Aunt Maria by Diana Wynne Jones Page B

Maria bumping down the front steps and wheeled her off down the street like a small royal procession.
    The meeting was about Cranbury Orphanage. It turns out that the house where we saw Mrs. Ur and the clones—and the ghost—is Cranbury Orphanage. How dull. It makes the whole day seem dull now, if they were only orphans, not experimental clones after all.
    Mum thought the meeting was pretty dull, too. When I asked her about it just now, she said, “I don’t know, cherub. I was asleep for most of it—but I think they were voting on whether or not to build an extension to the orphanage. I remember a dreary old buffer called Nathaniel Phelps was dead against it. He talked for ages, until Aunt Maria suddenly banged her umbrella on the floor and said of course they were going to build the poor orphans a new playroom. That seemed to settle it.”
    I think Aunt Maria is secretly Queen of Cranbury—not exactly Uncrowned Queen, more like Hatted Queen. I am glad I am not an orphan in that orphanage.

Four
    W e are feeding the gray 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 that the cat turned up at the window again. It came and put its silly flat gray 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.
    â€œPoor 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.
    â€œHe’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.
    She went looking for the cat after we’d got Aunt Maria dressed—which 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 marvelous 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