Wrinkle in Time Read online

  ‘They?’

  ‘Mrs Whatsit and her two friends. I was out with Fort-inbras a couple of days ago — you and the twins were at school, Meg. We like to walk in the woods, and suddenly he took off after a squirrel and I took off after him and we ended up by the haunted house, so I met them by accident, as you might say’

  ‘But nobody lives there,’ Meg said.

  ‘Mrs Whatsit and her friends do. They’re very enjoyable.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about it before?’ Mrs Murry asked. ‘And you know you’re not supposed to go off our property without permission, Charles.’

  ‘I know,’ Charles said. ‘That’s one reason I didn’t tell you. I just rushed off after Fortinbras without thinking. And then I decided, well, I’d better save them for an emergency, anyhow.’

  A fresh gust of wind took the house and shook it, and suddenly the rain began to lash against the windows.

  ‘I don’t think I like this wind,’ Meg said nervously.

  ‘We’ll lose some shingles off the roof, that’s certain,’ Mrs Murry said, ‘but this house has stood for almost two hundred years and I think it will last a little longer, Meg.There’s been many a high wind up on this hill.’

  ‘But this is a hurricane!’ Meg wailed. ‘The radio kept saying it was a hurricane!’

  ‘It’s October,’ Mrs Murry told her. ‘There’ve been storms in October before.’

  As Charles Wallace gave Meg her sandwich Fortinbras came out from under the table. He gave a long, low growl, and they could see the dark fur slowly rising on his back. Meg felt her own skin prickle.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked anxiously. Fortinbras stared at the door that opened into Mrs Murry’s laboratory which was in the old stone dairy right off the kitchen. Beyond the lab a pantry led outdoors, though Mrs Murry had done her best to train the family to come into the house through the garage door or the front door and not through her lab. But it was the lab door and not the garage door towards which Fortinbras was growling.

  ‘You didn’t leave any nasty-smelling chemicals cooking over a Bunsen burner, did you, Mother?’ Charles Wallace asked.

  Mrs Murry stood up. ‘No. But I think I’d better go see what’s upsetting Fort, anyhow.’

  ‘It’s the tramp, I’m sure it’s the tramp,’ Meg said nervously.

  ‘What tramp?’ Charles Wallace asked.

  ‘They were saying at the post office this afternoon that a tramp stole all Mrs Buncombe’s sheets.’

  ‘We’d better sit on the pillow cases, then,’ Mrs Murry said lightly. ‘I don’t think even a tramp would be out on a night like this, Meg.’

  ‘But that’s probably why he is out,’ Meg wailed, ‘trying to find a place not to be out.’

  ‘In which case I’ll offer him the barn till morning.’ Mrs Murry went briskly to the door.

  ‘I’ll go with you.’ Meg’s voice was shrill.

  ‘No, Meg, you stay with Charles and eat your sandwich.’

  ‘Eat!’ Meg exclaimed as Mrs Murry went out through the lab. ‘How does she expect me to eat?’

  ‘Mother can take care of herself,’ Charles said. ‘Physically, that is.’ But he sat in his father’s chair at the table and his legs kicked at the rungs; and Charles Wallace, unlike most small children, had the ability to sit still.

  After a few moments that seemed like for ever to Meg, Mrs Murry came back in, holding the door open for — was it the tramp? It seemed small for Meg’s idea of a tramp. The age or sex was impossible to tell, for it was completely bundled up in clothes. Several scarves of assorted colours were tied about the head, and a man’s felt hat perched atop. A shocking pink stole was knotted about a rough overcoat, and black rubber boots covered the feet.

  ‘Mrs Whatsit,’ Charles said suspiciously, ‘what are you doing here? And at this time of night, too?’

  ‘Now don’t you be worried, my honey.’ A voice emerged from among turned-up coat collar, stole, scarves and hat, a voice like an unoiled gate, but somehow not unpleasant.

  ‘Mrs — uh — Whatsit — says she lost her way,’ Mrs Murry said. ‘Would you care for some hot chocolate, Mrs Whatsit?’

  ‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ Mrs Whatsit answered, taking off the hat and the stole. ‘It isn’t so much that I lost my way as that I got blown off course. And when I realized that I was at little Charles Wallace’s house I thought I’d just come in and rest a bit before proceeding on my way.’

  ‘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

  When Meg woke to the jangling of her alarm clock the wind was still blowing but the sun was shining; the worst of the storm was over. She sat up in bed, shaking her head to clear it.

  It must have been a dream. She’d been frightened by the storm and worried about the tramp so she’d just dreamed about going down to the kitchen and seeing Mrs Whatsit and having her mother get all frightened and upset by that word — what was it? Tess — tess something.

  She dressed hurriedly, picked up the kitten still curled up on the bed, and dumped it unceremoniously on the floor. The kitten yawned, stretched, gave a piteous miaow, trotted out of the attic and down the stairs. Meg made her bed and hurried after it. In the kitchen her mother was making French toast and the twins were already at the table. The kitten was lapping milk out of a saucer.

  ‘Where’s Charles?’ Meg asked.

  ‘Still asleep. We had rather an interrupted night, if you remember.’

