by Nancy Warren
The salon featured brick walls, an offer of cappuccino when we walked in, and stylists who looked as though they knew what they were doing. They seated us side by side and Mom explained to her stylist that she wanted something easy to care for, but more stylish.
My stylist, a woman about my own age, with stick straight hair, lifted a handful of my curls and said, “What are we doing today?”
My hair is what it is. If I keep it long, it doesn’t frizz so badly, but it requires more time than I can give it to look stylish. Mostly, I keep it trimmed and use enough product to tame the curl. When I explained all this, the stylist nodded and said, “I’ll trim the ends and see what we can do about taming the beast.”
I nodded. “Sounds good.” I felt as though cold fingers were walking up my neck and glanced out the window to see Rafe and Clara gazing in the window. I felt safer knowing they were watching out for me.
When we’d finished our hair, Mom looked about ten years younger. Her hair was softer around her face and they’d done a moisturizing treatment so it looked thicker and more healthy. Since we were in the neighbourhood, I took her to Westgate Shopping Center, a modern, American-style mall on three levels.
Her eyes opened wide when she saw it. “This wasn’t here five years ago,” she exclaimed.
Most of the high street shops were represented, as were a lot of international stores. Mom stocked up on cotton trousers and shirts suitable for digging up skeletons in the desert, then I told her she had to buy something pretty. I talked her into going into the Ted Baker store where she tried on several dresses.
“When would I ever wear this?” she asked, modelling a navy, floral dress that looked stunning on her.
“When Dad takes you out for dinner in Oxford,” I said. “It will be good for you two to have a real date.”
“I haven’t splurged like this for so long,” she said, and then, with a sudden nod, said, “I’ll take it.”
As we left, she insisted we walk through the John Lewis department store and see if there was something for me. I didn’t really need anything, either, but, with the help of a very helpful shop assistant, I ended up trying on three dresses.
The first was dark blue with flowers patterned on it. Mom liked it. I glanced behind me, to where Rafe and Clara were pretending to browse. Clara nodded and smiled, but Rafe shook his head.
The second dress was green, with a low-cut neckline and a full skirt. Mom said, “Honey, that looks fantastic. Clara gave another nod and a smile. I thought I could try on every dress in the mall and get approval from Clara, but Rafe shook his head.
I put the third dress on. It was black. Simply cut, but figure hugging. I could imagine walking down the streets of Paris in this one. I walked out and my gaze went straight to Rafe’s. He took in the outfit and nodded, once.
Mom and I walked back to Cardinal Woolsey’s, bags hanging from our wrists, like a couple of normal shoppers. Who’d have known one of us had a death curse hanging over her?
At least, if I was going to die, I’d look good.
Mom went around the back to the main entrance of the flat, taking my shopping bags with her, and I walked into the front door of Cardinal Woolsey’s.
Eileen was standing on a chair dusting the corners of the ceiling. I felt immediately guilty. I’d been out shopping and my underpaid assistant was all but scrubbing the floors. "You don't have to do the cleaning."
She turned and smiled down at me. "Cleanliness is next to godliness, dear.”
She didn't say it like criticism, but I silently promised to keep a better handle on the dusting and sweeping so this much older woman didn't end up climbing on chairs and doing it herself.
I noticed that everything was just that much more orderly. The baskets never quite lined up, and yet, somehow Eileen had got them to sit in perfect rows.
"Did you have any customers?"
"A few. There was a lovely young woman who is expecting twins. She came with her mother who’s going to knit layettes for both babies. We had such fun looking at the little booties and bonnets, it took me back to when my children were babies. That was quite a nice sale," she said, sounding satisfied.
I checked back on the cash register and my eyes widened. The expectant mom and grandma had spent more than two hundred pounds. I was delighted.
Since my shop was running so well, and there was currently no customer needing me, I opened my computer and began searching for simple dinner recipes. While I was out getting the snacks tonight I might as well get the ingredients for dinner tomorrow.
