by Helen Slavin
Emz had worked out an avoidance strategy and so she skirted away from the sixth form centre towards the side service road. She planned to avoid just about everyone, use the back door of the Humanities block and sit for a while in the class finishing her essay.
Her thoughts tumbled images of Ailith’s face, of the head itself, the weary expression on his real face. Shadowed by thought, she turned the corner of the maths block and barged straight into Logan Boyle’s shoulder. He was turned away from her, looming, she saw too late, over Caitlin, his mouth on hers, one hand on her hip, the other… Emz looked away from the other.
“Watch where you’re going.” Caitlin snapped. Logan shifted his weight, turned his other shoulder now against Caitlin and barred Emz’s route.
“Yes. Watch it, Way. Which Way are you going?” Emz tried to sidestep him. “This Way. That Way.” He blocked and tripped and trapped her. Emz stopped the sidestepping. She couldn’t look into his face, so she looked down at his shoes. He stepped aside and they both laughed. As Emz looked up Logan leaned down to kiss Caitlin, tongues licking like cats. Ugh.
“Seen enough?” Caitlin sneered. Logan’s face was obscured as he kissed Caitlin’s neck, her hands sliding over Logan’s muscled backside. Caitlin blew a sarcastic kiss to Emz. Emz felt fury and tears and jealousy fuse inside her into a hot dark piece of charcoal. In a second, she understood that the white-hot energy of it would not stay within her skin and she grabbed for it, trying to snatch it back. Too late. Panicked she turned away, as the strength of it crashed into the dumpster with a loud ‘bong’ sound. To the untrained eye it was as though Logan and Caitlin had merely leaned too hard against it. It ground backwards on its scuffed wheels taking Caitlin down with a scream. She scrabbled up from the floor, Logan laughing.
“What the actual fuck?” Caitlin pushed him. “Don’t help me then, you dick.” Emz was pushing at the door to the Humanities block, watching Logan laughing, reflected in the small rectangle of the window.
What had just happened? Witch. That energy came from her. She hadn’t been able to stop it. Witch. Emz had not slept last night. She’d been tormented by the thought that, as Grandma Hettie had told them, this whole thing was about Strengths, not powers. She needed to recognise that hot charcoal inside her and get a grip. It was about knowing what you were strong in. However, Emz’s mind had thrown up the counter argument: what did you do about the things you were weak in? She had thought of the way they had hounded the bullying hard man, Tighe Rourke, through the woods and where justice and right things were. What if it wasn’t always so easy to decide?
Witch. Emz understood why Grandma Hettie had never used the word. It carried darkness with it.
More than anything she wanted to put her fears onto the table and sort through them but there was only one person who she could do that with, and that person was dead.
“Emz… Glad I caught you.” The voice carried down the corridor towards her. Emz looked up, half hoping to see Grandma Hettie and finding instead it was Mrs King-Winters striding towards her. There was no escape.
There was another reason that school was something of a torment for Emz at the moment. Essentially, she wasn’t sure what she was doing with and about her studies any more. She didn’t care about A levels or university, that was a fact. She cared about Prickles and she cared about being at Cob Cottage and the whole idea of Gamekeeping seemed to her like a gift, a job she was meant for. A Levels were not. She had been led to believe that A levels were the beginning and the end of the world right now and she was struggling against that.
They were in the process of sorting out their university applications. Mrs King-Winters had asked to speak to her several times regarding progress with her personal statement and each time Emz had dodged it. Emz wished her Witch Way Strengths ran to invisibility. She thought hard. Nothing happened.
“I’ve been meaning to catch up and we keep missing each other. I’m so glad I caught you.” Was there just a twinkle in Mrs King-Winters’ eye at that? Did she know that Emz had been evading her? Of course, Emz. “How are you today?”
“Fine.” Fine was a hopeless answer, try again. “I’m really good and on my way to history.” Emz tried to look busy and enthused and feinted moving up the stairs but, with a quick step, Mrs King-Winters blocked her.
