Vile Visitors (4 page)

ext morning, Angus Flint ate my breakfast as usual, and Mum and Dad went out together to make friends again. Leaving us alone with Angus Flint, yet again!

At least there was something, ‘very profound' on the telly that afternoon. First I ever knew that racehorses were profound, but it meant twenty minutes' peace. I did some practice. The piano sounded lovely. My song that sounded like dancing elephants was getting better; the elephants had shrunk in size and were beginning to sound like mere dancing tortoises, when the door was torn open. I knew it was Angus Flint and dived for safety.

He was in a very bad temper. I think his horse lost. As I crawled out from under the piano, he sat down at it, grumbling, and started to hammer out a song. I was surprised to see that he knew how to play. But he played very badly. Menace began to whine under his cupboard.

Angus Flint thumped both hands down with a jangle. “This is a horrible piano,” he said. “It's got a terrible tone, and it needs tuning.”

Rotten slander. I don't blame the piano for getting annoyed. Its curved black rear shuddered. One of its stumpy front legs pawed the ground. Then its lid shut with a clap on Angus Flint's fingers. Now I know why Mum got it for only £100. Angus Flint dragged his fingers free with such a yell that Pip and Tony came to see what was happening.

By the time they got there, both the new, ugly little tables were stealing towards Angus Flint for a surprise attack, each with their three legs twinkling cautiously over the carpet. Angus Flint saw one out of the corner of his eye and turned to Stare at it. It stood where it was, looking innocent. But the piano-stool spun itself round and tipped him on the floor. I think that was very loyal of the stool, because it must have been the one piece of furniture Angus Flint had not insulted. And, while Angus Flint was sprawling on the floor, the best chair trundled up and did its best to run him over. He scrambled out of its way with a howl. And the nearest bookcase promptly showered him with books.

While he was trying to get up, the piano lowered its music stand and charged.

I don't blame Angus Flint for being terrified. The piano was gnashing its keys at him and kicking out with its pedals and snorting through the holes in its music-stand. And it went galloping around the room after Angus Flint on its three brass castors like a mad, black bull. The rest of the furniture kept blundering across his path. Tables knocked him this way and that, and chairs herded him into huddles of other chairs. But they always left him a free way to run when the piano charged, so that he had a thoroughly frightening time. They never once tried to hurt the three of us.

I stuffed myself into a corner and admired. That piano was an expert. It would come thundering down on Angus Flint. When he tore off frantically sideways, it stopped short and banged its lid down within inches of his trouser-seat. It could turn and be after him again before you could believe it to be possible. Angus Flint dashed round and round the sitting-room, and the piano thundered after him, and when the boys had to leave the doorway, one of the new bookcases dodged over and stood across it, so that Angus Flint was utterly trapped.

“Do something, can't you!” he kept howling at me, and I only laughed.

The reason the boys had to leave the doorway was that the dining-room table had heard the fun going on and wanted to join in. The trouble was, both its rickety leaves were spread out and it was too wide to get through the dining-room door. It was in the doorway, clattering its feet and banging furiously for help. Tony and Pip took pity on it and took its leaves down. It then scuttled across the hall, nudged aside the bookcase, and dived into the sitting-room after Angus Flint, flapping both leaves like a great angry bird. And it wasn't going to play cat and mouse like the piano. It was out to get Angus Flint. He had some very narrow escapes and howled louder than ever.

I thought the time had come to take the show on the road. I made my way around the walls, with tables and chairs trundling this way and that all around me, and opened the window.

Angus Flint howled out that I was a good girl – which annoyed me – and made for the opening like a bat out of hell. I meant to trip him when he got there. I didn't want him getting too much of a start. But the carpet saved me the trouble by flipping up one of its corners around his feet. He came down on his face, half inside the room and half in the garden. The piano and the dining-table both bore down on him. He scrambled up and bolted. I've never seen anyone run so fast.

The table was after him like a shot, but the piano got its rear castor stuck on the sill. It must be very awkward having to gallop with only one leg at the back.

I went to help it, but the faithful piano-stool and my favourite chair got there first and heaved it free. Then it hunched its wide front part and fairly shot across the garden and out into the road after the flying Angus Flint. The chairs and tables all set out too, bravely bobbling and trundling. Last of all went Menace, barking as if he was doing all the chasing single-handed.

I don't know what the other people in the street thought. The dining-table collided with a lamppost halfway down the street and put itself out of the running. But the piano got up speed wonderfully and was hard on Angus Flint's heels as he shot into the next street. After that, we lost them. We were too busy collecting exhausted tables and chairs, which were strewn all down the street. The piano-stool had only got as far as the garden gate, and my favourite chair broke a castor getting through the window. We had to carry them back to the house. And there was a fair amount of tidying up to do indoors, what with the books, the carpets, and Cora's bed.

