Aunt Maria by Diana Wynne Jones Page A

earn money.”
    â€œBut the Mr. Urs don’t realize,” I said. “They’ve all been zombies for years without anyone knowing.” The cars were all zooming out of the car park by then, crunchle crunchle as they came past us on the gravel, flaring headlights over us. The zombies in each car looked straight ahead and didn’t notice us staring over the fence. Car after car. It was giving me a mesmerized feeling, until one crunched by that was blue, with one headlight dimmer than the other and dents in well-known places. “Hey!” I cried out. I hung on to the fence so that my hands hurt. “Chris, that was—!”
    â€œNo, it wasn’t,” Chris said. He was hanging on the fence, too. “It had the wrong number. I thought it was our car, too, for a moment, but it wasn’t, Mig. Truly.”
    You can rely on Chris where numbers are concerned. He’s always right. “It was awfully like ours,” I said.
    â€œCreepily like,” Chris agreed. “I really did wonder if they’d dried it out and mended the door and sold it to someone—for a second, till I looked at the number plate. The number plate always goes with the car. It’s a crime to change it—so it has to be a different car.”
    By the time all the cars had driven away, the porter in seaboots was padding about in front of the station, closing it for the night by the look of it. We climbed over the fence and trotted out through the car park gates.
    â€œWe’d better not tell Mum,” I said.
    â€œNo,” said Chris. “We can tell her we’ve seen clones and zombies, but not about the car.”
    In the end, we didn’t tell Mum anything much. We were in trouble—both of us for being so late and me about the state my clothes were in. Aunt Maria was really put out about my clothes. “So thoughtless, dear. I can’t take you to the meeting looking like that.”
    â€œI thought your meeting was this afternoon,” Chris said.
    Mum shushed him. She was in a frenzy. The Mrs. Urs had been there all afternoon having their Circle of Healing and wolfing cake, and now Aunt Maria had announced that there was a meeting at Cranbury Town Hall she had to go to at seven-thirty. That is the reason I have been able to write so much of this autobiography. I have been left behind in disgrace because I have got my only skirt torn and covered in mud. I like being in disgrace. There is still some cake left. Aunt Maria used her low sorrowing voice on me and then told Chris he had to go instead. Mum took one look at Chris’s face and martyred herself again by saying she would go with Aunt Maria.
    I can’t think why Aunt Maria needs Mum. When zero hour approached, Elaine and her husband came round with the famous wheelchair. Mr. Elaine—who is called Larry—is smaller than Elaine and I think he was one of the line of zombies who got off the train. Anyway he has a pale, drained, zombie-ish look and does everything Elaine says. The two of them unfolded the vast, shiny wheelchair in the kitchen and heaved Aunt Maria into it. Chris had to go away and laugh. He says Aunt Maria looked like the Female Pope. At zero hour minus one, Aunt Maria had made Mum array her in a large purple coat, with most of a dead fox round her neck. The fox’s head is very real, with red glass eyes, and it spoiled my supper, because Aunt Maria had supper in it in case they were late. And her hat, which is tall and thin with purple feathers. The wheelchair looked like a throne when she was in it. She kept snapping commands.
    â€œBetty, my umbrella, don’t forget my gloves. Larry, mind the rug in the hall. Be careful down the steps.”
    And Elaine always answered for Larry. “Don’t worry. Larry’s got it in hand. Larry can do your steps blindfold.” Larry never said a thing. He looked at me and Chris as if he didn’t like us. Then he and Mum and Elaine took Aunt