The Language of Spells (16 page)

Gwen woke up with Cam sprawled next to her, and felt cold air across her face. The cat was curled up at the foot of the bed, probably furious at having a strange man asleep in his rightful place, and the window was wide open. A few flakes of snow drifted over the sill and melted into the carpet.

Cat opened one yellow eye and then closed it again. No one in the house, Gwen thought, relieved. Then she thought: I have a guard cat. Couldn’t Iris have left her an Alsatian, instead? Knowing Lily, however, even a big dog wouldn’t be enough to dissuade her. She felt guilty at the thought. She was trying really hard not to listen to the gossip, to give Lily a fair go, but she couldn’t help remembering the manic glint in her eyes. The way her smile always looked frozen in place.

She sat up slowly, trying not to disturb Cam, and looked around the room. The lumpy shapes of furniture, the curtains blowing in the night air. What was with the window? Was it Iris? But why would Iris want her to keep going to the window in the middle of the night? Unless she just wanted to annoy her. That might be right. Irritating her great-niece from beyond the grave.

Gwen sighed, admitting to herself that she was going to have to get out of the warm bed and shut the window. It was another cold night and a bright half moon floated in a sea of ink. The familiar elements of the garden – the wall, the shrubs, trees and paths – appeared ghostly in the moonlight. The hedge on the left of the gate was like a hunched animal, bulky and bulbous. Gwen couldn’t see the lane from this angle, but the black expanse of the field stretched out, melting into the sky at the hidden horizon. ‘What do you want?’ Gwen was both surprised and pleased to hear the words out loud. Her voice was quiet and even; she sounded in control.

Out of the shadows, shapes formed. They became lumpy figures, lumbering from the gate and down the path towards the house. A parade of vaguely humanoid forms, heading for the back door.

Gwen felt the ice trickle of fear, but she made herself stare directly into the garden. They were the kind of thing that was terrifying when glimpsed out of the corner of your eye but when viewed head on revealed themselves to be illusion. The shapes continued forward, seeming to become more solid and threatening as the panic rose in her throat, choking her. Oddly, she heard her mother’s voice. A memory of Gloria calmly explaining the charm for phantasms. She said that they increased in proportion to the victim’s own fear and were dispelled by simple wishing.

The figure at the front of the pack was growing taller, lengthening and becoming more human. A ghostly light glowed from inside the shape, illuminating a face that had become the boy’s. Puffy and white, the way it had looked when Gwen had found him. He opened his mouth wide and black water gushed out.

‘No. Go away,’ Gwen said aloud, not really expecting it to work. ‘You are not real,’ she added, wishing as hard as she could. The shapes dissolved.

Gwen took one last look at the now-empty path, closed the window and got back into bed. She was cold and shaking. Cat opened his eyes and let his disgust at being disturbed be known via the medium of unearthly screeching. Cam turned over and smiled at her sleepily in the half-dark. ‘Hello,’ he said. Then, ‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine,’ Gwen said. ‘Bad dream.’ Someone was out there in the dark, casting a spell and sending phantasms to her house to frighten her. Maybe it was the man who’d broken into her house. Trying to frighten her out of the house, maybe even out of town. Or, more likely, it was the person who had helped Marilyn Dixon hex Brian. What had Iris written?
There’s nothing worse than a frustrated witch?

She decided to worry about it in the morning. In the daylight, when everything would seem more manageable. Besides, right at this moment, she had Cameron Laing in her bed. She stretched out alongside him, feeling all the places in which they fitted together.

He pulled her closer and, for a while, they didn’t say anything else.

Gwen was too hot. Extraordinarily comfortable, yes, but definitely too hot. As her brain woke up, she realised that Cameron Laing was wrapped around her in the soft bed under approximately a thousand blankets. She shifted slightly and watched Cam wake up to the same realisation. She watched his expression turn from sleepy to alarmed and sat up first so that she wouldn’t have to feel him pulling his arm out from underneath her.

