Читать книгу Those Dreadful Children - Enid blyton - Страница 4

Table of Contents

John and Margery couldn’t help feeling that it was rather an exciting secret they had between them. They whispered about it, and Annette was cross because they stopped whenever she came near them.

“You might tell me,” she whined. “You might! You’ve got a secret and you won’t tell me. When I find out what it is—and I shall—I shall tell Mother about it. Then you will wish you’d told me.”

“We might be whispering about your birthday,” said John. That made Annette look sweet again.

Margery and John waited impatiently for Annette to go to bed that night. As soon as she was called they ran down to the bottom of the garden. Margery had her best doll with her.

“I want to play houses with her in that summer-house,” she said. “You can be the father, I’ll be the mother, and she’s our child. What shall we call our house?”

“No, let’s play caves in that big drooping tree,” said John. “We’ll play that once we are inside that tree. We’re absolutely safe. It shall be our cave.”

“John, do you think we might pick one or two of those lovely red roses that are lost in the tangle of weeds?” asked Margery, when they were making their way through the overgrown bushes and trees.

“Well, they don’t belong to us,” said John.

“I know. But do they belong to anybody just at present?” said Margery. “They will bloom and fade and die—and nobody will enjoy them. I’d love to pick just two. I don’t see that it would matter.”

“If everyone thought that, there wouldn’t be a flower or a plant left in the gardens of empty houses,” said John. “No, don’t pick anything, Margery. We oughtn’t to be here at all, really.”

They had a lovely game in the cave-tree. The light under the drooping, green-leaved twigs was green and cool and rather mysterious. It was fun to part the long, graceful branches and peer out into the bright evening sunshine.

“Any enemies about?” Margery would whisper.

“None,” John would whisper back. “We can make a dash for the summer-house!”

Then, pretending that enemies might be after them at any moment, the two would dash to the little summer-house and fling themselves inside.

Margery didn’t like the summer-house as much as she thought she would. She saw a spider run along the ceiling and it made her shiver. “I’d like to clean this house up from top to bottom,” she said. “I’d chase away all the earwigs and spiders, and clean it nicely. Shall we bring some cloths and clean it tomorrow, John?”

“You can, if you like,” said John. “I don’t want to. I’d rather play in the cave-tree. I wish those Taggertys weren’t coming for weeks. I do so like this garden all to ourselves.”

“Well, it might be better fun when they do come,” said Margery, “because if we make friends with them, they will let us come and play here—and six children could have a lot of fun together in that cave-tree and this summer-house, and in that tangle of bushes and trees at the bottom, too. And what fun to have a pond to sail ships on. I wish we had one.”

The two children climbed over the wall, the next night. Then came the third night. It was not so fine as it had been. When a few drops of rain fell, John pulled Margery under the cave-tree. It was quite dark there that evening, because there were big clouds low down in the sky, full of rain.

“We’ll shelter here,” said John, in a whisper. “I only hope Mother doesn’t start calling us. But I think she’s out now. This is a lovely cave, Margery. Not a drop of rain is getting through.”

He was right. The long, drooping branches waved a little to and fro in the wind, but no rain came through at all. The ground was perfectly dry to sit on. It was fun to sit there and hear the rain pattering outside.

Then suddenly the two children heard another noise. It was the sound of voices and hurrying feet. And the sound came from the back entrance of the house and garden!

John clutched Margery. “It’s somebody coming in here! I hope it isn’t the Taggertys.”

Margery hardly dared to breathe. Her face went red and she sat absolutely still. The voices sounded very lively indeed, and the feet pattered to and fro.

“Bother this rain! What a pity, just when we wanted to see the house and garden in the sunshine. I say—look, there’s a pond. Mummy, there’s a pond!”

“John! We must go,” whispered Margery, in a panic. “They’ll find us here. Quick, let’s go.”

“No, we’ll be seen,” said John. He was frightened too. “Oh, Margery—I wish you hadn’t picked those two roses this evening!”

Margery wished she hadn’t, too. It was the first time she had picked any of the flowers, but she had seen two perfect red roses, and hadn’t been able to stop herself from breaking them off the rose-stems. There they were, beside the trunk of the weeping willow. Where could she hide them?

There was nowhere. In despair, Margery sat her doll on top of them. There—now they wouldn’t be seen.

“Pat! Look here! There’s a washhouse!” cried a voice. “Won’t Bridget be pleased? She’s always wanted a proper washhouse for all our clothes. Now she’ll have one.”

“Let’s look at the garden. Goodness, Maureen, isn’t it overgrown!” cried another voice. “Blow this rain! Come on, we’ll look all over the garden. It’s a big one. Bigger than the ones we’ve had before. We’ll have fun here.”

Another voice came on the air—a younger, more childish voice. “Take me, too! I want to come, too!”

“Say please, Biddy, then!” said Pat’s voice. “And don’t whine like that.”

“Please!” said Biddy’s voice, and then all the pattering feet came nearer.

“There’s a summer-house!” yelled Pat. “Look! We can play houses and schools. And look at all these lovely trees to climb. I say—what’s this tree?”

Margery and John clutched one another. They could see the toes of three children under the ends of the drooping willow branches. And then somebody parted the branches and looked inside.

