Archer's Goon Page 5
“Oh, no!” said Fifi. “He must be worse than the Goon.”
This sobered Awful somewhat. She skipped along without talking, while they went past the Poly and through the shopping center and on up Shotwick Hill. “Where are we going?” she complained at the top of Shotwick Hill.
“I warned you,” Fifi said. “She lives up Pleasant Hill way. Woodland Terrace.”
“It’s posh up there,” Awful objected. “And a long way. And,” she added, “I wish I hadn’t come now.”
The way was all uphill. Long before they got to Woodland Terrace, Awful was shuffling and dragging and moaning that she was tired. She said she hated the houses here. Even the ordinary houses were beautifully painted and very neat. Most of the houses were more like red-brick castles than ordinary houses, and they got bigger and redder and more castlelike, with bigger gardens and more trees, the higher they went into Pleasant Hill. It was quite a surprise to find Woodland Terrace was a row of small houses. Awful perked up when she found Miss Potter’s house actually had gnomes in its little front garden.
“She would have gnomes!” Fifi said contemptuously as she rang the bell at the little stained-glass front door.
Miss Potter, when she opened the door, had a towel around her head and her glasses hanging from her neck on a chain. She hurriedly put the glasses on in order to stare. For an instant she looked really dismayed. “Oh,” she said, “what a surprise!” and forced a smile to her ribby face.
“That typescript I gave you to drop into the Town Hall …” Fifi began.
“What about it?” Miss Potter said, much too quickly.
“My father needs it urgently,” said Howard.
Miss Potter looked at him and then backed away, in a way that made Howard feel like the Goon. “Oh, but I—” she said, and took hold of the front door to shut in their faces. And that would have been that, but for Awful. Awful wanted to see what the house was like inside, and she was never shy. She slipped in under Miss Potter’s skinny elbow and walked into the hall. In order not to shut Awful into the house, Miss Potter had to leave the door open. She stood holding it and looking meaningfully from Awful to Howard and Fifi. When none of them moved, she said, with cross politeness, “Won’t you all come in?”
They went into the small dark house. It had a sad, damp smell and a lot of clocks ticking. Awful made a face because her curiosity was already satisfied. Miss Potter ran ahead of them into a spotless little living room and cleared two small books and a neat note pad from a shiny table. “You’ll have to excuse everything being so untidy,” she said. “I’ve been working hard all day, and I wasn’t expecting visitors. I’m so nervous about that paper Mr. Sykes set me, Fifi! I can’t think of anything else!”
“Think about that typescript,” said Fifi. “Have you still got it?”
“How about some tea and cookies?” Miss Potter said brightly.
“Yes, please,” said Awful.
But Howard and Fifi both said, “No, thanks,” at the same time, and Fifi added, “Typescript, Maisie.” Awful glowered.
Miss Potter put a hand to the towel around her head distractedly. “Oh, yes. Now let me think …”
Awful was annoyed at not being allowed tea and cookies. She said loudly and gloomily, “She’s putting you off. She’s stolen it.”
“I have not!” Miss Potter exclaimed indignantly. “I’ve only—that is—Well, if you must know, I lent it to someone.”
“Whatever for?” said Fifi. “When you knew Mr. Sykes—”
“I can get it back,” Miss Potter protested. “My friend only lives just up the road. She only wanted a peep at it.” And with a distinct look of relief she added, “I’ll—I’ll get it back and give it to you tomorrow without fail, Fifi.”
It seemed to Howard that Miss Potter was getting more and more shifty. Fifi evidently thought so, too, because she said sternly, “No, that won’t do, Maisie. Tell us where your friend lives, and we’ll go get it now.”
“Oh, I can’t do that!” Miss Potter cried out. “She doesn’t like strangers. She won’t know who you are. She—she doesn’t care for children. I’ll go see her myself this evening, I promise!”
Fifi looked frustrated. Howard found he did not believe a word about this friend of Miss Potter’s. He thought of the Goon and the Goon’s techniques. He said, “We’re staying here until you give us that typescript. My father needs it. It’s his property.”
