not an ogre?’
‘Well, no, not a storybook ogre, I’m afraid, but I have got some very ogreish habits, and as you can see, I am a little on the large side, though small for an ogre—but I have got enormous feet.’
The children examined his heavy brogues with interest, demanding to know what size. Cassandra left them to it and went to get the tea.
Jan came to help her carry in the tea things. ‘We always have it round the fire,’ she explained. ‘I hope you won’t mind—and we’re always famished, so I hope you’ll both eat a lot.’
Which they did. She watched the plates empty and the cake diminish, while she listened to Mr van Manfeld talking nicely to the children.
She talked to Jan at the same time, polite nothings, although she would have liked to ask him about his native Poland, but perhaps he didn’t care to talk about it, so to be on the safe side she talked about the village and the country around them and listened, after a time, with real interest to his replies, because he knew a great deal about the island. She was telling him about the squirrel when Penny interrupted to say:
‘Aunt Cassandra drew him when we got home. She drew lots of mice too—she draws beautifully.’
She trotted off and came back presently with Cassandra’s sketch book and opened it for Jan to see.
‘You are talented, miss,’ he said quietly, and pushed the book towards Penny. ‘Take the book, if you please, to Mijnheer and tell him what is in it.’
She watched the two children, one each side of their visitor, telling him in a muddled chorus about the mice and when they had finished, he asked:
‘Will you keep this book for me, and when I can see again, I should like to see it with my own eyes, although I must say yours were a very good substitute.’ He closed it and got up. ‘Jan, I think we must go or the animals will wonder where we are.’
‘Animals?’ cried Cassandra and the children.
‘The kitten—you may have seen him? He came looking for a home—a fox with a broken leg, a tawny owl, a robin with a broken wing—that’s all we have at the moment. They come and go.’
It was Penny who asked: ‘Please may we come and see them? We won’t disturb you…’
‘I should be delighted if you would all come. On Saturday afternoon perhaps, when there is no school, and we will have tea, though not such a splendid one as we have had today. I will send a message.’
They all went to the door and Cassandra said: ‘You will take care? It’s not a very easy path—you’ve a torch?’ and Jan nodded a little impatiently as he said goodbye and turned to go, but Mr van Manfeld paused on the step. ‘Your name is beautiful. May I call you Cassandra? I think it must suit you very well.’
The two men disappeared into the thickening dusk and Cassandra drew the children indoors and shut the winter evening out. The three of them washed up to the accompaniment of an animated discussion on their visitors. ‘I like the ogre,’ said Penny. ‘And so do I,’ added Andrew. ‘Do you like him, Aunt Cassandra?’
She was forced to admit that she did, and for the first time since she had fancied herself in love with the Surgical Registrar, she regretted not having a face as charming as her name.
They were drinking their mid-morning cocoa next day when Jan rang the bell and they rushed to the door to let him in.
‘Mijnheer wishes you to come this afternoon, if that is possible. He is sorry that he sent no message, but there were things…’
Presumably she was supposed to accept the ‘things’ as an excuse, and of course the children had no hesitation in saying that they would go immediately after their dinner. Cassandra, not wishing Mr van Manfeld to have everything all his own way, modified this statement with the promise of their arrival during the afternoon. ‘And do tell Mr van Manfeld that we are pleased to come; it will mean changing our plans for the afternoon, but luckily you came before we had made final arrangements.’
Jan fixed her with an expressionless black eye, assured her that he would deliver her message, and with the promise of seeing them all again within a few hours, took himself off.
Cassandra had privately decided to arrive just before tea time, but the children had other ideas. She found herself, much against her will, climbing the path soon after two o’clock; nothing she could say would dislodge their fixed idea that the ogre could hardly wait to see them again, and the quicker they got there the better.
They had tea sitting round the big table in the comfortable kitchen, because, as Mr van Manfeld explained, it was easier than trying to squash into the sitting-room. The talk was cheerful because the children were happy. They talked about school, their friends in the village, Bob’s rheumatism, and the dead mouse Penny had found on the lawn that morning. It was she who asked suddenly: ‘How long do you have to wear your blinkers, Mr van Manfeld?’
Cassandra was on the point of saying something—anything—but her host forestalled her. ‘I don’t know,’ he said with surprising mildness. ‘Not very much longer, perhaps. We shall have to wait and see, shan’t we? When I throw them away shall we celebrate with a party?’
The suggestion was instantly accepted by the two children, although Penny asked: ‘Can’t I give a party for you? I’d love to give a party—Mummy wouldn’t mind, and you can be my guest and we’ll have red jelly and ice cream, and Jan can come, and the kitten. Will you?’
The ogre’s face was lighted by a smile which was all kindness. ‘I think that’s a lovely idea. I accept your kind invitation, Penny, and we’ll all come, won’t we, Jan?’
At last it was time to go and, on the point of going out of the house Cassandra paused to remark: ‘We’ve spent the whole afternoon without a single cross word.’
Mr van Manfeld took her hand and held it. ‘That’s the effect you have upon me, Cassandra Darling.’ A remark one could take whichever way one wanted; her common sense told her that he was merely addressing her by her own name and not using a term of endearment. She followed Jan and the children down the hill, wondering when she would see him again, and hoping that it would be soon.
It was sooner than she had expected and in circumstances she could not have foreseen—it was, in fact, the very next morning. They had set off for a walk before church quite early, long before the church bell began to ring. They skirted the side of the hill and Cassandra, steadfastly refusing the children’s suggestion that they should go first to Ogre’s Relish and see if the ogre would like to accompany them, pursued her way along a little path winding itself around the foot of the hills above it. Cassandra noticed the grey clouds piling up on the horizon, and the wind, away from the shelter of the trees, blew cold. She had intended to follow the path along the loch and back the same way, but now she decided to turn off and strike inland, along the narrow rocky path over the rough turf. It followed a small wild stream which presently became a waterfall and they stopped to admire it. The ground was open now, the trees retreating on either side of them to come together again ahead of them, so that they could see nothing but pines around them.
‘We have to go left at the fork,’ said Cassandra, but at the fork Penny stopped. ‘There’s water down there, Aunt Cassandra,’ she cried, ‘down this other path—it’s another loch, a teeny-weeny one. Please may we go a little way and look at it?’
There was no reason why they shouldn’t. The path ended abruptly on a small turf platform poised above the water, still slippery from the night’s rain because there was no sun there. Penny, behind Cassandra, lost her footing, knocked her off her feet and slithered with a splash into the water. It wasn’t far, ten feet or so, and the water was as smooth as glass; she went in with a loud plop and Cassandra, scrambling to her feet, thought that her small niece would never come up again. She had pulled her anorak off by the time Penny’s small head appeared above the water, and dived in. She wasn’t a good swimmer, but Penny was very close to the edge.
The water was horribly