Aidan sighed and went away with Stashe. Trixie left. Shaun departed, grinning joyously. Mrs Stock took herself to the living room, where she gave all the furniture a sort of tweak towards the traditional places, just to show she had not forgiven Andrew.
Left to himself, Andrew picked up the newspaper Mrs Stock had brought and turned to yesterday’s racing results. He knew he was being as superstitious as Stashe, but he could not somehow resist. There turned out to have been only one racecourse that had not been flooded by yesterday’s rain, and the winner of its first race had been Parsnip’s Pleasure. Meaningless. I knew it! Andrew thought. The second horse home was called Dogdays and the third, Heavy Queen.
“That proves it’s all nonsense,” Andrew said. He threw the paper aside and was just in time to jump up and hold the back door open as Mr Stock stalked in and dumped a box down on the newspaper.
“You still letting that looby work for you?” Mr Stock said. “Don’t let him come near my veg, or I won’t answer for what I’ll do.” He stalked out again.
Andrew looked into the box. It contained two gigantic parsnips, each of them big enough to have been Tarquin’s missing leg.
“Oh,” Andrew said.
Chapter Nine
Helping Stashe, Aidan discovered, involved a lot of running about. He had to find Stashe a rug to kneel on while she sorted through the three boxes in the bare little room. Then he had to find more boxes, one for throwing stuff away in, one for things that might need throwing away after Andrew had seen them, and several more to hold things to be kept. Aidan thought carefully about this mission — “using his noggin” as Gran would have said — and decided there was going to be a need for extra boxes when Stashe invented more categories. He went daringly to Mr Stock’s box store in the garden shed and brought Stashe as many as he could carry.
“Nice one,” said Stashe, kneeling on the rug and looking rather daunted. The boxes to be sorted through were huge. Three of Mr Stock’s finest, Aidan thought. Expect earth in the bottoms of all three.
When Stashe started on the actual sorting, she said, “What did he keep all these paid bills for? This one goes back twenty years! Throw away, Aidan.”
Aidan obediently stuffed several hundred paid bills into the rubbish box. He yawned.
Stashe caught him in mid-yawn when she said, “All his pipe cleaners! Layers of packets! You want them? You can make models out of them.” And when Aidan managed to shut his mouth and shake his head, “No?” said Stashe. “Rubbish box then. Now what’s this layer? Oh, he seems to have written notes to himself. The prof — Andrew will definitely want to look through these. Give me a special box, Aidan.”
Aidan brought up a clean, empty box and helped Stashe pack scores of little tattered notes in it. The notes were written on pieces torn off letters, old magazines and even raggedly torn pieces of new paper. Old Mr Brandon’s writing was black and crotchety and full of character. Aidan noticed one that said, If Stockie brings me any more carrots, I’ll pull his head off!!! Another said, O. Brown is talking nonsense. Counterparts not dangerous. And a third said, Trouble in London again. Sigh.
Then they were down to ordinary letters from different people, all of them pitched anyhow into the box in a great slithering heap. Stashe scooped up a sheaf of them and held them to the light, frowning. “New box,” she said.
Aidan slid a new box forward, congratulating himself on bringing so many, and looked into the big box to see if this box was large enough. Half the letters in the heap were in his grandmother’s writing. Aidan would have known her writing anywhere, neat and light and slanting, with dashes instead of any other kind of punctuation. Gran always said, “I’ve no patience with commas and full stops and things. Folk have to take me as they find me.”
Aidan’s heart banged heavily. His eyes suddenly felt hot and full. He found he had to stand up.
“What’s the matter?” asked Stashe.
“Those letters,” Aidan said, pointing. “They’re from my gran.”
Stashe had no trouble knowing how Aidan felt. After her mother had died — when Stashe herself was not much older than Aidan — there had been times when small, silly things — like Mum’s favourite egg cup, or just a whiff of Mum’s perfume — had brought her loss back to her as if Mum had died only yesterday. At those times, Stashe had had to be alone. Usually she had locked herself into her bedroom, often for hours and hours.
“You want to go away?” she said to Aidan. “Go on. I won’t mind.”
