‘How did you know this was Charles Wallace’s house?’ Meg asked.
‘By the smell.’ Mrs Whatsit untied a blue and green Paisley scarf, a red and yellow flowered print, a gold Liberty print, a red and black bandanna. Under all this a sparse quantity of greyish hair was tied in a small but tidy knot on top of her head. Her eyes were bright, her nose a round, soft blob, her mouth puckered like an autumn apple. ‘My, but it’s lovely and warm in here,’ she said.
‘Do sit down.’ Mrs Murry indicated a chair. ‘Would you like a sandwich, Mrs Whatsit? I’ve had liverwurst and cream cheese; Charles has had bread and jam; and Meg, lettuce and tomato.’
‘Now, let me see,’ Mrs Whatsit pondered, ‘I’m passionately fond of Russian caviare.’
‘You peeked!’ Charles cried indignantly. ‘We’re saving that for mother’s birthday and you can’t have any!’
Mrs Whatsit gave a deep and pathetic sigh.
‘No,’ Charles said. ‘Now, you mustn’t give in to her, Mother, or I shall be very angry. How about tuna-fish salad?’
‘All right,’ Mrs Whatsit said meekly.
‘I’ll fix it,’ Meg offered, going to the pantry for a tin of tuna fish.
For heaven’s sake, she thought, – this old woman comes barging in on us in the middle of the night and mother takes it as though there weren’t anything peculiar about it at all. I’ll bet she is the tramp. I’ll bet she did steal those sheets. And she’s certainly no one Charles Wallace ought to be friends with, especially when he won’t even talk to ordinary people.
‘I’ve only been in the neighbourhood a short time,’ Mrs Whatsit was saying as Meg switched off the pantry light and came back into the kitchen with the tuna fish, ‘and I didn’t think I was going to like the neighbours at all until dear little Charles came over with his dog.’
‘Mrs Whatsit,’ Charles Wallace demanded severely, ‘why did you take Mrs Buncombe’s sheets?’
‘Well, I needed them, Charles dear.’
‘You must return them at once.’
‘But Charles, dear, I can’t. I’ve used them.’
‘It was very wrong of you,’ Charles Wallace scolded. ‘If you needed sheets that badly you should have asked me.’
Mrs Whatsit shook her head and clucked. ‘You can’t spare any sheets. Mrs Buncombe can.’
Meg cut up some celery and mixed it in with the tuna. After a moment’s hesitation she opened the refrigerator door and brought out a jar of little sweet pickles. – Though why I’m doing it for her I don’t know, she thought, as she cut them up. – I don’t trust her one bit.
‘Tell your sister I’m all right,’ Mrs Whatsit said to Charles. ‘Tell her my intentions are good.’
‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions,’ Charles intoned.
‘My, but isn’t he cunning.’ Mrs Whatsit beamed at him fondly. ‘It’s lucky he has someone to understand him.’
‘But I’m afraid he doesn’t,’ Mrs Murry said. ‘None of us is quite up to Charles.’
‘But at least you aren’t trying to squash him down.’ Mrs Whatsit nodded her head vigorously. ‘You’re letting him be himself.’
‘Here’s your sandwich,’ Meg said, bringing it to Mrs Whatsit.
‘Do you mind if I take off my boots before I eat?’ Mrs Whatsit asked, picking up the sandwich nevertheless. ‘Listen.’ She moved her feet up and down in her boots, and they could hear water squelching. ‘My toes are ever so damp. The trouble is that these boots are a mite too tight for me, and I never can take them off by myself.’
‘I’ll help you,’ Charles offered.
‘Not you. You’re not strong enough.’
‘I’ll help.’ Mrs Murry squatted at Mrs Whatsit’s feet, yanking on one slick boot. When the boot came off it came suddenly. Mrs Murry sat down with a thump. Mrs Whatsit went tumbling backwards with the chair on to the floor, sandwich held high in one old claw. Water poured out of the boot and ran over the floor and the big braided rug.
‘Oh, dearie me,’ Mrs Whatsit said, lying on her back in the overturned chair, her feet in the air, one in a red and white striped sock, the other still booted.
Mrs Murry got to her feet. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Whatsit?’
‘If you have some liniment I’ll put it on my dignity,’ Mrs Whatsit said, still supine. ‘I think it’s sprained. A little oil of cloves mixed well with garlic is rather good.’ And she took a large bite of sandwich.
‘Do please get up,’ Charles said. ‘I don’t like to see you lying there that way. You’re carrying things too far.’
‘Have you ever tried to get to your feet with a sprained dignity?’ But Mrs Whatsit scrambled up, righted the chair, and then sat back down on the floor, the booted foot stuck out in front of her, and took another bite. She moved with great agility for such an old woman. At least Meg was reasonably sure that she was an old woman, and a very old woman at that.
Mrs Whatsit, her mouth full, ordered Mrs Murry, ‘Now pull while I’m already down.’
Quite calmly, as though this old woman and her boots were nothing out of the ordinary, Mrs Murry pulled until the second boot relinquished the foot. This foot was covered with a blue and grey Argyle sock, and Mrs Whatsit sat there, wriggling her toes, contentedly finishing her sandwich before scrambling to her feet. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘that’s ever so much better,’ and took both boots and shook them out over the sink. ‘My stomach is full and I’m warm inside and out and it’s time I went home.’
‘Don’t you think you’d better stay till morning?’ Mrs Murry asked.
‘Oh, thank you, dearie, but there’s so much to do I just can’t waste time sitting around frivolling.’
‘It’s much too wild a night to travel in.’
‘Wild nights are my glory,’ Mrs Whatsit said. ‘I just got caught in a down-draught and blown off course.’
‘Well, at least till your socks are dry –’
‘Wet socks don’t bother me. I just didn’t like the water squishing around in my boots. Now don’t worry about me, lamb.’ (Lamb was not a word one would ordinarily think of calling Mrs Murry.) ‘I shall just sit down for a moment and pop on my boots and then I’ll be on my way. Speaking of ways, pet, by the way, there is such a thing as a tesseract.’
Mrs Murry went very white and with one hand reached backwards and clutched at a chair for support. Her voice trembled. ‘What did you say?’
Mrs Whatsit tugged at her second boot. ‘I said,’ she grunted, shoving her foot down in, ‘that there is’ – shove – ‘such a thing’ – shove – ‘as a tesseract.’ Her foot went down into the boot, and grabbing shawls, scarves and hat, she hustled out of the door. Mrs Murry stayed very still, making no move to help the old woman. As the door opened, Fortinbras streaked in, panting, wet and shiny as a seal. He looked at Mrs Murry and whined.
The door slammed.
‘Mother, what’s the matter?’ Meg cried. ‘What did she say? What is it?’
‘The tesseract –’ Mrs Murry whispered. ‘What did she mean? How could she have known?’
2. Mrs Who