Vile Visitors. Diana Wynne Jones

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      he day my sister Cora went away for a fortnight, a friend of Dad’s called Angus Flint rang up out of the blue. He said his wife had just left him, so could he come and see us to cheer himself up? I don’t know how my father came to have a friend like Angus Flint. They met at college. One of them must have been different.

      Anyway, Dad was pleased Angus Flint had not forgotten him, so he said “Yes,” and then told Mum. Mum said “Oh,” in the blank sort of way I do when I find my brothers have pinched all my chocolate. Then she said, “I suppose he can have Cora’s room.” Imagine the way an Ancient Roman might say, “I suppose the lions can have my best friend,” and you’ll know how she said it.

      That ought to have been a warning because Mum can like people no sane person can stand, but I was doing my piano practice, so I didn’t pay attention. Miss Hawksmoore had given me an old children’s song to work on called Elfin Dance, and I wasn’t very good at playing it. It sounds like two very glum medium-sized elephants trying to waltz. And the next number in my book is another old song called The Fairies Party. I only carry on because I like our piano so much. It’s a great, black, grand piano that Mum bought for £100, cheap at £1,000 to our minds.

      Pip can’t decide what he’s a genius at, but, a little while ago, he thought he might be a genius at playing the piano. He was doing his practice when Angus Flint arrived. But before that, Pip and Tony – Tony’s the brother between me and Pip – had been so glad that Cora was not around to henpeck them that they had celebrated by eating – well, they wouldn’t say what they had eaten, but Tony had come out in spots and been sick. Tony has the art of looking bland and vague when any misdeed happens. Mum thought he really was ill. When Angus Flint breezed in, Tony was in a chair in the sitting-room with a bowl on his knees, and Mum was fussing.

      Now this shows you what Angus Flint was like. Mum went to shake hands, saying she was sorry we were at sixes and sevens. And she explained that Tony had been taken ill.

      Angus Flint said, “Then open the window. I don’t want to get it.” Those were his first words. He was square and stumpy, and he had a blank sort of face with pouty lips. His voice was loud and jolly.

      Mum looked rather taken aback, but she slid the big window open a little and told Tony to go to bed. Dad asked Angus Flint to sit down. Angus Flint looked critically at the chairs and then sat in the best one. Dad had just begun to ask him where he was living these days, when he bounced up again.