Cam stumbled out of bed, pulling on his trousers before facing Gwen. ‘Bathroom,’ he said and Gwen nodded. She tried to adjust her expression to something relaxed and unconcerned, but she had the words,
Don’t run away,
on a loop and didn’t want to blurt them out.

Gwen listened to the water running in the bathroom next door and then a light thumping sound. Perhaps Cam was banging his head against the wall. Gwen tried to smile, but it wasn’t at all funny.

After a couple of minutes he sidled back into the bedroom. He located his shirt and socks and, without looking directly at Gwen, said, ‘I’d better get to the office.’

‘It’s seven o’clock.’ Gwen kept her voice neutral.

He gave an unconvincing laugh. ‘No rest for the wicked.’

‘Okay,’ Gwen said. ‘Would you like breakfast before you go?’

‘No. No, thanks. I’ll get something on my way to the office.’

‘Okay,’ Gwen said again.

Cam was halfway out of the door when he paused. ‘I’ll call you.’

‘Don’t say that,’ Gwen said.

‘What?’

‘Don’t say “I’ll call you” like that. Like I’m a one-night stand.’

‘What do you want me to say?’ Cam turned back, the frown that she was so used to seeing now back with a vengeance. ‘Forget the past; we hardly know each other now. What do you expect me to say? Let’s get back together. Let’s pretend the last thirteen years didn’t happen? Let’s pretend you didn’t run away from me the moment things got tricky?’

‘Goodbye,’ Gwen said. ‘You’re supposed to say “goodbye”. Closure, remember?’

He swallowed. ‘Goodbye, Gwen Harper.’

‘Goodbye, Cameron Laing.’

Katie stuffed her hated backpack into the metal box and closed the locker door. When she turned around, she very nearly fell over. Luke Taylor was leaning up against the lockers a few feet away, and he was looking straight at her. Was he waiting for someone? Was he really looking at her? Or perhaps he was in a daydream and doing that looking-but-not-seeing thing. Should she say ‘hi’? If he blanked her, she would die. It was better not to risk it. She turned to walk in the other direction. The wrong way from the dinner hall, but never mind.

‘Hey.’

His voice was just behind her, and with two long strides he was alongside her.

‘Don’t run away.’

She glanced up, hardly believing her eyes. ‘I wasn’t. I was just—’

‘Look. I didn’t have anything to do with … the other day.’

Katie hesitated, trying to work out what he meant. Will Jones. ‘Oh, I know. It’s fine.’ She paused, knowing she was blushing. She forced an unconcerned, hard voice. ‘He’s a twat, though.’

Luke shrugged. A few more steps and Luke stopped. ‘Aren’t you going to eat?’

Katie did her best coolly disinterested look. One she’d practiced. As if eating was vulgar and for lesser beings than herself. Imogen was always saying that boys liked girls who didn’t eat.

Luke just looked confused. ‘Oh. Okay.’

‘You go on, though.’ Like she was giving him permission. She wanted to punch herself in the face.

His lips quirked up. ‘Thanks. I will.’ He hit himself in the chest. ‘Growing boy, you know. Need to keep my strength up.’

Katie nodded. Tried a smile. ‘Well, see ya.’

‘Later.’ And he was gone, loping down the corridor.

At End House, Gwen was sitting up in bed, trying not to mind that Cam had bolted. She stroked the back of Cat’s head, setting up a whole-body purring that sounded like a Boeing 747 taking off. She flipped through Iris’s notebook, wondering if Iris had some excellent remedy for the pain in her heart. She read random entries, wondering what she should do with them all. There was a wealth of information and, although she would let Patrick Allen see them over her dead body, it seemed somehow wrong to let them just gather dust.

Thursday 24
^th
March. Saw L again today. His pneumonia is no better and he still refuses to go into hospital. Mrs L distraught in that peculiarly constipated way she has.

Well, perhaps that entry wasn’t worth saving for posterity. Gwen stopped reading and half-threw the book, sending it skidding across the splintered surface of the quilt. The journal was floppy with age and use, its pages splaying out where it came to rest. Gwen couldn’t stand to see it like that, spread open uncomfortably. Almost naked. She shifted forwards and reached out. Then stopped. What had looked like a doodle and a load of nonsensical symbols – what Gwen had taken as a private shorthand – resolved itself into readable English. She leaned over and retrieved the book, her eyes scanning the words quickly.

