Charmed Life. Diana Wynne Jones

“I can’t think why I didn’t think of it. Anyway, I just have.”

      “Why did you do it? Couldn’t Mr Nostrum?” Cat said.

      “It came more naturally from me,” said Gwendolen. “And I suppose it doesn’t matter if he gets my signature. Mr Nostrum told me what to write.”

      “Why does he want to know anyway?” Cat asked.

      “Wouldn’t you like to know!” Gwendolen said exultingly.

      “No,” said Cat. “I wouldn’t.” Since this had brought what happened that morning into his mind, which still made him almost wish the Autumn term had started, he said, “I wish the conkers were ripe.”

      “Conkers!” Gwendolen said, in the greatest disgust. “What a low mind you have! They won’t be ready for a good six weeks.”

      “I know,” said Cat, and for the next two days he carefully turned right every time he left the house.

      They were the lovely golden days that happen when August is passing into September. Cat and his friends went out along the river. On the second day, they found a wall and climbed it. There was an orchard beyond, and here they were lucky enough to discover a tree loaded with sweet white apples – the kind that ripen early. They filled their pockets and their hats. Then a furious gardener chased them with a rake. They ran. Cat was very happy as he carried his full, knobby hat home. Mrs Sharp loved apples. He just hoped that she would not reward him by making gingerbread men. As a rule, gingerbread men were fun. They leapt up off the plate and ran when you tried to eat them, so that when you finally caught them you felt quite justified in eating them. It was a fair fight, and some got away. But Mrs Sharp’s gingerbread men never did that. They simply lay, feebly waving their arms, and Cat never had the heart to eat them.

      Cat was so busy thinking of all this that, though he noticed a four-wheel cab standing in the road as he turned the corner by the Willing Warlock’s house, he paid no attention to it. He went to the side-door and burst into the kitchen with his hatful of apples, shouting, “I say! Look what I’ve got, Mrs Sharp!”

      Mrs Sharp was not there. Instead, standing in the middle of the kitchen, was a tall and quite extraordinarily well-dressed man.

      Cat stared at him in some dismay. He was clearly a rich new Town Councillor. Nobody but those kind of people wore trousers with such pearly stripes, or coats of such beautiful velvet, or carried tall hats as shiny as their boots. The man’s hair was dark. It was smooth as his hat. Cat had no doubt that this was Gwendolen’s Dark Stranger, come to help her start ruling the world. And he should not have been in the kitchen at all. Visitors were always taken straight to the parlour.

      “Oh, how do you do, sir. Will you come this way, sir?” he gasped.

      The Dark Stranger gave him a wondering look. And well he might, Cat thought, looking round distractedly. The kitchen was in its usual mess. The range was all ash. On the table, Cat saw, to his further dismay, Mrs Sharp had been making gingerbread men. The ingredients for the spell lay on the end of the table – all grubby newspaper packets and seedy little jars – and the gingerbread itself was strewn over the middle of the table. At the far end, the flies were gathering round the meat for lunch, which looked nearly as messy as the spell.

      “Who are you?” said the Dark Stranger. “I have a feeling I should know you. What have you got in your hat?”

      Cat was too busy staring round to attend properly, but he caught the last question. His pleasure returned. “Apples,” he said, showing the Stranger. “Lovely sweet ones. I’ve been scrumping.”

      The Stranger looked grave. “Scrumping,” he said, “is a form of stealing.”

      Cat knew that as well as he did. He thought it was very joyless, even for a Town Councillor, to point it out. “I know. But I bet you did it when you were my age.”

      The Stranger coughed slightly and changed the subject. “You haven’t said yet who you are.”

      “Sorry. Didn’t I?” said Cat. “I’m Eric Chant – only they always call me Cat.”

      “Then is Gwendolen Chant your sister?” the Stranger asked. He was looking more and more austere and pitying. Cat suspected that he thought Mrs Sharp’s kitchen was a den of vice.

      “That’s right. Won’t you come this way?” Cat said, hoping to get the Stranger out of it. “It’s neater through here.”

      “I had a letter from your sister,” the Stranger said, standing where he was. “She gave me the impression you had drowned with your parents.”

      “You must have made a mistake,” Cat said distractedly. “I didn’t drown because I was holding on to Gwendolen, and she’s a witch. It’s cleaner through here.”

      “I see,” said the Stranger. “I’m called Chrestomanci, by the way.”

      “Oh!” said Cat. This was a real crisis. He put his hat of apples down in the middle of the spell, which he very much hoped would ruin it. “Then you’ve got to come in the parlour at once.”

      “Why?” said Chrestomanci, sounding rather bewildered.

      “Because,” said Cat, thoroughly exasperated, “you’re far too important to stay here.”

      “What makes you think I’m important?” Chrestomanci asked, still bewildered.

      Cat was beginning to want to shake him. “You must be. You’re wearing important clothes. And Mrs Sharp said you were. She said Mr Nostrum would give his eyes just for your three letters.”

      “Has Mr Nostrum given his eyes for my letters?” asked Chrestomanci. “It hardly seems worth it.”

      “No. He just gave Gwendolen lessons for them,” said Cat.

      “What? For his eyes? How uncomfortable!” said Chrestomanci.

      Fortunately, there were thumping footsteps just then, and Gwendolen burst in through the kitchen door, panting, golden and jubilant. “Mr Chrestomanci?”

      “Just Chrestomanci,” said the Stranger. “Yes. Would you be Gwendolen?”

      “Yes. Mr Nostrum told me there was a cab here,” gasped Gwendolen.

      She was followed by Mrs Sharp, nearly as breathless. The two of them took over the conversation, and Cat was thankful for it. Chrestomanci at last consented to be taken to the parlour, where Mrs Sharp deferentially offered him a cup of tea and a plate of her weakly waving gingerbread men. Chrestomanci, Cat was interested to see, did not seem to have the heart to eat them either. He drank a cup of tea – austerely, without milk or sugar – and asked questions about how Gwendolen and Cat came to be living with Mrs Sharp. Mrs Sharp tried to give the impression that she looked after them for nothing, out of the goodness of her heart. She hoped Chrestomanci might be induced to pay her for their keep, as well as the Town Council.

      But Gwendolen had decided to be radiantly honest. “The town pays,” she said, “because everyone’s so sorry about the accident.” Cat was glad she had explained, even though he suspected that Gwendolen might already be casting Mrs Sharp off like an old coat.

      “Then I must go and speak to the Mayor,” Chrestomanci said, and he stood up, dusting his splendid hat on his elegant sleeve. Mrs Sharp sighed and sagged. She knew what Gwendolen was doing, too. “Don’t be anxious, Mrs Sharp,” said Chrestomanci. “No one wishes you to be out of pocket.” Then he shook hands with Gwendolen and Cat and said, “I should have come to see you before, of course. Forgive me. Your father was so infernally rude to me, you see. I’ll see you again, I hope.” Then he went away in the cab, leaving Mrs Sharp very sour, Gwendolen jubilant, and Cat nervous.

      “Why are you so happy?” Cat asked Gwendolen.

      “Because he was touched at our orphaned state,” said Gwendolen. “He’s going to adopt us. My fortune is made!”