As soon as Catriona was settled in the driving seat, Howard asked, “Do you farm anything else besides music?” He was determined to find out as much as possible. Torquil might be able to get him to forget, but it stood to reason that if Torquil wanted to talk to Catriona, she would have to remember what they said. And Howard could always ask her afterward.
“Mine are all the interesting things, like sport and shops,” Torquil said. “Now be quiet, or I’ll shut you up like the sheep.” He turned gracefully to Catriona. “Mrs. Sykes, you must be wondering what I’m going to say.”
“No, I’m not,” Catriona said, in her very driest way. “I know you’re going to ask me about the two thousand words Mr. Mountjoy gets my husband to write every three months.”
Howard could see from Torquil’s handsome profile that Torquil was annoyed, though he tried not to show it. “Very good, Mrs. Sykes,” he said. “Clever guess. And why am I asking?”
“Because you don’t know why Mr. Mountjoy wants them, and you want to find out,” Catriona said. “Let me tell you straightaway, I haven’t a clue why.”
Torquil was plainly irritated that she knew all this. He said huffily, “I know why. We all do. What I don’t know is who. Come now, Mrs. Sykes. Hasn’t your husband given you a little hint about who really wants his words?”
“He has not,” said Catriona. “He doesn’t know.”
“But you must have tried to guess,” Torquil said wheedlingly. “Give me just a hint about which of us you think it is.”
“I’ve no idea,” said Catriona. “Frankly, Torquil, I heard of your existence only three days ago. Before that I didn’t even know Quentin had been doing words for Mountjoy all these years.” Mum was taking the wrong line with Torquil, Howard thought. He did not like to be unknown. Her plain, sensible manner was rubbing him the wrong way. His profile was looking thoroughly sulky.
“You’ve had thirteen years to find out in,” Catriona went on. “Why is it suddenly so important now?”
“Because Archer’s made a move,” Torquil said irritably. “He’s finalized his plans to farm the world. So has Dillian. She’s been organizing all the women in the country all week. I always watch them. Besides,” he added, cheering up a bit, “there’s been a feeling in the air these last few days. Something important is going to happen. I’m extremely sensitive to that kind of thing.”
“Are you indeed?” Catriona said dryly.
“And very easily hurt,” announced Torquil.
“I’m sure,” Catriona said.
“And I’m getting offended,” Torquil said. “In fact, if there weren’t something you could do for me, I’d get out of this car this moment!”
“What can I do for you?” Catriona said, drier than ever. Howard longed to tell her to watch it. She was treating Torquil just the way she treated Awful, and it was a mistake with both. Torquil was beginning to tremble with anger.
“I’ll tell you,” Torquil said. “Your husband is going to write Archer two thousand words, isn’t he?”
“I suppose he will in the end,” Catriona agreed. Howard wondered, but he did not like to interrupt.
“When he does,” said Torquil, “you’re to get them and give them to me.”
“Now how could I do that?” Catriona asked. “I may not even be in the house when he does them.”
Howard could feel the seat Torquil was sitting in shaking. “Well, you’re to think of a way!” he ordered. “Use your female cunning. Get the words somehow. Then give them to me. I’m in the Bishop’s Lane disco most evenings except Sunday. You’ll find me in the cathedral otherwise.”
And Torquil, Howard supposed, was taking the wrong line with Catriona. She was getting more and more sensible. “But why should I?” she said.
Torquil’s temper cracked. His voice filled the car in a hysterical shriek. “Because I order you to! Because I farm music! Because you’ll lose your job if you don’t!”
“Lose my job?” Catriona was really alarmed.
“Yes! Lose your job!” Torquil shouted with obvious satisfaction. Then, just as Awful did when she made an impression on Catriona, he calmed down almost at once. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “Your job can be part of the government cuts. Do you think I can’t do it?”
“I … don’t know,” said Catriona.
“I can. Don’t risk it. Get me those words,” said Torquil. “Go on. Promise.” Catriona’s mouth opened. “Or the Council makes you redundant,” said Torquil.