The slugs are coming in under the door, coming right into my kitchen. When even the invertebrates are ignoring your authority, you know you’re in trouble. I’m in trouble. I’m frightened, but mainly I’m just so tired. I think I might be leaving sooner than I expected. I’ve left some insurance – more for Gwen than myself – but it all depends on the perception of the thing. If people think you’re powerful, then you usually are. Perhaps that’s where I’m going wrong with the slugs. They don’t think enough to be frightened of me.

And a picture of a rabbit wearing a striped beanie hat that would not resolve itself into anything else, no matter how hard Gwen squinted at it. She stopped squinting and closed her eyes. She felt cold all over. Poor Iris. It was a complicated kind of sympathy, though. The journals and messages were a window into the past and she couldn’t deny that they made her feel special, wanted, but windows were a two-way deal. She felt hemmed in. Watched. The phone rang, making her jump.

‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘Hello, Ruby,’ Gwen said. ‘How are you?’

‘How could you?’ Ruby’s voice was tight.

‘How could I what?’

‘The paper. Have you seen it yet?’

‘What? No. I just got out of bed.’

‘Well, go and get a copy. I hope you’ll be very happy.’

‘Ruby…’ Gwen started, but Ruby had already hung up. Marvellous.

Gwen got dressed in warm clothes and walked to the corner shop. John was leaning on the counter, engrossed in a hardback book. He looked up and smiled at Gwen.

‘Just this, thanks.’ Gwen scooped
The Chronicle
off the stand.

‘Good publicity for you in there.’ John nodded at the paper.

‘Oh Christ,’ Gwen said.

‘You show those snotty bastards on the other side of the river,’ John said. ‘I think it’s a cracking idea.’

Gwen said goodbye and began flicking through the paper on the way back to the house. She found it on page six. A discussion of the proposed folk festival, very much from Patrick Allen’s point of view. A photograph of a tatty-looking market stall in the middle of the article had the caption: ‘
Threatening local businesses and lowering the tone?’
. Subtle.

Back at the house, Gwen made herself a strong cup of coffee and read the entire article. She was featured as:
‘the latest in a long line of “alternatives” who have chosen Pendleford as their base of operations. While having an “art” community in the town is welcomed by a minority, there are many who feel Pendleford should be dragged into the twenty-first century, and those of the so-called sub-culture are counterproductive to this aim.’

Well, Patrick Allen didn’t waste time. Gwen was annoyed to find she was upset; not about the article, but Ruby’s reaction. She grabbed Iris’s journal again, feeling the comforting weight of the paper in her hand. Iris had opinions on everything; surely she had something to say about dealing with sibling lunacy. Or… the thought crept in. Perhaps she had a spell that would change Ruby’s mind. Make her accept Gwen. Be a better sister. She flipped the book open.

A change of heart. To ease a confession, add thyme to well-brewed tea and wait quarter of an hour. Changing long held opinions is surprisingly easy. Wrap a single hair around a pebble and concentrate on the desired option. Place under the person’s bed and after three nights they will hold the thought as their own.

Iris had scored out a few lines after this and then added in tiny, scrunched-up writing that Gwen almost couldn’t read:

NB: Changing behaviour is not same thing as changing heart. When you pull the strings, does the puppet want to dance?

Gwen placed the book down carefully. She laced her fingers in her lap and tried to pretend that her insides weren’t fizzing. She hated to admit it, but being the puppet master had a certain attraction. She’d never do anything malicious, of course. She could get people to always be polite, though. She hated it when people pushed ahead in queues or didn’t say please and thank you. She could make sure Katie never got on a motorbike or into a car with a drunk seventeen-year-old or took Ketamine in a dodgy club.

She could make Ruby embrace magic. Accept her. Make her see how wrong she’d been. Maybe make her a little bit sorry.