This produced a new flurry of excuses from Miss Potter. “But I can’t bother my friend in the middle of the afternoon like this! And just look at these awful old clothes I’m in!”
“We’ll wait while you change,” said Fifi.
“Besides,” added Miss Potter, becoming truly inspired, “my hair’s wet.”
“Wear a hat,” said Awful. “Doesn’t she tell a lot of lies?”
At this, Miss Potter made a noise of exasperation. “Very well,” she said, tossing her toweled head angrily. “We’ll all go see my friend. But I insist on going upstairs to change first.” She turned and marched out of the neat living room. Howard hastily nudged Awful and gave her the look which meant she could be as awful as she liked. It did not seem to him that Awful needed much encouraging just then. Nor did she. She grinned fiendishly and scampered after Miss Potter. He heard her following Miss Potter upstairs, saying, “I want to see your bedroom. I like seeing bedrooms.”
“Oh, Howard,” Fifi whispered. “She’ll never forgive me!”
Howard comforted his conscience by telling it that Miss Potter probably deserved it for stealing the words and telling lies about friends. “Quick,” he whispered back. “I bet the words are here somewhere.”
Quietly and hastily he and Fifi tiptoed about, searching the neat little room. They opened drawers and cupboards, looked in the empty wastepaper basket, and ended lifting up clocks and shaking out empty vases. There was nothing. Miss Potter did not seem to keep even old letters. They tiptoed to the only other room, which proved to be Miss Potter’s kitchen, and searched cupboards there, too. Fifi looked in the oven and the fridge, while Howard sorted through the two plastic bags and the cabbage stalk, which was all that was in Miss Potter’s garbage pail. Again nothing. All the while, they could hear footsteps moving about upstairs and Awful’s voice loudly saying things like “Why do you have so many kinds of makeup? They don’t make you any prettier.” Or, “Why do you keep your nightie in this silly teddy bear?” It made Fifi giggle.
Howard thought Miss Potter must have the words upstairs, probably in the teddy with her nightdress, and he was just hoping that Awful would have the sense to look when he heard Awful saying, in a very loud, warning way, “You did change quickly! Don’t you like little girls watching you?” Fifi was giggling helplessly. Howard took her arm and towed her back to the living room just in time.
Miss Potter came bouncing tightly down the stairs in a neat pleated skirt, with a neat scarf over her head, and her lips were tightly pressed together. She looked furious. “Fifi, you should teach that child some manners!” she said. “Do you think you could wait outside while I find my keys?”
Awful stuck her head over the banister, grinning wider than the Goon. She whispered, in a great loud gust, “Miss Potter wants to telephone. She’s got a telephone upstairs, too.”
Miss Potter shot Awful a venomous look and followed that up with an artificial-looking jump. “Oh, silly me! I have my keys here all the time! Shall we go?”
They went out of the house. While Miss Potter was locking it with much fussy jangling of keys, Howard tried to decide whether there really was a friend or Miss Potter had just decided on this way to get rid of them. Either way there was nothing they could do but follow Miss Potter uphill and into Pleasant Hill Road itself. “My friend is such an admirer of your father’s books,” Miss Potter explained to Howard as they climbed. “She’s been asking me for months now if I couldn’t get her just a peep at some of his newest writing. She says s
he simply must read every word he’s ever written. She says it’s his style that’s so marvelous, but I think the important thing is that he’s so sympathetic to the woman’s point of view. Don’t you agree?”
“I don’t know,” Howard panted. Miss Potter set quite a fast pace. “I’ve never read any of Dad’s books.”
“He says we musn’t till we’re old enough,” Awful explained.
Miss Potter struck back smartly at this. “You poor child! Can’t you read yet? How sad!”
“You do make catty remarks,” Awful said. “Is it because you’re an old maid?”
Miss Potter pressed her lips together and walked on up the hill in seething silence. Howard gave Awful the look that was meant to call her off, but he was not sure it worked. They came in silence to the very top of the hill, to the driveway of the largest and reddest house yet. The brick gatepost said 28. Number 28 was like several castles melted together, with brick battlements and towers sprouting off its many corners. The way into it seemed to be through a big glass porch in front. Miss Potter went through the porch door and then undid the mighty studded front door beyond enough to put her head around it.
