come?”
“That’s the burning question.” I drew up short outside the drawing room door. “If only Ben were here!”
“No sense standing weighing down the floor, is there? Here, give me that tray.” Mrs. Malloy stopped fussing with herpurple rollers to give an exasperated sigh. “Your hands are shaking, Mrs. H, and you’ve slopped the cocoa. Talk about making our little guest feel welcome!”
We entered to find Ariel sitting with Tobias on her lap.
“He climbed on and I haven’t been able to get him to budge.” She aimed a fierce look at me through glasses that were way too big for her face.
“I’ll take him,” I offered.
“He can stay if he goes on behaving himself. When he’s still, he’s like a hot-water bottle. And I think he’s picked up on the fact that I don’t put up with any nonsense. Who’s this?” She pointed a finger at Mrs. Malloy.
“Got a mouth, haven’t you?” Mrs. Malloy operates on the theory that children won’t get the upper hand if you don’t let them get taller than you, which is one of the reasons, I suppose, that her ridiculous heels keep getting higher.
Having enthroned herself in the most comfortable chair in the room, she patted the purple crown of rollers and smiled complacently down at her feet.
“I know someone who wears stupid shoes like those.” The cocoa mustache Ariel now wore did nothing to diminish her hauteur. I pitied Tom and Betty, being stuck with the job of preventing her from alienating entire populations at a time. Would they offer Ben and me a substantial bribe to keep her?
“Ariel,” I said firmly, “I need to phone your parents.”
“Betty’s not—”
“Never mind that.”
“Can’t it wait until I’ve told you everything?” She swallowed a mouthful of chocolate cake.
“Has either of them been mistreating you?”
“They won’t let me have a TV in my room.”
“That doesn’t count. Give me the phone number.”
“There’s no need. I’m not the usual fussed-over child. Theywon’t check up on me at my friend’s house. They’re not that sort. Maybe if I had a real mother it would be different.”
Impervious to this tugging at the heartstrings, Mrs. Malloy got to her feet. “I’ll make the call if you like, Mrs. H; that way it can be kept short and simple. The child’s here safe and sound, and you’ll ring them when you’ve got her story. Give me your phone number, young lady.”
I was grateful for this intervention; it seemed to be in the cards that Tom or Betty would blame me for this escapade, either because I had sent those parcels of books or because I happened to be living and breathing somewhere in England. Ariel mumbled her number, and before she had finished glowering at me, Mrs. Malloy returned to report she had met with incoherence from Betty, in the midst of which the phone had been handed to Tom, who’d added a couple of snorts to the dialogue.
“I expect they’ll have a row deciding what to do with me.” Ariel smirked. “Why have you only got one eyebrow?” she demanded of Mrs. Malloy.
“Because I was in the middle of taking off me makeup when your arrival brung me downstairs.”
“I thought it might be the first sign of some horrible pestilence.”
Mrs. Malloy resumed her seat with a thump sufficient to send a purple roller flying off her head. “Enough chitchat, Miss Rude Face. What brings you here?”
“To talk to Ellie.” Ariel tossed back her sandy plaits. “Last night in bed it came to me she’s the ideal person to help me sort out what’s been going on.”
“And what’s that?” Displaying interest, I leaned forward in my chair.
“Finding myself living in a gothic novel. It all started when Dad won the lottery six months ago and Betty insisted onmoving to Yorkshire. Their friends—Mr. and Mrs. Edmonds; I can’t stand them—had gone there to live, and they raved about this grand house not far from them, with parts that date back to Elizabethan times. They thought Dad
“That’s the burning question.” I drew up short outside the drawing room door. “If only Ben were here!”
“No sense standing weighing down the floor, is there? Here, give me that tray.” Mrs. Malloy stopped fussing with herpurple rollers to give an exasperated sigh. “Your hands are shaking, Mrs. H, and you’ve slopped the cocoa. Talk about making our little guest feel welcome!”
We entered to find Ariel sitting with Tobias on her lap.
“He climbed on and I haven’t been able to get him to budge.” She aimed a fierce look at me through glasses that were way too big for her face.
“I’ll take him,” I offered.
“He can stay if he goes on behaving himself. When he’s still, he’s like a hot-water bottle. And I think he’s picked up on the fact that I don’t put up with any nonsense. Who’s this?” She pointed a finger at Mrs. Malloy.
“Got a mouth, haven’t you?” Mrs. Malloy operates on the theory that children won’t get the upper hand if you don’t let them get taller than you, which is one of the reasons, I suppose, that her ridiculous heels keep getting higher.
Having enthroned herself in the most comfortable chair in the room, she patted the purple crown of rollers and smiled complacently down at her feet.
“I know someone who wears stupid shoes like those.” The cocoa mustache Ariel now wore did nothing to diminish her hauteur. I pitied Tom and Betty, being stuck with the job of preventing her from alienating entire populations at a time. Would they offer Ben and me a substantial bribe to keep her?
“Ariel,” I said firmly, “I need to phone your parents.”
“Betty’s not—”
“Never mind that.”
“Can’t it wait until I’ve told you everything?” She swallowed a mouthful of chocolate cake.
“Has either of them been mistreating you?”
“They won’t let me have a TV in my room.”
“That doesn’t count. Give me the phone number.”
“There’s no need. I’m not the usual fussed-over child. Theywon’t check up on me at my friend’s house. They’re not that sort. Maybe if I had a real mother it would be different.”
Impervious to this tugging at the heartstrings, Mrs. Malloy got to her feet. “I’ll make the call if you like, Mrs. H; that way it can be kept short and simple. The child’s here safe and sound, and you’ll ring them when you’ve got her story. Give me your phone number, young lady.”
I was grateful for this intervention; it seemed to be in the cards that Tom or Betty would blame me for this escapade, either because I had sent those parcels of books or because I happened to be living and breathing somewhere in England. Ariel mumbled her number, and before she had finished glowering at me, Mrs. Malloy returned to report she had met with incoherence from Betty, in the midst of which the phone had been handed to Tom, who’d added a couple of snorts to the dialogue.
“I expect they’ll have a row deciding what to do with me.” Ariel smirked. “Why have you only got one eyebrow?” she demanded of Mrs. Malloy.
“Because I was in the middle of taking off me makeup when your arrival brung me downstairs.”
“I thought it might be the first sign of some horrible pestilence.”
Mrs. Malloy resumed her seat with a thump sufficient to send a purple roller flying off her head. “Enough chitchat, Miss Rude Face. What brings you here?”
“To talk to Ellie.” Ariel tossed back her sandy plaits. “Last night in bed it came to me she’s the ideal person to help me sort out what’s been going on.”
“And what’s that?” Displaying interest, I leaned forward in my chair.
“Finding myself living in a gothic novel. It all started when Dad won the lottery six months ago and Betty insisted onmoving to Yorkshire. Their friends—Mr. and Mrs. Edmonds; I can’t stand them—had gone there to live, and they raved about this grand house not far from them, with parts that date back to Elizabethan times. They thought Dad
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