Wild Robert. Diana Wynne Jones

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      Robert Toller looked definitely hurt now. “And so I can,” he said. “Why else should my half-brother call a bishop to put me down? They knew I had studied the magic arts and were persuaded I meant to take their heritage from them – though I meant them nothing but kindness.” He looked more hurt than ever for a moment. Then a thought struck him. His slanting eyes turned to Heather, sideways and warily. “Are the present-day Tollers likely to think the same? Who holds Castlemaine now?”

      “Well – no one really,” Heather said. “The last of the Tollers died out a long time ago. And then it went to the Franceys, and the last Francey died six years ago and left everything to the British Trust. My mum and dad look after it for the Trust.”

      Heather was not sure how much of this Robert Toller took in. While she was speaking, he almost looked as if he might cry. But that look was pushed aside by a bright smile and a fierce sort of delight. Before she had finished explaining, he was laughing wildly and hugging himself with both arms.

      “Oh, splendid news!” he cried out. “Then I am the only Toller living! Castlemaine is mine after all!” He stopped laughing and explained to Heather, rather anxiously, “I am in line to inherit. My father was the younger Francis and he married my mother when his first wife died.”

      Heather nodded. She could see how sad he was really and she did not want to hurt his feelings any more, but she could not help wondering how Robert Toller was going to explain to the people who ran the British Trust. And I bet he doesn’t have a birth certificate! she thought. I don’t think they were invented in his day.

      While she wondered what she could say, Robert Toller gave her a little bow and stuck out one elbow to her. “Come,” he said. “Let us leave this dismal wood and take a look at my heritage.”

      Heather knew he meant her to take hold of his elbow in an elegant way, but the strange fizzing she had felt when he touched her made her scared to try. Robert Toller smiled. He had a very winning smile, as good-looking as the rest of him.

      “Walk with me,” he said, “and tell me your name.” And he waited, holding his elbow out and keeping the smile until it looked quite strained.

      Heather found she simply could not bear to hurt his feelings any more. “My name’s Heather Bayley,” she said. She picked up her book and her bag of lunch and put her hand on his elbow – his sleeve was black silk, not the leather she had taken it for – and it fizzed. But she got used to it quite quickly and let him help her slither down the mound.

      They walked under the yew trees and Heather felt quite grand and old-fashioned. She noticed that Robert Toller, in spite of his black clothes, seemed to stand out strong and bright in the smoky light. She looked down at herself and found that her own legs, and her hand on Robert Toller’s elbow, looked much greyer and dimmer. When they came out into the sunlight, Robert Toller looked brighter still. It was as if he was somehow twice as alive as ordinary people. Heather was staring at him, thinking about this, when they came to the ruined temple.

      The teenagers were still there, romping about. Heather wondered how she could ever have thought Robert Toller was one of them. He stood out as quite different, now she saw them. Three of the girls were up on the fallen statue throwing empty coke cans at the boys. Robert Toller stopped dead and stared at them. Heather looked at the black leather mini-skirts and the tall punk hairstyles and suddenly saw that they must seem outrageous to someone from three hundred and fifty years ago.

      But it was not that. Robert Toller had gone white again. He said, “This I will not have! This temple was where my father met with my mother.” And he shouted at the teenagers, “Get you gone! Go riot in some other place!” They all looked round at him, a bit surprised. Then they laughed and went back to pelting one another with cans. Robert Toller’s face bunched up. His lower lip stuck out. He looked exactly like a very small boy who was just about to burst into tears, but Heather was fairly sure he was very angry. He spread one hand out palm down in front of him, and muttered something under his breath. Then he tipped his hand slowly sideways. “Go riot, then, until I bid all stop,” he said.

      Heather felt as if something tipped with Robert’s hand. It was as if the part of the world that was ordinary and possible went slanting away sideways in a thin sheet. One edge of the thin sheet went upwards, and the other sloped down through the harder, stranger part of the world that was always underneath, leaving that part bare. Heather actually saw the grey edge tip and travel across the sunny grass and the white stone pillars and the laughing girls and boys. For a moment, she was sure she was standing out sideways, somehow, on the slice of ordinariness. Then she found she was on the deeper bit after all.

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