Aidan nodded and stumbled away to the door with tears pouring out from under his glasses. Stashe surprised herself by starting to cry too.
Aidan raced for the living room as the nearest way outside. “My goodness!” said Mrs Stock, as Aidan fought his way out through the French windows. “What’s up with you?”
Aidan didn’t feel like answering. He stumbled out on to the lawn and then round past the woodshed and through the hedge into the fields beyond. He took his glasses off, but that didn’t help. His nose ran as well as his eyes, and he still didn’t have a handkerchief. He could still see Gran, just as she had been, coming out with her clipped little sayings and usually — unless the saying was a grim one — grinning as she said them. He could smell her, feel the shape of her on the rare occasions when she hugged him. He could hear her voice…
And he was never going to hear, feel or see her again.
Aidan could not forgive himself. He had been behaving just as if he was on holiday, having fun, noticing new things, playing football, exploring, living on the surface of himself, and almost forgetting he had lost Gran forever. He had never even told her how much he loved her. And now he couldn’t ever tell her anything ever again. He had lost her for good.
“Oh, Gran, Gran!” he sobbed, stumbling among Wally Stock’s cows and hardly noticing them. When he had walked this way with Andrew, he had, to tell the truth, been quite alarmed by the size of those cows and the way they stared. But they stared now and he couldn’t care less. Gran was dead. Gone. Lost.
Aidan was not sure where he went after barging past those cows. He wandered for hours in his misery, just wanting to be alone. When his sorrow began to slacken a little, he made for Mel Tump and wandered among the bushes there. “Groil?” he called out after a while. “Groil?” He couldn’t bear to meet anyone else, in case they sympathised with him. But he thought Groil probably wouldn’t be sorry for him. He could bear Groil.
But, as before, there was no sign of Groil. Aidan wandered down the hill and off towards the wood, thinking that, to be fair, Stashe hadn’t sympathised with him. Nor had Andrew really. But they had both understood how he felt and had been careful not to upset him. Aidan badly wanted someone who didn’t understand. Someone who couldn’t care less. His football friends? No, they would be like Stashe or Andrew and — worse! — embarrassed with it.
He wandered along the edge of the wood. Suppose he went in as far as the broken-down wall and deliberately ran into Security? Security was not likely to be understanding. Nor was his dog. There was quite a chance they would kill him. They were both pretty scary. On second thoughts — and third and fourth thoughts — Aidan was not sure he wanted to be killed. He supposed he ought to be hungry, though he felt as if he’d never want to eat again, and he turned away from the wood. Oh, Gran, Gran!
There were eager crashing noises from inside the wood.
Aidan whirled round. A big, dim shape was bouncing and charging towards him among the trees and bushes. Help! It’s a lion! Aidan thought. It certainly looked like one. The animal was the right colour for a lion, sort of yellowish. But then the creature uttered a glad yelp and Aidan realised it was only a dog. It bounced and crashed its way through the last of the trees and came lolloping towards Aidan on long legs that flopped all over the place, ears flying, big pink tongue draping out of its mouth and its tail passionately wagging.
Really just a puppy, Aidan thought.
The dog bounced up to him, panting out glad little whimpers, put its paws on
Aidan’s chest and tried to lick his face. Aidan turned his face away and couldn’t help laughing. Its large, feathery tail didn’t so much wag as go round and round like a propeller. Aidan found himself laughing at that too. After that, in the most natural possible way, Aidan found he was kneeling in the grass with his arms round the beast, stroking its silky ears and talking all sorts of nonsense to it.
“What’s your name then? No — don’t answer that. I think it’s Rolf. You look like a Rolf. You’re big, aren’t you? Does your tail always windmill like this? Who do you belong to? Where have you come from?” The dog had no collar, yet it was clear it had run off from someone. Whoever it belonged to must have looked after it quite well. Though its yellow coat was full of burrs and goosegrass, it shone with health. The dog’s big black nose that it kept dabbing at Aidan’s cheek was cool and wet and its teeth were white and perfect. Its big brown eyes, staring gladly at Aidan, were clear and bright.
It wanted to play.
