“I should imagine,” Henry said thoughtfully, “it only puts in an appearance when people are eating. From what father told us, making grub go rotten is its only occupation. And who would dream of picnicking near that old castle—except us?”
“But how did it get there? Surely it ought to be in Greece or somewhere.”
Henry shook his head. “I don’t know. The point is—it is there, and I think we should do something about getting rid of it. I mean to say—someone else just might decide to have a quick nosh there and be frightened to death when that horror with brass wings swoops down and snatches the lump of pork pie out of their mouths.”
Joyce shuddered. “I don’t think I could face it again. It was so horrible.”
“Don’t be so silly. After all it didn’t touch us—only the food—and we now know how to get rid of it. Somehow I must find a brass instrument.”
“Why?”
“You don’t listen, do you? Father read out the instructions. The sound of a brass instrument will put a harpy to immediate flight. So—we must look for some kind of brass instrument.”
Joyce thought deeply for a few moments then announced:
“There’s no brass instrument in this house.”
“I will find one somewhere,” Henry stated, with more conviction than he actually felt.
During the next few days Henry realised that there is an abundance of brass instruments for those who have the money to pay for them. An antique shop in the High Street, for example, had some excellent brass hunting horns, but as the asking price was thirty-five pounds, the children could only stare at them with wistful longing. Then there was the musical instrument shop, which had any number of trumpets, cornets, trombones, tenor-horns—all of which, the assistant informed them, were made of chromium-plated brass, but, again, not one could be purchased for one pound, three pence, which was the total sum Henry and Joyce shared between them.
“Maybe,” Joyce said after a fruitless morning’s hunt, “if we made a noise like a brass instrument, the harpy would fly away.”
After some consideration Henry shook his head. “No. It struck me as being a fairly bright harpy and would never fall for a trick like that. We really must think of something.”
The search ended when they found that even a toy trumpet cost five pounds, and that was made of some kind of brass-coloured alloy. It was a very dejected pair who returned to the house, then retreated to their study room for a conference.
“I thought,” Joyce remarked caustically, “you were go-to come up with some bright idea. So far we’re not even in smelling distance of getting any kind of brass instrument.”
Henry frowned. “Maybe the job is proving a little more difficult than I thought, but I’m not beaten yet—not by a long chalk. He thumped the arms of his chair with clenched fists. “The world is full of brass instruments. People are positively wallowing in them—and we can’t lay our hands on even one. It’s enough to make you spit.”
“If only we could get a brass band to stage a concert in the old ruins,” Joyce sighed.
Suddenly Henry clapped hands to his head and did a little dance around the room. “What an idiot I am! A brass band! That’s the answer.”
Joyce stared at him with some alarm. “I don’t know why you are so excited. We’ll never get any kind of band to go out there. It’s so isolated.”
“Of course not, stupid—but, don’t you see? We can tape a brass band on my cassette recorder—and take that out there.”
After some deliberation Joyce nodded.
“You have some brains after all.”
Henry ignored the insult and grabbed the Radio Times. Presently he read aloud: “Radio 4. 10 a.m. The Bradford Boiler-Maker’s Brass Band. There you are! All we have to do is stand the recorder next to the radio—and Bob’s your uncle. There won’t be just one brass instrument—but dozens. The old harpy will have a heart attack.”
“Um.” Joyce looked doubtful. “I suppose you’re right. But as soon as that dreadful thing puts in an appearance, I’m going to run. It might get very annoyed when a brass band starts blaring from a plastic box.”
“Rubbish,” Henry said scornfully. “It will be so scared you won’t see its brass for dust.”
“No more picnics unless your father and I are present,” Mrs. Harrington said. “All that food wasted and you coming back with an outlandish story about harpies—or some such nonsense. You will eat your meals indoors like civilized beings.”
“What do we do now?” Joyce enquired.
Henry shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be a picnic—just food. We’ll buy a loaf of bread and maybe some margarine and pretend we’re going to scoff it.”
Joyce nodded. “And a little jar of strawberry jam just to make it all look right.”
So it was on Tuesday afternoon that the children, armed with a loaf of sliced bread, a plastic tub of margarine, a jar of strawberry jam, a butter knife and a cassette recorder, set out on their long journey across the moor. They had every reason to feel confident, because the Bradford Boiler-Maker’s Brass Band had broadcast a most satisfactory programme of ear-splitting music, calculated to put any number of harpies to instant flight. Henry had rewound the tape, but had not played it back, for, as he said, they did not want the batteries to fail at a crucial moment. When the ruined castle loomed up from behind a fringe of stunted trees, Joyce began to display signs of alarm and despondency.
“Look here, do you know what you’re doing. When I remember what that thing looked like and the way it snatched at the food—well—I’m all for turning back and heading for home.”
“You’re scared,” Henry stated with well-simulated scorn.
“Too true I am—and so are you.”
“No I’m not.”
“Then why did you almost jump out of your skin when that crow squawked and flew out of a tree?”
Henry blushed and pretended to be angry. “I was just startled, that’s all. Now this is what we must do. First spread some marge and jam over the bread, then start to eat it . . .”
“I don’t like margarine,” Joyce protested.
“Then pretend to eat it, stupid. When the harpy puts in an appearance, I’ll turn on the cassette and we will retire—”
“Run,” Joyce insisted. “Run very fast.”
“Retire in good order to that little hollow over there and wait for old harpy to disappear over the horizon. Dead simple.”
Joyce shuddered. “So long as it’s not simply dead. All right, let’s get on with it.”
They laid out a plastic mac on the ground, then unwrapped the sliced bread, which Joyce—after casting an anxious glance at the ruined castle—proceeded to cover with a generous coating of margarine. When Henry unscrewed the jampot lid, three wasps zoomed in and displayed a lively and unwelcomed interest.
“Pity they aren’t frightened of brass instruments,” Joyce said, waving the butter knife at the offending insects. “I bet the ants are rallying their forces, too.”
“Never mind the ants,” Henry said, “just bung on the jam and let’s get cracking. I thought I saw a movement from behind that far turret.”
Joyce spread jam with more haste than accuracy, and some red globules dropped on to the plastic mac, much to the satisfaction of an expectant blowfly. Then, when twelve margarine- and jam-coated slices of bread were laid out in a neat row, Henry made her crouch down beside him and asked:
“Ready?”
“Well . . .”
“Right—take up a slice and make out you are going to eat it.”