The old gardener had shaken his head. “You shouldn’t ought to have done that, Master Warden.”
“Why not?”
“It should’ve gone to a charity shop or a hospital. I’m sure there was someone somewhere who’d have wanted it.”
And Joe had felt a twinge of guilt. But it was too late. The robot was gone.
Granny lived in an apartment in a tall, modern building called Wisteria Lodge. This was what the real-estate agents would have called a purpose-built building, although they might not be able to say what its purpose actually was. Perhaps it was simply to house grannies, as hardly anyone in the building was under seventy years of age. Everything in Wisteria Lodge happened in slow motion. The elevator had been specially adapted to go so slowly that you couldn’t feel it moving. On one occasion it broke down and Mr. and Mrs. Warden stood in it for three-quarters of an hour before they realized what had happened.
Granny’s apartment was on the sixth floor with views over a small field and the traffic on the North Circular Road. Once she had lived in a comfortable house on a tree-lined avenue, but when that became too much for her to handle, her daughter had moved her here. It was actually a very pleasant apartment with silk curtains, thick carpets, antique furniture, and chandeliers, but if you asked her about it, Granny would shrug and sigh. “Well, I have to put up with it. I don’t have any choice, do I? Oh dear, oh dear. I don’t know…” And she would look so sorry for herself that you would forget that there were thousands of old people in far smaller places with no heating and no real comfort who would have given their right arm to live here.
“Hello, Jack. How lovely to see you! Come in. Make yourselves comfortable!”
Waves of pure heat shimmered in the air as Jordan stepped unwillingly into the apartment, Mrs. Jinks gently pushing him from behind. The central heating was on full blast all the time. Granny had once been given a six-inch cactus by Mr. Warden after a business trip to the Sahara and obviously the intense heat suited it, for it was now over eleven feet high, dominating the room with brilliant flowers and vicious spikes.
“Come in, Mrs. Jinks. What an unusual hat!”
“I’m not wearing a hat, Mrs. Kettle.”
“Then if I were you, I’d change my hairdresser.”
Granny moved forward and stooped over Jordan. “So how are you, my dear?” She reached out with a gnarled finger and prodded his cheek. “Healthy skin. Healthy color. Full of vitamins?” She winked at Mrs. Jinks.
“He gets plenty of vitamins,” Mrs. Jinks replied. Granny’s comment about the hat had annoyed her, Joe could see.
“And how are his enzymes?” Granny asked.
“His what?” Mrs. Jinks inquired.
“His enzymes! Has he got healthy enzymes? What about his cytoplasm?”
Mrs. Jinks shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kettle,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come in!” Granny snarled briefly, and jerked a finger into the room.
The table had already been laid for tea and Joe sat down with Mrs. Jinks next to him. Briefly, he scanned the food that lay before him. There it was, the same as always. It was incredible. How could a meal possibly be so vile?
First, there were egg-salad sandwiches, but the eggs had been left out so long that the yellows had taken on a greenish tint and they had so much salt in them that they made your eyes water. Then there was herring on a plate—raw and slippery and drenched in some sort of particularly sharp vinegar. Granny’s homemade cakes were dry and heavy, guaranteed to glue the top of your mouth to the bottom of your mouth with little taste in between. Even the cookies were horrible: round, colorless things with neither chocolate nor cream but decorated with almond flakes and bits of desiccated cherries that got caught in your teeth.
But by far the worst item on the table was Granny’s cream-cheese special. Joe caught sight of it and felt his mouth water unpleasantly and his stomach shrivel as if trying to find somewhere to hide. Granny’s cream-cheese special consisted of just one thing: cream cheese. That was all it was: a big bowl of cream cheese—and he knew that he would be expected to eat it all.
And he couldn’t refuse it—that was the worst of it. It was part of his upbringing. Mr. Warden insisted that children shouldn’t be allowed to leave the table until they had finished everything they had been given. After all, food cost money and the money was his. As a child, Mr. Warden had once remained at the table for an astonishing forty-six hours before he had finally given in and agreed to eat a plate of bread-and-butter pudding that his father had given him. The fact of the matter is that the worst thing about parents is often their parents. That’s certainly where they get their most rotten ideas.
