Somebody Stop Ivy Pocket (10 page)

Extraordinary! It was as if Ambrose Crabapple were speaking directly to me. What a delightful coincidence! I satisfied every one of his three conditions – I could see ghosts, I knew exactly what hidden world I was seeking, and I had a direct connection to Prospa, for my beloved Rebecca was being kept prisoner there.

Now all I needed was a way in. My heart thumped furiously as I read the final passage. It was a list –

The rules are very simple.

1)
The veil must be lifted at night, preferably on a half-moon, although entry is possible under any moon for gifted travellers.

2)
Concentration is the key.

3)
Fix your gaze upon a single point.

4)
Focus on what connects you to the world beyond the world.

5)
Focus until everything around that single point begins to fall away.

6)
Strong emotion is the hand that lifts the veil.

7)
When you travel it will feel as if your body has crossed into this other world, but it has not. Only your soul journeys across unseen borders and you cannot be harmed.

8)
Once lifted do not stay longer than thirty minutes.

9)
Go bravely.

I dropped the parchment and rushed to the window, drawing back the curtain. The sky was black and empty. If there was a moon, I couldn’t see it from my vantage point. Which is why I fished out the Clock Diamond from under my nightdress – it showed a full moon. Terribly inconvenient! To lift the veil, I needed a
half-
moon. Although Ambrose Crabapple did say that for gifted lifters, travel was possible under any moon.

Time to get to work. I hid the manuscript away in a drawer beneath my undergarments. Took a wooden chair from against the wall and set it in the middle of the room. Sat upon it and focused on the picture above the dresser – it was another of Mother Snagsby’s portraits of her daughter, Gretel. She looked to be about eighteen, laughing madly as she stood in a gloriously flowering garden. Gretel had a full face, blushing cheeks, dark hair, pleasant smile.

It was slightly odd to me that someone as ancient as Mother Snagsby had a daughter so young – but perhaps she only looked like a weather-beaten coconut due to questionable skincare. Or a witch’s curse.

Remembering all that I had read, I fixed my eyes on the painting and kept them trained there. Then in the wonderlands
of my mind, I found Rebecca, pictured her in that yellow room, looking so fragile and wounded. And the pain in her eyes.

‘I am coming, dear,’ I whispered.

For an age, nothing happened. I had been gazing into the portrait of Gretel for so long it was now something of a blur. But I kept Rebecca in mind. And Prospa. Kept staring. Until the walls around me seemed to ripple and bend. I felt a burning in my chest as the Clock Diamond came to life. A faint buzzing filled the room. Then the painting began to melt, sliding from the canvas as if it were porridge.

From the corners of my vision I could see dressers and curtains and doors dissolving around me, like the world was falling away. The painting was now nothing more than a gold frame and through it, I saw a single tree bloom. It was stark white, with bare, twisted limbs, and it seemed to have a lantern within it, for it glowed hauntingly.

Behind the tree, the ground began to shake and crack. Then a great forest of pale trees rose up. The buzzing grew louder, tickling my ears. And the heat of the stone burned my chest, throwing pulsing amber light into my face. I watched in wonder as –

A key turned sharply in the lock. The handle twisted.

As the door to my bedroom flew open, the walls of my room flew up around me. The painting of Gretel bled quickly across
the canvas, filling itself in. The buzzing ceased. The Clock Diamond dimmed. The veil had fallen.

‘What in heavens is going on, young lady?’ Mother Snagsby stalked into the bedroom and stood above me. ‘Explain yourself!’

‘Explain what, dear?’

‘That wretched noise,’ she spat, looking about with great suspicion, ‘and the light coming from underneath your door.’ She dropped down and looked under the bed. Got up again and searched the wardrobe. ‘It looked as if you had a dozen streetlamps in here.’

I stood up. ‘As you can see, Mother Snagsby, there are no streetlamps. As for the noise you heard, that was just me. I spent a few months in an ashram last summer – met a wonderful yogi who taught me how to chant. Delightful fellow. Spoke in tongues. Only ate birdseed.’

‘The Snagsbys do not
chant
, so stop it this instant.’

‘If you say so, dear.’

When Mother Snagsby had departed, with strict instructions that I go to bed and stay there, I returned to the centre of the room. Sat down. Stared at the portrait of Gretel. Thought of Rebecca. I could hear Mother Snagsby pacing up and down the hall outside. But I gazed and gazed into the painting until my eyes watered. Tried to block out the old goat’s footsteps. Waited
for the portrait to melt. For the walls to drop. For the woodlands to rise before me. But the world did not fall away. Though I cannot say the same for my spirits.

‘What are you up to?’

‘Not a thing,’ was my reply.

Mother Snagsby’s battered face was a mask of mistrust. She was still smarting about last night. Certain that I was up to something dastardly.

‘It seems to me,’ she declared, getting up from the breakfast table, ‘that you are forever on the brink of some calamity. You
cannot
be trusted.’

