Eight Days of Luke by Diana Wynne Jones

went frail. “My dear Dot, I can’t meet these people. Not at my time of life.”
    â€œNonsense, Bernard,” said Aunt Dot. “David, I think it very impolite of you not to have introduced Luke to us before this.”
    David sighed. Aunt Dot always contrived to blame him about something, even when she was pleased. “I only met him on Sunday,” he explained.
    â€œThen you should have introduced him at once ,” said Aunt Dot. “As he is exactly the companion I would have chosen for you, I want you to bring him here this afternoon.”
    David knew this was out of the question, because of Mr. Chew. So he was forced into a piece of dishonesty of his own. “Luke can’t come out this afternoon. His cousin’s come—on a visit, you know.”
    â€œThen bring him tomorrow,” said Aunt Dot.
    David was heartily relieved when lunch was over. He had arranged to meet Luke in the recreation ground, so, as soon as he had changed, he left the house and scudded down the front drive to the gate. He got a very nasty shock when Mr. Chew stood up from behind a wheelbarrow and took hold of his arm.
    Mr. Chew was quite as strong as he looked. David tugged mightily to get his arm away, but Mr. Chew’s great arm did not even tremble. The horny fingers simply closed a trifle.
    â€œAnd where were you going?” said Mr. Chew.
    â€œNowhere,” said David. “Let go.”
    â€œGoing to meet someone,” said Mr. Chew. “Perhaps I’ll come too.”
    â€œI’m not going to meet anyone. Let go. I’m only—I’ve only come out because my Aunt wanted me to pick some flowers,” David lied. After all, Mr. Chew was not to know he was forbidden to touch flowers.
    Mr. Chew let go of David’s arm and, putting his great hands on his hips, backed round until he was between David and the gate. “Go on,” he said. “Let’s see you.”
    David rubbed his arm and saw that he was not going to get past Mr. Chew in a hurry. He would have to wait. He turned to go back into the house.
    â€œOh no,” said Mr. Chew. “Come back. Pick flowers. Let’s see you.”
    David turned round, and was suddenly filled with black rage against Mr. Chew. “All right,” he said. “I’ll pick flowers. So there!”
    And under Mr. Chew’s sarcastic eye, he picked flowers, right and left, all down each side of the path. He was too angry to care. When he had a big bunch of Cousin Ronald’s geraniums, he thrust them toward Mr. Chew’s beaked nose.
    â€œThere,” he said. “Flowers. Smell.”
    â€œBeautiful,” said Mr. Chew, without turning a hair.
    David swung round and stalked back into the house with the bunch of geraniums, knowing that, in his relations’ eyes, he could not have been more of a criminal if each flower had been a dead body. Like a murderer trying to cover his crime, he crept upstairs with them and into the best spare bedroom, where he remembered there was a very ugly jug. He filled it with water, stuffed the flowers in it, and spread them out a bit. They did not look very nice. Then, deciding that the place where they were least likely to be noticed was somewhere where there often were flowers, he tiptoed past Aunt Dot’s room and arranged them on the landing windowsill. Then he fled guiltily to his own room.
    And there he was forced to stay. Every time he tried to get out of the house, Mr. Chew was there, whether he tried at the front, the side or the back. David gave up in the end and crossly read a book.
    The flowers were discovered during supper. Cousin Ronald was busy boring everyone about what an excellent gardener Mr. Chew was, with slightly more interesting digressions on why England drew with Australia in the Test, when Mrs. Thirsk came in, carrying the ugly jug.
    â€œI think you ought to see this,” she said.
    David drew a deep angry breath and thought he might