The Ogre Downstairs by Diana Wynne Jones Page B

started asking awkward questions. There he found Malcolm had solved his share of the difficulties. Caspar came into the kitchen, and there was Malcolm helping Sally get supper and chattering away to her gaily. Sally, thinking he was Caspar, was talking happily back.
    Caspar stood in the doorway, overwhelmed with jealous rage and suspicion. He knew he was being unreasonable. He knew Sally was supposed to be Malcolm’s mother too now. But he could not get over the feeling that this was a really underhand trick. And the worst of it was that Malcolm looked so cheerful that Caspar had a horrible notion that, if they were to find the antidote, Malcolm was enjoying himself so much as Caspar that he might choose to stay that way. Then what would become of him? As soon as he could, he caught Malcolm in the dining room.
    “You mean sneak! What do you mean by sucking up to my mother like that?”
    “I wasn’t!” Malcolm said indignantly. “I was keepingout of Johnny’s way. And it’s nice talking to Sally. I like her.”
    “But not when she thinks you’re me. Why don’t you talk to her that way when you’re yourself, if you like her that much?” said Caspar, grinding Malcolm’s teeth.
    “Because it’s not so easy. Because Douglas—Anyway, you don’t think I like being you, do you?” said Malcolm.
    “No, but I do,” Caspar said, and stormed off to the Ogre’s study, feeling both angry and relieved.
    But the real trouble came after supper, when the Ogre demanded peace and quiet and everyone retreated upstairs. Then Caspar was forced to go into the same room as Douglas and do his best to behave like Malcolm in front of the person who probably knew Malcolm best of all. He was very nervous. Douglas sat down at the table by the window and spread out a great many books. Caspar, hoping this was the right thing to do, sat down opposite him and opened Malcolm’s schoolbag. As Malcolm, he had been given French and Maths. He began to do them, in Malcolm’s small neat writing, but with his own brain, which found them easy and boring. He had plenty of space to think in, and he could not help thinking that to work this way – instead of sprawling on an untidy bed as he usually did – was very grown up and comfortable. He began to feel a little smug, and to wonder if Malcolm was getting on so well.
    “Hey, Malcolm,” Douglas said suddenly. “Who was inside right for Sheffield Wednesday in 1948?”
    Caspar had never dreamt Malcolm knew this sort of thing. He had no idea. He could no more tell Douglasthan if Douglas had asked him the Chinese for scrambled eggs. “I don’t know,” he said, “I’ve forgotten.”
    “Come off it,” said Douglas. “You knew yesterday.”
    “But since then I’ve had a – had a lapse of memory,” Caspar invented desperately. “I think it may be a kind of stroke.”
    “Kids don’t have strokes,” Douglas said. He looked up and, for the first time, surveyed the quaking Caspar narrowly. “Are you playing secretive again?” he said. “I thought I’d cured you of that.”
    “—No. Oh no,” said Caspar. “It’s ambrosia, or something. There’s a name for it.”
    “Amnesia,” said Douglas. He looked at Caspar very hard. “What have you been up to? Have you done something stupid with that chemistry set again?”
    “—No… Well, only in a sort of way,” said Caspar. Douglas, looking very menacing, began to rise from his chair. Caspar pushed his own chair back and braced his legs ready. “No, I didn’t. Nothing,” he said.
    “ I told you not to do it when I wasn’t there! ” Douglas roared. His chair fell over behind him and he dived round the table at Caspar. Caspar knocked his own chair over getting out of the way. And something in the way he dodged, or looked, must have been wrong. Douglas stopped, put his eyebrows down and examined him again. “What’s going on here?” he said. “I’ll get it out of you if I have to take you apart!” Then he dived for Caspar