Six years of running Curious Notions, and Gwen still couldn’t predict whether she would have a good day or not. Places that seemed to tick all the boxes – arty communities, plenty of money – could be quiet as the grave, and community centre craft drives sometimes surprised you. At the latter, it only took one or two customers to fall in love with the stall and they’d buy up half the stock. That was the curse and the blessing of her ‘quirky’ USP. If you liked it, you loved it, and if you didn’t, well … Like the man who had paused by the stall, now. Gwen carried on fixing her Chinese lantern fairy lights to the top bar and ignored his expression of abject horror. Finally it morphed into confused amusement. He pointed at Hetty, a bit of taxidermy which Gwen had accessorised with a feather boa and fascinator. ‘That’s disrespectful.’

‘Each to their own,’ Gwen said. She gave him a big smile. ‘Personally, I think it’s jaunty.’

The man shook his head and continued to the next stall. Luckily, Gwen was next to a farmhouse produce stand filled with jams, preserves and chutneys and the man proceeded to salve his wounded sensibilities with some free samples.

Once he’d moved on, Gwen took the opportunity to catch the jam-stand-owner’s eye and smile. It was always good to make friends with your neighbours. They could be an extra pair of eyes when watching out for thieves and might, if you were lucky, offer to watch your stall while you took a loo break.

‘Are you open?’

Gwen turned to find a guy in his early twenties staring intently at his shoes. She looked around and, not seeing anyone else, assumed it was the greasy-haired shoe fetishist that had spoken. She put down the tangle of yet-to-be-fixed lights. ‘Sure am. Can I help at all?’

‘I want to get something for my girlfriend.’

‘Okay.’ Gwen nodded encouragingly and was rewarded with a darting look from beneath a fringe of lank black hair. ‘What sort of stuff does she like?’

The man shrugged. He reached out a finger towards a blue-striped teapot, but stopped just short of touching it and snatched his hand back.

‘Pick up anything you like,’ Gwen said. ‘Take a closer look.’ It was a fact that people were more likely to buy once they’d held something. The balance of energy shifted, or something. Iris would’ve known.

‘Does she like china?’

He shook his head.

‘How about jewellery? Or an accessory? I’ve got some beautiful scarves at the moment.’ She picked up a silk Liberty print and held it out.

Out came the finger again, he reached it out and touched the fabric once, then withdrew. And cleared his throat. ‘She’s not exactly my girlfriend yet.’

‘Right.’

‘I need something that’ll make her like me.’

‘Well, a gift is always nice. And well done for not going for something generic.’

He frowned. ‘Huh?’

‘You know. Red roses. Box of chocolates. It’s good you’re going for something individual. Shows imagination.’

‘I already gave her flowers.’ The man looked wounded. ‘I think the florist put in some chocolates.’

‘And I’m sure she loved them,’ Gwen said robustly. She scanned the gathering crowd for punters. This guy didn’t seem like a buyer. ‘Can you see anything that reminds you of her?’

‘Is that important?’

‘For a really great gift? Yeah.’

‘I don’t know.’ He picked up a yellow crochet beret. ‘How about this?’

‘Does she like yellow?’ Gwen held up a hand. ‘Don’t say you don’t know. Think. Have you ever seen her wearing yellow?’

He paused, the gears of thought clearing turning behind slightly glazed eyes. It took a while. Finally, he shook his head.

‘What colours does she wear?’

His eyes almost crossed with the effort.

Gwen couldn’t stand it any longer. ‘Does she have a hobby? Does she like films? Music? Modern dance?’

His eyes widened. ‘She likes dancing. How did you know?’

Gwen frowned. ‘I didn’t; I said—’

‘Salsa!’

Gwen dropped her pen. ‘Pardon?’

‘She likes salsa dancing. She told me.’ A fine mist of spittle accompanied his excitement.

‘Perfect,’ Gwen said, leaning back a little. ‘What colour’s her hair?’

‘Black. Like mine.’

Gwen privately hoped, for the mystery girl’s sake, that it wasn’t too much like his. She selected a 1950s hair slide, jewelled with shiny black stones and sprouting a vibrant red flower and a bow of black and white polka-dot ribbon. She held it up. ‘For when she’s dancing.’