Aidan went to the edge of the wood to look for a stick to throw. The dog dashed past him in among the trees and came back with an elderly tennis ball. It dropped the ball by Aidan’s feet, where it went down on its fringed elbows and encouraged Aidan with a bark. Well, here was someone who wasn’t sympathetic or even understanding, Aidan thought. That’s a relief! He picked the ball up and threw it. The dog dashed off after it delightedly.
They played fetch-the-ball up and down the edge of the woods for what seemed hours, until Aidan was quite tired. By that time Aidan’s sorrow for Gran had gone down to a sore place some distance back in his brain somewhere. It still hurt and he knew it would always be there, but it did not cause him the frantic sadness he had been feeling earlier. He looked up and around and realised that he and the dog had played for hours. The sun was behind the wood, making long shadows of trees stretch across the field towards Melstone House. The sight turned Aidan quite hollow inside. He had missed lunch. He might even have missed supper too.
“OK,” he said to the dog. “Time to go home.” He hurled the ball far into the wood and, as soon as Rolf rushed off after it, Aidan set off for Melstone House.
Here his troubles began. Aidan had gone barely ten steps before Rolf was beside him again bouncing, wagging and whining, obviously determined to come too.
“Oh no,” Aidan said. “You can’t. You don’t belong to me.” He pointed sternly at the wood. “Go on home!”
Rolf swerved away towards the wood and then stood there, looking desolate.
Aidan pointed to the wood again, and again said, “Go home!”
Rolf lay down, whining miserably. And as soon as Aidan turned and began to walk towards the house, Rolf was beside him, strutting bouncily, pretending to be so glad that Aidan was taking him too.
“No!” Aidan said. “You don’t understand. You belong to someone else. Go back to your owner. Go home!”
The trouble was, Aidan was sure that Rolf did understand, perfectly. He just preferred Aidan to whoever he belonged to.
This happened ten more times. Aidan would turn round, point and sternly tell Rolf to “Go home!” and Rolf would sheer off, looking miserable, and then chase after Aidan as soon as Aidan was walking again. It was worse if Aidan ran. Rolf was after him in a flash. He threw himself down in front of Aidan’s feet and gazed at him with big brown, pleading eyes.
By this time they were halfway across the field. Wally Stock’s sheep ambled sedately out of their way, quite unworried by Aidan’s efforts, or Rolf’s. They were not afraid of Rolf in the least. Rolf was treating Aidan like a sheep, Aidan realised, herding him towards the house. Clever, Aidan thought. He really was a superb dog.
“Oh, honestly!” Aidan said, as Rolf threw himself at Aidan’s feet yet again. “I told you. You don’t belong to me!”
This time, Rolf’s reply was to turn round and round. Chasing his tail, Aidan thought. Round and round, dizzily, so fast he became a yellow blur. Then he was a yellow fog, billowing beside Aidan’s shoes. Aidan backed away a little. This was really strange. He took off his glasses, but Rolf was still a yellow fog to his naked eyes. Then, watched by a ring of placid, interested sheep, the fog hardened into a different shape and stood up as a small boy. Aidan put his glasses back on and Rolf was still a small boy. His hair was a pelt of gold curls, the same colour as the dog’s coat, and he was wearing a sort of romper suit made of golden velvet. He stared beseechingly at Aidan with the dog’s soulful brown eyes and threw both arms around Aidan’s legs. He looked about five years old.
“Oh, please take me with you!” he said. His voice was much gruffer and lower than you would expect from a five-year-old. “Please! I haven’t got a home. I ran away when they tried to put a collar on me and make me into Security. Please!”
“You’re a were-dog!” Aidan said. He supposed this did make a difference.
The small boy nodded. “I’m Rolf,” he said. “You knew my name. Nobody else did. Let me come home with you.”
Aidan gave in. It was those yearning brown eyes he supposed. “OK,” he said. “Come along then. But be very polite to Mrs Stock. I think the others will understand, but I don’t think she will.”
Rolf gave a cry of joy and dissolved into yellow fog again. Next second he was a large golden dog, far more comfortable as a dog than a boy, Aidan could tell, as Rolf tore round and round Aidan, frisking, cavorting and giving little barks of delight. Every so often he tried to lick Aidan’s hands and feet. Aidan had to keep pushing him off all the way across the field.
