Читать книгу Black Maria - Diana Wynne Jones - Страница 11
ОглавлениеWe are feeding the grey cat now. Something very odd has turned up because of that, and we have met Miss Phelps, who said things. Chris says the ghost comes every night. But I’ll tell it in order.
Ghost first. I ask Chris about him every morning. Chris laughs and says, “Poor old Abel Silver! I’m used to him by now.” I said yesterday why didn’t Chris sleep on the sofa downstairs instead? He was looking tired. I know how I’d feel if I was woken by a ghost every night. But Chris says he likes the ghost. “He just searches the shelves. He’s not doing me any harm.”
It was after that the cat turned up at the window again. It came and put its silly flat grey face up against the glass and mewed desperately. Chris said it looked like a Pekinese.
Aunt Maria was banging away upstairs, shouting that her toast was wrong, and Mum was flying through the room to see to it. But she stopped when she saw the cat.
“Poor thing!” she said. “Not a Pekinese, Chris. It reminds me of something – someone – that face—” There were more bangs and shouts from upstairs. Mum shouted, “Coming!” and she was just leaving when Chris put on an imitation of Aunt Maria.
“He’s eating my birds!” Chris shouted. He jumped up and flailed his arms at the cat the way Aunt Maria does. The cat stared. It looked really hurt. Then it ran away.
Mum and I both said, “What did you do that for?” While I was making more toast for Aunt Maria, Chris said he was sorry, he couldn’t resist, somehow. The cat sort of asked for it. I know what he means. But Mum got really indignant. After that we got Aunt Maria dressed – and that takes ages now, because Mum keeps trying to make Aunt Maria do something for herself. She says, “Your hands aren’t the least arthritic, Auntie. Try doing up these hooks.” Aunt Maria pretends to fumble for a bit and then says in a low, sighing voice, “I’m old.” Mum says, “Yes, but marvellous for your age!” in a special cheerful voice. Aunt Maria beams, “Thank you, dear. How kind! What a devoted nurse you are!” And I end up doing the hooks, or whatever, or she wouldn’t be dressed by evening.
That day was fine. The sun came sideways across the garden and seemed to bring green in among the brown of it for a change. Mum put her radio on the table beside Aunt Maria’s roped-up sofa and firmly put The Telegraph on Aunt Maria’s lap and told her we were all going to be busy in the garden.
Aunt Maria of course said, “I have so few people to talk to, dear!” and Chris of course muttered, “Yes, only thirteen Mrs Urs,” but Mum tore them apart and bundled us into the garden. I really thought the worm had turned and Mum had had enough of being martyred. But Mum never lies. She had me and Chris hanging up washing like navvies in no time – all the clothes we’d got muddy in the dark and a whole row of Aunt Maria’s sky-blue baggy knickers that Chris calls “Auntie’s Baghdads”. While we did that Mum said, “Now I’m going to find that cat. It didn’t go far.”
She did find it, too. She called to us gently from the shed at the back behind the gooseberry bushes. Chris and I were doing an Arabic dance at the time, with the washing-bowl and a pair of Baghdads. Chris still had the Baghdads on his head when we went over. He saw the gooseberry bushes and said, “That’s where the orphans are cloned from!” The ghost and Aunt Maria between them have a bad effect on Chris. He’s never sane now unless he’s out in the town.
