Читать книгу The Family at Red Roofs - Enid blyton - Страница 6

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The Jackson family soon settled down at Red-Roofs, and after a week or two it seemed that they had never lived anywhere else.

“I can’t even remember what the kitchen was like at the other house,” said Shirley. “Where did the dresser stand? And did the bathroom window look out to the front or the back? That house seems like a dream now.”

“I’ve got quite used to going another way to school,” said Michael. “At first it seemed awfully funny to take different roads to school—and once when I wasn’t thinking I took the old way after school, and found myself standing opposite our old house instead of Red-Roofs!”

Everyone laughed. Michael had these queer absent-minded fits at times.

“Thinking of some wonderful new discovery or invention, I suppose?” said Peter sarcastically.

“Well, as a matter of fact I was,” said Michael, quick to defend himself. “You know that wireless set of Paul’s I’m trying to put right for him? Well, I thought of a way to solve the difficulty—you see, if I put a bit of wire on the ...”

But nobody wanted to hear. Once Michael started off on his endless explanations of something extremely complicated and technical, people faded away from his company. It sometimes made the boy very sulky and angry.

“You get so serious over your ‘bits and pieces’,” complained Peter. “You only just mess about, really, and it’s a bit of luck when you put things right.”

“It is not,” Michael flared. “I have to think out and follow all sorts of theories. It isn’t fair of you all to laugh at me as you do. I may be only mending things now, and taking them to pieces and putting them together again—but you just wait till I think out something entirely new and make it myself. You’ll sit up then!”

But his family did not take him very seriously, and often laughed at his queer ways and fits of dreaminess. Mr. Jackson sometimes got cross over remarks in his end of term reports.

“Has excellent brains, but dreams too much!” he quoted from one report. “No good having fine brains, my boy, if you don’t use them.”

Then Michael would retire into his shell, look as black as thunder, and scowl fiercely at anyone who approached him. He would go and brood over his precious “bits and pieces” as everyone called his tools, instruments and material, until a bright idea would send the scowl from his face and he would begin to work happily.

It was Michael who found Miss Wren for them. He came home one day and announced that Miss Wren was coming to see his mother at six o’clock that evening.

“Miss Wren, Michael dear?” said his mother, astonished. “Who is she? And why is she coming to see me?”

“She wants a home,” said Michael. “She’s being turned out of her cottage, and she’s got nowhere to go. She’s got her own bed and chest of drawers and things, and our maid’s bedroom is unfurnished, isn’t it? I thought as you wanted someone to help in the house you might like Miss Wren. She’s always working hard whenever I see her.”

“But, Michael—we don’t know anything at all about her!” said Molly. “Don’t be so silly. You can’t go round promising bedrooms to people. Mother, isn’t he stupid?”

“I’m not stupid,” said Michael, obstinately. “I’m sensible. Here’s a woman who wants a home, and here are we who want a woman to help in the house. Well, then—the two things fit, don’t they?”

Mrs. Jackson began to laugh helplessly. “Oh, Michael—you do have such queer ideas,” she said. “How did you get to know Miss Wren?”

“I mended her clock for her,” said Michael.

“But how did you get to know her, and where does she live?” said Mrs. Jackson. “You must tell us something about her.”

“She lives down near the mills at the other end of the town,” said Michael. “In one of those old tumble-down cottages. I went down there one day to see the mills at work, and I fell down just outside Miss Wren’s cottage. She was out in the yard, and she took me in and bathed my leg and bound it up. She sounded awfully cross, but she was very kind, and it’s only put on, that crossness.”

“She sounds rather queer,” said Molly.

“Perhaps she is, a bit,” said Michael, considering. “She’s got a terrific sense of fairness, though. If anyone does her a bit of kindness she can’t rest till she pays it back. I like that. Well, anyway, I was jolly grateful to her, because my leg was pretty bad, and I knocked my head, too. She gave me a drink of milk and a bun. Then I noticed a clock on her mantelpiece, a fine old clock with a pendulum. But it wasn’t going.”

“So you brought it home and made it go!” said Peter with a grin.

“Yes, I did,” said Michael. “Fair’s fair, isn’t it? as Miss Wren keeps saying. Anyway, she said that I’d done more for her old clock than she’d done for me, and she said I could have a look through a lot of the things that once belonged to her brother. He was a clock-maker. So I did, and she let me have a lot of jolly useful tools.”

“So that’s where you got those fine little tools from!” said Peter. “Why didn’t you tell us all this, you funny boy?”

“Oh, I thought you’d laugh at me for having a friend like Miss Wren,” said Michael. “You’re always laughing at me. She’s funny to look at—screws her hair up into a kind of bun thing at the back, and wears skirts down to the ground! And she’s awfully independent, and speaks sort of sharply, so that you feel a bit afraid at first, but you get used to it and don’t notice it after a bit.”

“She doesn’t sound awfully pleasant,” said Mrs. Jackson, not liking the sound of Miss Wren very much. “Whatever made you tell her to come to me?”