“Nothing drastic, I just wondered if there’s anything I can help with for the personal statement?” Mrs King-Winters asked with a smile.
“No… it’s… okay.” Emz had forgotten the statement. There was a half-hearted hundred words sitting in a notebook somewhere. Emz was waiting to be dismissed but Mrs King-Winters did not dismiss her.
“I feel you’ve gone a little adrift lately,” she said. Emz felt relieved. She could wriggle out in a moment.
“I’ll stop slacking,” she confessed, get this over with. She shifted her bag onto her shoulder, but Mrs King-Winters made no sign of drawing the chance meeting to a close.
“You’re not slacking.” She looked directly at Emz. “You’re just not… engaged with the process.”
Emz had no idea what to say, what was expected of her. Apology? Promises? With a Canada goose you knew where you were. Emz thought of the flock that had taken up residence at Cooper’s Pond late yesterday afternoon.
“Actually, Emz, I think slack is what you might need.” Mrs King-Winters enjoyed crossword puzzles and sometimes, as far as Emz was concerned, she spoke like one. Emz’s face did not disguise this thought.
“I know that things have been tough this year. All the terrible events surrounding your sister and her family and now losing your grandmother. Perhaps you need some space, time to step back? You’ve got options you know. You could take a year out for instance.”
A hot terror flashed across Emz at this proposal.
“No. No. I’ll…”
“I’m not criticising, I’m just letting you know that we’re here, I’m here, to help you in any way we can.”
“I don’t need help. I’m fine.”
As she half tripped up the stairs a few moments later Emz thought she’d been a little harsh to Mrs King-Winters but there was no way she could sit and think about the future. Even just thinking the word made her panic more. At the top of the stairs Emz could see the other students milling and seething into the classrooms and she couldn’t breathe. She turned on the stair to leave, and, as she did so, she caught sight of Logan and Caitlin pushing in through the doors on the ground floor, their laughter rising up towards her. Emz headed along the corridor, her pace quickening. Instead of turning right into L2 and her waiting History group she turned left and almost slid down the stairs.
By the time she reached the front doors of the humanities block she could barely breathe and she pushed out into the daylight and the fresh air. There was no way, after Logan and Caitlin, after Mrs King-Winters, that she was going to History now, no way she was going anywhere except to Prickles.
5
Points on Your Compass
One of Ailith’s first memories was of her Grandam Orla telling her a tale of Cob Cottage. It was an old memory, tinted golden in her head because they had had candles back then and not the lamps now, that gave a white glow soft as Starlight.
Truth be told, like most of her memories of Grandam Orla, it was a bit scary. Some other memories involving Grandam Orla were raging nightmares filled with pointy sticks and broken teeth; this one at least involved a hot drink and a blanket made of knitted squares.
“… for all the folks at Cob Cottage…” Grandam’s voice was a bit fuzzy in memory. Loud. Yes. That was its chief characteristic. “… for them walls were smirched with handprints of them as entered…” Grandam had leaned close at this point so that Ailith had a close up view of the gap between her two front teeth. “… and the floors was splattered with the blood of them as didn’t…”
It was a bit intimidating to be sitting on a spindly dining chair by the actual scrubbed table, “… where Hettie Way wrestled with the creature’s gizzards its entrail
s coiling and roiling round the table legs like laidly worms,” her Grandam’s voice loomed out at her. Thankfully there was no evidence of innards this afternoon, there was just the plate and mug that Ailith had been using for her lunch. That Way sister with the brown hair, Anna, she could cook that one could. Ailith thought it was worth making the journey, all the long days of it, just for the pleasure of tasting Anna Way’s food.
This last thought reminded her of the journey and its purpose. It had been a long distance and their setting off point seemed very far away, like, in fact, one of the stories that Grandam Orla might tell. How would that tale start? Because she had to think about what she had told the Way sisters. She needed to give them a tale, that was part of her purpose. No one had said that tale had to be true, had they? Well yes, actually, that had been one of the chief themes of all Grandam Orla’s nightmare bedtime tales concerning those who found themselves at Cob Cottage.
