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my spectacles on the sideboard, but it doesn’t matter, dear.”
    â€œOff you go and get them,” Mum says, in a cheerful loud voice.
    There is a pause, then Aunt Maria utters in a reproachful gentle groan, “I’m getting old, dear.”
    â€œYou can try, at least,” Mum says encouragingly.
    â€œSuppose I fall,” suggests Aunt Maria.
    â€œYes, do,” says Chris. “Fall on your face and give us all a good laugh.” Mum glares at him and I go and find the spectacles. That’s the way it was until the gray cat suddenly put in an appearance, mewing through the window at us with its ugly flat face almost pressed against the glass. Mum is right. Aunt Maria jumped up with no trouble at all and practically ran to the window, slashing the air with both sticks and shouting at the cat to go away. It fled.
    â€œWhat did you do that for?” Chris said.
    â€œI’m not having him in my garden,” Aunt Maria said. “He eats birds.”
    â€œWho does he belong to?” Mum asked. She likes cats as much as I do.
    â€œHow should I know?” said Aunt Maria. She was so annoyed with the cat that she took herself back to the sofa without remembering to use her sticks once. Mum raised her eyebrows and looked at me. See? Then we unwisely left Chris indoors and went out to look for the cat in the garden. We didn’t find it, but when we got back Chris was simmering. Aunt Maria was giving him a gentle talking-to. “It doesn’t matter about me , dear, but my friends were so distressed. Promise me you’ll never speak like that again.”
    Chris no doubt deserved it, but Mum said hastily, “Chris and Mig, I’m going to pack you a lunch and you’re going to go out for some fresh air. You’re to stay out all afternoon.”
    â€œAll afternoon!” cried Aunt Maria. “But I have my Circle of Healing here this afternoon. It will do the children such a lot of good to come to the meeting.”
    â€œFresh air will do them more good,” said Mum. “Chris looks pale.” Which was true. Chris looked as if he hadn’t slept much. He was white and getting one or two pimples again. Mum took no notice of Aunt Maria’s protests—it was windy, it was going to rain, we would get wet—and bullied us out of the house with warm clothes and a bag of food. “Do me a favor and try to enjoy yourselves for a change,” she said.
    â€œBut what about you?” I said.
    â€œI’ll be fine. I shall do some gardening while she has her meeting,” Mum said.
    We went out into the street. “She’s martyring herself,” I said. “I wish she wouldn’t.”
    Chris said, “She needs to work off her guilt about Dad. Let her be, Mig.” He smiled in his normal understanding way. He seemed to go back to his old self as soon as we were in the street. “Shall I tell you something I noticed about this street yesterday? See that house opposite?”
    He pointed, and I said, “Yes,” and looked. And the lace curtains in the front window of the house twitched as somebody hastily got back from them. Otherwise it was a little cream-colored house as gloomy as the rest of the street, with a large twelve on its front door.
    â€œNumber twelve,” said Chris as we walked on up the street. “The only house in this street with a number, Mig, apart from twenty-two down the other end on the same side. That means odd numbers on Aunt Maria’s side, doesn’t it? And that makes Aunt Maria’s house number thirteen whichever way you count the houses.”
    Chris is always thinking about numbers, normally. This proved he was back to normal. I said it would be number thirteen, and we laughed as we walked down to the seafront. It was very windy and quite deserted there, but very respectable somehow. Chris shouted that even the concrete sheds were tasteful. They were. We went past the kiddies’