The Language Of Spells

Chapter 3

Gwen ate her pasta and drank a glass of red wine, but she didn’t feel any better. Marilyn Dixon. The name seemed oddly familiar. Against her better judgement, Gwen fetched Iris’s notebook and opened it at random. It was disturbing how easily she found an entry about Marilyn. Almost as if the book was being deliberately helpful.

Marilyn Dixon was here again about dry patches on her cheeks. That woman sees problems where there are none. I gave her tincture of rose for her nerves and told her it would give her the skin of a fourteen-year-old.

Gwen flipped the book shut and put it in the bread bin so that she couldn’t see it any more. If she couldn’t see it, she wouldn’t be tempted to read it. She needed to stay strong. Don’t get sucked in.

She also needed to repay Lily for the casserole and the soup, and something told her that a packet of HobNobs wouldn’t cut it in Pendleford. She baked a couple of fruit cakes, steadfastly ignoring the siren song of the notebook. She vacuumed the living room and plumped the thin cushions on the sofa. It just looked sadder and quieter, and the cat wouldn’t settle. He kept crying to be let out and, sixty seconds later, crying to be let back in. By the tenth round, Gwen was losing her patience.

‘For the love of—’ Gwen flung open the back door, ready to sit the cat down for a serious heart-to-heart vis-à-vis the wisdom of pissing off his source of food and shelter. ‘Oh.’

‘Don’t leave me out in this cold; I’ll catch my death. And you’re letting all your heating out.’ The man was at least a hundred years old, his face scrunched-up like a used Kleenex.

Gwen stepped back and he made his way up the step and into the warmth of the kitchen.

‘I need Iris,’ he said, taking the comfy chair.

‘Course you do,’ Gwen said. She flicked the switch on the kettle. ‘Tea?’

‘This isn’t a social visit.’

‘Fine.’ Gwen sat opposite him. ‘You are aware that I’m not Iris?’

‘I’m not senile.’ The man glowered at her. ‘I went to her funeral. You don’t get up after one of those.’

‘Not usually, no. What can I do for you?’

The man looked down, his face abruptly red. He didn’t answer.

‘The thing is, as we’ve already established, I’m not Iris, so I probably can’t help you anyway. You’re better off going to the chemist. Or the doctor. Or A&E.’ Not my bloody kitchen.

He looked up. ‘You’re turning me away?’

‘No. It’s not like that. But I can see it’s something you’re embarrassed about and if you do tell me, I’m not sure it’ll be worth it as I don’t know how I could help. I run a crafts and antiques stall and I barely knew my great-aunt and I’ve just moved in and people keep turning up and won’t leave me alone.’

The man chewed his lip. ‘Iris mixed me a cream. It soothed my chilblains.’

‘Chilblains?’ What was embarrassing about poor circulation?

He nodded defiantly.

‘The problem is, I don’t know how to make the cream. And there wasn’t anything left in her work room. It was cleaned out as far as I could tell. I don’t even know what’s in it. I don’t know where to start.’

The man got creakily to his feet saying, ‘I won’t bother you again.’

Gwen felt like hell. ‘Won’t you stay for a cup of tea, at least?’

‘I won’t bother you,’ he said again, his mouth set into a stubborn line.

‘I really am sorry.’ Then Gwen spotted the fruit cakes she’d just taken out of the oven. She got one of the tins down from the cupboard.

‘Take this.’

‘What is it?’

‘Fruit cake. Drop the tin back to me when you’ve finished.’

‘Will it help my chilblains?’

‘No, no. I just feel bad about you coming out in this cold and—’

The man had the tin and was tucking it noisily into a carrier bag that had appeared from his coat pocket.

He stuck out his hand and they shook awkwardly. ‘I’m Fred Byres. Number six Meadowmead.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Gwen said.

He raised a hand and disappeared down the path at a surprisingly fast clip, rustling.

Gwen took a deep breath and then dialled the number on the solicitor’s letterhead and asked for Cam. When she heard his voice, she sagged against the wall.

‘It’s Gwen. Harper.’

