Diana Jones - Vile Visitors

Menace fled. He never let Angus Flint get within a foot of him if he could help it. But the skate stayed. Angus Flint trod on it and shot off downstairs. It was beautiful. We were all sorry when he stopped on the first landing. Then he came pounding upstairs again shouting, “Whose skate was that?”

I said, “Mine,” without thinking.

I was picked up and swung about by my hair. It must have hurt me more than Pip, because I’m heavier.

Still, that put an idea into my sore head. I went and borrowed roller-skates from everyone I knew. I got armfuls. Pip and Tony helped me bring them home in carrier bags. There we laid them out, like you do mouse-poison, in cunning corners. It was an awful nuisance. Kids kept coming to the door saying, “My sister says she lent you my roller-skates, and she’s no right to do that because they’re mine.” But there were quite a few left, even after that.

The result: Pip fell over once, Tony twice, and me three times. Mum and Dad were immune. They said they’d had years of practice. And Angus Flint never said whether he’d fallen over or not. He simply collected all the skates up and threw them in the dustbin. He did it just before the dustmen called, so they were gone before we realised. And kids still keep coming to the door to ask for their skates. I’ve had to part with most of my nicest things in return.

Tony got picked up by his hair because of the plastic stew. He wanted revenge because Angus Flint kept breaking his models. And Tony hated the way Angus Flint always took one rabbit nibble at his food and then sounded so surprised that it was nice. Tony got as annoyed over that as I did at the way Angus Flint kept insulting the furniture. Mum was furious too. After the third time Angus Flint did it, she took to saying pleasantly, “Arsenic does taste nice.” At which Angus Flint always gave the same loud jolly laugh. So I think Mum and Tony put their heads together over the stew.

Tony had collected all the bits of left-over plastic model he could find. You know the things you have left after you’ve made a model. They look like knobby fishbones. Tony had collected them from everywhere he could think of. Because most of them came from the floor or the backs of cupboards, there was a good deal of grit and fluff and Menace’s hair with them too. Mum put the first spoonful of stew on Angus Flint’s plate, and while she was dipping for the second spoonful, Tony dumped a great handful of mixed plastic and fluff on top of it. Mum never turned a hair. She just poured gravy over the lot and passed it to Angus Flint.

We all watched breathlessly while he took up a forkful and did his nibble. “This—” he began as usual. Then he found what it was. He spat it out. “Who did this?” he said. He knew it was Tony by instinct. He answered his own question by picking Tony up by his hair and carrying him out of the room.

Mum knocked over her chair and rushed out after them. But by the time we all got to the hall – we got in one another’s way a little – Tony was upstairs running his head under the cold tap. And Angus Flint was – yes, you guessed it! – upside down on the hall carpet.

“I don’t want any supper, Margaret,” his squashed face said.

Mum said “Good!” to the maroon socks and stormed back to the dining-room.

ext morning, there was nothing for breakfast. Angus Flint had got up in the night and eaten all the cornflakes and all the milk, and fried himself all the eggs.

“Why is there no food?” he demanded.

“You ate it all,” Mum said.

Angus Flint did not seem to notice how cold she sounded. He just set to work to eat all the bread and marmalade too. He simply did not see how we all hated him. He really enjoyed staying with us. He kept saying so. Every evening when my parents crawled home to him, he would meet them with a beaming smile. “This is such a friendly household, Margaret,” he said. “You’ve done me a lot of good.”

“I think we must be very profound,” Pip said drearily.

“I suppose I couldn’t live here always?” said Angus Flint.

There was silence. A very profound one.

Pip broke the silence by stumping off to do his practice. By that time, the only time either of us dared practise was when our parents were at home. Angus Flint would not let us touch the piano. If you started, he came and picked you up by your hair. Pip and I got so that we used to dive off the stool and under the piano as soon as we heard a footstep. Pip’s True-love, when he did manage to practise playing her song, seemed to have developed a squint as well as a stutter, and as for my song that sounded like gloomy elephants, they had got more like despairing dinosaurs. I kept having to apologise to the piano – not to speak of Miss Hawksmoore.

“You should sell that piano,” Angus Flint said, as Pip started bashing away.

Mum would not hear of it. The piano is her best bargain ever. Not everyone can buy a perfect concert-grand for £100. Besides, she wanted us to learn to play it.

By this time, Angus Flint had stayed with us for nearly a fortnight. Cora was due home in three days, and he still showed no signs of leaving. The boys told him he would have to leave when Cora came back, but all they got was the Stare. My parents both realised that something would have to be done and began to show a little firmness at last. Mum explained – in her special anxious way that she uses when she doesn’t want to offend someone – that Cora was coming back soon and would need her room. Dad took to starting everything he said to Angus Flint with “When you leave us—”. But Angus Flint took not the slightest bit of notice. It began to dawn on me that he really did intend to stay for good.

I was soon sure of it. He suddenly went all charming. He left me some breakfast for once. He even made his bed, and he was polite all morning. I warned the boys, but they wouldn’t believe me. I warned Mum too, when she came back suddenly in the middle of the afternoon, but it was a hot day and she was too tired to listen.

“I only keep buying things if I stay out,” she said. “I’d rather face Angus Flint than the Bank Manager.”

Too right she kept buying things. That week, she’d bought two hideous three-legged tables for the sitting-room, about eight bookcases, and four rolled-up carpets. We were beginning to look like an old furniture store.

Angus Flint heard Mum come back. He rushed up to her with a jolly smile on his face. “Isn’t it a lovely day, Margaret? What do you say to me taking you and the kids out to tea somewhere?”

Mum agreed like a shot. He hadn’t paid for a thing up to then. The boys had visions of ice cream and cream buns. I knew there was a catch in it, but it was just the day for tea out on a lawn somewhere, and I did feel we ought at least to get that out of Angus Flint in return for all our suffering. So we all crammed into his car. Angus Flint drove exactly like you might expect, far too fast. He honked his horn a lot, overtook everything he could – particularly on corners – and he expected old ladies to leap like deer in order not to be run over. Mum said what about the Copper Kettle? Tony said the cakes in the other place were better. But Angus Flint insisted that he had seen, “A perfect little place,” on his way to stay with us.

We drove three times round town looking for the perfect little place, at top speed. Our name was mud in every street by then. We called out whenever we saw a cafe of any kind after a while, but Angus Flint just said, “We can’t stop here,” and sped on.

After nearly an hour, when Pip was near despair, we ended up roaring through Palham, which is a village about three miles out of town. There was a place called “Ye Olde Tea Shoppe” with striped umbrellas. Our spirit was broken by then. We didn’t even mention it. But Angus Flint stopped with a screech of brakes. “This looks like as if it might do,” he said.