‘Because you’re so small?’

‘Because I’m an Iremonger.’

‘I’m sixteen already and not married. Nor likely to be. Came close to it though. Was going to be. Narrow escape.’

‘Really? Were you really? Do you mind my asking to whom?’

‘The heaps, you dolt.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh, he says.’

‘Will you tell me about it?’

‘What’s on the end of that chain you’ve got there?’

‘It’s my James Henry Hayward.’

‘Your what?’

‘My Ja— My plug, my birth object. Do you want to see it? I’ll show it to you.’

‘You called it something else just a moment ago.’

‘Ah … well, I may as well tell you I suppose. I hear voices.’

‘You do what?’

‘Objects, you see, some objects have voices, they have names, they tell me their names. That bell jar over there. Do you see it?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s called Jenny McMannister.’

‘What are you talking about? Are you ill, is that it?’

‘Yes, I am ill. Uncle Aliver gives me pills.’

‘Is there something very wrong with you? I thought there was to begin with, I had that feeling. Are you dangerous? You don’t look that dangerous.’

‘No, no, I’m not dangerous at all.’

‘You better not be, I’ll thump you if you’re dangerous.’

‘I’m not dangerous,’ I said, ‘I just hear things.’

‘Well, you can hear things away from me. Don’t you spook me or I’ll get my shovel out again.’

‘No, no, I shouldn’t dream of it.’

‘I’d better get back downstairs now, before I’m missed.’

‘Goodnight then. Thank you for talking. I’ll come sooner tomorrow.’

‘Better had.’

And off she went with all her cleaning business, but she turned around at the door.

‘What’s my name again?’ she said, quite fiercely too.

‘It is Lucy Pennant of course,’ I said.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and was gone.

‘And Alec something,’ I whispered.

And that was it. What a night. I felt quite light as I walked back to my room, I even swung my James Henry around on its chain. I ran the last part, and as I rushed up the stairs I saw, moving fast with me, something just above, for the smallest moment there was a bird moving about in the shadows.

‘Wateringcan!’ I called.

But then he was gone, out of sight, up into the rooms at the top of the house. He’d better not get into the attics, the bats would do for him there.

I went to bed thinking that it was a shame I had no keepsake of Lucy Pennant, some small thing, something to help me through the day, something to remember her by. A portrait should be best though, a likeness.

Uncle Idwid