Diana Jones - Enchanted Glass

Mrs Stock glowered. Stashe, looking perky and triumphant, said, “I can do Tuesdays, Fridays and Mondays. When do I start?”

“She works down the Stables on the other days,” Tarquin explained.

“Then start tomorrow,” Andrew said. “Nine-thirty.”

Aidan was greatly relieved. Up to now he had thought Andrew was the kind of person that everyone pushed about.

“Mr Stock,” Andrew continued, “I’m sure you have work to do. And Mrs Stock, can you make up the bed in the front spare room, please? Aidan will be staying here until we can sort out what he ought to do.”

“Oh, thanks! ” Aidan gasped. He could hardly breathe, he was so relieved and grateful.

Andrew was anxious to question Aidan further, but he had to leave that until the evening when Mr and Mrs Stock had left. Aidan fell into an exhausted sleep anyway, as soon as Mrs Stock had shown him to the spare room.

Downstairs, things were very unrestful. Mr Stock was enraged at the way Mrs Stock had thrust Shaun into the household. Mrs Stock could not forgive Mr Stock for producing Stashe. She was fairly annoyed with Andrew too. “I do think,” she told her sister, “that with all I have to do, he didn’t ought to have taken in that boy. I’ve no notion how long he’ll be staying either. World of his own, that man!”

As always when she was annoyed, she made cauliflower cheese.

“I’ll eat it,” Aidan said, when Andrew was about to throw it away.

Andrew paused, with the dish above the waste-pail. “Not pizza?” he asked, in some surprise.

“I can eat that too,” Aidan said.

Andrew, as he put the offending cauliflower back in the oven, had a sudden almost overwhelming memory of how much he had needed to eat when he was Aidan’s age. This brought with it a flood of much vaguer memories, of things old Jocelyn had said and done, and of how much he had learned from the old man. But he was unable to pin them down. Pity, he thought. He was fairly sure a lot of these things were important, both for himself and for Aidan.

After supper, he took Aidan into the living room and began to ask him questions. He started, tactfully, with harmless enquiries about school and friends. Aidan, after he had looked round the room and realised, with regret, that Andrew did not have a television, was quite ready to answer. He had plenty of friends, he told Andrew, and quite enjoyed school, but he had had to give all that up when the social workers had whisked him off to the Arkwrights, who lived somewhere out in the suburbs of London.

“But it was nearly the end of term anyway,” Aidan said consolingly. He thought Andrew was probably worried about his education, being a professor.

Andrew secretly made a note of the Arkwrights’ address. They were surely worrying. Then he went on to questions about Aidan’s grandmother. Aidan was even readier to answer these. He talked happily about her. It did not take Andrew long to build up a picture of a splendidly quirky, loving, elderly lady, who had brought Aidan up very well indeed. It was also clear that Aidan had loved her very much. Andrew began to think that Adela Cain had been as wonderful as he had thought she was himself, in the days when he collected all her records.

Now came the difficult part. Andrew looked around the long, peaceful room, where the French windows were open on the evening sunlight. A fine, sweet scent flowed in with the sunset, probably from the few flowers Mr Stock had spared time to plant. Or was it? Aidan had taken his glasses off and looked warily at the open windows, as if there might be a threat out there, and then looked relieved, as if the scent was a safe one. Now Andrew remembered that there was always that same sweet smell in here, whenever the windows were open.

He was annoyed. His memory seemed to be so bad that he needed Aidan to remind him of things he ought to have known. He decided to treat himself to a small drink. It was so very small, and in such a small glass, that Aidan stared. Surely there was no way such a little sip of a drink could have any effect at all? But then, he thought, you did take medicine by the spoonful, and some of that was quite strong.

“Now,” Andrew said, settling himself in the comfortable chair again, “I think I must ask you about those shadowy pursuers you mentioned.”

“Didn’t you believe me?” Aidan asked sadly. Just like the social workers and the police, he thought. They hadn’t believed a word.

“Of course I believe you,” Andrew assured him. He knew he would get nothing out of Aidan unless he said this. “Don’t forget that my grandfather was a powerful magician. He and I saw many strange things together.” They had too, Andrew realised, though he couldn’t for the life of him think what they had seen. “When did you first see these creatures?”

“The night Gran died,” Aidan said. “The first lot came and stood packed into our back yard. They were sort of tall and kingly. And they called my name. At least, I thought they were calling me, but they were really calling out ‘Adam’—”

“They got your name wrong?” Andrew said.

“I don’t know. A lot of people get it wrong,” Aidan said. “The social workers thought my name was Adam too. And I went charging off to Gran’s bedroom to tell her about the Stalkers and—” He had to stop and gulp here. “That’s how I found she was dead.”

“What did you do?” Andrew asked.

“Dialled 999,” Aidan said desolately. “That’s all I could think of. The Stalkers vanished away when the ambulance arrived. I didn’t see them again until they turned up outside the Arkwrights’, with the other two lots that fought one another. That was two nights later. I suppose I’d mostly been sitting in that office, while people phoned about what to do with me, until then, and they couldn’t get at me. They don’t come indoors, you know.”

“I know. You have to invite them in,” Andrew said. “Or they try to call you out. And you weren’t fool enough to listen to them.”

“I was too scared,” Aidan said. He added miserably, “The other two lots got my name wrong too. They called out ‘Alan’ and ‘Ethan’. And the Arkwrights got it wrong too. They kept calling me ‘Adrian’ and telling me to forget all about Gran.”

What a strange and unhappy time Aidan must have had of it, Andrew thought, full of strangers who couldn’t even get his name right. And it did not sound as if Aidan had been given any time for grief, or even been invited to his grandmother’s funeral. People needed to grieve. “Can you describe any of these Stalkers in more detail?” he asked.

But this Aidan found very hard to do. It wasn’t just that they always appeared by dark, he explained. He just couldn’t find words for how strange they were. “I suppose,” he said, after several failed attempts, “I could try drawing them for you.”

Andrew found himself glancing out of the windows at the red sunset. He had a very strong feeling that drawing the creatures was a bad idea. “No,” he said. “I think that could be a way of calling them to you again. My grandfather kept his lands pretty safe, but I don’t think we should take any chances.” He put his tiny glass down and stood up. “Let’s drop the subject until daylight now. Come and help me get rid of Mr Stock’s punishment while we can still see.” He led the way back to the kitchen.

Aidan could not really believe that vegetables might be a punishment, until Andrew led him to the pantry and pointed to the boxes. Then he believed all right.

“I’ve never seen so many radishes together in my life!” he said.

“Yes, several hundreds, all with holes in,” Andrew said. “You carry them and I’ll take the swedes and cabbages.”