“I’ve told you,” said Michael impatiently. “She wants a home and you want a woman. Can’t you give her a home and let her work here? She’s always working in her own home, so I expect she would work here.”

“Well, I’ll see her when she comes, but I don’t expect she would do for us at all,” said Mrs. Jackson. “And, Michael dear—please don’t go round telling people to come and see me without discussing things with me first. I don’t want all the queer old women of the town coming here.”

Michael put on one of his scowls. As if he would go round doing that! He only knew one old woman, anyway. Well, if his mother didn’t like Miss Wren, he couldn’t help it. He had done what he thought was a good thing—but so often his “good things” turned out to be wrong after all.

Miss Wren came up the garden path and went round to the back door at exactly six o’clock. The whole family were looking out for her, and Shirley began to giggle. Certainly Miss Wren was queer-looking. She was very small, and had a wizened face like a brown monkey’s. Her hair, which was thin and wiry, was screwed into the tightest little bun at the back, out of which two or three very coarse hairpins stuck. She wore a hat which was garlanded with pink roses, a plain white blouse, and a black skirt that reached her ankles. She wore black cotton gloves and carried a stout umbrella.

“We can’t possibly have her, Mother!” said Molly in a low voice.

Shirley giggled again and her mother spoke to her sharply. “Go into the garden, Shirley.”

Michael opened the back door and grinned at Miss Wren. He was almost as tall as she was, although he was only eleven. “Hallo,” he said. “Mother, this is Miss Wren.”

“Evening, mam,” said Miss Wren in a sharp voice.

Mrs. Jackson looked at the brown monkey-face and unexpectedly she liked what she saw there. The voice was sharp, the whole figure was queer and dowdy, but those brown eyes were gentle and very kind.

“Good evening,” said Mrs. Jackson. “Come in. My boy Michael said you were coming.”

“He’s a nice boy, that one of yours,” said Miss Wren, coming in and standing stiffly by the kitchen table. “Knows what fair’s fair means, he does. Won’t take no advantage of nobody, but gives back any kindness he gets with more of it thrown in.”

Michael went red and disappeared into the garden. He couldn’t bear to hear himself talked about, whether it was good or bad. Mrs. Jackson looked at Miss Wren and laughed.

“Yes, he’s a good boy, but dreamy sometimes,” she said. “I don’t quite know what to say to you about his idea of your coming here, Miss Wren. I expect he has told you all sorts of tales about our having an empty room, and you probably thought we might let you have it or something. But actually we want a maid, someone who will help me to run the house and take some of the cooking off my hands.”

“I see, mam,” said Miss Wren. “Well, I couldn’t give up my independence like that, no, I couldn’t, and that’s flat. It’s true that I go out working by the day to oblige a lady sometimes—but I’ve been used to my own little bit of a home; I’m not dependent on nobody and never could be. I couldn’t be nobody’s slave.”

“Of course not,” said Mrs. Jackson, amused. “We don’t want a slave, as you call it. I’m sure you wouldn’t like being here, having to work to somebody else’s time-table instead of to your own, living in someone else’s house instead of in your own cottage.”

“Well, I shouldn’t,” said Miss Wren, still standing very stiffly, her face more like a monkey’s than ever. She looked round the spick-and-span kitchen. She saw the refrigerator, the larder with its stone shelves, the neat boiler on the hearth, the half-tiled black and white walls. “Nice place you’ve got here,” she said. “It must be a pleasure to work in a kitchen like this. You should see mine! I haven’t even a tap in it—have to go a quarter of a mile to a pump. We’re badly off in those old cottages by the mills. Don’t wonder they’re condemned and will soon be pulled down. But it’s hard on people like me who’s got nowhere else to go. You wouldn’t believe how high the rents are in decent cottages nowadays!”

Mrs. Jackson bent down and opened the oven of her gas stove. She pulled out a tray of new-baked buns. Miss Wren looked at them with approval.

“Try one,” said Mrs. Jackson, and scraped one free of its tin. “Peter, take some to the others—they love them when they are new.”

When Peter came back he was surprised at what he saw. Miss Wren and his mother were washing up the cooking and baking dishes together. Miss Wren had draped an overall round her and was washing, while his mother dried the things.

“Just giving a bit of a hand,” said Miss Wren, seeing Peter’s surprised face. “Must do something in return for that nice bun. Fair’s fair, you know.”

Michael came in a little afterwards and spoke to Miss Wren. “Come and see my bedroom. Mother, can I show Miss Wren my bedroom? I’ve told her a lot about it.”

Miss Wren not only saw his bedroom, but the whole house, too. Michael took her into the little empty room at the end of the landing which was to be the maid’s room.

“This was the room I said we had empty,” he told her. “It’s such a dear little room, and I could just see you in it, somehow.”

“I couldn’t accept no charity from anyone,” said Miss Wren sharply. “I couldn’t afford to pay the rent of a room like this, and to get it for nothing I’d have to lose my independence, and that’s a thing I won’t do, not for anyone. Anyways, your mother could never make do with a little old thing like me—she wants a smart girl, that looks nice when she answers the door and all. Oh, you naughty boy—just see the marks you’ve made on the clean wall with your dirty hands! Now you go straight downstairs and get a wet cloth and bring it up here to me.”

