go and look for Mr. Black for you, shall I?”

But Mr. Black came back after dinner, much to everyone’s joy. Granny certainly had been “as cross as twenty sticks, not two”, as Sam said, and Mother was certain that Clare was going to fly into a fury very soon, because Granny nagged her so much!

Mr. Black came sauntering across the grass just after the family had finished their dinner. Daddy saw him first. “Here’s our Mr. Black,” he announced from his wheel-chair. “Large as life and looking very pleased with himself. The warrior returned home from the wars!”

Granny gave a little squeal and rose from her chair at once. She ran to the window and flung it open.

“Mr. Black! Are you all right?”

Mr. Black didn’t even look at her. He sat down in the middle of the grass, cocked up one of his legs and began to wash himself very thoroughly indeed.

“He’s showing off!” said Clare. “I’ll fetch him in for you, Granny.”

But, exactly as if he had heard what Clare had said, Mr. Black stood up and ran to the window. In two seconds he was in Granny’s arms, and she was exclaiming over him:

“Mr. Black! You’ve got a bitten ear! And oh dear, look, children—he’s got a bare patch on his tail. Oh, why did you mix yourself up in a fight, Mr. Black? Where’s the iodine, children?”

Daddy began to growl, as he always did when Granny made too much fuss over Mr. Black. “Fussing over him like that—as if he were a baby! Honestly, it makes me feel sick the way you treat that cat! He can expect a bitten ear and tail if he fights. He doesn’t mind them, so why should you?”

Granny flashed round at him at once. “You don’t love animals. I don’t believe you even like them!”

“I do,” said Daddy. “But I don’t believe in gushing over them, that’s all. You know I loved Thumper.”

There was a silence. Thumper, Granny’s long-ago Great Dane, was not supposed to be mentioned by anyone. Granny looked at Daddy.

“Yes,” she said. “I know you did. All the same, I still say you don’t really l ...”

“Yes, Daddy does, yes, Daddy does,” began Clare, who always rushed to her father’s help if Granny attacked him. Granny attacked everyone at times. “Yes, Daddy does, yes, Daddy does, yes ...”

“Clare!” said Mummy. “Fetch the iodine, please—at once!”

Mr. Black loved all the fuss and bother. He purred as loudly as a sewing machine!

“He’s a fraud,” said Daddy under his breath to Clare. She nodded. “Yes—but he’s a nice fraud!” she answered.

Mr. Black’s adventure was the biggest thing that happened in those few quiet weeks when the crocuses gave place to the early daffodils, and primroses began to come out in the dell. Francis went on with his pretending, and his pretend-dog, Paddy, went with him everywhere. Clare tried to learn knitting from Granny, who thought it was time she was taught—but Granny was too impatient a teacher and Clare was too hot-tempered a pupil, so it didn’t come to anything.

Sam’s great thrill was his new whistle, which he practised so continually that he nearly drove everyone mad. Sam was upset to think his family didn’t share his delight in this great new gift of his, and at last he took to going to the stables, and shutting himself in. There he whistled to his heart’s content—trying his hardest to whistle a tune, but never quite succeeding!

And then something quite unusual happened. It happened to Francis one evening when he was going home from a Scouts’ meeting. As usual he had his pretend-dog, Paddy, with him. There was no one in the lane he was walking down, so he gave his dog practice in coming to him when he whistled.

He had his Scout whistle with him, and he blew it. Then he signalled with his hand to Paddy, who was supposed to be a hundred or so yards away.

Paddy galloped up at once when the whistle sounded. “Good, Paddy!” said Francis. “Very good! Try again. This time, stop when I put up my hand like this!”

The dog was so real to him that Francis actually thought he could see the dog’s tail wagging, and his pink tongue hanging out of his mouth. He could hear the dog panting! Pretends can be very, very real.

“Run off to the same place, Paddy,” said Francis. “When I whistle, come running—but stop when I put up my hand. Stop dead! Now!”