"Chicken Cordon Bleu?" I mused aloud. I didn't really fancy stuffing and rolling chicken breasts. "Beef Wellington?" I could buy that already done at the butcher in the covered market and then all I'd have to do would be roast potatoes and vegetables. It seemed rather a heavy dish, though.
"Trying to choose a recipe?" Eileen asked.
I explained my dilemma, that my mom had invited the ladies next door, who were in their eighties, to dinner. None of us had time to cook properly and besides I admitted neither my mom, nor I, nor my dad were particularly good cooks.
Eileen said, "Would you let me cook for you? I love to cook and now that my dear husband has passed away, and my children are grown up with their own families, I have no one to cook for. I’d be pleased to do it as a thank you to you for giving me this job, which I already love."
"Not as much as I love having you here," I said, with heartfelt sincerity.
"I make an excellent shepherd's pie, if I might suggest that. It's already got the potatoes and the vegetables in it, of course. It's also very easy to eat, if they have false teeth. And I can do a sherry trifle for dessert—a little old-fashioned, I know, but, again, older people appreciate the more traditional desserts. What do you think?"
I thought I'd fallen asleep and dreamed this magical fairy into my life, is what I thought. Shepherd's pie just happened to be one of my favorite dishes. And my dad had fallen in love with trifle when he was a student here at Oxford. Still, I hesitated. "Eileen, I can't let you do this. It such a lot of work and you just started this full-time job."
"Nonsense. I've got a great deal of energy, and I shall enjoy it. Now, I don't want to hear anymore nonsense from you, young lady."
I smiled and thanked her and insisted on giving her the money to go shopping before she left, instead of settling up afterwards, as she'd suggested. I thought, perhaps, I could give her some extra time off at some later date to make up for the time she’d no doubt spend cooking dinner for people she didn't even know.
Chapter 7
Just before five, Mom wandered into the shop, looking slightly vague. She had her reading glasses on, which didn't help. She said, "Lucy, I'm not sure you have enough chairs."
Since I was in the middle of counting skeins of superwash worsted, it took me a moment to register what she was talking about. "Chairs?"
"Yes, for our meeting, tonight. I just counted the chairs upstairs and I don't think there are enough. Some of the grad students might have to sit on the floor."
"Are these the same grad students who are going to spend the summer living in tents and shoveling sand all day, uncovering ancient ruins? Do you really think they're going to mind sitting on the floor?"
"Sweetheart, we don't want to give them the wrong impression."
I didn't intend to run out and buy or rent more chairs, so I said, "Why don't you use the back room of the shop, where we run the knitting classes? I've got enough chairs there for twenty people."
She smiled at me. Blinking owlishly. "I knew you'd have the answer. You're so good at practical things. And don't forget the pizza."
I had no idea what she was talking about, but after nearly three decades with my parents, I was pretty good at filling in the blanks. "You want me to order enough pizza for everybody who's coming tonight. And how many is that?"
"Not more than a dozen, I shouldn't think. I told them to come at five."
Eileen paused in putting together sweater kids an
d said, “Dr. Bartlett-Swift, you have a lovely daughter, and she runs an excellent shop. All her clients rave about her."
I was certain that couldn't be true. I think most of my clients were horrified that I knew so little about knitting, wool, and pretty much everything to do with the knitting shop. But it was sweet of Eileen to say those nice things, especially when Mom had been questioning my decision to stay in Oxford and run Cardinal Woolsey’s.
My mother blinked and then finally pulled her glasses up to the top of her head so she could see clearly. "Not to be outdone, she said, "Lucy was telling me what an excellent help you've been to her, and on your first day, too. She’s so pleased she hired you."
Having complimented each other to their mutual satisfaction, the two ladies returned to what they were previously doing. Eileen back to preparing kits to make sweaters, and mother back upstairs, no doubt to her computer.
I was about to pick up the phone and order pizza to be delivered about six, but then one of my regular customers came in. She was a new mother. The woman had been a professional banker who traveled all over Europe and managed an international staff, but managing one baby was, she said, the most difficult job she’d ever done. Knitting had saved her sanity.
