They sat in silence: John with his hands in his pockets, legs outstretched, bouncing his heels up and down on the grass, and Rosemary uncomfortably popping blisters of paint on the wooden slats. Her thoughts went on miserably: Suppose he’s feeling it’s awful because I don’t feel the way he does any more? That’s two awfuls. And I’ve got to go and stay with him in a strange house with a strange uncle, and that’s the most awful, awful of all. And yet there was the ‘4 Rose’ letter, which belonged to the old familiar John.
The uncomfortable silence was broken by her mother, who came down the garden path with three mugs of hot chocolate and a tin of ginger biscuits on a tray.
‘Hallo, dears!’ she said, as she sat down beside them. ‘I thought you might be feeling hungry. Help yourselves.’ She picked up a mug and began to sip her chocolate. ‘By the way, would you be kind children and do an errand for me? Mrs Cantrip rang up this morning ... Good gracious, poor John! He’s choking. Pat him on the back, Rosie!’
Rosemary thumped him heartily between the shoulder blades. When he had recovered his breath, a red-faced John said:
‘Sorry ... drink and biscuit ... got mixed up and went the wrong way. Mrs Cantrip, did you say?’
Mrs Featherstone nodded. ‘You remember her, don’t you?’
‘Oh yes!’ said John. ‘Does she still live in that funny little house in Fairfax Market with her friend? What was her name? Dibdin, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, they’re still there,’ said Mrs Featherstone. ‘But with so much building going on all round them I shouldn’t think they’ll want to stay much longer.’
‘It used to be a queer, old-fashioned sort of place,’ said John. He frowned in a puzzled way, and ran his fingers through his hair. Suddenly he looked at Rosemary and grinned. The grin, and the ruffled hair, both belonged to the John of last summer. Perhaps, thought Rosemary, the differentness was only a sort of outside skin, and it was going to be all right after all. She beamed happily back at him.
‘I want you to take a recipe I promised her,’ said Mrs Featherstone. ‘When Mrs Cantrip heard you were here, John, she said she would love to see you, and if you both went this afternoon perhaps you could stay for a cup of tea. But if you’d rather not go, of course I could post the recipe.’
‘Oh no, I should love to!’ said John, with such enthusiasm that Mrs Featherstone looked at him in mild surprise.
‘Splendid!’ she said, and got up from the seat. ‘Bring the tray in with you when you’ve finished, dears. I must go and make a steak and kidney pie for dinner, so don’t eat too many biscuits.’
John watched her go.
‘Do you really want to go to Fairfax Market?’ asked Rosemary. ‘Or were you just being polite?’
‘Heavens no!’ said John. ‘Of course I want to go.’ He frowned thoughtfully. ‘You know, I think Mrs Cantrip and Miss Dibdin have something to do with that business we can’t remember. It suddenly came into my head when your mother mentioned Mrs Cantrip’s name. That’s what made me choke over my biscuit. And I say ...’ he wriggled uncomfortably. ‘I’m sorry I was so squashing, about magic, I mean. It might happen ... to some people.’
‘Us?’ said Rosemary.
‘Perhaps,’ replied John cautiously.
‘That’s six,’ said Rosemary.
‘Six what?’
‘Biscuits.’
‘Crikey, is it really? Funny how you can go on eating them without noticing. Let’s go and play space-ships in the greenhouse.’
So they did.
2. Crumpet
‘IT’s all different,’ said John that afternoon when they reached Fairfax Market. ‘All those new, tall buildings and grand shops! Where is Mrs Cantrip’s house?’
‘Over there, squeezed in between two blocks of offices. Let’s cross the road while there’s a hold-up.’
Mrs Cantrip’s house was so small, and the buildings on either side so very large, that it looked as though it might be cracked like a walnut in between the two of them. But the paint gleamed white and fresh on the woodwork, and the brass knocker shone in the afternoon sunlight. In response to their tap the door was opened by a short, roundabout person. John recognized her as Mrs Cantrip’s friend, Miss Dibdin. She peered at them short-sightedly.
‘Bother! It’s only you!’ she said ungraciously, and then went on hurriedly, forcing a polite smile: ‘How dreadfully rude of me! But I hoped you were the postman. I’m expecting an extremely important parcel. Of course I’m glad to see you really. Come in, my dears, Katie is so looking forward to seeing you.’
The front door opened directly into the little sitting-room. It was a cheerful place, neat and shining with much polishing of furniture, with a vase of daffodils on the table. Rosemary noticed a faint smell, as though the flower water needed changing, which was odd when everything else seemed so well cared for.
Mrs Cantrip was sitting in a flower-patterned armchair, knitting something in mauve wool. She rose at once to welcome them, holding out both hands as she did so.
‘Why, John and Rosemary,’ she cried. ‘How delightful! Gracious me, how you’ve both grown! Now come and sit down and tell me all about yourselves. John, dear, could you rescue my knitting for me?’
A handsome black cat with white paws was chasing her ball of wool so that it was already tangled round the legs of several chairs. Rosemary tried to hold the creature while John unwound the thread, but the cat turned and spat at her, so she let it go.
‘Crumpet, you bad puss!’ said Mrs Cantrip. ‘I’m afraid he is rather naughty. Do you know, he just walked in one day a short time ago and adopted Dorothy! He won’t allow anyone else to touch him.’
She turned to the open door. Miss Dibdin was standing on the pavement outside, gazing across Fairfax Market under the shadow of her hand.
‘Dorothy, dear!’ called Mrs Cantrip impatiently. ‘Do come in and close the door. Such a draught! I told you, the postman has already gone by.’
Miss Dibdin turned and reluctantly came inside.
‘I know the postman’s been,’ she said peevishly. ‘But my parcel might come by special messenger, or something.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Cantrip crisply, ‘as you won’t tell me what’s in this precious parcel of yours, or where it’s coming from, I can’t help; so I may as well go and put the kettle on. Then we can have a cosy chat with John and Rosemary over a nice cup of tea. It’s all ready, dears. I shall only be a minute.’
She put her knitting on the table, looked at the cat, thought better of it and placed the woolly bundle out of reach, on top of a high book-case. Crumpet watched her slyly through half-closed eyes, then he padded to the hearth-rug, curled himself up with his chin on his tail, as close to the fire as he was able, and closed his eyes. Miss Dibdin laughed.
‘You can see why we call him Crumpet,’ she said. ‘He will toast himself as near to the fire as he possibly can. How long are you staying with Rosemary, John?’
‘Only for the week-end,’ he said.
‘What a pity,’ said Miss Dibdin. ‘I have just retired from teaching, and I thought it would be rather jolly to have a little party on Monday for a few of the senior girls. That’s why I asked Katie to find out your mother’s recipe for short-cake, Rosemary.’
‘And how we shall all squeeze into our tiny sitting-room I don’t know!’ added Mrs Cantrip cheerfully, as she returned with the tea-tray. ‘Oh, Dorothy, I’ve forgotten the chocolate biscuits. They are in the kitchen cupboard, top shelf, dear.’
She watched Miss Dibdin with an anxious frown as she disappeared into the kitchen, and went on in a lowered voice: ‘To tell you the truth I’m worried about Dorothy. She’s not ...’ She paused as though she couldn’t think of the right word. ‘Not ... very well. I’m glad she has stopped working. For the last three weeks she has behaved in such a strange, mysterious way. I know you can’t call that a proper symptom, like spots, or a temperature, but it’s so unlike her.’