His voice changed, went tight. She couldn’t blame him. He’d made it quite clear that he was still angry with her for the way she’d left things all those years ago. Time heals was a big fat lie. ‘I was wondering if I could talk to you about my aunt.’ She looked around the hallway; the doors leading off were like eyes watching her. ‘I feel a bit weird living in her house when I didn’t know her. I’ve been sorting through her stuff and it just feels wrong. I feel like an intruder.’

‘So go home.’ Cam’s voice was flat.

‘I don’t want to,’ she said carefully. No need to explain that she didn’t have one. Or, rather, End House was it. ‘I’m going to stay.’

Cam didn’t say anything and Gwen could almost hear his sneer down the line.

‘At least for the time being,’ she added, wishing with all her being that he wasn’t so hostile. Or that it didn’t bother her so much.

‘Why don’t you ask your family? What about your mum?’

‘They didn’t get on. Something happened when I was a kid and we weren’t allowed to see her any more. We weren’t allowed to use her name, actually.’ Gwen forced a laugh to show she knew it sounded overblown and ridiculous. Not the kind of way that she, rational, normal, Gwen Harper would ever behave.

‘I didn’t know her very well,’ Cam said. ‘Just in a professional capacity.’

‘Please. Anything at all would help.’

‘Didn’t you say you live next door to her old carer? She’d know more than me.’

‘Cleaner. And I’d rather get a different viewpoint. I know it’s an imposition, but I won’t take up much of your time. I’ll come into town and we could have coffee. Or lunch. I’ll buy you lunch.’

‘Bribery is illegal, you know.’

Gwen smiled, relieved at the lightening in his tone. ‘Whatever it takes.’

There was a sudden loaded silence. Then she heard him sigh. ‘Tomorrow. One drink after work.’

‘That’s brilliant, thanks so much—’

He cut across her. ‘And you’re buying.’

The next day, Gwen parked Nanette as close as possible to the town centre, realising too late that she would’ve been better off just walking from the house. She ended up in a small pay and display car park, and trekked the mile to Cam’s office. Irritatingly, he was waiting inside his Lexus at the kerb. She pulled open the passenger door and he jumped slightly. ‘Hello.’

‘Is the pub far, because my car is practically back at End House, closest I could get.’

‘Oh, yes. Sorry. Parking is a pain.’

‘It’s fine,’ Gwen said, and got into the car. She needed to dial down the hostility, get things with Cam onto a polite, grown-up footing. He wasn’t looking at her, though, which was annoying. Then he spoke to the steering wheel. ‘I was just about to call you and cancel, actually.’

‘Oh?’

A high-pitched chiming noise interrupted them. Gwen winced and looked around for the source of the awful sound.

‘Yeah.’ He frowned. ‘That’s the seat belt warning.’

‘But we’re not moving.’

‘We could get rear-ended and you’d fly through the windscreen.’

Gwen put the belt on.

‘Anyway,’ he said, in what could only be a deliberately casual tone, ‘it’s been a mad day and I’m knackered.’

‘But this is the time we’re meeting. You couldn’t call to cancel at the exact time of the appointment. That’s not cancelling, that’s cutting the meeting short.’

‘Okay. Then I’m cutting our meeting short.’

Gwen made a show of looking at her watch. ‘One minute. That’s very, very short.’

‘I’m exhausted. We can do it another time.’

‘Fine,’ Gwen said tightly.

His shoulders sagged slightly. ‘I’ll give you a lift back to your car.’

‘Thank you.’

Cam drove carefully and in silence, keeping his eyes on the road. Gwen looked at him once, clocked the set of his jaw, the faint brush of stubble and the dark shadows under his eyes. He did look tired and he didn’t owe her a thing. He looked so familiar, she had to stop herself from reaching out and brushing a stray hair from his jacket. It was as if she’d been carrying around his image, tucked safely in a corner of herself, without even knowing it.

She looked out of the window instead. The tail end of the shopping crowd was straggling home and they passed a bus queue so full it was spilling into the street.

‘I don’t remember there being so many people.’

‘We kept different hours.’