Michael grinned. Miss Wren’s bark was so much worse than her bite. He went downstairs to get a wet cloth. “Mother, you do like her, don’t you?” he said. “I know she’s funny, but she’s awfully nice really, and she’s always doing kind things for people. I believe she’d come, only she thinks she’s too old and dowdy for you. She just loves that little room.”

“Well, dear, I do like her,” said his mother, “but she’d never come—she’s too independent—and besides, we don’t know anything about her at all. If her references were all right I’d certainly try her, poor little old thing—she looks lonely and lost somehow.”

Michael said no more, but climbed the stairs and presented Miss Wren with the wet cloth. She was soon rubbing away at the wall.

“Mother likes you,” said Michael. “I knew she would. My mother always knows when people are nice. She would like you to come here, I know, and live with us, and have this room, and pay you wages, and ...”

“So that I lose my independence, like I said!” said Miss Wren fiercely. “No, thank you! Now don’t you say any more about it!”

“All right,” said Michael, and put on his sulky look.

Miss Wren noticed it at once. “Now don’t you look like that!” she said sharply. “Spoiling your nice face! Ashamed of yourself you should be.”

She went downstairs, washed out the cloth, patted herself down, settled her hat straight and said good-bye. “It’s been a pleasure to meet your family, mam,” she said, her dark brown eyes fixed on Mrs. Jackson’s. “And to see your nice little house. And it’s a place I’d like to come to if I didn’t have to lose my independence, so it is!”

She went out of the back door, and was soon walking down the hillside. She had a tram to catch home—but she didn’t catch it. Instead she sat down on a wooden bench and shut her eyes. She saw that little room again, with its windows opening on to the garden. She saw her furniture there—her small bed, her old chest of drawers, her comfortable chair, her best carpet. She saw herself in that beautiful kitchen, putting things into that wonderful refrigerator, standing things on those cool larder shelves, wiping over those black and white tiles. She saw herself standing out in that lovely flowery garden, pegging up clothes that would dry dazzling white in the sun. No soot from the mills, no dust, no dirt.

Then she spoke to herself. “Well, fair’s fair. Suppose I take that little room for myself and give back work in exchange; that’s fair enough, isn’t it? I don’t want wages, and I’m old now and get a bit tired—but I’m worth a room to myself. And that boy Michael’s there. He’s a nice boy, for all his funny ways. I’ve a good mind to go back and tell them what I think is fair. I won’t be their maid, I won’t give up my independence, not for nobody, but I’ll work in return for my room, because fair’s fair.”

So, to Mrs. Jackson’s astonishment, Miss Wren knocked at the back door and walked in again, twenty minutes after she had left. She expounded her idea of what was fair to Mrs. Jackson, who listened seriously.

“I see, Miss Wren,” she said. “You would like to come and have that room, with your own furniture in it, and in return you will work in the house for me. But I should give you money as well, please understand that.”

“No, thank you,” said Miss Wren firmly. “I have a few shillings a week of my own, and that’s all I want. I’m not taking no charity. I want the room and you want a bit of help in the house. You give me one and I’ll give you the other. That’s fair, and a bargain. I don’t want nothing else. I’ll keep my independence that way. I don’t come on any other terms.”

And so, when references had been taken up, and Miss Wren had sold the bits of furniture she didn’t want, she arrived at Red-Roofs to add to the happy little household there. Mrs. Jackson had been worried about the question of wages, but Mr. Jackson had laughed at her.

“You can always give her nice presents,” he said. “Make it up that way. Anyway, she mayn’t be worth much. We shall have to see.”

Miss Wren arranged her bits of furniture in the little room. She garbed herself in enormous white aprons over her black skirt. She scared the tradespeople with her sharp tongue. She fed all the birds in the garden with scraps and crumbs. She scolded Shirley for her untidiness. She ordered Mrs. Jackson to lie down every afternoon. She made Peter sweep up the dried mud that dropped from his boots on to the carpet. She was an absolute dragon.

And yet they all liked the new little dragon immensely! She kept the house spotless; and as for the little kitchen, it twinkled everywhere you looked. She could bake the most delicious pies. She would scold Michael for something he had forgotten, and the next moment she would hand him out a hot jumble from the oven.

“She’s like a funny little bustling bird,” said Peter. “A little busy bird with a loud voice!”

“A wren!” said Molly at once. “Of course—she’s like a Jenny Wren—loud-voiced and busy and small. She’s a Jenny Wren.”

So Jenny Wren she became, and she, like the others, settled down at Red-Roofs happily, busy in her little kitchen all day long and retiring to her nest at night.

“Good night, Jenny Wren,” Shirley would say at half-past seven when she went to bed. “Good night, Jenny Wren.”

“What sauce to call me Jenny Wren at my age!” Miss Wren would say, but her gentle brown eyes would twinkle, and everyone would smile. Jenny Wren liked her new name, and her new family, and her new home, just as much as her new family liked her!