CHAPTER THREE
THE LETTERS FROM NO
ONE
The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harry his
longest-ever punishment. By the time he was allowed out of his cupboard again,
the summer holidays had started and Dudley had already broken his new video
camera, crashed his remote control airplane, and, first time out on his racing
bike, knocked down old Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her
crutches.
Harry was glad school was over, but there was no escaping
Dudley's gang, who visited the house every single day. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm,
and Gordon were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and stupidest
of the lot, he was the leader. The rest of them were all quite happy to join in
Dudley's favorite sport: Harry Hunting.
This was why Harry spent as much time as possible out of the
house, wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays, where he
could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came he would be going off to
secondary school and, for the first time in his life, he wouldn't be with
Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon's old private school,
Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Harry, on the other hand, was
going to Stonewall High, the local public school. Dudley thought this was very
funny.
"They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at
Stonewall," he told Harry. "Want to come upstairs and practice?"
"No, thanks," said Harry. "The poor toilet's never had
anything as horrible as your head down it — it might be sick." Then he ran,
before Dudley could work out what he'd said.
One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his
Smeltings uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs. Figg's. Mrs. Figg wasn 't as bad as
usual. It turned out she'd broken her leg tripping over one of her cats, and she
didn't seem quite as fond of them as before. She let Harry watch television and
gave him a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though she'd had it for several
years.
That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the
family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings' boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange
knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly
sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren't looking. This was
supposed to be good training for later life.
As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon
said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst
into tears and said she couldn't believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins, he looked
so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn't trust himself to speak. He thought two of
his ribs might already have cracked from trying not to laugh.
There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning
when Harry went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large metal tub
in the sink. He went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like dirty
rags swimming in gray water.
"What's this?" he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as
they always did if he dared to ask a question.
"Your new school uniform," she said.
Harry looked in the bowl again.
"Oh," he said, "I didn't realize it had to be so
wet."
"DotA be stupid," snapped Aunt Petunia. "I'm dyeing some of
Dudley's old things gray for you. It'll look just like everyone else's when I've
finished."
Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not to
argue. He sat down at the table and tried not to think about how he was going to
look on his first day at Stonewall High — like he was wearing bits of old
elephant skin, probably.
Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses
because of the smell from Harry's new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper
as usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere, on
the table.
They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on
the doormat.
"Get the mail, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon from behind his
paper.
"Make Harry get it."
"Get the mail, Harry."
"Make Dudley get it."
"Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley."
Harry dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail.
Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister Marge,
who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a
bill, and — a letter for Harry.
Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a
giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who
would? He had no friends, no other relatives — he didn't belong to the library,
so he'd never even got rude notes asking for books back. Yet here it was, a
letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:
Mr. H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment,
and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no
stamp.
Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a
purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake
surrounding a large letter H.
"Hurry up, boy!" shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. "What
are you doing, checking for letter bombs?" He chuckled at his own
joke.
Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his letter.
He handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, sat down, and slowly began to
open the yellow envelope.
Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and
flipped over the postcard.
"Marge's ill," he informed Aunt Petunia. "Ate a funny whelk.
—."
"Dad!" said Dudley suddenly. "Dad, Harry's got
something!"
Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which was
written on the same heavy parchment as the envelope, when it was jerked sharply
out of his hand by Uncle Vernon.
"That's mine!" said Harry, trying to snatch it
back.
"Who'd be writing to you?" sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the
letter open with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from red to green
faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within seconds it
was the grayish white of old porridge.
"P-P-Petunia!" he gasped.
Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon
held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first
line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat
and made a choking noise.
"Vernon! Oh my goodness — Vernon!"
They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that
Harry and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn't used to being ignored. He
gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick.
"I want to read that letter," he said loudly. want to read
it," said Harry furiously, "as it's mine."
"Get out, both of you," croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the
letter back inside its envelope.
Harry didn't move.
I WANT MY LETTER!" he shouted.
"Let me see it!" demanded Dudley.
"OUT!" roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry and Dudley
by the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall, slamming the kitchen
door behind them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but silent fight over
who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Harry, his glasses dangling from
one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack between door and
floor.
"Vernon," Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, "look
at the address — how could they possibly know where he sleeps? You don't think
they're watching the house?"
"Watching — spying — might be following us," muttered Uncle
Vernon wildly.
"But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell
them we don't want - — "
Harry could see Uncle Vernon's shiny black shoes pacing up and
down the kitchen.
"No," he said finally. "No, we'll ignore it. If they don't get
an answer... Yes, that's best... we won't do anything....
"But - — "
"I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear
when we took him in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?"
That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did
something he'd never done before; he visited Harry in his cupboard.
"Where's my letter?" said Harry, the moment Uncle Vernon had
squeezed through the door. "Who's writing to me?"
"No one. it was addressed to you by mistake," said Uncle
Vernon shortly. "I have burned it."
"It was not a mistake," said Harry angrily, "it had my
cupboard on it."
"SILENCE!" yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell
from the ceiling. He took a few deep breaths and then forced his face into a
smile, which looked quite painful.
"Er — yes, Harry — about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have
been thinking... you're really getting a bit big for it... we think it might be
nice if you moved into Dudley's second bedroom.
"Why?" said Harry.
"Don't ask questions!" snapped his uncle. "Take this stuff
upstairs, now."
The Dursleys' house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon
and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge), one
where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that
wouldn't fit into his first bedroom. It only took Harry one trip upstairs to
move everything he owned from the cupboard to this room. He sat down on the bed
and stared around him. Nearly everything in here was broken. The month-old video
camera was lying on top of a small, working tank Dudley had once driven over the
next door neighbor's dog; in the corner was Dudley's first-ever television set,
which he'd put his foot through when his favorite program had been canceled;
there was a large birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped
at school for a real air rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end all bent
because Dudley had sat on it. Other shelves were full of books. They were the
only things in the room that looked as though they'd never been
touched.
