The Devil’s Paintbox

by Robin Jarvis

  She had removed two layers and only one remained, but sandwiched between the second and third was another note. This was a folded scrap of torn paper and had been there long before Sylvia had written hers.

  ‘It’s like pass the parcel,’ chuckled Lil.

  Cherry gave the message her attention, which was written in thick black pencil.

  ‘You better read it,’ she said to Lil.

  Puzzled, Lil took the tattered note and let out a cry of disbelief.

  ‘What is it?’ Verne demanded. ‘What does it say?’

  His friend passed it to him and, though his mouth opened and closed, he was too stunned to speak.

  Lil Wilson, this is for you!

  ‘Got to be a coincidence,’ Lil said. ‘It can’t mean me me.’

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ Verne said, giving it back. ‘Course it’s you. Check out the handwriting!’

  Lil took another look and gasped even louder. ‘It’s not possible,’ she breathed. ‘But . . . but – it looks like mine.’

  Cherry slumped back in the wicker chair and whistled through her teeth.

  ‘Dip me in glitter and throw me to a mob of roller-skating pixies!’ she declared. ‘This is turning out to be one head-fry of a day and it’s still not lunchtime. Here, Lil, this is undeniably yours, kiddo. A present out of the past to you, from you.’

  Lil took the bundle almost fearfully, questions exploding in her head like fireworks. Carefully she unwrapped the last layer of protective cloth and gazed at the uncovered object.

  It was a plain and shallow wooden box, with tarnished brass hinges and a simple clasp locking the two halves together.

  ‘P’raps there’s magic wands inside?’ Verne suggested. ‘You might’ve sent yourself a witch kit.’

  ‘We’ve got enough of those in the shop already,’ Lil reminded him. ‘Besides, Cherry says real witches don’t use them.’

  ‘A set of magic knitting needles then?’ he said. ‘Hurry up and open it!’

  ‘Yes,’ Jack Potts joined in. ‘I too am curious.’

  ‘Curious, my eye!’ Cherry cried. ‘I’m so stoked, I’m gonna need fresh underwear! Put me and my gusset out of our misery, for crying out loud!’

  Lil fumbled with the clasp. It was stiff and took several moments of fiddly struggle before she could lift the lid.

  Gazing inside, she gave a delighted laugh and angled the box around for everyone to see.

  ‘It’s paints!’ she exclaimed. ‘An antique box of . . . watercolours, I think. No wonder you thought your colours were being reflected back at you.’

  The lower half was divided into seven compartments for the blocks of pigment and a narrow channel for the brush.

  Verne couldn’t conceal his disappointment. He’d expected something far more dramatic and otherworldly.

  ‘Maybe they paint the future or something?’ he said.

  ‘They’ve never been used,’ Cherry observed. ‘Not so much as a spot of spit ever touched them.’

  Lil prised out an ochre-coloured brick and examined it closely. It was slightly larger than a piece of Lego. Stamped on to the surface was a relief of a camel and, on the reverse, the pigment’s name – Sahara Sand.

  ‘They’ve all got little images on them,’ she said. ‘The white one has a cup and saucer; the red has a beetle; the yellow is a bit weird, looks like a starved cow – you can see the ribs.’

  ‘Might be Indian Yellow,’ Cherry suggested. ‘The way they used to make that was gross. They fed cattle nothing but mango leaves, which did them no good whatsoever, then they boiled down the urine to a stinky powder.’

  ‘Says Scourge Yellow,’ said Lil, reading the back.

  ‘Never heard of that one.’

  ‘What’s there, in the middle?’ Verne asked.

  The brick in the centre space was wrapped in creamy linen, embroidered at the edges.

  ‘Looks like a hanky,’ Lil said, carefully peeling away the fabric.

  ‘Perhaps that colour is Bogey Green,’ Verne said, grinning.

  ‘You’re kidding me!’ Lil blurted, but she wasn’t talking to him. She was staring at the object that had been cocooned in the handkerchief. It wasn’t paint at all. It was a badge, made of polymer clay, one of the handmade badges that she made for the shop and often wore herself.

  ‘Wow,’ was all Verne could say.

  ‘That settles it then,’ Cherry declared. ‘Remember that old sepia photograph of Victorian Whitby I showed you, with a girl in it who looked like you? That’s the very badge she was wearing.’