He whistled—and then two seconds later put up his hand. “Good!” called Francis. “Good dog! Now come to heel and walk with your nose just touching my ankle.”

He could almost feel the dog’s nose touching his ankle as he began to walk down the lane again. And then he heard something that made him jump. It was a loud jeering laugh.

“Ha ha! You’re crazy, aren’t you? Talking to a dog that isn’t there!”

Francis looked all round but could see nobody. Then he heard a noise near by, and a boy slid down a tree, leaping to the ground from the lowest branch.

He was a bit taller than Francis, about thirteen, dirty and untidy. His hair stood up in a shock, dark brown and curly, and his mouth was curved in a jeering grin.

Francis didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t possibly explain to anyone about Paddy, the dog he had made up—especially not to a jeering boy like this. So he just said nothing and walked on.

The boy put his fingers to his mouth and gave such a shrill, piercing whistle that Francis jumped. “Paddy, Paddy!” called the boy, trying to imitate Francis’s voice. “Good dog, then. Walk to heel! That’s right—nose to my ankle!”

Francis was speechless. The boy actually bent down and pretended to pat a dog! Then he began to walk towards Francis, looking down as if the dog were at his heels. “Good!” he said. “Fine!”

“Shut up,” said Francis, temper welling up in him suddenly and powerfully.

“Yah!” said the boy. “He’s my dog now! He won’t follow you any more! I’m going to take him home to live with my own dog. He wants companionship!”

“I said shut up,” said Francis, and he felt his fists clenching themselves tightly.

“You’re a Scout. Scouts mustn’t fight. Naughty, naughty!” said the aggravating boy. “Why don’t you get a real dog, instead of a silly pretend one? You’re potty!”

Francis said nothing. He was so angry now that he couldn’t even speak.

“I’ve got a beauty!” said the boy. “You should see him, he’s a—well, he’s a sort of spaniel: but he’s real, not like your silly Paddy-dog! Pooh! Here, Paddy, Paddy, let me put a lead on you and take you home to Rex. Come on, boy!”

And the boy bent down and pretended to tie a bit of string to a dog’s collar. Francis never really knew what happened then—he just felt his fist hitting the boy’s down-bent face—biff!

And then something struck Francis on the side of the head—the big boy’s clenched fist. The fight was on! Biff! Thud! Biff!

It could only end one way. The other boy was taller and stronger—and in half a minute’s time Francis found himself lying flat on the ground, seeing stars all round him! The other boy went off, laughing loudly.

And to make things worse, he was calling Paddy. “Paddy. Come along then! Don’t you even bother to lick his wounds! He’s not worth it. You come along with me!”

Francis sat up, feeling dazed. The lane seemed to go round and round him, hedges and all. He shut his eyes, feeling suddenly ashamed of himself.

He was a Scout—and yet he had provoked a fight with another boy. He hadn’t even the excuse that he had had to defend himself. But—how could he have helped it? The boy had jeered and sneered at his secret—and had actually said he had got Paddy on a lead and was going to take him home!

Francis stood up and went to lean over a nearby gate. He felt in a muddle. He tried to sort it out, but he couldn’t. He felt that he had done right, it was the only thing he could do—yet he knew it was wrong too.

He went home, hoping that he didn’t look too dreadful. His left eye felt very tender, and his right cheek felt strange. He could see quite a lot of it with his right eye, and usually he couldn’t see his cheeks at all!

He slipped in at the garden door, hoping that he could get up to his bedroom unseen. His Granny heard him and called him.

“Is that you, Francis? Come in here a minute, will you?”

“I’ll just go upstairs first and wash, Granny,” called Francis, and rushed up the stairs before his grandmother could see him. He went into his room and looked into the glass on the wall.

Gracious! What a sight he looked! What a dreadful sight! His left eye was almost shut now, and a purple bruise was coming up round it. His right cheek was red and swollen. He hurriedly went to the bathroom and began to bathe his face in cold water.