That was true, she thought. She’d been half-halfheartedly completing her A levels while Cam was doing whatever mysterious things he got up to in the hours they were apart. She’d been out with a couple of friends, going from pub to pub, waiting for the clubs to open, and everywhere was packed. She’d gone to the beer garden in the Pig and Fiddle to see if she could find a seat and there he was. Sat on top of a bench, reading a paperback copy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. If he’d looked like a student from the university on the hill she’d have thought he was a pathetic poser. But he didn’t. He had scuffed black boots and narrow jeans that looked genuinely old and not ‘artfully distressed’ by some designer. He was wearing a faded black band T-shirt and his dark hair was falling into his face. He was completely absorbed in the book and didn’t look up when his companion spoke. His friend nudged him and he finally glanced up and Gwen realised that she had been standing still and gawping like a lovesick teenager. Which, she’d abruptly realised, was exactly what she had become.

It would always be something that Gwen would be grateful for. No agonised waiting, no sleepless nights, no wondering. One moment she was staring at Cam with the full knowledge that her world had tipped forwards, propelling her towards the man on the bench, and the next moment she was so close she was touching him and his hands were on her face, holding her gently while he kissed her, the paperback discarded on the bench next to them. At least, that was how she remembered it.

‘We did,’ she managed. ‘I don’t remember a lot of shopping trips.’

‘No,’ he said, his voice clipped, and she wondered if he was having a memory-fest, too. Probably not.

‘I need a drink,’ he said.

‘I would love a drink,’ Gwen said.

‘I have alcohol.’

That was more like it. ‘Is your place far?’

‘You know it: Widcombe Street.’

Gwen looked at him in horror. ‘You live with your mother?’

‘No!’ Cam said. ‘I have a flat. It’s self-contained. Separate entrance.’ He collected himself. ‘I have the top floor.’

‘Oh.’

‘Those houses are too big.’

‘Okay.’

‘And I needed somewhere to live while I was getting qualified.’

‘Right.’

‘And then I got the job at the firm and it seemed easier to stay.’

‘It’s really none of my business.’ Gwen paused. ‘How is your mother?’

He gave a wry smile. ‘The same.’

‘Super.’ She looked at her watch. ‘You know, I’ve just remembered I’ve got to be up early in the morning. I think I’ll just head home.’

‘Coward.’ Cam was smiling.

Gwen pulled a prim face. ‘I’m a very busy woman.’

‘You made this date.’

‘And you broke it. We’re even.’

There was a pause. ‘So, you’re really not coming for a drink? I have Southern Comfort.’

‘So do I and mine doesn’t come with a chaser of abject terror. Sorry.’

‘That’s okay,’ Cam said. ‘I’d forgotten how much you disliked her.’

Gwen sucked her breath in. ‘That’s it. Stop the car.’

‘What? No. We’re nearly there.’ And he was right; the entrance to the car park appeared. Cam flicked the indicator and slowed down.

‘Pull over. We need to talk.’

‘We’re already talking,’ Cam said, but he steered the car into the nearest available space.

By the time he cranked the handbrake and half-turned in his seat, an expression of patient confusion on his face, Gwen was furious. The words came out distinct and calm, though; she enunciated each one carefully. ‘It isn’t a question of my disliking your mother. She hates me.’

Cam smiled and shook his head slightly. ‘Come on now. She’s not a very warm person, but that’s a bit over-the-top.’

Gwen bit her tongue to keep the words She told me I was no good for you inside. She tasted blood. These things only worked if you did them for real.

Cam fidgeted, reaching into his pocket before withdrawing his hand empty.

‘You gave up, then,’ Gwen said. ‘Smoking.’

‘As soon as I realised I wasn’t actually immortal,’ Cam said, the corners of his mouth turning down in a sardonic smile.

Why did he have to look so good? ‘Yeah, that’s always a tough one,’ Gwen managed, after a pause.

There was silence again. Then Cam said, ‘It’s really weird to see you again.’

Weird. Nice.

‘It’s going to take a bit of adjustment.’

Gwen felt angry again. Something about his sensible phrasing pissed her off. ‘I didn’t ask to come back here. And I didn’t do it to mess with you or anything.’

Cam raised his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t say that you did.’

And there was that tone again. Gwen felt words building up, but she knew she wasn’t going to voice any of them. He was a stranger to her now. The silence stretched on. Gwen realised that she was physically incapable of looking at him. Incapable of speaking. And that if she stayed in that car for one second longer, she was going to start crying.

Across town, it was lunch break at Millbank Comprehensive and Katie was getting the third degree.