Catriona sighed. “Very well. I promise. But—”
“Good!” Torquil said. He became very brisk and cheerful now that he had got his way. That was just like Awful, too. “I shall expect to hear from you next week. Make your husband write the words over the weekend. And—” He twisted around in his seat to look at Howard. The baton was ready in his hand. Howard swore to himself that Torquil would not make him forget. He would fight it somehow. But as Howard braced himself, a thought struck Torquil. “Oh, yes. Let’s hear from you, limpet. Who do you think is using your father’s words?”
It was a perfect opportunity to fish for more information. Howard took it. “Well, it can’t be you,” he said, flattering Torquil, “though you could be bluffing. And so could Dillian. Obviously the one who’s doing it doesn’t want the rest of you to know. But I don’t think it’s Archer. He said he wasn’t, and I think he was telling the truth. I haven’t seen Shine yet—”
“And I don’t advise you to, limpet,” said Torquil. “Shine farms crime. Go on.”
“So Shine is quite likely,” said Howard. “I haven’t a clue about Hathaway, but it could be Venturus, if he farms housing. Mountjoy was in the housing department.” Here he remembered that Quentin had met Mountjoy playing golf, and Torquil farmed sport. He decided not to mention that. He said, “But I think Erskine was the one Archer suspected.”
Torquil, to Howard’s relief, took the baton back in order to tap thoughtfully at his mouth with it. “Hm. Erskine. That’s quite an idea. Erskine’s a dark horse. And he’s bound to want to climb out of his drains by now.”
“Why do you want Mum to get you the words?” Howard asked boldly.
Torquil laughed, showing teeth as handsome as the rest of him. “Simple, my dear limpet! If someone’s found a way to keep us all here while they go out and farm the world, I want my share. I badly want to farm America at least. And now—” The baton reached out. “Forget,” said Torquil, and rapped Howard’s head.
It felt as if someone had clashed a pair of cymbals on both ears. Howard went deaf. There was a moment of numb blankness following that. Howard struggled against it with all his might and then went on struggling, without quite knowing why anymore. He could still see Torquil as a blur of scarlet and white and gold, climbing out of the car. He clung to that. He watched Torquil slam the car door, then, more blurred still through the rainy window, cram the golden turban back on his head and stride away. When he was out of sight, Howard climbed over into the front seat beside Catriona. Both of them sat there limply, watching rain patter and run on the windshield. For a while there was nothing else in Howard’s head. But slowly, in the same way that the raindrops ran together into blobs, and the blobs into clots, and then into streams of water, memory began to clot in Howard’s brain. He let it clot, without forcing it.
After a while he was helped by seeing Torquil again, blurred and blobbed by the rain on the windshield. Torquil had reformed his procession. He came striding out of the hall into the schoolyard, followed by the dancers and the choir, with the choirmaster hurrying behind. A few strides into the yard Torquil held up his baton. The whole procession vanished. The yard was suddenly empty. Oddly enough, that made Howard quite sure of his memory.
Catriona moaned slightly. “Howard,” she said, “can you remember?”
“Yes,” said Howard. “All of it.”
“Thank goodness for that!” said Catriona. “Otherwise, I’d have trouble believing any of it. What’s-his-name did just vanish, did he?”
“Torquil. Yes,” said Howard. “And he was dressed like the Arabian Nights.”
“Then we’re not mad,” said Catriona. They sat for a while longer, watching the rain drip across the empty yard. Then Catriona said, “I don’t feel up to facing your school orchestra again; it’s beyond hope anyway. Shall we just go home?”
“Let’s,” said Howard.
So Catriona started the engine and the wipers, and they rolled down the yard to the gates. As they turned out into the yard, Howard saw that in spite of the rain, two or three boys were loitering on the sidewalk opposite. Another one, with ginger hair, was loitering up to join those. Howard grinned. Let Hind’s gang gather. They would have to wait till Monday now to get him! Then a thought struck him.
“Mum,” he said, “how about driving around by Awful’s school and picking her up, too?”
“Yes, it’ll save her getting wet,” Catriona agreed, and turned left instead of right.