  ‘So I do go back in time,’ Lil whispered, trying to take it in and convince herself this was real. ‘But how? And why? And why do I send myself this paintbox? Why didn’t I write a proper note explaining it all? Am I supposed to do something special with it?’

  Cherry gazed at the Whitby witch brooch and clicked her fingernails, lost in thought.

  ‘When did you make that particular badge?’ she asked abruptly. ‘Was it recent?’

  ‘I haven’t made any for months,’ the girl answered. ‘And I’m sure I’ve never made one quite like this before.’

  ‘You must have,’ Verne said. ‘It’s absolutely one of yours – a green-faced, goofy witch.’

  His friend shook her head. ‘I’ve never made one holding a turnip lantern,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Could you make me one?’ Cherry asked. ‘Just the same as that? Exactly the same, in every detail?’

  ‘You can have this if you want. I’ve got lots at home.’

  ‘No, you have to keep that, it’s been waitin’ for you a long time. I just want a copy.’

  Lil nodded vaguely. She was more concerned about what all this meant.

  ‘What if,’ she began. ‘What if this is a warning? Do I get stuck there, back in the past? I might never be able to get come back here – to now. What happens to me? I might die decades before I’m even born.’

  ‘Hey,’ Cherry said sharply. ‘Quit the hysteria. I told you being a witch came with a hat full of curve balls. So you go back in time, big deal; some witches are always skippin’ in and out of the centuries, that’s their job. It’s gonna happen to you and there’s nothing you can do to change that; it’s part of established history now so get over it. Whatever you do has already been done. Start thinkin’ too hard about this stuff and it’ll melt your mind. You know what, I’ve had a bellyful of kooky dramatics for one morning. This old broad needs to clear this mess up and groove out to some Bolan and Bowie.’

  ‘You want us to go?’ Lil asked, taken aback by the sudden switch of mood. ‘But I need to talk about this!’

  ‘Later maybe,’ Cherry said, and Lil was astonished at the coldness in her voice.

  ‘Did I say something wrong?’ she asked. ‘If I did, I’m sorry. But this has knocked me sideways. I’m scared.’

  ‘Welcome to my world,’ was the terse answer. ‘Goes with the territory. Now, you kids, scram and take Captain Clankaroo with you.’

  ‘All right,’ the girl muttered, feeling hurt. ‘Verne, come back to ours – and you too, Mr Potts.’

  ‘Just Potts,’ the automaton reminded her as they rose and left the parlour.

  Cherry saw them to the front door, arms folded. ‘I’d leave off usin’ them paints,’ she cautioned sternly. ‘They’ll be packed with toxic gunk. The white’s gonna be chock-a-block with lead for a start, and some of the others might contain arsenic.’

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ Lil assured her, hugging the box tightly as she stepped outside.

  ‘Thank you for a most interesting time,’ Jack Potts said politely, his voice muffled by the parka he had zipped up to conceal his face once more.

  Cherry ignored him.

  ‘And don’t you go pressin’ no more buttons on that bauble of yours,’ she told Verne.

  Verne scowled in reply. It was unsettling – she had practically swept them out of the cottage. Walking away in thoughtful silence, he pushed Mrs Gregson’s wedding ring and pension money through her letter box as
they passed.

  ‘Hey!’ Cherry called after them. ‘Lil, that badge – don’t forget. I want it exactly the same.’ And she slammed the door.

  ‘Does anyone have a clue what just happened?’ Lil asked. ‘Why’d she go all weird?’

  ‘She’s always been weird,’ Verne said.

  ‘One cannot predict a witch’s humour,’ Jack Potts said. ‘They are as sleeping tigers.’

  ‘Nah,’ Verne disagreed. ‘That’s just girls.’ And he yelped when Lil punched him on the arm.

  Inside the cottage, Cherry Cerise slid down against the front door. The colour of the hallway drained to an arctic blue.

  ‘Curse you, Cherry,’ she uttered in a cracked and anguished voice. ‘You shoulda seen this comin’. That’s what you’re here for! This could be the biggest disaster this town has ever faced.’

  And she buried her face in her hands.