‘Can you wrap it?’

‘Sure.’ Gwen folded the turquoise tissue paper, slipping in her ‘thank you for your purchase’ card amongst the layers, and tying the parcel with silver twine.

The guy had his parcel and he had his change, but still he hesitated.

‘Was there something else?’

‘Will it work?’ he said in a rush. ‘Will it make her like me?’

‘It’s a nice gift. I’m sure she’ll like it.’

‘I need her to start liking me really, really quick. That’s why I came to you.’

‘It’s just a hair slide,’ Gwen said slowly. ‘It’s not magic.’

‘Okay.’ He was nodding fast now, and starting to look a little crazy. ‘You can’t talk about it. That’s cool. I get it.’

‘Excuse me?’ A woman in a green raincoat was pointing at a cake stand made out of vintage crockery and glassware. ‘Can I buy that plate?’

‘Not just the plate, I’m afraid; it’s all stuck together. It’s a cake stand.’

‘Oh.’ The woman looked inordinately pissed off.

‘I have other plates,’ Gwen began, but the woman had already gone.

Gwen sold a clown figurine that she’d been wishing she’d never picked up and a watercolour snow scene in a blue frame, then a girl and her mother paused to browse. The girl had a sheet of fine light brown hair that fell in a curtain, obscuring her face. Her mother was berating her in a carrying whisper. ‘Where’s your scrunchie? You look like a retard.’

The girl jerked as if an electric current had passed through her, then her shoulders hunched.

‘How much is this?’ The mother picked up an onyx paperweight, hefting it in one hand, as if considering it as a weapon.

‘Five pounds,’ Gwen said, resisting the urge to disarm the woman.

‘And what does it do?’

Gwen blinked. ‘It’s a paperweight.’ Saturday in Pendleford was obviously the day for double-dose crazy.

‘Yes, but—’ the woman leaned across the trestle table and lowered her voice ‘what does it do?’

Gwen leaned forward and lowered her voice to match. ‘It. Weighs. Paper. Down.’

The woman straightened, but kept up eye contact in a disturbingly focused way. ‘I need something that will give her—’ she jerked her head in her daughter’s direction ‘confidence. She’s too shy. She’ll never get on in life if she doesn’t snap out of it.’

‘I’m not sure that a paperweight is going to do the trick.’

‘Okay. What then? I thought I had to pick up the first thing that caught my eye.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘That’s what I heard. Am I wrong? Do you choose? Or are certain things good for particular problems? Like, I don’t know, earrings for better hearing.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Gwen managed. ‘I’m really not sure—’

‘It’s for my daughter.’ The woman had lost patience now, and was looking increasingly angry.

Struggling for safer ground, Gwen addressed the girl. ‘Do you want to choose something, honey?’

‘That makes sense,’ the woman said, making none herself. She prodded the girl. ‘Abigail, do as the lady says.’

A sliver of pink face appeared from behind the hair curtain and Gwen gave it an encouraging smile. ‘What kind of thing would you like? Something to wear? Something for your room?’

Abigail opened her mouth, but her mother was already speaking. ‘There’s no point asking her. She’s too shy to speak to strangers.’

The girl’s head was turned to the left and Gwen looked too, trying to guess what she was after. There was a 1920s necklace tree, draped with costume jewellery, a pile of silk scarves and handkerchiefs, and a variety of flowery china. ‘Do you like bright colours?’

The girl shrugged, but her hand had reached out and was touching a long necklace of multi-coloured glass beads. ‘You can try that on, if you like. I’ve got a mirror.’ She reached down and picked up the looking glass she kept for just such occasions.

‘She won’t wear that. She only likes black and grey. Drab things so she won’t get noticed.’ Gwen was royally fed up with the mother’s voice and she’d only been enduring it for five minutes. God alone knew how Abigail coped. ‘Like it would kill her to wear something light for once. Maybe a pastel blue or a nice lemon.’

Gwen saw Abigail’s eyes close and her heart went out to her. ‘How about something for your room? No one has to see it unless you want them to, then.’