Sure enough, when they came to Awful’s school and joined the line of cars waiting to take children home, there were three wet boys waiting on the other side of the road there, too. While they waited, another thought struck Howard. Archer had thrown him to his school, but he had no way of knowing if Archer had done the same for Awful—or what he had done with Dad and Fifi. As a way of preparing Catriona, in case Awful was not there, he told her about Archer while they waited.
“So Archer’s just such another?” was Mum’s dry comment.
Howard was going to protest that Archer was not really like Torquil when he saw Awful in the distance come through the school gate, see the boys, and stop. He saw her turn and say something to two girls her own age who were just coming out, too. Both little girls tossed their heads angrily and walked away, leaving Awful standing looking dejected. Poor Awful, Howard thought, as he got out of the car. She would quarrel with people. He suspected Torquil was the same. “Over here!” he shouted, waving.
Awful’s head came up, like something springing to life. She came racing along to the car. The boys started to move after her, but when they saw Howard and the car, they gave up and turned away. Awful pounded up and dived headfirst into the back seat. “I love coming in the car!” she said, bouncing up and down. “Archer threw me back to school. Did he throw you?” She sat up as Howard got in. “What’s wrong? You both look funny.”
“Torquil,” said Catriona. “Fasten your seat belt, Howard.”
“Oh, have you seen him? Is he very horrible?” Awful asked eagerly.
Howard said what he thought Torquil was. It made Catriona say as she drove, “Howard! You shouldn’t teach her words like those!”
“I know them anyway,” said Awful. “Dad says them a lot, too. And I thought he would be because he was the one horrible Dillian liked. Tell me.”
The drive home was so short that they were still telling her as they walked up the side passage and Catriona unlocked the kitchen door.
The Goon looked up with a grin as they came in. He was filling the kitchen with leg, just as usual.
“How did you get here?” Howard said.
“Broke in,” the Goon observed. He grinned at Catriona beguilingly. “Won’t get any burglars with me here. Keep them out.”
“You have a nerve!” said Howard. “Where’s Dad? And Fifi?”
The Goon did not seem to know. “Poly?” he suggested.
Catriona flopped into a chair. “Well, since you’re here, you can make us a cup of tea,” she said. The Goon got up at once and did so, slowly, carefully, and humbly. Catriona drank a cup of tea. Then she had the Goon make her two cups of coffee and drank those. Otherwise, she simply sat, waiting for Quentin. Howard supposed she must be anxious. But it was not so. When Quentin did at last come in, Catriona said, “Quentin!” in the voice that sent Howard and Awful sliding for cover to the corners of the room.
Quentin took his coat off and threw it into the third corner. He flung his briefcase into the remaining corner. “What did Archer do with Fifi?” he said irritably. “He slung me all the way to the Poly, but Fifi never turned up. The wretched girl’s got half the books I needed for the afternoon!”
“Quentin,” said Catriona, “I insist that you go to your study this minute and write four thousand words!”
“Oh, do you?” Quentin said nastily.
The rest of the day was devoted to a family row. It was an epic row, even for the Sykes household, and it went in three parts.
The first part of the row was entirely between Catriona and Quentin. Catriona towered and boomed. She insisted that Quentin write two thousand words for Archer and two thousand words for Torquil. This, as she thundered more and more angrily, was the only possible way to stop them all from being pestered like this. Quentin stood and shouted that nothing would possess him to write any words for anyone anymore. At which Catriona thundered that he was selfish. To which Quentin howled that he was not selfish; it was a matter of right and wrong. To which Catriona boomed that he should have thought of right and wrong thirteen years ago. To which Quentin bawled that he had only just found out the facts!
Since Quentin was the only person Howard knew who could stand up to Catriona when she was angry, this part went on for some time. Howard was reminded of that saying about an irresistible force’s meeting an immovable object. The Goon was clearly fascinated. His mouth opened, and his little head turned from Quentin to Catriona like someone watching a tennis match. When it got too dark for him to see the one who was shouting, the Goon got up and tiptoed heavily to put the light on.
Quentin, at that point, was yelling, “Face the facts, you stupid woman! This town is run by seven megalomaniac wizards!” He blinked at the sudden light and rounded on the Goon. “You!” he bawled. “I hope you’re taking this down in shorthand. I want Archer to know!”