Cora's bed, probably the most insulted piece of furniture in the house, must have been frantic to get at Angus Flint too. It had forced itself halfway through the bedroom door and then stuck. We had a terrible job getting it back inside the room. We had just done it, and were wearily trying to mend the dining-table – which has never been the same since – when we heard twanging and clattering noises coming from the sitting-room. We were in time to see the piano come plodding back through the window and put itself in its usual place. It looked tired but satisfied.

“Do you think it's eaten him?” Pip said hopefully.

The piano didn't say. But it hadn't. Mum and Dad came back and we were all cheerfully having a cup of tea when Angus Flint suddenly came shooting downstairs. We think he climbed up the drainpipe in order not to meet the piano again. I suspect that Cora's bed was rather glad to see him.

“I'm just leaving,” Angus Flint said.

It was music to our ears! He went straight out to his car too, carrying his suitcase. We all came out to say polite goodbye – or polite good-riddance, as Tony put it.

“I've had a wonderful time,” Angus Flint said. “Here's a football for you, Pip.” And he held out to Pip a flat orange thing. It was Pip's own football, but it was burst. “And this is for you,” he said to Tony, handing him a fistful of broken plastic. Then he said to me, “I'm giving you some paper.” And he gave me one sheet of my own paper back. One sheet! I'd had a whole new writing pad.

“I do hope Cora's bed bit you,” I said sweetly.

Angus Flint gave me the Stare for that, but it wasn't as convincing as usual, somehow. Then he got into his car and drove away. Actually drove away and didn't come back. We cheered.

It's been so peaceful since. Mum wondered whether to sell the new tables, but we wouldn't let her. They are our faithful friends. As for the piano, well, Pip has decided he's going to be a genius at something else instead. His excuse for giving up lessons is that Miss Hawksmoore's false teeth make her spit on his hands when she's teaching him. They do. But the real reason is that he's scared of the piano. I'm not. I love it more than that coward Menace even, and I'm determined to work and work until I've learnt how to play it as it deserves.

hat happened to the old striped armchair was Auntie Christa's fault.

The old chair had stood in front of the television for as long as Simon and Marcia could remember. As far as they knew, the cushion at the top had always been tipped sideways and it had never been comfortable to sit in. The seat was too short for Dad and too low for Mum and too high for Simon or Marcia. Its arms were the wrong shape for putting things on. Perhaps that was why there was a coffee-stain on one arm and a blot of ink on the other. There was a sticky brown patch on the seat where Simon and Marcia had once had a fight for the ketchup bottle. Then one evening, the sideways cushion at the top wore out. Whatever the chair was stuffed with began to ooze out in a spiky brown bush.

“The armchair's grown a beard,” said Simon.

“It looks as if someone's smashed a hedgehog on it,” Marcia said.

Dad stood and looked at it. “Let's get rid of it,” he said. “I've never liked it anyway. I tell you what – we can sit the Guy in it on Guy Fawkes night. That will make a really good bonfire.”

Marcia thought this was a very good idea. Now she thought about it, she had never liked the chair either. The purple and orange and pale blue stripes on it never seemed to go with anything else in the room. Simon was not so sure.

He always liked things that he
knew
, and he had known that chair all his life. It seemed a shame to burn it on the bonfire. He was glad when Mum objected.

“Oh, you can't throw it out!” Mum said. “It's got such a personality!”

“But it's worn out,” said Dad. “It wasn't new when we bought it. We can afford to buy a much nicer one now.”

They argued about it, until Simon began to feel sorry for the old chair and even Marcia felt a little guilty about burning a chair that was old enough to have a personality.

“Couldn't we just sell it?” she asked.

“Don't
you
start!” said Dad. “Even the junk shop wouldn't want a mucky old thing like—”

At that moment, Auntie Christa came in. Auntie Christa was not really an auntie, but she liked everyone to call her that. As usual, she came rushing in through the kitchen, carrying three carrier bags and a cardboard box and calling, “Coo-ee! It's me!” When she arrived in the living room, she sank down into the striped armchair and panted, “I just had to come in. I'm on my way to the Community Hall, but my feet are killing me. I've been all afternoon collecting prizes for the party for the Society for Underprivileged Children on Saturday – I must have walked
miles
! But you wouldn't
believe
what
wonderful
prizes people have given me. Just look.” She dumped her cardboard box on the arm of the chair – it was the arm with the ink blot – in order to fetch a bright green teddy bear out of one of the carrier bags. She wagged the teddy in their faces. “Isn't he
charming
?”

“So-so,” said Dad and Marcia added, “Perhaps he'd look better without the pink ribbon.” Simon and Mum were too polite to say anything.