“I’m making Christmas presents for everyone, this year,” she announced. She looked slightly wild-eyed and I think there was baby spit up in her hair. The baby was currently asleep in its pram but I knew from experience that it would wake, and would emit a tremendous amount of noise for such a small human.
“Are you sure,” I asked. “It’s only two months until Christmas, and with the baby…” I let her fill in the rest of the sentence with whatever the baby did that kept her from having showers.
“Yes. I’m too Type A not to juggle projects.” She looked at me the way a chocoholic eyes a box of perfect truffles. “I need this.”
At that very moment, ominous sounds came from the pram. One of the reasons this woman came to my shop was the gift I have with babies. Sure enough, when I walked toward the pram and said, “May I?” she nodded with true gratitude. “Would you?”
I picked up the little boy before he’d gone from mildly unhappy to nuclear meltdown and, after some half-hearted sobs, he curled against me, his tiny fingers clutching my sweater.
I began to rock him and speak softly, as our breathing synchronized and he drifted back to sleep. “She has a real gift,” his mother said to Eileen.
I had a sneaking suspicion I’d been using magic on kids without ever realizing it. Keeping my voice low, I said, “Do you have any particular gifts in mind?”
“Let me, Lucy,” Eileen said, coming forward. “I was looking at this Christmas knitting magazine that only came in today. There are projects for every member of the family, and some are quite easy.” She led the banker over to the magazines and left me, contentedly rocking.
It was so nice, and peaceful, that I was able to forget about my own threatened death for a while, and enjoy this tiny bundle of warm, breathing life.
I was hoping to skip Mom and Dad’s meeting, here in the shop, and go upstairs to work in secret with my grimoire. I didn't like the feeling of impending doom that had hovered about me, ever since that woman had spoken to me from the other side of the mirror. Being cursed with probable death was messing with my life plans.
We were surprisingly busy the last hour. I think a tour bus must've come in from an area with no knitting shops, for a number of ladies with similar northern accents came in and took over the shop. I heard one of them say to Eileen, “We’ve nothing as nice as this at home."
"I'll be bound you don't," said Eileen, pouncing on the ladies the way a hungry cat might pounce on some very fat, delicious looking mice. I helped serve them, but Eileen was much better at moving the merchandise than I was. I wondered how I’d managed without her. I was even adding some inventory items that Eileen had recommended. It was only her first day and she'd already improved my business no end.
The door opened again, nearly at closing time and, since Eileen was busy with the last of her juicy mice, I glanced up, ready to say, "Can I help you?" only to see it was the sun-streaked hottie from this morning.
He grinned his I-could-eat-you-all-up grin and said, "G'day. How you goin'?"
"I'm fine." I glanced at my watch. "You're a little early."
He came closer and leaned a hip against my cash desk. "Well, it's like this. I had fifteen minutes to spare. I could've dropped into the pub at the end of the road and had a beer, but the trouble with one beer is it always leads to another beer, then I’d miss the meeting.” He put his hands up in a helpless fashion. “I reckoned I could come and spend a little time with you before we started."
I shook my head at him. He was too smooth for his own good. Still, I was happy I’d had my hair done, and I may have tossed it over my shoulder. I was a female, after all. "As flattered as I am, I'm working until five. You’re welcome to go on into the back room, though, that’s where the meeting will be. I'll tell my parents you're here."
"No worries," he said. "Have you got Wi-Fi? I can check my emails."
I gave him the Wi-Fi password and off he went into the back room.
The last of the ladies left, hurrying to catch their coach. Very soon, my sharp ears picked up noises coming from the back room, noises that I did not like at all. In fact, I didn't like anyone being there without my supervision, because of the trapdoor that leads down into the tunnels beneath Oxford, where my grandmother and her friends have their home. I kept it locked from my side, when I didn't want vampire visitors coming up, but it was a simple enough thing to open when you were on this side of it.