“Cooee!” she called. “Anyone at home? Dillian, dear, it’s me!”
Chapter Four
Dillian! thought Howard. It had never occurred to him that it might be a lady’s name. Perhaps there was more than one Dillian, he thought, and it was a name like Hilary or Vivian that did for both men and women. As he thought it, he looked around to see the glass door of the porch swing and click shut.
A voice spoke. It was a sweet, laughing lady’s voice, and none of them could see where it was coming from. “Why, it’s Maisie!” it said. “Who are your friends, Maisie?”
Miss Potter, still with her head around the great front door, called back, “I’ve brought Quentin Sykes’s dear little children, Dillian, and the student who baby-sits them. May we come in?”
“With pleasure, dear,” said the sweet voice, almost chuckling. “Come on in.”
Miss Potter pushed open the massive door, and they all trooped through it. They stood blinking. The castle was a palace inside. They were in a vast room, where light blazed from crystal chandeliers onto an acre of shiny floor made of different woods put together in patterns. The light gleamed off the gilding of elegant little armchairs and winked in the drops of a small fountain near the stairs. There were banks of flowers around the fountain and here and there in the rest of the space, as if there were going to be a concert there or a visit from the queen. Golden statues held more lights at the foot of the stairs, which swept around the far side of the room in a grand curve. Everyone tiptoed forward into the gleaming, scented space, quite awed. There was a proud, smug look to Miss Potter as she whispered, “Dillian’s home is charming, isn’t it?”
Fifi pulled herself together enough to say, “Cozy little place—” and stopped as she saw Dillian coming down the stairs.
Dillian was wearing a shiny white ball gown, which she held up gracefully as she came, to show her little high-heeled silver shoes. Fifi and Howard stared, thinking of fairytale princesses, and Awful thought of Miss Great Britain. Dillian had long golden hair, and her face was beautiful. When she reached the bottom of the stairs and came gracefully toward them, they saw she was even more beautiful than they had thought. She gave them a wonderful smile.
“Maisie! How kind of you to bring them!” she said.
Miss Potter turned a dull red. It was very clear she adored Dillian and would have done a great deal more for her than steal two thousand words. “I—er—I was afraid you might be annoyed, dear,” she said.
“Not in the least,” said Dillian. “Come and sit down, all of you, and we’ll have some tea.” She turned and led the way gracefully to the gilded chairs near the fountain, where she sat down in a billow of lovely skirt. She bent and rang a little golden bell that stood on the curb of the fountain. As they followed her, slithering a little on the shiny floor and quite astonished, a footman came from behind the stairs somewhere and bowed to Dillian. Their heads all turned to him. He wore a red velvet coat and a white wig and stockings. “Tea, please, Joseph,” Dillian said to him. “Or would you prefer a milk shake?” she asked Awful.
Awful turned her stare from the footman back to Dillian. “No, thanks.”
“Bring one in case anyway, Joseph,” Dillian said to the footman. “Do sit down, everyone.”
Miss Potter fussily pulled gilded chairs about to make a group around Dillian, and they all rather gingerly sat in them. Once they were sitting, they found that the banks of flowers around the fountain hid most of the huge room. They seemed to be in a small space full of scents and gentle drip-drip-dripping from the fountain. It all was so elegant that Fifi tried to hide her striped leg warmers under her chair. Howard could not think what to do with his slashed bag of books. Finally, he hid it and its tape under his chair, and then there seemed nowhere to put his feet. He felt as if he had more leg than the Goon.
“You must bring your father with you next time you come,” Dillian said to Howard. “I do so admire his books. But it’s just as great an honor having his children here—or do you get very tired of having such a famous father?”
As far as Howard knew, having Quentin for a father was just ordinary life. “I—um—get used to it,” he said.
“Of course,” Dillian said with great sympathy. “You don’t want to be known just for being the son of Quentin Sykes, do you? You want to be yourself.”
Howard felt his ears turning red. He hated people talking to him like this. “I … suppose so,” he said.
“So what are you going to do when you grow up?” Dillian persisted.