“And here's such a lovely clockwork train!” Auntie Christa said, plunging the teddy back in the bag and pulling out a broken engine. “Isn't it exciting? I can't stay long enough to show you everything – I have to go and see to the music for the Senior Citizens' Dance in a minute – but I think I've just got time to drink a cup of tea.”

“Of course,” Mum said guiltily. “Coming up.” She dashed into the kitchen.

Auntie Christa was good at getting people to do things. She was a very busy lady. Whatever went on at the Community Hall – whether it was a Youth Club Disco, Children's Fancy Dress competition, Dog Training, Soup for the Homeless or a Jumble Sale – Auntie Christa was sure to be in the midst of it, telling people what to do. She was usually too busy to listen to what other people said. Mum said Auntie Christa was a wonder, but Dad quite often muttered, “Quack-quack-quack,” under his breath when Auntie Christa was talking.

“Quack-Quack,” Dad murmured as Auntie Christa went on fetching things out of her bags and telling them what good prizes they were. Auntie Christa had just got through all the things in the bags and was turning to the cardboard box on the arm of the chair, when Mum came dashing back with tea and biscuits.

“Tea!” Auntie Christa said. “I can always rely on a cup of tea in this house!”

She turned gladly to take the tea. Behind her, the box slid into the chair.

“Never mind,” said Auntie Christa. “I'll show you what's in there in a minute. It will thrill Simon and Marcia – oh, that reminds me! The Africa Aid Coffee Morning has to be moved this Saturday because the Stamp Collectors need the hall. I think we'll have the coffee morning here instead. You can easily manage coffee and cakes for twenty on Saturday, can't you?” she asked Mum. “Marcia and Simon can help you.”

“Well—” Mum began, while Dad looked truly dismayed.

“That's settled, then,” said Auntie Christa and quickly went on to talk about other things. Dad and Simon and Marcia looked at one another glumly. They knew they were booked to spend Saturday morning handing round cakes and soothing Mum while she fussed. But it was worse than that.

“Now, you'll never guess what's in the box,” Auntie Christa said, cheerily passing her cup for more tea. “Suppose we make it a competition. Let's say that whoever guesses wrong has to come and help me with the Underprivileged Children's Society party on Saturday afternoon.”

“I think we'll all be busy—” Dad tried to say.

“No refusing!” Auntie Christa cried. “People are so wicked, the way they always try to get out of doing good deeds! You can have one guess each. And I'll give you a clue. Old Mr Pennyfeather gave me the box.”

As old Mr Pennyfeather kept the junk shop, there could have been almost anything in the box. They all thought rather hard.

Simon thought the box had rattled as it tipped. “A tea-set,” he guessed.

Marcia thought she had heard the box slosh. “A goldfish in a bowl,” she said.

Mum thought of something that might make a nice prize and guessed, “Dolls' house furniture.”

Dad thought of the sort of things that were usually in Mr Pennyfeather's shop and said, “Mixed-up jigsaws.”

“You're all wrong, of course!” Auntie Christa said while Dad was still speaking. She sprang up and pulled the box back to the arm of the chair. “It's an old-fashioned conjurer's kit. Look. Isn't it thrilling?” She held up a large black top hat with a big shiny blue ball in it. Water – or something – was dripping out of the hat underneath. “Oh dear,” Auntie Christa said. “I think the crystal ball must be leaking. It's made quite a puddle in your chair.”

Dark liquid was spreading over the seat of the chair, mixing with the old ketchup stain.

“Are you sure you didn't spill your tea?” Dad asked.

Mum gave him a stern look. “Don't worry,” she said. “We were going to throw the chair away, anyway. We were just talking about it when you came.

“Oh good!” Auntie Christa said merrily. She rummaged in the box again. “Look, here's the conjurer's wand,” she said, bringing out a short white stick wrapped in a string of little flags. “Let's magic the nasty wet away
so that I can sit down again.” She tapped the puddle in the chair with the stick. “There!”

“The puddle hasn't gone,” said Dad.

“I thought you were going to throw the hideous old thing away, anyway,” Auntie Christa said crossly. “You should be quite ashamed to invite people for a coffee morning and ask them to sit in a chair like this!”

“Then perhaps,” Dad said politely, “you'd like to help us carry the chair outside to the garden shed?”

“I'd love to, of course,” Auntie Christa said, hurriedly putting the hat and the stick back into the box and collecting her bags, “but I must dash. I have to speak to the vicar before I see about the music. I'll see you all at the Underprivileged Children's Society party the day after tomorrow at four-thirty sharp. Don't forget!”

This was a thing Simon and Marcia had often noticed about Auntie Christa. Though she was always busy, it was always other people who did the hard work.