Free Aunt Maria by Diana Wynne Jones

it was—and he thinks it isn’t—there are perfectly reasonable explanations. The insurance wrote it off and sold it, and the scrap yard found it worked and mended it and then sold it to Zenobia. Then why did they change the number plates? Because it isn’t our car? Oh, I give up.
    Chris is in a bad mood, anyway. It was a mistake to leave him with Aunt Maria and the Mrs. Urs. He said Something Awful again. Nobody would say what, though. Aunt Maria would only keep saying, “I’m so hurt and ashamed. But I forgive him of course.” Then she says gently, “I shall pray for you, Christopher.” It’s a wonderful way to annoy Chris. He hates being given the wrong name, but he hates even more having to say his name is really Christian. If he tries, he has to shout, “CHRISTIAN!” at the top of his voice because Aunt Maria goes deaf on the spot.
    Mum said Chris had been punished enough and, late at night, she got it out of Chris what he had done. It seems that mad Zoe Green had been one of the people who came for tea. All the other people there whispered warningly to Chris that he was to be nice to Zoe Green because of her son. “All I did,” Chris said innocently, “was ask what was wrong with her son.”
    â€œOh, did you?” said Mum. “I know you, Chris. I can just hear you doing it. ‘But what’s wrong with her son? Is he dead? Is he in prison for murder? Is he a sex maniac?’ Louder and louder, until they could probably hear you at the town hall. I can see the look on your face while you did it, too. Don’t do it again.”
    Mum was right. Chris went red and muttered, “Well, it had to be something like that, or she wouldn’t have gone dotty, would she?”
    Since then, Mum has kept announcing that Chris needs fresh air. She sends him out in the morning whenever she sees him alone in the room with Aunt Maria. She sends him out in the afternoon as soon as the Mrs. Urs start arriving. Chris doesn’t mind. But I do. I have to be “dear little Naomi” and listen to the Mrs. Urs telling me how much Chris is upsetting Aunt Maria. “You know how sensitive she is,” they say. “The least thing makes her so ill.” Except for Elaine. Elaine just said bluntly, “I told you to stop that brother of yours. You’d better try.”
    I tried to defend Chris by saying he didn’t understand old ladies.
    Elaine fixed me with her fanatical eyes and grimmest look. “Oh, yes, he does understand,” she said. “He knows just what he’s doing. And it won’t work. Not here. Not now.” Then she added, over the shoulder of her black mac as she marched out, “It’s a pity. I like him, you know.”
    The funny thing is that what Elaine said is true. I think she does like Chris, and I think Chris is up to something. I am the one who doesn’t understand. I realized this when we went to see Miss Phelps this morning. I went with Chris because Mum had got sick of me complaining that Chris got all the fun.
    â€œIt won’t be fun,” Mum said. “She’s a poor old lady and I want you to find out if there’s anything we can do for her. You can try and stop Chris being rude, too, if you can—though I know that’s the same as asking you to keep the sea back with a broom.”
    So we crossed the street to number twelve, Chris and me. Its lace curtains twitched like lace curtains in a panic when we knocked at the door. We stood there so long that we thought no one was going to open the door at first. When Miss Phelps did open it, we both stared.
    â€œOh, good morning. Chris and Mig, I believe,” she said. She looks just like a gnome. She is tiny, much smaller than me, and she has a hump. Her eyes sort of slant in her withered face—and the glasses she wears sort of slant with her eyes. You can see she can hardly walk. She holds on to things and shuffles. But