Charmed Life - Diana Wynne Jones [21]
Mr. Saunders called to them.
Gwendolen looked, for a second, more apprehensive than Cat had ever seen her. But she hid it fairly well and led the way casually over to the deck chair. Cat saw that the yellow book was in French. Fancy being able to laugh at something in French! Mr. Saunders must be a learned magician as well as a strong one.
Mr. Saunders laid the book facedown on the once-more-beautiful grass and smiled up at them. “You two went away so quickly that you never gave me time to dish you out your pocket money. Here you are.” He handed them each a large silver coin. Cat stared at his. It was a crown piece—five whole shillings. He had never had so much money to spend in his life. Mr. Saunders added to his amazement by saying, “You’ll get that every Wednesday. I don’t know whether you’re savers or spenders. What Julia and Roger usually do is to go down to the village and blow it all on sweets.”
“Thank you,” said Cat, “very much. Shall we go down to the village, Gwendolen?”
“We may as well,” Gwendolen agreed. She was divided between a defiant desire to stay at the Castle and face whatever trouble was coming over the moles and relief at an excuse to get away. “I expect Chrestomanci will send for me as soon as he realizes it was me,” she said as they walked down the avenue of trees.
“Do you think it was Mr. Saunders who put the lawn right?” Cat asked.
Gwendolen frowned. “He couldn’t have. He was teaching us.”
“Those gardeners,” suggested Cat. “Some of them could be warlocks. They did turn up awfully quickly to forbid us things.”
Gwendolen laughed scornfully. “Think of the Willing Warlock.”
Cat did, a little dubiously. The Willing Warlock was not much more gifted than Mrs. Sharp. He was usually hired for heavy carrying jobs, or to make the wrong horse win at the races. “All the same,” he argued, “they could be specialists—garden warlocks.”
Gwendolen only laughed again.
The village was just beyond the Castle gates, at the foot of the hill where the Castle stood. It was a pretty place, around a big green. Across the green, there were shops: a beautiful bow-fronted baker’s and an equally beautiful sweet shop and post office. Cat wanted to visit both, but Gwendolen stopped at a third shop, which was a junk shop. Cat did not mind going into that either. It looked interesting. But Gwendolen shook her head irritably and stopped a village boy who was loitering near it.
“I was told a Mr. Baslam lives in this village. Can you tell me where he lives?”
The boy made a face. “Him? He’s no good. Down there, at the end of that alley, if you really want to know.” And he stood looking at them, with the air of someone who has earned sixpence for his pains.
Neither Cat nor Gwendolen had any money beside their crown pieces. They had to go away without giving him anything. The boy shouted after them.
“Stuck-up little witch! Mingy little warlock!”
Gwendolen did not mind this in the least, but Cat was so ashamed that he wanted to go back and explain.
Mr. Baslam lived in a shabby cottage with an ill-written notice propped in one window: Eggsotick Serplys. Gwendolen looked at it rather pityingly as she hammered on the door with the dingy knocker. When Mr. Baslam opened his door, he proved to be a fat person in old trousers which sagged to make room for his fatness, and with red, drooping eyes like a St. Bernard’s. He started to shut the door again as soon as he saw them.
“Not today, thank you,” he said, and a strong smell of beer came out with the words.
“Mr. Nostrum sent me,” said Gwendolen. “Mr. William Nostrum.”
The door stopped shutting. “Ah,” said Mr. Baslam. “Then you better both come in. This way.” He led them into a poky room containing four chairs, a table, and several dozen cases of stuffed animals. There was hardly room for all the cases of stuffed animals. They stood higgledy-piggledy, one on top of another, and they were all very dusty. “Sit down then,” said Mr. Baslam, rather grudgingly.
Cat sat down gently and tried not to breathe too deeply. Beside the beery smell from Mr. Baslam,