Every Woman for Herself (8 page)

‘You mustn’t tease,’ Jessica said earnestly. ‘Ran researches very thoroughly. He works very hard.’

‘He has to research thoroughly to find scraps of evidence that can be twisted into proving what he wants,’ Em said.

‘And you, of course, are a great writer and know all about it?’ he said sarcastically. ‘My dear Em, I don’t think writing doggerel for greeting-card manufacturers quite qualifies you as a literary critic.’

‘No, but I don’t just write for greeting cards – I’m also Serafina Shane.’

While this was a bit of a damp squib as far as Father and myself were concerned, Jessica laid down her fork and stared.

‘What, Serafina Shane out of
Women Live!
magazine?
Womanly Wicca Words of Spiritual Comfort
? I’ve ordered the book!’

‘Advance orders
have
been very brisk,’ Em said complacently, and bestowed a slightly warmer gaze on Jessica than I had ever seen before. She might just live, after all.

‘Well done, Em,’ I said. ‘If I’d known I’d have read them, but I never buy women’s mags – they’re all
New Woman
, and
Never Admit You’re Forty Woman
, and
Rich Bored Bitchy Woman
, when all I ever wanted was something like
Skint Old Northern Woman
.’

‘You’re right,’ Em said. ‘Weren’t you going to start one?’

‘Yes, in fact my hobby during the last few weeks has been writing articles for the sort of magazine I’d really like to find. I’ve got quite a lot.’

‘Do I understand, Emily,’ Father broke in, ‘that you’ve been writing your ghastly doggerel for a women’s magazine, and it’s now coming out as a book?’

‘Yes – inspirational verse and prose. I’m very popular.’

‘Serafina what?’ I asked.

‘Shane.’

‘At least it isn’t Rhymer!’ Father said.

‘Well done, Em!’ I enthused.

‘So what were you plotting with your abnormal friends when I came in this morning?’ enquired Father.

‘We were trying various means to discover where Anne is. There’s something the matter with her, and I can’t get any reply from her flat. Xanthe tried the crystal pendulum.’

‘And Xanthe knows everything?’ He frowned. ‘And why does she look so familiar?’

Em ignored this. ‘The crystal showed us where she was – somewhere near her flat. Then Freya did a reading, and discovered that Anne’s had an operation, but she’ll be here soon to recuperate.’

‘I suppose you know this because Anne’s phoned,’ he said sceptically.

‘No. You know Anne, she’ll phone when she’s nearly here. Gloria Mundi’s turning out her room, now she’s finished Bran’s.’

‘What makes you think the Three Witches got it right?’

‘They always get it right. That’s why I’m joining their coven. I’ve been pussyfooting round the mealy-mouthed edges for long enough, and now I’m going to wholeheartedly embrace the Ancient Arts.’

‘Prostitution?’ suggested Ran. ‘I hear it’s very well paid.’

Em gave him a look. ‘The Ancient
Black
Arts,’ she said.

Jessica gasped, her eyes widening in alarm. ‘You mean – black magic? Oh, my God! The children!’

But the little girls, bored with the conversation, had crept away unnoticed. One of the dishes of meringues from the sideboard had gone too.

‘Oh, Emily – promise you won’t say anything about it in front of the girls! Don’t they sacrifice little children, and sell their souls to the Devil?’

‘Hands up all those present who’ve read the entire oeuvre of Dennis Wheatley and believe every word?’ I said. ‘Really, Jessica, grow up!’

‘Charlie’s quite right. I wouldn’t harm
any
animal, even your children,’ Em assured her.

‘Thank you!’ Jessica said, slightly hysterically. ‘Ran, are you going to sit there and—’

Father stood up abruptly. ‘No, I’m off to the pub. Coming?’

‘How can I leave the girls?’ she shuddered.

‘I’ll listen out for them,’ I offered.

‘But
you
killed someone …’ she began.

‘And I’m Spawn of the Devil,’ Emily finished for her.

Father sighed. ‘Lock up the pans, Em, and don’t sacrifice the children. Satisfied, Jess? Come along!’

There was a brief internal struggle as Jessica’s maternal feelings fought a losing battle, and then she hurried out after him.

‘Tell me more about this
Skint Old Northern Woman
magazine,’ Em said, passing the port.