She had been thrown by the absence of Hettie Way. Hettie Way was what she had expected, and she was uncertain of these sisters. They seemed too young for this job. Ailith had spent the few hours she was meant to be sleeping going over the details of them. Hettie Way had died. It was only right that her granddaughters inherited Havoc Wood. Yet, still Ailith felt unease, the legacy of all her long travels.
Ailith had edited the story somewhat last night. She could not withhold all the truth, but she needed to keep herself and the Lordship safe. That was the task. She had hoped she would arrive at Havoc Wood, that Hettie Way would know exactly what must be done and she could relinquish her duty.
These girls had not taken charge. She had begun with the blade; she had thought then they might be prompted to take over, to tell her what needed to be done. She’d talked of the castle and the battle. That was true too. There had been the smell of the sea, the saltwater was frittered into the air because of the storm and the only lamp was lightning. There were items that she edited out, of course, little truths that was all, except she was worried about Cob Cottage and how it might judge her for those omissions. So far, it had not, except her mouth felt a little dry.
This morning, it had felt like a sigh when Anna Way touched her hand and reached the memories. She had thought she would be found out then, the truth just sitting there for Anna Way to see. The Gamekeeper had not called her out on it, she’d been kind rather than cruel.
Ailith’s mind was doing little dances, finding complicated steps and turns that she had not had to think about before. Ever. For the whole rest of her life so far, she had not been the one doing much thinking. Now everything must be considered. It was one thing to grow up with tales of Cob Cottage and the Gamekeeper, but it was quite another to be here and blindly trust folk. She had learnt of late that that was a big mistake.
It occurred to Ailith that the Way sisters, newly come to their Gamekeeping task, might also think it was foolhardy to trust someone. It was possible that the night would bring further questioning. She decided on which pieces of information the Way sisters needed and which she must keep for herself. Having sorted those pieces, she worked up the story she would tell and repeated it, over, over, over until it was like a song to accompany all the little dancing thoughts.
She shifted from the chair and moved to the basket which Anna had given her in which to rest the warrior’s head. She looked at it for a moment or two and then unwrapped the scarf.
Ailith had not known what to do and now suddenly, looking over his blank, dead face, she found a task. She looked around for a bowl. There was a big plastic one in the sink but that didn’t seem appropriate and then she thought that the sink itself was a bit of a bad idea; he was not, after all, a pot to be washed. She dug a broken comb from amongst her few belongings and she put that into her pocket.
Cob Cottage, as her Grandam Orla had told, understood what she wanted and as she stepped away from the sink feeling despondent, the front doors blew open a little and beyond them the lake water winked in the sunlight.
Ailith carried the basket down to the shore and unwrapped the head. She did not look too closely at the raggedy and bony bits. She concentrated on washing his face with the lake water, letting it clean his waxy dead skin, and then she took out the comb and combed his hair straight, dragging the bits of grass and blood clots and tatters of skin out of it and letting the lake water wash it all away, sink it deep. She dried his face with the teacloth, smoothed his eyebrows, and then she wrapped him carefully up in the scarf once more and took him back inside the cottage.
She had sworn a promise, that she would do what she had to do, and she repeated it to herself. She had repeated it many times over on the journey here and she realised that just saying the words in her head made her feel strong.
She had to be strong too, because after all there were three of the Way sisters and only one of her. She had come all this way and yet, she did not feel quite safe in Havoc Wood.
Ailith had been careful, more careful than ever before in her life, but there might still be those who had followed her. She hoped that her grandam’s bedtime stories were true and that Cob Cottage might prove a better fortress than any old clifftop castle had ever been.
6
A Bag with Some Cash
The phone began ringing out as Emz stepped in through the back door of reception. The microwave was humming to itself, heating up some beans, and there were smoky tendrils rising into the kitchen from the toaster. Emz clicked the toaster off and picked up the phone.