  ‘I hoped it was a dream,’ Meg said.

  Her mother carefully turned over four slices of French toast, then said in a steady voice, ‘No, Meg. Don’t hope it was a dream. I don’t understand it any more than you do, but one thing I’ve learned is that you don’t have to understand things for them to be. I’m sorry I showed you I was upset. Your father and I used to have a joke about the tesseract.’

  ‘What is a tesseract?’ Meg asked.

  ‘It’s a concept.’ Mrs Murry handed the twins the syrup. ‘I’ll try to explain it to you later. There isn’t time before school.’

  ‘I don’t see why you didn’t wake us up,’ Dennys said. ‘It’s a gyp we missed out on all the fun.’

  ‘You’ll be a lot more awake in school today than I will.’ Meg took her French toast to the table.

  ‘Who cares,’ Sandy said. ‘If you’re going to let old tramps come into the house in the middle of the night, Mother, you ought to have Den and me around to protect you.’

  ‘After all, father would expect us to,’ Dennys added.

  ‘We know you have a great mind and all, Mother,’ Sandy said, ‘but you don’t have much sense. And certainly Meg and Charles don’t.’

  ‘I know. We’re morons.’ Meg was bitter.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t be such a dope, Meg. Syrup, please.’ Sandy reached across the table. ‘You don’t have to take everything so personally. Use a happy medium, for heaven’s sake. You just goof around in school and look out the window and don’t pay any attention.’

  ‘You just make things harder for yourself,’ Dennys said. ‘And Charles Wallace is going to have an awful time. We know he’s bright, but he’s so funny when he’s around other people, and they’re so used to thinking he’s dumb, I don’t know what’s going to happen to him. Sandy and I’ll sock anybody who picks on him, but that’s about all we can do.’

  ‘Let’s not worry about next year till we get through this one,’ Mrs Murry said. ‘More French toast, boys?’

  At school Meg was tired and her eyelids sagged and her mind wandered. In social studies she was asked to name the principal imports and exports of Nicaragua, and though she had looked them up dutifully the evening before, now she could remember none of them. The teacher was sarcastic, the rest of the class laughed, and she flung herself down in her seat in a fury. ‘Who cares about the imports and exports of Nicaragua, anyhow?’ she muttered.

  ‘If you’re going to be rude, Margaret, you may leave the room,’ the teacher said.

  ‘Okay, I will.’ Meg flounced out.

  During study hall the principal sent for her. ‘What seems to be the problem now, Meg?’ he asked, pleasantly enough.

  Meg looked sulkily down at the floor. ‘Nothing, Mr Jenkins.’

  ‘Miss Porter tells me you were inexcusably rude.’

  Meg shrugged.

  ‘Don’t you realize that you just make everything harder for yourself by your attitude?’ the principal asked. ‘Now, Meg, I’m convinced that you can do the work and keep up with your grade if you will apply yourself, but some of your teachers are not. You’re going to have to do something about yourself. Nobody can do it for you.’ Meg was silent. ‘Well? What about it, Meg?’

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ Meg said.

  ‘You could do your homework, for one thing. Wouldn’t your mother help you?’

  ‘If I asked her to.’

  ‘Meg, is something troubling you? Are you unhappy at home?’ Mr Jenkins asked.

  At last Meg looked at him, pushing at h
er glasses in a characteristic gesture. ‘Everything’s fine at home.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. But I know it must be hard on you to have your father away’

  Meg eyed the principal warily, and ran her tongue over the barbed line of her brace.

  ‘Have you had any news from him lately?’

  Meg was sure it was not only imagination that made her feel that behind Mr Jenkins’ surface concern was a gleam of avid curiosity. — Wouldn’t he like to know! she thought. — And if I knew anything he’s the last person I’d tell. Well, one of the last.

  The postmistress must know that it was almost a year now since the last letter, and heaven knows how many people she’d told, or what unkind guesses she’d made about the reason for the long silence.

  Mr Jenkins waited for an answer, but Meg only shrugged.

  ‘Just what was your father’s line of business?’ Mr Jenkins asked. ‘Some kind of scientist, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He is a physicist.’ Meg bared her teeth to reveal the two ferocious lines of her brace.

  ‘Meg, don’t you think you’d make a better adjustment to life if you faced facts?’

  ‘I do face facts,’ Meg said. ‘They’re lots easier to face than people, I can tell you.’

  ‘Then why don’t you face facts about your father?’

  ‘You leave my father out of it!’ Meg shouted.

  ‘Stop bellowing,’ Mr Jenkins said sharply. ‘Do you want the entire school to hear you?’

  ‘So what?’ Meg demanded. ‘I’m not ashamed of anything I’m saying. Are you?’

  Mr Jenkins sighed. ‘Do you enjoy being the most belligerent, uncooperative child in school?’

  Meg ignored this. She leaned over the desk towards the principal. ‘Mr Jenkins, you’ve met my mother, haven’t you? You can’t accuse her of not facing facts, can you? She’s a scientist. She has doctors’ degrees in both biology and bacteriology. Her business is facts. When she tells me that my father isn’t coming home, I’ll believe it. As long as she says father is coming home, then I’ll believe that.’