  On their way to the Wilsons’ Verne was relieved that no one tried to force money on him. When they arrived Lil wasted no time and found Jack Potts some of her father’s Victorian-style clothes. He was soon looking respectable in a burgundy velvet frock coat with fawn checked trousers and a pair of black brogues. Inspecting the gothic-themed home, the automaton claimed to be overjoyed at the quantity of dust and clutter and immediately set about dealing with it.

  While he got acquainted with the Hoover attachments, Lil and Verne remained in the kitchen. The mysterious paintbox was placed on the table and they resumed their examination and discussion of the note that Lil had apparently written to herself a long time ago.

  ‘Perhaps you were in a hurry and couldn’t go into detail,’ Verne suggested.

  ‘Or maybe that’s all I was able to write before something dire happened to me?’

  ‘But then who wrapped it up with the paints and hid it?’

  They inspected the box thoroughly once more, for anything that might offer a clue.

  ‘Maybe it’s staring me in the face, but I can’t see it,’ Lil said. ‘I’m going to do a drawing of it, jot down every detail and see if that helps.’

  Cherry had told her that every witch kept a book of shadows, into which she wrote everything that was important to her: spells, charms, poetry, rituals, words, newspaper clippings, pictures. It was something Lil had been doing for a long time, before she even realised she was a witch.

  As she fetched her journal to begin, Verne lifted the brush from its place in the box and twirled it in his fingers. The handle was made from ebony with an inlaid line of gold spiralling up to the tip. He flicked a finger through the black bristles.

  ‘This is miles softer than any of your others,’ he said. ‘They’re sable, aren’t they? So what’s this?’

  ‘Sable’s the softest there is,’ Lil replied. ‘Maybe that one used conditioner.’

  Verne gave it a cautious sniff. ‘Or perhaps it’s moggy,’ he declared.

  Lil smiled then gave her attention to a label that was glued to the underside of the lid. Parts of it were foxed, but the writing was still legible.

  Verne read it out to her as she copied it down.

  A colour a day to brighten our play.

  But once begun can’t be undone,

  till all are gone and washed away.

  ‘That doesn’t really make sense, now there’s only six colours,’ Lil commented. ‘There should be seven if it’s one a day.’

  ‘Don’t artists have a day off ?’ Verne asked, picking up the small witch badge. ‘Wonder which colour this replaced?’

  ‘There’s always a green and a brown,’ Lil said. ‘And usually a lot more in a box of paints than just seven anyway.’

  ‘Where’s the hanky? Did you leave it behind?’

  ‘Must have, if it isn’t there. Still can’t get over how odd Cherry went.’

  ‘You going to make her one of these badges? She was more bothered by that than the paints.’

  ‘Might get me back in her good books if I do. And I’ll knit you a Nimius cosy – see if it blocks the power, like she suggested.’

  ‘Can’t see that working.’

  ‘You’re just worried in case my witchcraft is stronger than your precious gadget!’

  ‘Am not,’ he lied unconvincingly.

  Lil chuckled and started drawing the skeletal cow from the first block of pigment. Underneath, she wrote the words Scourge Yellow.

  A glass of water was put down at her side. Startled, both children looked up. They had not heard Jack Potts return to the kitchen.

  ‘I’m not thirsty,’ Lil told him.

  ‘It is for the paint, Mistress Lil,’ the robot replied. ‘Were you not about to add a sample of the colour to your fine rendition and documentation?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about that. Do you like my drawing then?’

  Jack Potts bowed to the picture. ‘You have captured it exquisitely,’ he said. ‘A most promising talent.’

  ‘I suppose I should put a record of the colours on it.’

  ‘That would be most thorough.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Verne said as Lil reached for the brush. ‘Cherry warned you about using the paints.’

  ‘Only that they might be toxic. I’ll try to fight the urge to lick them. Besides, after the way she behaved, Cherry had a nerve telling us what we can and can’t do.’

  ‘She’s only trying to keep you safe,’ Verne said.

  ‘I’ve got powers of my own. You saw my aura.’

  Disconcerted, Verne leaned back in his chair. He hoped his friend wasn’t letting her newfound abilities go to her head.

  Before taking up the paintbrush, Lil hesitated and turned her face towards the hallway.

  ‘Is something amiss?’ Jack Potts asked.