From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling at his
mother, I don't want him in there... I need that room... make him get
out...."
Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday he'd have
given anything to be up here. Today he'd rather be back in his cupboard with
that letter than up here without it.
Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudley
was in shock. He'd screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting stick, been
sick on purpose, kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise through the
greenhouse roof, and he still didn't have his room back. Harry was thinking
about this time yesterday and bitterly wishing he'd opened the letter in the
hall. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each other
darkly.
When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying
to be nice to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things
with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, "There's
another one! 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive
--'"
With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran
down the hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the
ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact that
Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a minute of
confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting stick, Uncle
Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry's letter clutched in his
hand.
"Go to your cupboard — I mean, your bedroom," he wheezed at
Harry. "Dudley — go — just go."
Harry walked round and round his new room. Someone knew he had
moved out of his cupboard and they seemed to know he hadn't received his first
letter. Surely that meant they'd try again? And this time he'd make sure they
didn't fail. He had a plan.
The repaired alarm clock rang at six o'clock the next morning.
Harry turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He mustn't wake the Dursleys.
He stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights.
He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet
Drive and get the letters for number four first. His heart hammered as he crept
across the dark hall toward the front door --
Harry leapt into the air; he'd trodden on something big and
squashy on the doormat — something alive!
Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realized
that the big, squashy something had been his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon had been
lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure that
Harry didn't do exactly what he'd been trying to do. He shouted at Harry for
about half an hour and then told him to go and make a cup of tea. Harry shuffled
miserably off into the kitchen and by the time he got back, the mail had
arrived, right into Uncle Vernon's lap. Harry could see three letters addressed
in green ink.
I want - — " he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the
letters into pieces before his eyes. Uncle Vernon didut go to work that day. He
stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot.
"See," he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of
nails, "if they can't deliver them they'll just give up."
"I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon."
"Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia,
they're not like you and me," said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with
the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.
On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As
they couldn't go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door,
slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small window in the
downstairs bathroom.
Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the
letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the
front and back doors so no one could go out. He hummed "Tiptoe Through the
Tulips" as he worked, and jumped at small noises.
On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four
letters to Harry found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside
each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt
Petunia through the living room window. While Uncle Vernon made furious
telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to
complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food
processor.
"Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?" Dudley asked
Harry in amazement.
On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast
table looking tired and rather ill, but happy.
"No post on Sundays," he reminded them cheerfully as he spread
marmalade on his newspapers, "no damn letters today - — "
Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke
and caught him sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty
letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys ducked, but
Harry leapt into the air trying to catch one.
"Out! OUT!"
Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and threw him into
the hall. When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their
faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could hear the letters still
streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor.
"That does it," said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but
pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. I want you all back
here in five minutes ready to leave. We're going away. Just pack some clothes.
No arguments!"
He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no
one dared argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way through the
boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway. Dudley was
sniffling in the back seat; his father had hit him round the head for holding
them up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and computer in his sports
bag.
They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn't dare ask
where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn
and drive in the opposite direction for a while. "Shake'em off... shake 'em
off," he would mutter whenever he did this.
They didn't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley
was howling. He'd never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he'd
missed five television programs he'd wanted to see, and he'd never gone so long
without blowing up an alien on his computer.
Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on
the outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Harry shared a room with twin beds and
damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored but Harry stayed awake, sitting on the
windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and
wondering....
They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast
for breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner of the hotel
came over to their table.
"'Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I got about
an 'undred of these at the front desk."
She held up a letter so they could read the green ink
address:
Mr. H. Potter
Room 17
Railview Hotel
Cokeworth
Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked his
hand out of the way. The woman stared.
"I'll take them," said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and
following her from the dining room.
Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" Aunt Petunia
suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem to hear her.
Exactly what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the
middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in the car,
and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed
field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multilevel
parking garage.
"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully
late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all
inside the car, and disappeared.
It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car.
Dud ley sniveled.
"It's Monday," he told his mother. "The Great Humberto's on
tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television. "
Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday —
and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days the week, because of
television — then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry's eleventh birthday. Of course,
his birthdays were never exactly fun — last year, the Dursleys had given him a
coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks. Still, you weren't eleven
every day.
Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carrying
a long, thin package and didn't answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he'd
bought.
"Found the perfect place!" he said. "Come on! Everyone
out!"
It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at
what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was the
most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was certain, there was
no television in there.
"Storm forecast for tonight!" said Uncle Vernon gleefully,
clapping his hands together. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed to lend us his
boat!"
A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a
rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below
them.
"I've already got us some rations," said Uncle Vernon, "so all
aboard!"
It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down
their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like hours
they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, led the way to
the broken-down house.
The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the
wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp
and empty. There were only two rooms.
Uncle Vernon's rations turned out to be a bag of chips each
and four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoked
and shriveled up.
"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" he said
cheerfully.
He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood
a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry privately
agreed, though the thought didn't cheer him up at all.
As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray
from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled
the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second room
and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went
off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find the softest bit of
floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged
blanket.
The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went
on. Harry couldn't sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get
comfortable, his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley's snores were drowned by
the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of
Dudley's watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist,
told Harry he'd be eleven in ten minutes' time. He lay and watched his birthday
tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where
the letter writer was now.
Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He
hoped the roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did.
Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so full of letters
when they got back that he'd be able to steal one somehow.
Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the
rock like that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was
the rock crumbling into the sea?
One minute to go and he'd be eleven. Thirty seconds...
twenty... ten... nine — maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to annoy him — three...
two... one...
BOOM.
The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring
at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.
© Гарри Поттер фан сайт
А когда вырастешь Армия России сделает из тебя мужчину.