"I bet it doesn't-work," said Charles. "I bet you anything." "Shush," said Carey, as Elizabeth came in with their milk on a tray.
"Don't spill on the sheet, now," she said, panting, "and bring the tray down, Miss Carey, please; it's my evening out." "Your evening out?" repeated Carey. She began to smile.
"Nothing funny in that, I hope," said Elizabeth tartly. "I've earned it. And no tricks, now; your aunt's not herself. She's gone to bed." "Gone to bed?" echoed Carey again. She caught back the rest of her smile just in time. Elizabeth looked at her curiously.
"No tricks, now," she repeated. "There's something funny about you children. Butter wouldn't melt in your mouths, but I'm not so sure." They heard her sigh on the landing. They heard her turn the corner. Then they kicked off their slippers and danced. Noiselessly, tensely, breathlessly, they gyrated and whirled and leapt; then, panting, they fell onto Paul's bed.
"Where shall we go?" whispered Carey, her eyes shining.
"Let's try a South Sea island," said Charles.
Paul bit deeply into his bread. His cheeks bulged and his jaws moved slowly. He was the calmest of the three.
"The Rocky Mountains," suggested Carey.
"The South Pole," said Charles.
"The Pyramids." "Tibet." "The moon." "Where would you like to go, Paul?" asked Carey suddenly. Happiness had made her unselfish.
Paul swallowed his mouthful of bread and butter. "I'd like to go to the Natural History Museum." "Oh, Paul," said Carey.
"Not that kind of place. You can go there any time." "I'd like to see the Big Flea in the Natural History Museum," said Paul. He remembered how Carey and Charles had gone with an uncle, without him, when he, Paul, .had been in bed with a cold.
"It was only a model. Think of another place, Paul. You can have first turn, as it's your bed. But somewhere nice." "I'd like to go to London," said Paul.
"But you can go to London almost any time," Charles reminded him.
"I'd like to go to London to see my mother." "Don't say 'my mother.' She's our mother, too." "I'd like to see her," repeated Paul simply.
"Well, we'd like to see her," admitted Carey. "But she'd be kind of surprised." "I'd like to see my mother." Paul's lips began to tremble, and his eyes filled with tears. Carey looked worried.
"Paul," she tried to explain, "when you get a thing as magic as this, you don't make that kind of wish, like seeing your mother and going to museums and things; you wish for something absolutely extraordinary. Don't you see, Paul? Try again." Paul's face turned crimson, and the tears rolled out of his eyes and down his cheeks.
"I'd like to see my mother, or the Big Flea." He was trying not to sob aloud. He closed his lips, and his chest heaved up and down.
"Oh, dear," said Carey desperately. She stared down at her shoes. x "Let him have his turn," Charles suggested in a patient voice. "We can go somewhere else afterwards." "But don't you see-" began Carey. "Oh, all right," she added. "Come on. Get on the bed, Charles." She began to feel excited again.
"Let's all hold onto the rails. Better tuck in that bit of blanket. Now, Paul, take hold of the knob-gently. Here, I'll blow your nose. Now, are you ready?" Paul knelt up, facing the head of the bed and the wall. He had his hand on the knob. "What shall I say?" "Say Mother's address. Say, 'I wish to be at No. 38 Mark-ham Square' and twist." "I wish to be-" Paul's voice sounded thick. He cleared his throat.
"At No. 38," prompted Carey.
"At No. 38." "Markham Square." "Markham Square." Nothing happened. There was an awful moment of suspense, then Carey added quickly, "S.W.3." "S.W.3," repeated Paul.
It was horrible. It was a swooshing rush, as if the world had changed into a cinema film run too quickly. A jumble that was almost fields, almost trees, almost streets, almost houses, but nothing long enough. The bed rocked. They clung to the railings. The bedclothes whipped round Carey and Charles, who clung to the foot, blinding them, choking them. A great seasick lurch. Then bang . . . bump . . . clang . . . and a sliding scrape.
They had arrived.
They felt shaken and breathless. Slowly Carey unwound a blanket from her neck and head. Her mouth was full of fluff. The eiderdown was blown tight round Charles and hung through the brass rails of the bed. Paul was still kneeling on the pillow. His face was scarlet and his hair was blown upright.
"Gosh," said Charles after a moment. He looked about him. They were indeed in Markham Square. The bed had come to rest neatly alongside the pavement, nearly touching the curb. There was No. 38 with its black front door, its checkered steps, and the area railing. Charles felt extraordinarily conspicuous. The bed was so very much a bed and the street so very much a street, and there was Paul crossing the pavement in his bare feet to ring the front door bell. Paul, in his pajamas and with such untidy hair, standing on Mother's front steps in broad daylight-a warm, rich evening light, but nonetheless broad daylight.
Charles prayed for the door to open quickly. He was by nature extremely retiring.
A red bus rolled by at the end of the square. For the moment, the pavement was empty.
"Ring again," he cried fervently. Paul rang again.
They heard the echo of the bell in the basement, a polite, regretful, empty sound. The dark windows stared blankly.
"There's no one at home," said Carey when they had waited a minute or two longer. She uncurled her legs. "Mother must have gone out to dinner," she announced, standing up. "Well, we'll have to wait. Let's tidy the bed." As they made the bed, drawing up the blankets, turning back the sheets, plumping up the pillows, Charles marveled at Carey's and Paul's lack of concern. Didn't they think it odd, he wondered, to be making a bed there in a London street? He glanced longingly toward the area steps. "Shall we try the back door?" he suggested-anything to be away from the bed and down below the level of the pavement. He couldn't go far because he hadn't any shoes on.
They crept down the area steps. They rattled and pulled at the tradesmen's door. It was locked. They peered in at the kitchen window. A cup and saucer lay on the drainboard; the rest of the kitchen was curiously tidy and deathly still. The window was fastened. Even breaking it would have done no good. It was barred against burglars.
"We must just sit on the bed and wait," sighed Carey.
"Not on the bed," said Charles hastily. "Let's stay down here, where no one can see us," he added.
They all squeezed together on the bottom step, facing the dustbin. The area smelled of wet tea leaves, and the step was cold.
"I don't call this much of an adventure," said Charles.
"Nor do I," agreed Carey. "It was Paul's idea." It grew darker. Looking upwards, they saw that the light was draining quickly from the street above. There was mist in the air.
They began to hear passers-by. The footsteps always paused at No. 38, and the children, listening, realized how much grownups think alike. They nearly all said, with deep surprise, "How funny! A bed!" or "A bed! How funny!" Always they heard the word "Bed-bed, bed, bed" and footsteps. Once Charles spoke for them. As he heard the footsteps pause, he said aloud, "How funny, a bed!" It was almost dark then, and a form peered down at them over the area railings. "Some children," muttered a voice, as if explaining to a second person. As the footsteps died away, Charles called after them, "And a bed." "Don't, Charles, it's rude. You'll get us into trouble." It became quite dark, a darkness laced with mist. "River fog," said Charles, "and if you ask me, I think Mother's gone away for the week end." Paul was already asleep against Carey's shoulder. Carey had a sudden brain wave.