The nerve! How could she accuse me of being deceitful, simply because I was keeping things from her? Last night had been far more upsetting for me than it was for Mother Snagsby. While I was still bitterly disappointed that I had been unable to reach Rebecca, I was comforted by the fact that
something
had happened. But I feared that my bedroom was not the best location, given the noise and the glowing of the stone.

I would have to find somewhere else on my next attempt. In the meantime, I was feeling rather giddy about the day ahead.

‘I have a good mind to cancel Mrs Roach’s visit,’ said Mother Snagsby sternly.

‘That would be a great shame, dear,’ I said, putting down my napkin. ‘I’m practically positive that I would take the news rather badly – probably refuse to visit the deathbeds of your many valuable customers.’

Mother Snagsby bristled in a glorious fashion. But she was beaten and she knew it. ‘They may come for a
brief
visit, but it will be a very modest affair. Tuesday is market day and Mrs Dickens has more important things to do than wait upon us all afternoon.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ I said, getting up. ‘As you said, Mrs Dickens will be at the market so
I
will be seeing to all the preparations.’

Mother Snagsby looked startled. ‘You?’

‘I have everything planned – first I will run you a bath, then I will clean the upstairs drawing room, then I will prepare some tasty treats for our visitors.’

For a few delicious moments, Mother Snagsby seemed lost for words. Then the cold glint sparkled in her eyes. ‘I bathe in the
evenings
.’

Of course, I knew that. For I was the one who fetched bucketloads of hot water to fill her bath. ‘Yes, dear, but as we are having guests today and you are looking particularly haggard, I decided that a long, hot bath was the very least you deserve.’

The old woman huffed. ‘Is that so?’

But I sensed a moment of weakness and lunged. ‘You do so much, Mother Snagsby,’ I said, looking wonderfully earnest, ‘working your horrid fingers to the bone. Isn’t it a daughter’s duty to take care of her mother?’

As I suspected, this had a winning effect.

Mother Snagsby looked at me with the sort of admiration she usually reserved for quality bacon. ‘I am pleased to hear it, young lady.’

‘Do hurry along!’ barked Mother Snagsby as I entered the bathroom carrying the final bucket of hot water. ‘This bath is like ice!’

Which was complete nonsense. The water was perfectly warm. But that was the problem with Mother Snagsby – she had a fondness for complaint. And I understood why. It was all on account of that recipe book she kept hidden in the pocket of her dress. The one that she never,
ever
cooked from.

‘This should make things better,’ I said, pouring the hot water into the bath.

‘I suppose it will have to do,’ came Mother Snagsby’s stiff reply.

Poor creature. The truth was, she hadn’t the courage to cook from that treasured book of delicious dishes, fearing that she would be unable to make those recipes taste like her mother or grandmother used to make. Naturally, she was crestfallen. Incapable of recreating the flavours of her childhood. And that is why she was such an insufferable fathead.

But I was about to change all of that. All I needed was her recipe book. Which was concealed somewhere in the dress hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Right where Mother Snagsby could see it from her position in the tub.

‘Now I must insist that you relax, Mother Snagsby,’ I said, putting down the bucket. ‘Close your eyes. Have a sleep.’

‘Impossible,’ snapped Mother Snagsby. ‘Sleep does not come easily to me, never has.’

That was true enough. The poor creature spent half the night pacing the halls.

‘Then you are in luck, dear,’ I said, fishing a small bunch of mint leaves from my apron. ‘For I have an excellent remedy for insomnia. You will sleep like a baby in its mother’s arms.’

‘Will I indeed?’

I sprinkled the peppermint leaves into the bath.

‘Breathe deeply, dear,’ I instructed. ‘The peppermint is stupendously soothing.’

She closed her eyes, resting her head on the back of the bathtub.

‘Now begin counting backwards from ten,’ I said, stepping behind her and picking up the empty bucket. ‘Nature will take care of the rest.’

‘That’s it?’ she sniffed. ‘A few mint leaves and some counting –
that’s
your miraculous remedy?’

‘Some of my patients report a slight stinging sensation before the delights of a deep sleep wash over them, but it will soon pass.’

Mother Snagsby eyes shot open. ‘Stinging? What’s going to sting?’

I swung the bucket at the back of her head. It seemed just the right moment. Mother Snagsby’s head flew forward, then flopped back just as quickly. I thrust my hand behind her neck and eased her lumpy skull gently against the edge of the bath – for I have all the natural instincts of a guardian angel.

With Mother Snagsby was out cold, I dashed across the bathroom and thrust my hand into the pockets of her dress. A winning smile creased my lips as I pulled out a rather drab pocketbook. On the front, in faded print, were the words –
Augusta Snagsby’s Family Recipes
. Wonderful! And on the side, a thick brass lock denying entry. Heartbreaking!

But I was confident that with a butter knife I could force it open.

‘You will thank me for this, dear,’ I told the unconscious grumbler, as I closed the door carefully behind me and set off at speed for the kitchen. And as I went I could only marvel at my own tender heart. For never has a bucket to the head been delivered with such loving kindness.