Diana Jones - Charmed Life

“I’m going to be famous! He said I could rule the world if I go the right way about it!” she told Cat.

Though Cat had no doubt that Gwendolen would be famous, he could not see how she could rule the world, and he said so. “You’d only rule one country, even if you married the King,” he objected. “And the Prince of Wales got married last year.”

“There are more ways of ruling than that, stupid!” Gwendolen retorted. “Mr Nostrum has lots of ideas for me, for a start. Mind you, there are some snags. There’s a change for the worse that I have to surmount, and a dominant Dark Stranger. But when he told me I’d rule the world my fingers all twitched, so I know it’s true!” There seemed no limit to Gwendolen’s glowing confidence.

The next day, Miss Larkins the Clairvoyant called Cat into her house and offered to tell his fortune too.

Cat was alarmed by Miss Larkins. She was the daughter of Mr Larkins at the junk shop. She was young and pretty and fiercely red-headed. She wore the red hair piled into a bun on top of her head, from which red tendrils of hair escaped and tangled becomingly with earrings like hoops for parrots to sit on. She was a very talented clairvoyant, and, until the story of the cat became known, Miss Larkins had been the pet of the neighbourhood. Cat remembered that even his mother had given Miss Larkins presents. Cat knew Miss Larkins was offering to tell his fortune out of jealousy of Gwendolen

“No. No, thank you very much,” he said, backing away from Miss Larkins’ little table spread with objects of divination. “It’s quite all right. I don’t want to know.”

But Miss Larkins advanced on him and seized him by his shoulders. Cat squirmed. Miss Larkins used a scent that shrieked VIOLETS! at him, her earrings swung like manacles, and her corsets creaked when she was close to. “Silly boy!” Miss Larkins said, in her rich, melodious voice. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to know. ”

“But – but I don’t,” Cat said, twisting this way and that.

“Hold still,” said Miss Larkins, and tried to stare deep into Cat’s eyes.

Cat shut his eyes hastily. He squirmed harder than ever. He might have got loose, had not Miss Larkins abruptly gone off into some kind of trance. Cat found himself being gripped with a strength that would have surprised him even in the Willing Warlock. He opened his eyes to find Miss Larkins staring blankly at him. Her body shook, creaking her corsets like old doors swinging in the wind. “Oh, please let go!” Cat said. But Miss Larkins did not appear to hear. Cat took hold of the fingers gripping his shoulder and tried to prise them loose. He could not move them. After that, he could only stare helplessly at Miss Larkins’ blank face.

Miss Larkins opened her mouth, and quite a different voice came out. It was a man’s voice, brisk and kindly. “You’ve taken a weight off my mind, lad,” it said. It sounded pleased. “There’ll be a big change coming up for you now. But you’ve been awfully careless – four gone already, and only five left. You must take more care. You’re in danger from at least two directions, did you know?”

The voice stopped. By this time, Cat was so frightened that he dared not move. He could only wait until Miss Larkins came to herself, yawned, and let go of him in order to cover her mouth elegantly with one hand.

“There,” she said in her usual voice. “That was it. What did I say?”

Finding Miss Larkins had no idea what she had said brought Cat out in goose pimples. All he wanted to do was to run away. He dashed for the door.

Miss Larkins pursued him, seized his arms again and shook him. “Tell me! Tell me! What did I say?” With the violence of her shaking, her red hair came down in sheets. Her corsets sounded like bending planks. She was terrifying. “What voice did I use?” she demanded.

“A – a man’s voice,” Cat faltered. “Sort of nice, and no nonsense about it.”

Miss Larkins seemed dumbfounded. “A man ? Not Bobby or Doddo – not a child’s voice, I mean?”

“No,” said Cat.

“How peculiar!” said Miss Larkins. “I never use a man. What did he say?”

Cat repeated what the voice had said. He thought he would never forget it if he lived to ninety.

It was some consolation to find that Miss Larkins was quite as puzzled by it as he was. “Well, I suppose it was a warning,” she said dubiously. She also seemed disappointed. “And nothing else? Nothing about your sister?”

“No, nothing,” said Cat.

“Oh well, can’t be helped,” Miss Larkins said discontentedly, and she let go of Cat in order to put her hair up again.

As soon as both her hands were safely occupied in pinning her bun, Cat ran. He shot out into the street, feeling very shaken.

And he was caught by two more people almost at once.

“Ah. Here is young Eric Chant now,” said Mr Nostrum, advancing down the pavement. “You are acquainted with my brother William, are you, young Cat?”

Cat was once more caught by an arm. He tried to smile. It was not that he disliked Mr Nostrum. It was just that Mr Nostrum always talked in this jocular way and called him “Young Chant” every few words, which made it very difficult to talk to Mr Nostrum in return. Mr Nostrum was small and plumpish, with two wings of grizzled hair. He had a cast in his left eye, too, which always stared out sideways. Cat found that added to the difficulty of talking to Mr Nostrum. Was he looking and listening? Or was his mind elsewhere with that wandering eye?

“Yes – yes, I’ve met your brother,” Cat reminded Mr Nostrum. Mr William Nostrum came to visit his brother regularly. Cat saw him almost once a month. He was quite a well-to-do wizard, with a practice in Eastbourne. Mrs Sharp claimed that Mr Henry Nostrum sponged on his wealthier brother, both for money and for spells that worked.

Whatever the truth of that, Cat found Mr William Nostrum even harder to talk to than his brother. He was half as large again as Mr Henry and always wore morning dress with a huge silver watch-chain across his tubby waistcoat. Otherwise, he was the image of Mr Henry Nostrum, except that both his eyes were out of true. Cat always wondered how Mr William saw anything. “How do you do, sir,” he said to him politely.

“Very well,” said Mr William in a deep gloomy voice, as if the opposite was true.

Mr Henry Nostrum glanced up at him apologetically. “The fact is, young Chant,” he explained, “we have met with a little setback. My brother is upset.” He lowered his voice, and his wandering eye wandered all round Cat’s right side. “It’s about those letters from – You Know Who. We can find out nothing. It seems Gwendolen knows nothing. Do you, young Chant, perchance know why your esteemed and lamented father should be acquainted with – with, let us call him, the August Personage who signed them?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, I’m afraid,” said Cat.

“Could he have been some relation?” suggested Mr Henry Nostrum. “Chant is a Good Name.”

“I think it must be a bad name, too,” Cat answered. “We haven’t any relations.”

“But what of your dear mother?” persisted Mr Nostrum, his odd eye travelling away, while his brother managed to stare gloomily at the pavement and the rooftops at once.

“You can see the poor boy knows nothing, Henry,” Mr William said. “I doubt if he would be able to tell us his dear mother’s maiden name.”