Serafina Shane’s first book,
Womanly Wicca Words of Spiritual Comfort
,
is available, price £5.99, from the Fishwife Press
.

Skint Old Northern Woman: The Love Quiz

Would you exchange your husband/boyfriend/significant other for:

1. A box of chocolates?

A) Yes

B) No

C) A big box

2. A bag of pork scratchings?

A) Yes

B) Snatch your hand off

C) No, I’m Jewish, but try me with pistachio nuts

3. A night with Robert Plant?

A) Yes

B) Never heard of him, but yes anyway

C) No, never liked blonds/heavy metal/men even older than my father, but try me with Johnny Depp

I’m afraid our resident thespian caught me taking a swipe at a large yellow melon with a frying pan the following morning, so now probably thought I was demented, which I wasn’t: merely obsessed.

It was not the
fatal
frying pan, of course, because Miss Grinch cleaned that up once the police had finished with it, and sent it off to a jumble sale.

I hoped it wasn’t haunted by the red, bloodhound face of an elderly roué. I mean, imagine
that
materialising by the cooker, just as you were getting your omelette all puffy.

The melon was balanced on the gatepost, and I was standing on a large crate. It wasn’t ideal – the relative heights were wrong, and the melon kept trying to roll off the perfectly flat surface as though possessed.

I’d just started the downward swing on a ripe yellow honeydew when I caught the glint of weak sunlight on raven’s-wing hair above the stone wall that separated my strip of garden from the track, but by then the momentum was unstoppable: the pan connected with a meaty
thunk
! and the melon bounded past me and ricocheted off the veranda.

Mace North stopped by the gate, and surveyed me briefly with unsurprised, world-weary dark blue eyes. (Funny, I sort of expected them to be brown.) His black hair looked as if it had been casually hacked off with a sword – something fancy in gold, with a jewel in the end – and covered his head with feathery artlessness.

Then there was just the clatter of loose pebbles as he headed for home.

Good morning to you, too.

From my vantage point on the box I’d seen becoming strands of purest silver among those black locks, so he was no spring chicken, though I didn’t think the weary look was an age thing – he’d probably always looked like that.

Isn’t it odd how much you can notice about someone in the briefest moment, even when you’re not particularly interested in them?

He certainly made off quickly enough, probably afraid I’d fling myself on him pleading for his autograph, or something. But he could be permanently incognito, as far as I was concerned, and I didn’t expect he would be bothered by crowds of admiring followers up here unless he was in a popular soap.

Still, I didn’t suppose that, as an actor, he found my behaviour in any way unusual.

The previous night Father, who has got acquainted with Mace up at the Black Dog, warned me that he liked to be treated just like everyone else (although not, perhaps, to the point of being struck by a frying pan). That was fine by me – I wasn’t about to follow him around with an autograph book clutched in one sweaty hand and my tongue hanging out, and he’d probably keep a healthy distance from me, too, now he knew I was armed and dangerous, if only to fruit.

But the most interesting thing about our encounter was that I’d noticed him just as I’d lifted the pan above my head ready for the swing, and I still hadn’t managed to stop it or even divert it. If I could try that again with the heights properly measured …

It would be a bonus if the sound was right, too. If I could hear it once more outside my head instead of in. It was all pretty cathartic, but I felt that if I could find one that made the right sound, I’d be exorcised to the point where I could at least paint again, especially if I could convince myself without doubt that it really had been an accident.

I’d never be able to forget I’d killed someone, but at least I’d know I hadn’t intended to do it.

I tried melon number three, a smallish watermelon, but it still didn’t make quite the right hollow, meaty noise. Then I took the battered fruit upstairs to the Parsonage kitchen and put them on the table.

‘Canst tha not bash something more useful than a melon?’ demanded Gloria Mundi. ‘A turnip, maybe? There’s none here will eat melon.’

Em, who was removing perfect loaves from the oven, said over her shoulder: ‘I’ve got a recipe for melon and ginger jam. I’ll make it later. We all like ginger – and you’re forgetting, Gloria, that Bran likes melon.’

‘Yon Branwell’s one on his own.’

‘Rob’s set off to fetch Branwell from the university. I told him to make sure Mr Froggy doesn’t get left behind this time.’