“I’ll just get some napkins…”
Granny hobbled off into the kitchen and Joe quickly turned to Mrs. Jinks.
“I can’t eat this,” he said.
“Of course you can,” Mrs. Jinks replied. But she didn’t sound convinced.
“No! Can’t you see? She’s done it on purpose. She’s chosen all the things I can’t stand and she’s put them here because she knows you’ll make me eat them. She’s torturing me!”
“Joe—you’re going to get a big smack if you go on like this.”
“Why won’t you believe me?” The whole conversation had taken place in whispers, but these last words rasped in his throat. “She hates me!”
“She loves you. She’s your granny!”
Then Granny returned from the kitchen carrying some faded paper napkins. “Not started yet?” she croaked, grinning at Joe.
She put the napkins down and picked up a green porcelain bowl, filled to the brim with thick cream cheese. Then she forked out a raw herring and laid it on the top. “That’ll give it extra taste,” she cackled. Finally she slid the whole thing toward him, and as she did so Joe saw the trembling half smile on her lips, the rattlesnake eyes that pinned him to his seat. Her long, knobby fingers with their uneven, yellow nails were scratching at the tablecloth with sheer excitement. Her whole body was coiled up like a spring.
“Now, eat it all up, dear!”
Joe looked at Mrs. Jinks, but she turned away as if unwilling to meet his eyes. He looked at the cream cheese, slooping about in the bowl with the herring lying there like a dead slug. Suddenly his mind was made up.
He pushed the bowl away.
“No, thank you,” he said. “I’m not hungry.”
“What?” Granny gurgled. She had been caught off guard and jerked in her seat as if she had just sat on a thumbtack. “But…” Her mouth opened and shut. “What’s the matter…? Mrs. Jinks…!”
This was what Joe had been most afraid of. Whose side would Mrs. Jinks take? And Mrs. Jinks herself seemed unsure.
“Aren’t you hungry?” she asked.
“No,” Joe said.
“Can’t you manage to eat a little bit?”
“I’m not feeling well.”
“Well, in that case…” Mrs. Jinks turned apologetically to Granny. “If he’s not well…” she began.
Granny’s face shimmered. It was like looking at a reflection in the sea. One moment there was a look of absolute rage and hatred, the sort of look soldiers must have seen before they were bayoneted by the enemy. But then, with a huge effort, Granny managed to wipe it away, replacing it with a look of hurtful sadness. Huge crocodile tears welled up in her eyes. Her lips drew back and puckered like a healing wound.
“But, darling,” she said. “I spent the whole morning getting it ready. It’s your favorite.”
“No, it’s not,” Joe said. “I don’t like it.”
“But you’ve always liked it! Have you been eating chocolate and fries? Have you spoiled your appetite? Is that it? Mrs. Jinks…”
What was happening at the table was completely unheard of. It was like that moment in Oliver Twist when Oliver asks for more—only in reverse, as Joe was asking for less. And normally all hell would have broken loose. But Mrs. Jinks had seen the look on Grann
y’s face, the full force of her hatred. Like Joe, she had glimpsed behind the mask—and now she was taking Joe’s side.
“Joe’s not hungry,” she said.
“Have a drink!” Granny trilled. “I’ve got some hot Ovaltine in the kitchen.”
“No, thank you.” Joe only liked Ovaltine cold. For some reason, once it was heated up, it went all sweet and sticky.
“How about a nice lemon-and-honey milk shake?”
“No,” Joe insisted.
“I could sprinkle some nutmeg on the top!”
“No, thank you.”
“I think I’ll take Joe home,” Mrs. Jinks said. She wasn’t as good as Granny at hiding her emotions. It was obvious that she wanted to get away.
Granny saw it, too. Slowly the anger crept back into her cheeks. Her little eyes widened and there was a soft yellow glow in what should have been their whites. “This is your fault, Mrs. Jinks,” she hissed.
“Mine?” Mrs. Jinks was indignant.
