Wilkins’ Tooth. Diana Wynne Jones

the cigarette she had in her mouth. She talked round it, through puffs of smoke, and the cigarette wagged.

      “What do you kids want, eh? No jobs going, I’m afraid. Bohemian household and all that.”

      “Could we see Frankie and Jenny, please?” asked Jess.

      “Oh, yes. Sure. This way.” The lady left the door open and simply walked away inside the house. Frank and Jess, a little doubtfully, stepped inside and followed her down a cold stone passage smelling of mildew and lamp oil. They could not tell which smell was the strongest. Jess thought mildew, and did not wonder that Jenny had rheumatism. Frank thought lamp oil. There seemed to be no electricity in the house.

      The lady pushed open a door. “Frankie. Friends for you,” she said. Then, with her cigarette still untouched and wagging, she went off into another room. Before the door to it shut, Frank glimpsed an easel, with a painting on it.

      The two little girls were in a small room that smelt, distinctly, more of mildew than of oil. There were toys about, so it must have been a playroom. But it was, Jess thought, almost as cheerless as the potting shed, and certainly as dark. The reason for the darkness was that outside the window stood a great wooden millwheel, so old that grass grew on it in clumps, and so big that very little light got past it into the room.

      Frankie bounded to meet them looking so excited that Jess felt mean. “What happened? What did you do to her?”

      “Nothing yet,” Jess said awkwardly.

      Frankie just looked at her, with her great big famine-eyes. Jenny, who was crouched up on the windowsill, said, “I knew you wouldn’t. Nobody dares to.” She was not jeering. She just said it as a matter of fact, rather sadly. She made Frank feel terrible – even worse than Jess was feeling.

      “This is – this is a sort of progress report,” he said. “We saw her, and she said she wouldn’t take it off you. That’s as far as we’ve got.”

      Frankie leaned forward, with her eyes bigger than ever. “Then go on and do something awful to her. Now you know.”

      “At least you didn’t let her deceive you,” said Jenny. “Lots of people won’t believe she’s a witch, but that’s just because she looks jolly and they think she’s joking.”

      “But she isn’t joking,” said Frankie. “She’s wicked. Really.”

      Somehow, now they had talked to Biddy, Jess and Frank found this easier to believe. Jess still knew, somewhere in the back of her head, that Biddy must simply be mad, but she did not know it strongly enough to say so. All she said was, “Yes, I know. She said she’s got it in for your family.”

      Both little girls nodded. “Yes, she has,” Frankie said. “So now do something.”

      “All right,” said Frank, “but—” he hesitated, and then said, in a rush, in a rather official-sounding voice, because he felt so mean—“but we’ve got to do it on conditions, because we can’t take your sovereign.”

      The little girls stared. “Why not?” said Jenny. “It’s worth much more than a pound.”

      Jess saw the point. She shook her head firmly. “It’s not legal tender,” she said. She was not quite sure what that meant, but she was sure it was the right phrase, and it sounded beautifully official. Frankie and Jenny were impressed by it, and stared mournfully at her.

      “So we’ll do something to Biddy,” Frank went on pompously, although he was out in goose-pimples again at the mere idea, “if you promise us to stop calling names after – what’s his name, Jess?”

      “Martin Taylor,” said Jess.

      “Who?” said Jenny.

      “Ginger,” said Frank. “Up at the big house. You know.”

      “Oh, him!” Frankie stuck her head up.

      Jenny leant forward indignantly, and nearly overbalanced from the windowsill. “We hate him. He’s horrible. He lives in our house. It should be our house, but he lives there just because we haven’t got any money any more.”

      “We’re going to drive him out,” said Frankie.

      “Don’t be silly,” said Jess. “You can’t drive him out, because it’s his parents, not him, the house belongs to. He can’t help living there. It’s not fair to go calling him names. He isn’t allowed to hit girls.”

      Jenny grinned. She looked like a wicked elf-thing, all curled up on the windowsill. “We know he can’t,” she said.

      “He calls us names too,” said Frankie. “And we’re not going to stop. So there.”

      Jess immediately marched away to the damp door. “All right. Then we’re not going to do anything to Biddy. We wouldn’t touch her with a bargepole. So there.”

      There was a painful silence. Jess opened the door and tried to go through it slowly, without looking as if she was waiting. Frank loitered after her. Still neither of the little girls said anything. Frank and Jess had gone most of the length of the stone passage before there was any sound at all. Then, suddenly, behind them, they heard rapid footsteps – light, heavy, light, heavy. Jenny, down from the windowsill, was following them as hard as she could go.

      She ran up to Jess, seized her hand, and smiled up at her. When she smiled, Jess thought, Jenny looked almost as sweet as Vernon’s littlest sister. “Please,” Jenny said. “Please, Jessica Pirie, do something to Biddy and I’ll promise anything.” Then her face became all stiff and famine-seeming. “Make her die, so that my foot can be better again.” Great huge tears came streaming down her cheeks.

      Frankie came up without a word, put her arm round Jenny, and led her back to the playroom again. Jess and Frank followed, feeling mean and big.

      Jess said, “I don’t think it would work, making her die. She’d not be able to take it off then. She said—” Jess looked at Frank. It had been nasty, the way Biddy had said Never.

      Frank shivered. “Jenny,” he asked. “What’s your heirloom? Or don’t you know?”

      Frankie answered, because Jenny had her odd apron to her face and was giving out shuddering sniffs into it. “It’s an emerald necklace,” she said. “Mine’s diamonds. Only it went. All the things went.”

      “Went where?” said Jess.

      Jenny shook her covered face. “Don’t know. They went. Mother went too.” She gave a big muffled yell, and the whole of her shook.

      Frank fidgeted. Everything about these little girls seemed odder every second. He felt he could hardly bear another minute in that gloomy room with the big wheel blocking the window. “Well, the best thing would be to get it back,” he said, “but if you can’t, we’ll have to think of something else to do to her.”

      “Make her break her leg,” said Frankie.

      “Or something,” Jess said, as cheerfully as she could. “We’ll do something, provided you stop calling after Martin Taylor.”

      “All right,” Frankie agreed. “We’ll stop, then. It’s worth it, isn’t it, Jenny?”

      Jenny, with her face still covered, nodded violently.

      Jess and Frank escaped from the damp house and went home by the road, in the hurling wind. They were so relieved to be outside again that Jess sang and whirled her arms as they went.

      “At least we’ve fixed Martin,” she said.

      “For no money,” Frank said. “Isn’t that paint-lady their mother, then?”

      “No. She’s their aunt,” said Jess. “But Daddy knows Mr Adams. He’s a bit strange too. Frank, let’s put Biddy off and stay closed for today. I’ve had enough of Own Back for now.”