‘Does she turn people into frogs?’

‘Shut up.’

‘I heard she dances naked when it’s full moon.’

‘Seriously. Shut up.’

Katie stretched her long pale legs, inched her navy school skirt a little further up her thighs. She was sitting with her back against the gym and Imogen was lying flat out, face down, her head cradled in her hands.

‘Are they turning brown yet?’ Imogen asked.

Katie squinted at the backs of her friend’s calves; they were goose-pimpled in the cold air. ‘Not really.’ She didn’t know why they were attempting to tan in November. Imogen had said something about classy people getting brown in the winter.

‘It’s so hard to get the backs to turn, I wonder why.’ Imogen lifted her head and squinted at Katie. ‘You should start on them now.’

‘The fronts of mine haven’t changed yet. I don’t think I’ve got the kind of skin that goes brown.’ Katie looked at the smooth golden skin on Imogen’s wrists, then closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall.

‘We need baby oil. That’s what Leila uses,’ Imogen said. ‘Speeds up the tanning process.’ Leila was Imogen’s older sister. At sixteen, she was the fount of all Katie and Imogen’s knowledge regarding beauty tips, boys and sex.

‘Like basting a chicken,’ Katie offered.

‘Yuck. You’re gross.’ Imogen sat up cross-legged and began re-tying the sparkly black scarf around her neck. ‘Don’t you have Italian blood? You should tan in, like, two seconds.’

‘I take after my dad.’ Katie’s father had strawberry-blond hair, wide shoulders and a goofy smile. She hoped her colouring was their only similarity. ‘We shouldn’t be doing this, anyway.’ Katie said. ‘Sunbathing gives you cancer.’

‘Not in November. And we’re too young to get cancer, anyway,’ Imogen said, her voice full of certainty.

This was one of the things Katie liked best about Imogen. She was so pleasingly definite.

‘If they don’t turn in a week or so, I’d go for some fake tan, though. Otherwise you’ll have milk bottle legs.’

‘Can’t afford any.’ Katie said this automatically and felt a funny itch behind her left ear. She shook her head to dislodge the feeling. Truth was, she didn’t want to use fake tan. It had become bound up in her mind with girls-who-should-know-better and cheap clothes. Probably from her mum, who had a less pleasing kind of certainty.

‘You could get your aunt to magic you brown.’

This was something Katie liked less about Imogen. Her inability to leave a subject alone. She peered at Imogen’s exposed knees. ‘It might be the goose bumps, but that mole looks funny.’

‘Shut up,’ Imogen said, but she sat up and tugged her skirt a little lower. ‘So. What’s she like, anyway? My mum says she was a complete mental case at school.’

‘Boy alert,’ Katie said. She’d been trying to distract Imogen but, on second glance, she realised that the pack of boys crossing the yard contained the delicious form of Luke Taylor. Katie felt the familiar dipping sensation in her stomach.

Imogen followed her gaze. ‘Yum,’ she said. ‘I usually prefer older men, but even I have to admit that Luke is a Class-A hottie.’

‘I do have excellent taste,’ Katie said. ‘Now I just need him to realise I exist.’

‘You will,’ Imogen said. ‘And then he’ll fall for your extreme cuteness. And you and Luke can double-date with me and Gavin. It’ll be perfect.’

Katie smiled. It was a nice fantasy.

Chapter 4

Having spent the previous two days cleaning and moving bin bags around End House, Gwen had a touch of cabin fever. She also had to face the horrifying truth: she couldn’t ignore her business any longer. Gwen didn’t want to parcel up the customer’s order. She didn’t want to look at the last shadow box that she’d made, and she certainly didn’t want to remember how hopeful she’d been when she made it, before the final demands piled up and her eviction notice arrived like the Grim Reaper, but she didn’t have a choice. Curious Notions might’ve been as-good-as bankrupt, but she wasn’t going to let a customer down. The shadow box was a rare commission and the woman had wanted ‘something about love’ for a wedding anniversary. Gwen had created a miniature apothecary shop with rows of tiny bottles and jars. You needed a magnifying glass to read the labels, but there was ‘tincture of true love’ and ‘heart’s desire’ in amongst the foot powder and cough mixture.