“You’re not bringing the boy up properly. Filling him up with candy and cookies—”
“I did no such thing, Mrs. Kettle.”
“Then why won’t he eat? Why won’t he eat?” Granny gesticulated with a trembling fist. The edge of her wrist caught one of the bowls of cream cheese and it flew off the table, landing with a loud plop in her lap. “Now look what you’ve made me do!” She got up and took two steps back from the table. It was a mistake. She had forgotten the cactus. “Aaaagh!” Granny leaped three feet in the air as she came into contact with the spikes, then collapsed in a heap on the floor. Her dress was covered in cream cheese. Her face was quite purple with anger.
Joe had never seen anything like it. It was wonderful and terrifying at the same time. What was Granny going to do? Was she going to mutter the magic words that would turn Mrs. Jinks into a spotted toad? Or—more likely—was she merely going to succumb to a massive heart attack?
In the end, she did neither. She got to her feet, took a deep breath, and shriveled back into an old, defeated woman.
“All right,” she muttered with a sigh. “Take him home. Leave me here on my own. I don’t mind. I’ll just sit by myself and maybe do some knitting.”
Granny had never knitted anything in her life. Except, maybe, her brow.
And so they left. Mrs. Jinks hurried Joe out of the apartment and into the elevator—although, of course, that meant the two of them had to spend another ten minutes standing in awkward silence before they reached the ground. Mrs. Jinks was flushed and looked worried. And she had every reason to be.
After they had gone, Granny went to the liquor cabinet and grabbed a bottle of brandy. She pulled the cork out with her teeth (although she very nearly pulled her teeth out with the cork) and took a large swig. Then, feeling better, she went over to the telephone and dialed a number. The phone rang many times before it was answered.
“Hello?” came a thin, quavering voice from the other end.
“Is that Mrs. Bucket?”
“Yes. This is Elsie Bucket.”
“This is Ivy Kettle speaking.”
“Yes, Ivy, dear. How very nice to hear from you.” But the voice at the other end sounded faintly bored.
“Listen!” Granny spat the word into the receiver. “I’ve just had the boy here in my apartment. My grandson…”
“Jeremy?” Now the voice was a little more interested.
“His name’s John! Now listen, Mrs. Bucket. I’ve been thinking about Bideford and I’ve decided. I’m going to bring him along. For you…”
“How delightful of you, my dear Ivy.” The voice dripped with icy charm.
“There is just one problem…” Granny went on.
“What problem, Ivy?”
“He’s got a nanny. A wretched spiteful nanny. I think she may get in our way.”
“Then you’ll have to deal with her, my dear. Or do you need help?”
“I don’t need help, thank you, Mrs. Bucket!” Granny scowled and chewed air. A lump of cream cheese slithered off her dress and dripped onto her shoes. “I’ll deal with Mrs. Jinks,” she said at last. “And then the boy will be yours…”
4
GRANNY VS. NANNY
Mrs. Jinks liked to say that she belonged to “the old school,” which was strange because she had never actually been to school in her life. She had been Joe’s nanny for five years—but the truth is that she would never have taken the job in the first place if it hadn’t been for a mistake.
Before she had come to Thattlebee Hall, Mrs. Jinks had earned her living as a dancer. A plump, blond woman with shapely legs, she worked at a Soho club where she performed exotic dances with a snake called Anna. The owner of the club had a stutter and introducing the snake—“Anna, an anaconda”—sometimes took him three-quarters of an hour. For this reason Mrs. Jinks decided to get a new job and this was when the mistake was made.
She applied to be a dancer at another club, the Blue Balloon in Battersea, but in her haste she dialed the wrong number and got through to Mrs. Warden. Now, as it happened, Mrs. Warden had placed an advertisement in the newspaper that very day. Her current nanny, Miss Barking, had just handed in her resignation in order to go and fight in the war and she herself was about to go on vacation. So she needed somebody fast.
