Sarah Painter - The Language Of Spells

‘Ha!’ Marilyn said and Gwen jumped a little. ‘She was as strong as a horse. Healthy as anything. Never got ill. Well…’ Marilyn paused and Gwen could almost hear her thinking ‘…until she died, of course.’ Another pause. ‘God rest her soul.’

Gwen frowned.

‘I’m sorry. Should it be goddess rest her soul? I was never really sure on that,’ Marilyn said.

‘I’m still confused.’ Gwen shook her head to clear the fog. It didn’t help. ‘Can we start with the basics? Who are you and why are you here?’

Colour flushed up Marilyn’s neck. ‘Your great-aunt was known for helping people. She said you were going to move in after she was gone.’

Gwen frowned. That made no sense. ‘The last time I saw my great-aunt I was thirteen and she said no such thing.’

‘Don’t shoot the messenger,’ Marilyn snapped. ‘And besides, I would’ve thought you’d be a little more grateful.’ She waved a hand. ‘She left you her house .’

‘Does everybody know my business?’

Marilyn looked at her in surprise. ‘In Pendleford? Of course.’

‘God help me.’ Gwen raised her eyes skyward.

‘Well, I can see I’m not wanted.’ Marilyn began to rise.

‘Don’t go. I’m sorry if I was rude. I’m just a little confused.’ And frightened . Gwen took a deep breath. ‘Can you talk me through the kind of help my great-aunt dished out?’

Marilyn sat back down. Her face softened in sympathy. ‘You really don’t know?’

‘I really don’t know,’ Gwen said, although she was starting to suspect. The secret room full of jars. The weird noises. The cat. Great-Aunt Iris had been a bit eccentric. And it seemed that the Harper family reputation for ‘weird’ was alive and kicking.

‘She was magic.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Gwen hoped she’d misheard.

‘She could help with stuff.’ Marilyn shrugged. ‘Like if your hens stop laying or you’ve got a cold that won’t go away. She’s got a brilliant medicine for that.’

‘Like homeopathy?’ Please let it be homeopathy . No flipping tarot cards.

Marilyn’s face brightened. ‘Exactly. People are always using homeopathy or reflexology or having someone stick needles in their sore bits. Seeing Iris was no different.’

‘And you paid her?’

Marilyn’s face fell. ‘It wasn’t like I didn’t try. She wouldn’t take it.’

Well, that was different. Gloria had had a price list printed up. Gwen got up and stirred the sauce. The motion was soothing and so was not having to look at Marilyn Dixon, who had popping blue eyes and a determined set to her mouth.

‘I always knew I owed her a favour, though. She didn’t take money, but you knew she’d ask you for something, some time.’

Okay. Enough nonsense . Gwen stirred the sauce faster. She couldn’t help this woman. She didn’t make potions or cast spells or even give good advice. And she wasn’t about to start.

Gwen turned to face Marilyn. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just not sure how I could help you. I’m not Iris.’

By the door, Marilyn gave her a long sweeping look, up and down. ‘No.’ And then she left.

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.’