Andrew, meanwhile, was trying to get on with his book. With the computer working and Stashe in the room next door, where he could call on her for help at any time, conditions seemed ideal for work. He was getting out all the stuff he would need when it occurred to him that he ought to check up on Shaun first, in case Shaun was up to anything that would result in more large parsnips. He got up and went round to the yard.
The first thing he saw was the lawnmower. It had been pushed into the middle of the yard and surrounded by old paint tins, broken garden chairs and two halves of a stepladder. Good. That seemed to mean Shaun was at work where he should be.
The next thing Andrew saw was Groil. Groil was leaning over the shed roof, carefully cleaning the coloured panes in the window there. He looked like an optical illusion at first in Aidan’s enlarged clothes: a very large boy cleaning a very small shed. Andrew blinked at the sight. Then Groil was a giant cleaning a normal-sized shed.
“Good God, Groil!” Andrew exclaimed. “I didn’t expect you!”
Groil turned round. The roof creaked as he leaned one hand on it. He gave Andrew a huge, shy grin. “I can reach the window, see,” he said.
Shaun heard their voices and came to the shed door. “I got a friend to help me,” he said. “Don’t mind, do you?”
Both he and Groil gave Andrew the same half-proud, half-guilty grins. Looking up at Groil and downward at Shaun, Andrew had no doubt that the two of them were what Mr Brown had called counterparts. Apart from their size, that was, and Shaun’s new hairstyle. Groil’s hair was a shaggy mop. The other differences were that Groil seemed cleverer than Shaun, and Shaun seemed older than Groil. Odd that. Groil was, to Andrew’s knowledge, at least as old as Andrew was himself, but he looked a child still.
Andrew’s mind shied away here from whatever this had to do with Mr Brown. “No, of course I don’t mind,” he said heartily, “so long as you remember to be specially gentle with the cracked panes, Groil. And there’ll be a parsnip for you later.”
He pushed Shaun gently aside and took a look at the interior of the shed. It was full of the smell of wet grime, where Shaun was in the middle of washing down one of the carved walls.
“They polish up lovely when they’re dry,” Shaun said, pointing to a large tin labelled Best Beeswax Polish. “Auntie give me the rags to work it in with. But…” He pointed to the window in the roof with all its dangling spiderwebs. “…Groil has to do that.”
“How? Can he get inside here?” Andrew asked.
Shaun grinned. “He, like, squinges up,” he said. “He can go smaller than me when he wants. But then he gets all heavy.”
“Oh,” said Andrew, thinking, You live and learn. “Fine. You’re both doing fine, Shaun. Keep at it.”
He went back to his study and started up his computer. He assembled the stuff for his database. He made sure all his closely-written notes were propped on a lectern. Then he sat staring at the screen saver wondering about counterparts instead. How and why did they happen? Why was Mr Brown so much against them? Why did he blame Andrew for not stopping them? As if Andrew could! Shaun had been born years before Andrew came back to Melstone. The more Andrew thought about this, the more he thought that the best way he had of getting back at Mr Brown for his politely rude orders was to encourage counterparts. If only he knew how.
He was still staring at his screen saver making coloured, diving patterns an hour later, when Stashe came in carrying a cardboard box. “Your grandfather wrote at least a thousand little memos to himself,” she said. “I’ve sorted out all the ones I’ve found so far and I think you’ll have to look through them. Some of them look important, but they’re far too cryptic for me.”
“Put them over in that corner,” Andrew said. “I’ll look at them later.”
He watched Stashe with pleasure as she carried the box to a free space on the floor and put it down. She really looked marvellous in that brief green dress.
“By the way,” she said, “Aidan’s gone out, poor kid. A whole lot of letters in the box I’m on turned out to be from his gran. That really upset him. I think he wanted to be alone for a while — you know how it is.”
Andrew nodded. His parents had both died while he was a graduate student. He knew how that felt. He sighed. “Let me look at those letters too, will you?”
“I’m going now to sort them into the order they were written in,” Stashe said. “Someone’s just bundled them into that box anyhow, and they’re all mixed up.”
Enchanted Glass Page 11