Eileen had just ushered her happy customers out of the door, so I fought the urge to run to the back room and make an issue of it.
I waited a moment and then I said, as casually as I could, "I'll just check that he's got everything." I pulled aside the curtain into the back room and, to my horror, found my Australian friend on his hands and knees about to lift up the trapdoor. Before I could think of modulating my voice, I shrieked," What do you think you're doing?"
He turned to look at me over his shoulder, still on his hands and knees, looking unabashed, and grinned. "I'm an archaeologist. We’re always digging to find what's underneath things. I had a bit of trouble with the latch, but I’ve got it, now."
I went over and very firmly stood in the middle of the trapdoor, my boot tips an inch from his fingers. "There's nothing down there but sewers. And rats. I never open this door, as I don't want disgusting smells and even more disgusting vermin up here. I'd appreciate it if you’d leave that alone." My heart was pounding and I felt hot and flustered. Also angry with myself for letting anyone back here unsupervised.
He got up, slowly, and dusted his hands off. Behind me I heard Eileen say, "Well, I never."
I turned to her and asked, "What happened to the rug that always sits over this door?" I kept it there for a reason.
Her pink lips formed an O. "It was so dusty, I took it outside to beat it with a broom and I thought I’d just let it hang outside for couple of hours to air out. It’s in your back garden. I'm so sorry, I'll go and get it, right away."
I appreciated that she was being extra zealous on her first day, but still, I shuddered to think what could have happened if the Australian student had found his way down into the tunnels and bumped into one of the vampires.
He said, "I've always wanted to go down there. There are many entrances, you know. T.E. Lawrence famously rowed a boat through those tunnels. I think it was a kayak. Or maybe it was a canoe. You know, Lawrence of Arabia."
"Yes, I know. It's not a river down there, now, if it ever was. It’s sewers. Trust me, you do not want to be down there, in a canoe or anything else."
I wasn't certain if he believed me, but I'm fairly certain he got the message that if he wanted to explore subterranean Oxford, then he was going to have to find another entrance than the one from my shop. I knew there were lots; it was how the vampires moved
around the city on sunny days or if they just wanted to stay out of sight.
Eileen brought the rug back in and, with further apologies, laid it on top of the trapdoor. I wasn't about to leave the Aussie un-chaperoned, so I said, "What's your name? And whereabouts are you in your studies?"
"My name's Pete. Pete Taylor. I did my first degree in Sydney, in geology but I came to Oxford because I want to learn about stratigraphy—that’s analysing the layer and order of geological strata when we document finds. I’m studying the proper techniques for survey, interpreting, and recording finds. Which your parents are famous for. I mean, doing it right on site. I love to dig down and see something no human eye has looked on for hundreds or even thousands of years. It’s such a rush."
"To each his own, I guess. I've been on digs with my parents when all I remember is the heat, the bugs, and the sand. One summer it seemed like everything I ate was crunchy."
Eileen's voice interrupted us. "And here are your next two guests."
Another guy about my age, with curly hair, thick glasses, and a scholarly look to him arrived with a woman I’d have put in her thirties. Her black hair was tied back and she was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt. I'd met so many students like these two when they’d been working with my parents. I’d had crushes on a couple of the better looking guys who, of course, never paid any attention to me.
The guy with the glasses introduced himself as Logan Douglas and, as he and Pete shook hands, he said, "I know you from somewhere."
Pete looked surprised, then shook his head. "You’ve probably seen me in one of the pubs.” He winked at me. “It happens."
Logan pushed up his glasses. "No. It was at Glastonbury. I'm sure of it."
Pete clapped him on the shoulder, in a man-to-man way. "Right, the musical festival, that was it. Good memory."
I could tell the other guy was about to say something else, but Pete leaned past him to the young woman and introduced himself to her. Her name was Priya Sandeep. She was studying to be a ceramicist, someone who spends their entire life looking at ancient tiles. It's incredible the way some people want to spend their lives. And Mom thought I was throwing myself away on a knitting shop?