Gwen was filing off the back edge of the box, making sure it was perfectly smooth, when a familiar figure appeared at the back door.

‘I’m going out,’ Gwen said, standing up. ‘Sorry.’

Lily stepped into the kitchen anyway, her smile as bright as ever. She ran one hand protectively over the Formica worktop as she looked around the room, seeming to take every detail in. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Fine.’ Gwen put down her file.

‘What’s that?’ Lily peered at the shadow box.

Gwen wanted to say ‘my art’, but didn’t want to sound like a pretentious twat. ‘It’s kind of an assemblage thing,’ she said. ‘It’s what I do. For money.’ Kind of.

‘What’s it for?’ Lily leaned over, her nose almost touching the Perspex front of the box.

‘Nothing. It’s just a decoration.’

‘Oh.’ Lily straightened up. ‘How much do you charge?’

Gwen blinked. ‘Sixty-five pounds. This one’s more because it was commissioned.’

‘Nice little earner.’ Lily gave her an approving nod.

‘Not really,’ Gwen said. The apothecary shop had taken over sixteen hours to make and the miniature till was an antique that had cost ten pounds. Gwen had a sudden flash of fury at herself. No wonder she was broke. What was wrong with her? The new-yoga-obsessed Ruby would probably say that her chakras were unaligned or something.

She put tissue paper over the box, added a ‘thank you for your purchase’ card and began folding layers of bubble wrap.

Still Lily lingered.

‘I’m going into town to post this,’ Gwen tried.

‘That’s fine,’ Lily said. ‘I’ll come with you. I can show you around.’

Gwen knew that she should explain that she used to live in the town and that she probably knew it as well as Lily did, but the words remained stuck in her throat.

She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and locked up the house.

‘Iris never locked her back door,’ Lily observed.

‘That was very silly of her,’ Gwen said.

Lily laughed her unnatural tinkle. ‘I keep forgetting you’re a city type. You don’t know what it’s like in Pendleford; we all look out for one another here.’

Fed up, Gwen snapped, ‘I suppose there’s no crime at all, then? If I buy the paper, it’ll be completely blank.’

Lily looked away, but she didn’t say anything. They walked past the frost-touched hedgerows in silence, reaching the end of the track and joined what probably counted as a main road in Pendleford.

‘You have a lovely garden,’ Gwen said as they passed it. A peace offering.

‘Not as big as yours.’ Lily’s voice had real bitterness in it, but a moment later she said brightly, ‘Have you looked at the town bridge yet?’

‘I’ve driven over it,’ Gwen said, adding silently: And, a lifetime ago, I snogged Cameron Laing underneath it.

Lily slid her a sideways look. ‘But have you really looked at it?’

‘Why?’

‘You’ll see,’ Lily said with satisfaction.

Gwen breathed in, enjoying the crisp autumnal air, the sunlight that lit the trees into beacons of flame. Within minutes, the roads narrowed and they entered the town centre. ‘Some of the buildings are medieval – like the Tithe Barn,’ Lily said, pointing down a side street. ‘That’s a big attraction.’

A queue of cars inched slowly down Silver Street, spoiling the olde worlde effect somewhat.

Lily saw Gwen looking and said, ‘We weren’t built for cars, that’s for sure.’ She spoke as if the town were alive.

‘Mmm.’ Having walked down the winding street, balancing on the cobbles and narrowly avoiding pitching into a silver sedan, Gwen stopped outside a small shop called The Crystal Cave. It was filled with crystal balls, decks of tarot cards, and a tabby cat. It was the kind of place Gloria loved to browse in for hours and she breathed in, half-expecting the scent of incense to permeate the street.

‘It’s for the tourists,’ Lily sniffed. ‘Wiltshire is known for its ancient stones, ley lines and mystical energy.’

Gwen didn’t ask what a fake crystal ball had to do with a prehistoric stone circle.

‘It’s silly really,’ Lily said.

Gwen hadn’t been paying proper attention, but now she realised that Lily was watching her carefully. ‘Silly,’ she said, hoping that agreeing with Lily would make her stop staring at her in that unnerving way. She added, ‘Harmless, though.’

‘One woman’s cupcake is another’s shit sandwich,’ Lily replied.