‘You're doing beautifully,’ I said.
‘I've counted the witches,’ she said. ‘There aren't nearly as many as you thought. You were just guessing, weren't you, when you said two hundred?’
‘It just seemed like two hundred,’ I said.
‘I was wrong, too,’ my grandmother said. ‘I thought there were a lot more witches than this in England.’
‘How many are there?’ I asked.
‘Eighty-four,’ she said.
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‘There were eighty-five,’ I said. ‘But one of them got fried.’
At that moment, I caught sight of Mr Jenkins, Bruno's father, heading straight for our table. ‘Look out, Grandmamma!’ I whispered. ‘Here comes Bruno's father!’
Mr Jenkins and His Son
Mr Jenkins came striding up to our table with a very purposeful look on his face.
‘Where is that grandson of yours?’ he said to my grandmother. He spoke rudely and looked very angry.
My grandmother put on her frostiest look, but didn't answer him.
‘My guess is that he and my son Bruno are up to some devilment,’ Mr Jenkins went on. ‘Bruno hasn't turned up for his supper and it takes a lot to make that boy miss his food!’
‘I must admit he has a very healthy appetite,’ my grandmother said.
‘My feeling is that you're in on this as well,’ Mr Jenkins said. ‘I don't know who the devil you are and I don't much care, but you played a nasty trick on me and my wife this afternoon. You put a dirty little mouse on the table. That makes me think all three of you are up to something. So if you know where Bruno's hiding, kindly tell me at once.’
‘That was no trick I played on you,’ my grandmother said. ‘That mouse I tried to give you was your own little boy, Bruno. I was being kind to you. I was trying to restore him to the bosom of his family. You refused to take him in.’
‘What the blazes do you mean, madam?’ shouted Mr Jenkins. ‘My son isn't a mouse!’ His black moustache was jumping up and down like crazy as he spoke. ‘Come on, woman! Where is he? Out with it!’
The family at the table nearest to us had all stopped eating and were staring at Mr Jenkins. My grandmother sat there puffing away calmly at her black cigar. ‘I can well understand your anger, Mr Jenkins,’ she said. ‘Any other English father would be just as cross as you are. But over in Norway where I come from, we are quite used to these sorts of happenings. We have learnt to accept them as part of everyday life.’
‘You must be mad, woman!’ cried Mr Jenkins. ‘Where is Bruno? If you don't tell me at once I shall summon the police!’
‘Bruno is a mouse,’ my grandmother said, calm as ever.
‘He most certainly is not a mouse!’ shouted Mr Jenkins.
‘Oh yes I am!’ Bruno said, poking his head up out of the handbag.
Mr Jenkins leapt about three feet into the air.
‘Hello, Dad,’ Bruno said. He had a silly sort of mousy grin on his face.
Mr Jenkins's mouth dropped open so wide I could see the gold fillings in his back teeth.
‘Don't worry, Dad,’ Bruno went on. ‘It's not as bad as all that. Just so long as the cat doesn't get me.’
‘B-B-Bruno!’ stammered Mr Jenkins.
‘No more school!’ said Bruno, grinning a broad and asinine mouse-grin. ‘No more homework! I shall live in the kitchen cupboard and feast on raisins and honey!’
‘B-b-but B-B-Bruno!’ stammered Mr Jenkins again. ‘H-how did this happen?’ The poor man had no wind left in his sails at all.