It was a boy’s face, a merry face with dark-blue eyes and curly dark hair. The boy was ten, just about John’s age. He stared inside the cave-tree, and saw Margery and John at once.

“Look, Maureen,” he said, startled, and pulled aside more branches for his sister to look inside the tree with him. “Children! Hey, you, what are you doing here? This is our house and garden!”

Margery looked as if she was going to cry. John stood up. “We only came in to have a look, because the garden was empty,” he said. “You’re not living here yet. Don’t tell your mother and father.”

“Why should we? We’re not tell-tales!” said the boy, and came right inside the drooping ring of branches. “But you just clear out, see? I won’t have anyone in my garden without my permission.”

He looked very fierce. He also looked very dirty. His hands were black and he had a smear across his face. There was a hole in one of his socks and his jersey had a tear in it.

The girl came through the branches, too. She was the same age as Margery, about eight. She too looked dirty and untidy. Then came a third child, about five. She was Biddy. She had the same blue eyes and dark hair of the other two, and she was just as untidy. Her red hair ribbon was undone and trailed down her back.

“Where do you live?” demanded Pat.

“I shan’t tell you,” said John, afraid that Pat might tell his father and mother. “It’s no business of yours. We’ve done no harm. We’ll go.”

“No you won’t! You’re our prisoners!” suddenly cried Pat, and with a truly deafening yell he produced a rope from round his waist and rushed at John, meaning to tie him up.

John was not used to this sort of thing. He tried to push Pat away, but the boy soon got him on the ground, and Margery stared at them in horror.

“John! John! You’ll dirty your jersey! Oh, John, get up!”

But then it was poor Margery’s turn, for Maureen and Biddy suddenly flung themselves on her, too, and she also was rolled on the ground. She screamed. What would Mother say to her dirty dress?

There was a real rough-and-tumble for a few minutes, and when it was over, John found that somehow or other his hands were tied behind his back. He was indeed Pat’s prisoner.

“You rough beast!” he shouted to Pat. “Undo my hands. I’ll kick you if you don’t.”

“Kicking not allowed,” said Pat. “Don’t be an ass. It’s only a game.”

Margery sat up and dusted down her dress. It was in a dreadful mess. “Don’t dare to touch me again!” she yelled at Maureen and Biddy. “Look what you’ve done to my frock! Mother will be furious.”

“No harm done,” said Maureen, dimples coming in her cheek as she grinned at the angry Margery. “A button off—but what does that matter?”

“What does that matter?” echoed Biddy, jumping up and down in glee at the sight of Margery’s angry face. “Oh look—there’s a doll!”

“Let my doll alone!” screamed Margery, who was now quite beside herself with rage and fright. “If you dare to touch her, I’ll—I’ll—I’ll ...”

But it was no use. Biddy had got the doll and was nursing her. Then Pat saw the two red roses under the doll and he picked them up.

“Oho! You’ve been picking our roses,” said Pat. “Haven’t you?”

John and Margery were both truthful children. They had been taught never to tell stories, and they never did. But how dreadful to have to own up to picking somebody else’s flowers!

“I picked them,” said Margery, at last. “I didn’t think it would matter. They were fading. I’m sorry now—I wouldn’t have picked them if I’d known you were coming and might want them.”

“She’s a thief,” said Biddy, importantly.

“Shut up, Biddy,” said Pat, at once. He turned to Margery. “You’d no right to pick our flowers. But you can have them. We’ll take your doll in exchange.”

“No, oh no!” cried Margery, in the greatest alarm. But Maureen was already running out of the willow-tree with the doll. Margery tore after her.

A voice came from somewhere. “Children! Do you want to see over the house? I’ve got the key now.”

Maureen flung the doll to Margery. “Here you are. That’s our mother. I was only teasing you.”

“Keep the roses too, if you’re so badly off for flowers,” called Pat, in a scornful voice. He took Biddy’s hand and they all ran to the house.

“What horrid, rough, unkind, dirty, dreadful children!” said Margery, almost in tears, as she picked up her doll and hugged her. “I hate them.”

“Beasts,” said John, looking down at his torn jersey. “Springing on us suddenly like that and getting us down on the ground. I never knew such rough children in my life!”

“I don’t want to know them,” said Margery. “Come on, John, let’s go while we can. They may come back at any minute.”

They peeped out between the willow branches. They saw a crowd of people in the empty house, and heard the sound of lively, excited voices.

“They had nice faces, those children,” said Margery remembering. “Lovely blue eyes. But what awful manners! Mother would hate them, I’m sure. She’d never let us know them. Anyway, I shall never, never be friends with them after what they did with my doll. Poor Angela! I thought she’d be broken. Let’s go home quickly, John.”

They ran hurriedly down the garden, and got over the wall. They heard their bedtime bell as they climbed over. John looked down at his clothes in dismay.

“Mother will have a lot to say,” he said. “And you look pretty awful too, Margery.”

Mother did have a lot to say. She couldn’t bear the children to be dirty or untidy. “Your jersey, John! Your dress, Margery! And where’s that missing button? What have you been doing?”

They didn’t tell her. They both thought the same thing. “Those dreadful children! We’ll never speak to them again!”