“Prickles Nature Reserve, Emily speaking, how may I help?” Emz rescued the toast and began to butter it as she listened to the woman on the other end. From the corner of her eye she could see Winn heading in from the pens.
“Yep. Yep. Got that. Okay. Yes, I’ll let her know. Bye.”
Tea brewed. Emz handed Winn a slice of the toast. Winn’s taste in toast meant she liked any colour as long as it was black. She took a bite.
“Who was it? They’ve not spotted that boar again have they?” Winn was not a vain woman and her moustache, while wispy and pale, tended to catch the toast crumbs, little black carbon bits today giving Winn the look of a disgruntled cat.
“No. It was Yolanda from the estate agency. She says she’s got a woman interested in leasing Hartfield. Can you go and give her the tour?”
Winn made a huffing sound and looked at the clock.
“Do you have to be back in school? Did you say you had history this afternoon?”
Emz took a bigger bite of her toast and shook her head. It was easier to lie if she didn’t speak.
“Right. You hold the fort then. Peggy Brunty will be in later for those runaway alpacas… will you manage?”
Emz nodded. Winn looked around for more excuses. There were none. She wiped the rest of the toast off her face onto her sleeve and rummaged around in her pocket for the keys to the Land Rover.
* * *
Winn did not care at all for this woman, but that was not unusual. If the Sugar Plum Fairy herself had decided to take a short break in Woodcastle it was unlikely Winn would like her and this woman, tallish and thinnish and black haired-ish, was no sugar plum fairy. This woman, with her elegant black clothes and her rounded tortoiseshell glasses, would taste bitter if you got into a fight and had to bite her. The thought of getting into any sort of confrontation with her at all was making Winn’s hair prickle, which was very unusual indeed for Winn. Confrontation was her chocolate, her whisky. She prided herself on her twin abilities of being able to give someone a verbal lashing as well as a damn good thrashing, whichever was required.
Clearly her thoughts had wandered a long way. They were standing on the landing at the top of the hewn oak staircase in the east wing and the woman, Mrs Fyfe, was smiling at her.
“Penny for them?” she asked, the smile sliding wider, the blood red lipstick setting off her creamy white teeth.
“I was just trying to recall if there’s anything important that might have slipped my mind… I went over the biomass boiler, didn’t I?”
&nbs
p; “In detail.” The smile was starting to remind Winn of the Cheshire Cat and let’s face it, there was one and only one reason that this Mrs Fyfe was being shown around Hartfield Hall: Winn needed the cash from a tenant. Judging by Mrs Fyfe’s clothes, and while Winn admitted she was not well up on the fashion world, she knew cashmere when she saw it, this woman had loot. All Winn had to do was make Hartfield Hall seem like home.
“Righty ho… just along here, this is the first of the east wing bedrooms.” Winn was trying to remember which of the east wing bedrooms had the indoor waterfall from the guttering when it rained; might be best not to show that one. Mrs Fyfe turned her head and peered down the hallway.
“How many bedrooms?” she enquired. Winn was stumped for a moment. A few. A lot. That tended not to be the number people wanted. They wanted proper maths. She scrambled round her memory.
“Six?” she threw the figure out. Mrs Fyfe nodded and did not question the quantity. Winn worried for a moment; if she’d oversold the bedrooms then possibly this Mrs Fyfe might require some money back. On the other hand, if she’d undersold, if there turned out to be eight or nine instead of six… well, that would be a bargain. Winn stopped fretting. Actually, there were at least another four bedrooms in the west wing of the house, not to mention all the servants’ quarters that haunted the attics.
“Baths at that end and that end…” Winn pointed.
“No en suites?” Mrs Fyfe’s wide red mouth narrowed to a kittenish pout.
“No. Hartfield was constructed before bathrooms were invented so they were wedged in where possible at later dates. If you want a bathroom I suggest you choose a bedroom near one. There are two more bathrooms in the west wing near the Chinese bedroom and the airing cupboard if you remember the tour?” Winn was curt. “I thought you said you were intrigued by the period details? The original Crapper on the north corridor?”