Ten minutes later, Mrs. Warden had hired Mrs. Jinks in the belief that she was a nanny and Mrs. Jinks had taken the job in the belief that it was as a dancer. By the time the two of them had realized the mistake, it was too late. Mr. and Mrs. Warden had left for a four-week safari in South Africa. And Mrs. Jinks was on her own at home with Joe.
For his part, Joe was quite delighted by the error. Aged seven at the time, he had endured six and a half years of Miss Barking—a woman so tough and so muscular that he had often wondered if she was really a woman at all. There was something very attractive about Mrs. Jinks. Maybe it was her round, cheerful face, her loud laugh, and her generally unsuitable appearance. Maybe it was her pet snake. But she was unquestionably different.
So, over the next four weeks, Joe taught her everything he knew about nannying—and the fact is that at the end of the day children know more about nannying than nannies themselves. He took her to the library and together they browsed through books such as Child Care Made Easy and Tips for Top Nannies. He took her through such activities as bathing, dressing, and tidying. He even showed her how to tell him off.
The result was that when Mr. and Mrs. Warden returned from their safari, they found the house more organized and tidier and Joe cleaner and quieter than ever before and the two of them decided to forget how entirely unsuitable the new nanny was.
As for Mrs. Jinks, she had soon decided that life as a nanny was much more pleasant than life as an exotic dancer. She wore fancier clothes and became a little more severe and soon it was impossible to tell that it was not she who had taught Joe but Joe who had instructed her.
When she had been with the family for one year, Mrs. Jinks took a two-week vacation in the Amazon basin, where, one evening, she quietly returned her anaconda to the wild. She never spoke about the snake again. But she always kept a photograph of it in a frame beside her bed.
Joe mentioned the tea with Granny only once—and that was the following day.
“What’s an enzyme?” he asked Mrs. Jinks, remembering the word Granny had used.
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Jinks replied, a frown on her face. She sighed. “We’d better look it up.”
And so they did. They went to the library and looked up the word in a medical dictionary and this is what it said:
Enzymes.The organic substances which accelerate chemical processes occurring in living organisms. Enzyme mechanisms are the key to all biological processes.
“What does that all mean?” Joe asked.
Mrs. Jinks slammed the book. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I don’t think your granny knew what she was talking about. We won’t mention it again.”
But Mrs. Jinks was never quite the same after this
particular encounter with Granny. There was a worried look in her eyes. Loud noises—a slamming door or a car backfiring—jolted her. Joe got the impression that she was walking a tightrope and was afraid of falling off at any time.
And then the thefts began.
It was the second week in February and Granny had come for lunch. Joe hadn’t seen her since the tea and he had been dreading it, but in fact she couldn’t have been more pleasant. She gave him a smaller-than-usual kiss and a larger-than-usual present of one dollar, which hadn’t even been given to her by her daughter in the usual way. She ate her lunch without complaining, complimented Irma (who immediately dropped all the dishes), and left all the knives and forks on the table.
It was only as she was leaving, as Wolfgang handed her her twenty-seven-year-old coat, that she let out a sudden scream.
“My cameo brooch!” she exclaimed. Tears welled in her eyes. “My beautiful cameo brooch. It’s gone!”
“Are you sure you were wearing it, Mummy?” Mrs. Warden asked.
“Of course I’m sure. I put it on specially. It was on the lapel of my coat.”
“Well, maybe it’s dropped off.”
“No, no,” Granny wailed. “I pinned it quite securely.” She turned to Mrs. Jinks. “You didn’t happen to see it, did you, Mrs. Jinks?” she asked with a quizzical smile.
“No, Mrs. Kettle,” the nanny replied. Two pinpricks of pink had appeared in her cheeks. “Why should I have seen it?”
“Well…” Granny couldn’t have looked more innocent. “You have often admired my cameo brooch. And I did see you looking in the hall closet just before lunch.”
“Are you suggesting—?” Mrs. Jinks didn’t know what to say. Her cheeks were now dark red with anger.
“I wasn’t suggesting anything,” Granny interrupted. She almost sang the words and her whole body was shaking with pleasure. Once again her lips slid away from her teeth in a yellowy smile. “I’m sure Wolfgang will find it in the garden.”