Abigail nodded, so tightly and quickly Gwen almost didn’t catch it. ‘May I look at that?’ The girl’s voice was quiet but steady. It was lower than Gwen expected too, and she reassessed the girl’s age. Abigail was pointing to a stripy crochet blanket Gwen had finished only the night before. ‘It’s handmade, but it’s not vintage,’ she said, handing it over. Abigail all but snatched the blanket and held it close.

‘A blanket? How old are you?’

‘It’s a throw,’ Abigail said. ‘For my bed. I like it.’

‘Fine.’ Her mother expelled a big sigh, as if the girl had demanded crack cocaine. ‘On your own head be it.’ She turned to Gwen. ‘This had better work.’

Gwen took the money, wrapped the blanket and said goodbye, all the while trying to decide if she was morally obligated to explain to the woman that the blanket wasn’t magical; it didn’t fly or anything.

By half three, the crowd had thinned considerably. The clouds had lowered, bringing a premature twilight and layer of damp to the proceedings. No one browsed in bad weather and she’d had a good day, so Gwen began to pack up.

‘Quitting?’ Mary-Anne from next door raised her eyebrows. ‘I never leave early. I always convince myself that I’ll miss the biggest sale of the day. Are you coming next month?’

‘Yes.’ Gwen realised that the word made her happy. She was coming to the same spot next month. An easy commute from her home, not miles and miles in Nanette, swearing over her road map and promising herself that she would splash out on a satnav for the next trip.

‘See you in December.’

Mary-Anne gave her a thumbs-up, then turned back to a customer.

Katie was sick of people keeping secrets from her. She watched her mother tuck the copy of
The Chronicle
underneath a pile of magazines and asked her what was wrong. Her mother just said, ‘Nothing,’ which was clearly a lie.

‘Was it something in the paper? Or are you still arguing with Auntie Gwen?’

‘It’s nothing,’ her mother said again. ‘And we’re not arguing.’

Still lying.

‘I’m going to fix dinner,’ her mother said, getting up from the sofa. ‘Can you set the table, please?’

Katie followed her mum into the kitchen to get the cutlery. She wished she’d stop pretending that she wasn’t still fighting with Auntie Gwen. She was going to drive her away, just like last time. Katie curled her fingers over and dug them into her palms.

Her mother refused to talk about the weird stuff that happened in their family. Gwen was her only chance. Her mother was determined to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary ever happened to the Harpers, like it was a
bad
thing.

She’d heard her mother and Auntie Gwen arguing about it often enough. Before Gwen had disappeared, she remembered the big fight they’d had, but her mum refused to discuss it. Katie wanted to tell her that she knew that Gwen could find lost things and that Gran told fortunes – real ones – and that Gran’s mother had been able to talk to the dead. She wanted to tell Ruby that she was young, not stupid. Or deaf.

Katie laid out the cutlery and placemats and filled water glasses.

‘How was school?’ Ruby asked, scraping chopped onions into a pan.

‘Fine,’ Katie said automatically. She needed to make things more welcoming for Gwen. Maybe if her and Ruby got on better, she’d stay.

‘Can we invite Auntie Gwen for dinner?’

Her mother’s head jerked up. She looked at Katie for a moment, then said, ‘Sure.’

Katie thought about Luke Taylor. Gwen would definitely stay if she fell in love.

‘Do you know any cute single guys?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Ruby stopped stirring onions and looked at Katie.

‘Not for me,’ she said. ‘For Auntie Gwen. You should set her up on a blind date. It’s sad that she’s on her own.’ Katie opened her eyes as wide as possible, aiming for an innocent look.

‘I’m not sure she is,’ Ruby said. ‘There might be something going on with Cameron Laing. He was her boyfriend a long time ago.’

‘Perfect. Invite him, then.’

‘Why are you so interested?’ Ruby said.

‘She’s family. It’s nice to look after your family, isn’t it?’

‘I guess,’ Ruby said, the frown still in place.

‘That’s settled, then,’ Katie said, and left the room before her mother could change her mind.