His heart suddenly sank—Granny had come upstairs after him, cross because he hadn’t come when she called him. “Francis! Why didn’t you ...” she began, and then stopped. “What are you bathing your face for? Are you hurt?”

“I’m all right, Granny, thank you,” said Francis, desperately. “I’m just coming.”

Granny lifted his head and made him look at her. “You’re hurt! You’ve had an accident! What’s happened?”

“Nothing. I tell you it’s nothing,” said Francis. “Just a little swelling.”

“You’ve been fighting!” said Granny, in horror. “Don’t deny it! You a Scout too! Oh, to think of it!”

She went downstairs. Francis felt miserable. He held his nose and put his whole head into the basin of water, hoping that that would help his eye and cheek. He felt a tap on his shoulder and took his head out of the water.

It was Clare. “Francis! What’s happened? Granny’s telling everyone you’ve been fighting. Are you hurt?”

“No!” said Francis, fiercely. “All this fuss! Anyone would think there had never been a fight before!”

“But you, Francis—you’re so peaceful,” said Clare. “Francis—do tell me what it was all about? I do want to know. It’s the first fight our family has ever been in.”

Francis dried his face very gingerly indeed, and brushed and combed his hair.

“You look awful,” said Clare. “Don’t you feel important, Francis, looking like that because of a fight?”

“Why are girls so silly?” exploded Francis, who was longing to be alone and at peace, so that he could think out all that had happened so very suddenly. He pushed Clare aside and went to his room. Clare followed.

“Mother says you are to come straight down,” said Clare. “And don’t you push me about like that.”

“If you don’t go away at once I’ll shove you,” said poor Francis. Clare disappeared. Francis glared at himself in the glass: what a sight! Well, it wasn’t any good staying up in his room—the whole family would be trailing up the stairs to find him! He might as well go down and face the music.

So down he went. As soon as he opened the door of the sitting-room everyone looked up. There were sudden gasps and exclamations.

“Francis dear! Your poor face!”

“What did I tell you? He’s been fighting!”

“He wouldn’t tell me a thing!” said Clare.

Sam just stared solemnly after his first gasp. How peculiar Francis looked—not like Francis at all.

“How did it happen, dear?” asked his mother, gently. She pulled him to her. Thank goodness—she wasn’t going to be too cross! Francis was relieved. What about his father? Would he be angry, like Granny?

It was Granny who scolded him loudly and angrily. Nobody else said a word. At last his father interrupted.

“That’s enough,” he said. “Leave the boy alone. He’s not one to fight without reason—and most boys get into fights sooner or later. Even Scouts have to fight to defend themselves! Did someone attack you, Francis?”

Francis longed to say “Yes—and I had to defend myself.” But it was wrong and cowardly to lie like that, and he wasn’t going to begin. He shook his head.

“What happened then?” said his father, in astonishment. “Please don’t be so dumb, Francis. We only want to know.”

“I—well—I just hit someone, that’s all,” said Francis. “He er—he said and—and did something I didn’t like—and I hit him.”

There was a silence. “So you began the fight?” said his father. “I see. What did the boy say and do that you didn’t like? Surely you can tell us that?”

“No, I can’t,” said Francis, shutting up in his most secret heart his pretence about Paddy the dog. He felt rather peculiar, for he could only see out of one eye now. The left one had gradually swelled up and was shut.

Granny began again. “I do think, I really do think that ...”

“There is to be no more said unless I say it!” said Daddy, in such a determined voice that everyone was startled. Granny stood up, offended.

“Very well, then—if I can’t say what I want to in my own house, I’ll leave you to it!” And she marched out, stiff and straight as a walking-stick.

Mother sighed. “Oh dear—what an upset. Francis, let me put something on that eye.”

“Who won the fight?” said Sam, suddenly.

“I didn’t,” said Francis.