‘How is he?’

She shrugged. ‘Talking a bit fast. Then yesterday he told one of his students that a spirit ordered him to speak in only ancient Amharic from now on.’

‘Not too bad then – he’ll be right as rain after a little rest at home.’

Jessica stuck a cautious head through the doorway. ‘I’m just off to school with the girls and …’ She stopped, and looked from the battered melons on the table to me. ‘You know, when I looked out of my bedroom window just now, I could have sworn I saw you hitting one of those with a pan.’ She laughed uncertainly.

We stared at her. Gloria gave an audible sniff and went out past her with her mop and bucket.

‘Well,’ said Jessica into the silence, ‘I’d better be off and – oh, that’s what I came to say: Ran says he’d
love
to try a pasta dish tonight – perhaps with a big salad, and some garlic bread and—’

‘He’ll get what he’s given,’ Em said shortly.

‘If you don’t know how to cook it, I’ve got a recipe book you could borrow.’

‘Hark at Lady Muck!’ said Gloria, briskly and sloppily swabbing down the flagged passage round Jessica’s feet so that she jumped back. ‘She’ll be giving out the household orders next!’

‘Mummy!’ shrilled the girls. ‘We’ll be late!’

With another uncertain look Jessica went, skidding on the damp floor with a certain coltish grace. I bet she can ice-skate.

‘I wonder if we could put something in her food?’ mused Em.

‘Not unless you can coat a lettuce leaf in it – she doesn’t seem to eat anything else.’

‘Well, I’ll have to take some action – our Ms Tickington-Tingay’s getting on my wick.’

‘Is that her real name? Jessica Tickington-Tingay?’

‘Oh, aye,’ said Gloria. ‘Double-barrelled names are breeding up here.’

‘Look at the time!’ Em exclaimed. ‘You should be on your way to the nursery. You’re supposed to be there well before the children, to set things up, aren’t you?’

I shifted uncomfortably. ‘Em, I don’t really think I can do this. I mean, they can’t know about the Greg thing, and I’ve had no experience with children.’

‘Forget about the accident with Greg, and as to the experience with children, you’ll pick that up as you go. You need the money they’ll pay, until you start painting again.’

I glared at her a bit resentfully. She’s never had to go out and earn her living, although she does run the house like clockwork, cooks wonderfully, and makes what money she needs writing her verses … and now the book.

OK, that’s all working, I admit.

She also does a little magic and fortune-telling, too, when asked, but she doesn’t take money for that, just trade goods.

‘Off you go; Inga’s expecting you,’ she said firmly.

‘That Inga’s a miserable bugger,’ said Gloria, now giving the kitchen floor a sort of third-degree water torture. Frost, sighing deeply, got up from his rug and jumped onto the safety of the settle, where he sat looking resigned.

‘She’s Scandinavian,’ said Em excusingly. ‘They all sound like that, even when they’re telling jokes. It’s to do with having only two hours of daylight a year, or something.’

‘Couldn’t you come with me, Em?’ I whined cravenly.

She sighed. ‘I suppose I could walk down there with you. We’ll take the dogs, and I’ll bring Flossie back for you.’

‘Flossie’s still asleep. She doesn’t usually get up until lunchtime.’

‘She’s not a dog, she’s a cushion on legs. Go and get her, it will do her good.’

Flossie was disgusted, but consented to accompany us down the long, winding road to Hoo House, though whether she would walk back up it again was a moot point. Perhaps Frost would pick her up in his long jaws and carry her home like a puppy?

We were the only walkers; a series of immaculate four-wheel-drive vehicles passed us, all converging on the nursery, each giant petrol-eater containing one adult and one mutinous infant.

Em strode through the decanted parents and offspring, grunting at anyone who dared to wish her a good morning, and dragging my reluctant self and the dogs with her.

Our resident luvvie, exiting too hastily from the doorway, fell over the entwined dog leads, gave me a look of surprise and then, collecting himself, strode off with a nod and a grunt as brusque as anything Em could produce.

‘Morning,’ said Em affably. I stared at her in amazement.

A small, bun-faced woman in riding breeches and Hunter wellies cantered out in hot pursuit, crying shrilly, ‘Oh, Mr North! Hef you got a minute?’