“Tell-tale!” Gwendolen said to Roger, as soon as the door had shut. “And that was a dirty trick with that jug! You were both doing it, weren’t you?”
Roger smiled sleepily, not in the least disturbed. “Witchcraft runs in our family,” he said.
“And we’ve both inherited it,” said Julia. “I must go and wash.” She picked up three slices of bread to keep her going while she did so, and left the room, calling over her shoulder, “Tell Michael I won’t be long, Roger.”
“More cocoa?” Roger said politely, picking up the jug.
“Yes, please,” said Cat. It never bothered him to eat or drink things that had been bewitched, and he was thirsty. He thought that if he filled his mouth with marmalade and strained the cocoa through it, he might not taste the cocoa. Gwendolen, however, was sure Roger was trying to insult her. She flounced round in her chair and stayed haughtily looking at the wall, until Mr Saunders suddenly threw open a door Cat had not noticed before and said cheerfully:
“Right, all of you. Lesson time. Come on through and see how you stand up to some grilling.”
Cat hastily swallowed his cocoa-flavoured marmalade. Beyond the door was a schoolroom. It was a real, genuine schoolroom, although there were only four desks in it. There was a blackboard, a globe, the pitted school floor and the schoolroom smell. There was that kind of glass-fronted bookcase without which no schoolroom is complete, and the battered grey-green and dark blue books without which no schoolroom bookcase is complete. On the walls were big pictures of the statues Mr Saunders had found so interesting.
Two of the desks were brown and old. Two were new and yellow with varnish. Gwendolen and Cat sat silently in the new desks. Julia hurried in, with her face shining from soap, and sat in the old desk beside Roger’s, and the grilling began. Mr Saunders strode gawkily up and down in front of the blackboard, asking keen questions. His tweed jacket billowed out from his back, just as his coat had done in the wind. Perhaps that was why the sleeves of the jacket were so much too short for Mr Saunders’s long arms. The long arm shot out, and a foot of bony wrist with a keen finger on the end of it pointed at Cat. “What part did witchcraft play in the Wars of the Roses?”
“Er,” said Cat. “Ung. I’m afraid I haven’t done them yet, sir.”
“Gwendolen,” said Mr Saunders.
“Oh – a very big part,” Gwendolen guessed airily.
“Wrong,” said Mr Saunders. “Roger.”
From the grilling, it emerged that Roger and Julia had forgotten a great deal over the summer, but, even so, they were well ahead of Cat in most things, and far ahead of Gwendolen in everything.
“What did you learn at school?” Mr Saunders asked her, in some exasperation.
Gwendolen shrugged. “I’ve forgotten. It wasn’t interesting. I was concentrating on witchcraft, and I intend to go on doing that, please.”
“I’m afraid you can’t,” said Mr Saunders.
Gwendolen stared at him, hardly able to believe she had heard him right. “What!” she almost shrieked. “But – but I’m terribly talented! I have to go on with it!”
“Your talents will keep,” said Mr Saunders. “You can take up witchcraft again when you’ve learnt something else. Open your arithmetic book and do me the first four exercises. Eric, I think I’ll set you going on some History. Write me an essay on the reign of King Canute.” He moved on to set work for Roger and Julia.
Cat and Gwendolen opened books. Gwendolen’s face was red, then white. As Mr Saunders bent over Roger, her inkwell sailed up out of the socket in her desk, and emptied itself over the back of Mr Saunders’s billowing tweed jacket. Cat bit his lip in order not to laugh. Julia watched with calm interest. Mr Saunders did not seem to notice. The inkwell returned quietly to its socket.
“Gwendolen,” said Mr Saunders, without turning round. “Get the ink jar and funnel out of the bottom of the cupboard and refill that inkwell. And fill it properly, please.”
Gwendolen got up, jauntily and defiantly, found the big flask and funnel, and started to fill her inkwell. Ten minutes later, she was still pouring away. Her face was puzzled at first, then red, then white with fury again. She tried to put the flask down, and found she could not. She tried whispering a spell.
Mr Saunders turned and looked at her.
“You’re being perfectly horrible!” said Gwendolen. “Besides, I’m allowed to do witchcraft when you’re here.”
“No one is allowed to pour ink over their tutor,” Mr Saunders said cheerfully. “And I’d already told you that you’ve given up witchcraft for the time being. Keep on pouring till I tell you to stop.”
Gwendolen poured ink for the next half hour, and got angrier every minute of it.
Cat was impressed. He suspected that Mr Saunders was rather a powerful magician. Certainly, when he next looked at Mr Saunders, there was no sign of any ink on his back. Cat looked at Mr Saunders fairly often, to see whether it was safe to change his pen from his right to his left hand. He had been punished so often for writing left-handed that he was good at keeping an eye on his teachers. When Mr Saunders turned his way, Cat used his right hand. It was slow and reluctant. But as soon as Mr Saunders turned away again, Cat changed his pen over and got on like a house on fire. The main trouble was that, in order not to smudge the ink with his left hand, he had to hold the paper sideways. But he was pretty deft at flicking his book straight again whenever Mr Saunders seemed likely to look at him.
When the half hour was over, Mr Saunders, without turning round, told Gwendolen to stop pouring ink and do sums. Then, still without turning round, he said to Cat, “Eric, what are you doing?”
“An essay on King Canute,” Cat said innocently.
Then Mr Saunders did turn round, but, by that time, the paper was straight and the pen in Cat’s right hand. “Which hand were you writing with?” he said. Cat was used to this. He held up his right hand with the pen in it. “It looked like both hands to me,” Mr Saunders said, and he came over and looked at the page Cat had written. “It was both.”
“It doesn’t show,” Cat said miserably.
“Not much,” Mr Saunders agreed. “Does it amuse you to write with alternate hands, or something?”
“No,” Cat confessed. “But I’m left-handed.”
Then, as Cat had feared, Mr Saunders flew into a towering rage. His face went red. He slammed his big knobby hand down on Cat’s desk, so that Cat jumped and the inkwell jumped too, sending ink splashing over Mr Saunders’s great hand and over Cat’s essay. “Left-handed!” he roared. “Then why the Black Gentleman don’t you write with your left hand, boy?”
“They – they punish me if I do,” Cat faltered, very shaken, and very perplexed to find Mr Saunders was angry for such a peculiar reason.
“Then they deserve to be tied up in knots and roasted!” roared Mr Saunders, “whoever they are! You’re doing yourself untold harm by obeying them, boy! If I catch you writing with your right hand again, you’ll be in really serious trouble!”
“Yes,” Cat said, relieved but still very shaken. He looked mournfully at his ink-splashed essay and hoped Mr Saunders might use a little witchcraft on that too. But Mr Saunders took the book and tore the page right out.
“Now do it again properly!” he said, slapping the book back in front of Cat.
Cat was still writing all over again about Canute when Mary came in with a tray of milk and biscuits and a cup of coffee for Mr Saunders. And after the milk and biscuits, Mr Saunders told Cat and