“I bet the boy was bigger and older than you,” said Sam. “Else you’d have beaten him. Knocked him down flat. Biff-thud!”

“Be quiet, Sam,” said his mother. “Come with me, Francis.”

Mother was kind. She put something comforting on his eye, and patted his shoulder, and didn’t ask him a single question. Francis squeezed her arm.

“I’d tell you if I could, Mother, but I just can’t,” he said. “Not yet, anyhow.”

“That’s all right, dear. Everybody has some secret or other—and why not?” said Mother. “You shouldn’t start a fight, you know that; but if you did I’m quite prepared to believe that you just had to. So don’t fret about it.”

But Francis did fret, of course. Suppose the Scoutmaster got to hear of it? Suppose that boy spread the news abroad about the dog he had invented, and everyone laughed at him? Suppose, suppose, suppose!

At last he had to tell someone. He told Clare. After all, she already knew about his pretend dog, and she wouldn’t laugh if he told her it was something serious—surely she wouldn’t?

“Clare—come up into the old playroom,” Francis said, two days after the fight. His face still looked very peculiar, and he had had a lot of teasing from the boys in his class, but his cheek was not so swollen now, and he could eat without difficulty. Clare nodded.

“All right. I’ll just finish laying the table, and I’ll come.”

She came to join him on the window-seat in the playroom. Francis began at once. “It’s about the fight. I’m awfully worried, Clare, and I’ve simply got to tell someone. But don’t laugh, will you?”

Clare shook her head vigorously. “No, of course not. Tell me.”

So Francis told her the whole thing—how the boy up the tree had seen him teaching Paddy, the invented dog, to be obedient, and how he had jeered and laughed; and at last how he had pretended to put Paddy on a lead and take him home with him.

“Oh! What a horrible boy,” said Clare. “And you say he’d got a dog of his own too? Fancy wanting to take yours! No wonder you hit him. I would have to, too.”

“It all happened so suddenly,” said Francis. “What worries me is that I hit him first—and you see, if I tell Daddy or Mother or Granny the whole truth, they would think I was crazy to start a fight about a pretend dog. Anyway, I can’t tell anyone about Paddy! Except you—and you knew.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Clare, comfortingly. “What’s it matter now? You’ve still got Paddy, and if I were you I’d teach him to go and bite that boy if ever you see him again.”

“I can’t,” said Francis. “I haven’t got him any more.”

“Where is he then?” cried Clare, astonished.

“Well, you know what pretends are—they sometimes go, all of a sudden,” said Francis. “Like when we pretended there was a bear in the old stables and wouldn’t go near them. And suddenly the pretend stopped and we knew there wasn’t a bear there.”

“Yes. But that was because we wanted to go and hunt through that old junk in the harness room,” said Clare. “Still—you’re right. Pretends do go all of a sudden. Has Paddy really gone? Perhaps that boy is pretending him instead of you? Why don’t you get another dog?”

Francis stared at her. “I’ve tried that,” he said. “But one won’t come. I mean—it’s just pretend and nothing else. Paddy seemed real. Oh Clare, I do wish I had a pet of my own. A horse. Or a dog. Or even pigeons.”

“Perhaps if you did two good deeds a day instead of one, you’d get what you want,” said Clare. “Anyway, I’ll put a dog in my prayers each night for you. Do cheer up, Francis. It’s awful to see you going about so gloomy. You make Mother worried.”

“Well, I do feel better since I’ve told you,” said Francis, looking more cheerful. “Don’t tell anyone, will you?”

“As if I should,” said Clare, scornfully. “I’m a Brownie, aren’t I? Well then, you ought to trust me. Anyway, you know I always keep my word.”

She ran downstairs, proud that Francis had told her his worry and no one else. That horrid boy! “I’d like to smack him hard!” thought Clare, fiercely. “And if I ever meet him, I will! But I don’t expect I ever shall!”

She did though—the very next day!