  ‘I thought I heard Sal barking,’ she explained. ‘Sally was my dog. She died. Sometimes I still feel her nuzzling next to me at night. Never heard her bark since she’s been gone though.’

  ‘See,’ Verne said. ‘Even Sally’s ghost doesn’t want you messing with them paints. Or perhaps the brush really is made from cat hairs.’

  Jack Potts stared at him.

  Lil shook herself. ‘There’s nothing to be scared of. I can do this. I’m a witch of Whitby now, and Cherry said this wasn’t malevolent.’

  ‘She said she couldn’t get a reading off it,’ Verne reminded her. ‘Not the same thing at all.’

  ‘Such a fuss over an old box of ordinary watercolours,’ Jack Potts said, with a shrug of his mechanical shoulders. Pulling a pair of rubber gloves over his metal hands, he busied himself at the sink. The children did not notice his sidelong glances at them.

  Lil seized the brush with determination. She felt it was almost too fancy to use, but she dipped it in the glass and swirled it in the clean water. Applying the wet brush to the pigment block, she sloshed the sopping hairs across the raised image of the starved cow.

  The antique box shuddered violently and there was an immense explosion.

  Cherry had spent the best part of an hour clearing away the rubble heaped on her hearth and was staring into the hole that was left behind. She felt just as hollow and empty.

  She tried to push aside the feelings of despair that had overwhelmed her earlier. The contents of the box had shaken her, but perhaps what she was dreading might never come to pass. If the world was going to end, it wasn’t going to happen today. She would have to handle the situation very carefully and not tell Lil of her suspicions. That could ruin everything.

  Her veteran stereogram was playing a favourite album, the greatest hits of T. Rex. Cherry was singing along raucously to revive her spirits, and the room was pulsing with vibrant colours, when there was a brisk knock on the door.

  ‘My front door sure is popular today. Who’s bustin’ their knuckles on it this time?’

  Cherry opened the door and almost burst out laughing when she saw the group of five serious faces before her. Leaning casually against the wall, she regarded them through her sunglasses. She recognised all but one. She’d been expecting this confrontation and
she was going to relish it.

  Police inspector Brian Lucas stood stiffly in his uniform; next to him, much shorter, but no less sure of himself and wearing his chain of office, was Finley Harris, the mayor of Whitby. Behind them, long thin nose flared as if smelling something unpleasant, was Jennifer Pidd, one of the most uptight members of the town council. With her was Rory Morgan, a younger councillor who mistakenly believed himself to be ‘cool’. The man she didn’t know had a face like thunder and, Cherry observed with a sideways smile, the trousers of his suit were soaked up past the knee.

  ‘Miss Cerise,’ the inspector began. ‘May we come in?’

  ‘You like some “Hot Love” at lunchtime, Inspector?’ Cherry asked in a throaty drawl. ‘I know I do.’

  ‘P– Pardon?’

  Cherry laughed. ‘It’s the name of the song – don’t flatter yourself. So what is this? A deputation?’

  ‘If we could come in?’ repeated the flustered inspector.

  ‘I don’t invite sourpusses into mi casa.’ She shook her head. ‘Just say whatever it is you’re itching to get off your chests and let’s all carry on with our day. I’ve got wigs to wash.’

  ‘Three hundred thousand pounds!’ the man with the wet trousers shouted angrily. ‘What are you going to do about that?’

  ‘Who is this soggy bozo with the red face and what’s he yakkin’ about?’ Cherry asked.

  The inspector coughed and introduced Mr Jackson, branch manager of the bank, whose cashpoints had been mysteriously emptied earlier that morning.

  ‘Do I look like a bank robber? Not exactly inconspicuous.’

  ‘It wasn’t a normal robbery!’ Mr Jackson answered. ‘It was witchcraft! Ask anyone who was there!’

  ‘We do have many eyewitness accounts of the money behaving unusually,’ the inspector added. ‘And the CCTV footage will corroborate it.’

  ‘I see,’ Cherry said. ‘So you come straight to my door because I’m a witch. You know what that is? That’s profiling.’

  The mayor took this opportunity to clear his throat and, with his hands clasped over his mayoral chain, said, ‘Miss Cerise, be reasonable. By your own admission, you are the town’s resident witch. Of course we would consult you when something of this nature occurs.’