The Goon blinked, too, and grinned foolishly. Howard and Awful both looked at the lighted bulb and thought Archer probably knew anyway. Then they looked at the taps over the sink and wondered if Erskine did, too.
“Leave the Goon alone!” thundered Catriona. “He’s only doing his job!”
“Only doing his job!” Quentin howled scornfully. “People excuse every kind of dirt by calling it only a job! He’s a good chap, this Goon. He’s getting paid for terrorizing my household, so that’s all right!”
“You brought it on yourself!” boomed Catriona. “But you’d no business to bring it on me and the children!”
“What’s a megglemaniac?” Awful asked hurriedly, hoping to stop the row there.
It did not stop the row. It just moved it into Phase Two, which was the part when Quentin and Catriona both kept appealing to Howard and Awful to say that they were right and the other one was wrong. Howard did not like their doing that. He seemed to be on both sides at once.
Quentin said, “A megalomaniac is someone who thinks he owns the world. Archer’s one. This Torquil seems to be another.” And he embarked on a long speech about them, with digressions on Dillian and the Goon. “Look at them all!” he shouted. “Two of them in expensive fancy dress, and Archer wallowing in a shed full of costly hardware! How much does it all cost? Who pays for it? I do. I pay my taxes as a citizen; they use the money for their luxuries. Parasites, all seven of them. And you”—he rounded on the Goon—“you’re a parasite’s parasite. How do you like being a louse on a louse?”
The Goon wriggled and then scratched his head as if he thought the louse part ought to be taken literally. Catriona again told Quentin to leave the Goon alone. “We’re not talking about what you pay!” she thundered. “We’re talking about what I earn! Howard, do you think it’s right I should lose my job because your father has fine feelings?”
“It’s not fine feelings. It’s right and wrong!” Quentin shouted. “Howard, you’ve spoken to Archer. You heard him coolly announce he’s out to rule the world. And he’s worried that someone’s trying to stop him! I say more power to that person’s elbow.”
Howard found himself wriggling, like the Goon. “But,” he said, “t
he person who’s stopping him wants to farm the world, too.”
“Exactly,” said his father. “So I write nothing for any of them. Awful, don’t you think that’s something worth sacrificing your bread and peanut butter for?”
“Not if there’s nothing else to eat,” Awful said anxiously.
“We all shall be out in the street!” boomed Catriona. “Howard, you know I earn more than he does!”
“Yes, you oughtn’t to sacrifice Mum’s job,” Howard said.
“Am I not sacrificing my own?” Quentin yelled, flinging out a dramatic arm. “Knowing what I know, I shall never dare sit at my typewriter again. What do you think?” he asked the Goon. “Do you really, even with your tiny mind, want Archer to rule the world?”
“Do it better than Dillian or Torquil,” the Goon said.
“That’s no answer!” said Quentin.
“Need my supper,” the Goon said sadly.
“Then go out and get something,” Howard said. “Hold up a fish and chip shop. Rob a hot dog stand. I’m starving!”
It was now late enough to be Awful’s bedtime. The Goon arose dolefully and turned out the empty pockets of his jeans. He looked plaintively at Quentin. “Don’t prey on me,” said Quentin. “Go and batten on Archer. Go and—”
But here the back door opened and Fifi came in. This started Phase Three of the row. Fifi had a pale, unfocused look, as if she had a cold or had been watching too much television. Howard and Awful were glad to see her. She was safe, and the row might end now. Even the Goon looked at her as if he thought she might lend him some money.
“Fifi!” said Catriona. “You said you’d be in to get supper!”
“Yes, where were you?” said Quentin.
“Oh—walking about,” Fifi answered dreamily. “What’s the matter? Why are you all looking so upset?”
“Won’t do the words,” said the Goon. “Didn’t like Archer. Holy duty.”
Pink swept into Fifi’s pale face. “Didn’t like Archer!” she almost shrieked. “Oh, Mr. Sykes! Archer’s the most wonderful person in the world! Of course, you’ll write something for him. You have to be joking!”