Howard began to feel the way you do when someone tickles the bottom of your feet. He had to change the subject or scream. “Design spaceships,” he said. “But we really came to ask for my father’s two thousand words back.” At this, Miss Potter turned and gave him a shocked look. He felt rude. “Er—please,” he said.
“Of course, dear,” said Dillian. “Spaceships! How interesting! But I suppose you do come under Venturus.”
“It’s urgent,” Howard pressed on. His ears seemed to get hotter with every word. “You see, Archer got angry when he didn’t get the words and sent the Goon around. And my father’s refused to do another lot. So we need the ones you’ve got.”
He stopped. Dillian’s face had gone blank, as if she had not understood a word he was saying. It looked as if there had been a mistake. Perhaps she was not the Dillian Mr. Mountjoy had talked about. Howard’s stomach, and even his ears, went quite cold at the thought. Meanwhile, the footman was coming back, gently wheeling a little golden trolley with a tall silver teapot on its top shelf and silver plates of sandwiches on its lower one. Dillian turned to him. “Put it in the middle, Joseph, where people can help themselves.”
“You are the Dillian who farms law and order, aren’t you?” Howard said.
A slight, proud smile flitted across Dillian’s lovely mouth. She gave a very small nod. “Not in front of the servants, dear,” she murmured. “Maisie, pass the sandwiches around.”
The footman picked up the teapot and poured cups of tea like a high priest performing a ceremony. He carried a cup to each of them as if the cup were the Holy Grail and then followed the grail up with two more grails, one with sugar and one with cream. Miss Potter, at the same time, held a plate of sandwiches toward each of them, in an offhand sort of way, to show she was used to it, and made conversation. “Quentin Sykes’s books are so sympathetic to women,” she said, thrusting the silver plate at Fifi.
The footman presented Fifi with a grail of tea at the same moment. Fifi got utterly confused and tried to pick a sandwich up with the sugar tongs. She went as red as Howard’s ears and could not speak for the next twenty minutes. Awful, however, was quite composed. When Miss Potter waved the sandwiches at her, Awful waved them grandly away. And when the footman bent solemnly down and held out a tall pink grail of milk shake to her, Awful waved
that away, too. This puzzled Howard. Awful had been the one who wanted tea at Miss Potter’s house, and she loved milk shakes. And the sandwiches were delicious, small and tasty and without crusts, the kind that Awful usually thought the height of luxury.
It puzzled Dillian as well. As the footman reverently put the milk shake back on the trolley, she said to Howard, “Doesn’t your little brother want anything to eat or drink at all?”
Howard’s ears went hot again. Awful looked smug. She loved being mistaken for a boy. “No, I don’t,” she said firmly, before Howard could explain. Dillian nodded to the footman, and he went away. “Good,” said Awful. “Can Howard talk to you now?”
Dillian turned to Howard. “Yes. Perhaps he should. So it’s Archer who’s getting two thousand words every three months from your father?”
Howard nodded. “Didn’t he tell you? He’s your brother, isn’t he?”
The blank look came back to Dillian’s face. Howard realized it meant she was angry. “Archer never tells me anything. We haven’t spoken for years,” she said. “What can Archer be doing with all those pages of writing? Do you know?”
“No,” said Howard. This irritated Dillian. She stared down into her teacup, tapping her little silver foot crossly on the shiny floor. Howard grabbed four of the tiny sandwiches to encourage himself. The tapping of Dillian’s foot and the tinkling of the fountain were the only sounds between the scented banks of flowers, and it seemed very rude to interrupt. “Why did you want the words?” he said.
“To see what was going on, of course,” Dillian said. “I knew one of us was up to something, so I asked dear Maisie to get me a sample.” Miss Potter gave a pleased and saintly smile. Dillian flung her golden hair back angrily. “But I’m still none the wiser,” she said, “except that I know it’s Archer now. Archer!” she said, flinging her hair again. “I’d thought it was Erskine or Shine—they’re both horrible—and Torquil thought it was Hathaway trying to get back into things, but we never dreamed it was Archer. How wrong we were! Archer was always far too ambitious!”