Charmed Life - Diana Wynne Jones [17]
“I’m afraid you can’t,” said Mr. Saunders.
Gwendolen stared at him, hardly able to believe she had heard him right. “What!” she almost shrieked. “But—but I’m terribly talented! I have to go on with it!”
“Your talents will keep,” said Mr. Saunders. “You can take up witchcraft again when you’ve learned something else. Open your arithmetic book and do me the first four exercises. Eric, I think I’ll set you going on some History. Write me an essay on the reign of King Canute.” He moved on to set work for Roger and Julia.
Cat and Gwendolen opened books. Gwendolen’s face was red, then white. As Mr. Saunders bent over Roger, her inkwell sailed up out of the socket in her desk and emptied itself over the back of Mr. Saunders’ billowing tweed jacket. Cat bit his lip in order not to laugh. Julia watched with calm interest. Mr. Saunders did not seem to notice. The inkwell returned quietly to its socket.
“Gwendolen,” said Mr. Saunders without turning around. “Get the ink jar and funnel out of the bottom of the cupboard and refill that inkwell. And fill it properly, please.”
Gwendolen got up, jauntily and defiantly, found the big flask and funnel, and started to fill her inkwell. Ten minutes later, she was still pouring away. Her face was puzzled at first, then red, then white with fury again. She tried to put the flask down, and found she could not. She tried whispering a spell.
Mr. Saunders turned and looked at her.
“You’re being perfectly horrible!” said Gwendolen. “Besides, I’m allowed to do witchcraft when you’re here.”
“No one is allowed to pour ink over their tutor,” Mr. Saunders said cheerfully. “And I’d already told you that you’ve given up witchcraft for the time being. Keep on pouring till I tell you to stop.”
Gwendolen poured ink for the next half hour, and got angrier every minute of it.
Cat was impressed. He suspected that Mr. Saunders was rather a powerful magician. Certainly, when he next looked at Mr. Saunders, there was no sign of any ink on his back. Cat looked at Mr. Saunders fairly often, to see whether it was safe to change his pen from his right to his left hand. He had been punished so often for writing left-handed that he was good at keeping an eye on his teachers. When Mr. Saunders turned his way, Cat used his right hand. It was slow and reluctant. But as soon as Mr. Saunders turned away again, Cat changed his pen over and got on like a house on fire. The main trouble was that, in order not to smudge the ink with his left hand, he had to hold the paper sideways. But he was pretty deft at flicking his book straight again whenever Mr. Saunders seemed likely to look at him.
When the half hour was over, Mr. Saunders, without turning around, told Gwendolen to stop pouring ink and do sums. Then, still without turning around, he said to Cat, “Eric, what are you doing?”
“An essay on King Canute,” Cat said innocently.
Then Mr. Saunders did turn around, but by that time the paper was straight and the pen in Cat’s right hand. “Which hand were you writing with?” he said. Cat was used to this. He held up his right hand with the pen in it. “It looked like both hands to me,” Mr. Saunders said, and he came over and looked at the page Cat had written. “It was both.”
“It doesn’t show,” Cat said miserably.
“Not much,” Mr. Saunders agreed. “Does it amuse you to write with alternate hands, or something?”
“No,” Cat confessed. “But I’m left-handed.”
Then, as Cat had feared, Mr. Saunders flew into a towering rage. His face went red. He slammed his big, knobby hand down on Cat’s desk so that Cat jumped and the inkwell jumped too, sending ink splashing over Mr. Saunders’ great hand and over Cat’s essay. “Left-handed!” he roared. “Then why the Black Gentleman don’t you write with your left hand, boy?”
“They—they punish me if I do,” Cat faltered, very shaken, and very perplexed to find Mr. Saunders was angry for such a peculiar reason.
“Then they deserve to be tied up in knots and roasted!” roared Mr.