by Sam Short
“I don’t like to think of him puffing on cigars,” said Gladys. “He’s a mortal. He’s not protected by magic like Charleston is.”
“The lad will be fine,” said Brian. “Anyway, Mother, I think it’s about time me and you had a dance. The band are very good indeed, it’s a shame you can’t bring them to Wickford for your wedding reception. They’d bring the roof down.”
Technically, the band could travel to Wickford. It would have been difficult in the past, but since Charleston had taken charge of The Haven, he’d implemented some changes. Gladys’s favourite was the inclusion of a permanent portal to Wickford, which opened in the potting shed at the bottom of her cottage garden in Wickford, right next to the coop where her chickens had lived before being transported to Huang Towers with the rest of her most personal of effects.
Witches and wizards could still open their own portals into The Haven, but Huang Towers boasted a portal room through which anyone could pass, mortal or magic. Portal technicalities weren’t the reason the band couldn’t play at the wedding reception in Wickford — the problem was more aesthetic. Gladys didn’t think the residents of Wickford, who had no idea that witches walked among them, would take kindly to watching a troll thumping a drum, accompanied by a fairy on vocals. It would cause more problems than Gladys wanted to deal with on her special day.
The wedding was to be an ordinary event, in the mortal world, with mortal guests. The only witches present would be her own family, and they knew better than to use magic in the presence of normal people.
“I’d love to dance!’ said Gladys, taking the hand Brian offered her and allowing herself to be led onto the dance-floor.
The music reminded Gladys of the festivals she’d attended in the sixties, and she twirled and bobbed next to her son, ignoring the jealous stares of the other dancers. Yes, she was dancing with the most handsome man in the room, and yes, her dress was far classier than anybody else’s, but there was never an excuse for envy. Gladys was happy that she’d never been held in the evil grip of the green-eyed monster. She shuddered as she imagined what it must feel like to covet what other people had.
Brian danced faster as the music increased in tempo, lifting his legs remarkably high for such a stout fellow wearing tight leather trousers. Gladys took a deep breath. She couldn’t keep up. How could she? Her son was a fertile fountain of energy, and she was in her… well, she was older. It would have been an affront to her pride to admit she couldn’t match her son’s energy, though. She needed a way out — an excuse to leave the dance-floor while keeping her dignity intact.
Gladys peeped between the writhing bodies on the dance-floor. And then she saw it. If there was one thing Gladys hated more than anything else, it was oppression. She called it out wherever she found it, and to see it happening at her own party filled her with rage. It was a personal insult to her, and her wrath would be swift and fearsome when she found out who was responsible for the despicable scene unfolding in the corner.
Having found the perfect excuse to leave the dance-floor, Gladys barged through the crowd, shouting an apology to her son over her shoulder. “Have a cocktail, sweetheart! I have to deal with something. I’m sure Maggie would love to dance with you when she’s finished eating!”
Magic tingled in her belly, and her fingertips sizzled with energy as she poised herself in readiness cast a spell. Brian would have to wait until later to dance with his sister — Gladys required everyone’s full attention as she saved the unfortunate soul in the corner from his oppressor. People needed to be made aware. It was the only way society could heal.
The spell buzzed in the air around her, and Gladys’s throat quivered as her vocal chords were imbued with voice amplification magic. She put a hand on the poor dwarf’s shoulder and gave him a reassuring look. “Don’t worry,” she soothed. “I’m here now. Nobody will ever do this to you again.”
The dwarf seemed tense, and Gladys had enough empathy to realise why. The poor little chap had been humiliated, and that simply wasn’t acceptable. Not in the current year.
Gladys took a deep breath and allowed the magic to collect in her throat before casting her voice in a powerful wave of sound. “Stop the music! Everybody look over here. Look at this poor dwarf!” she yelled. The crystal chandelier hanging above the dance-floor shook as she shouted, her voice a reverberating foghorn propelled by magic. A fairy waitress, hit by the shockwave, dropped her tray and tumbled from the air, saving herself from the hard floor with a frantic flapping of her silvery wings.
“Gladys, what’s wrong?” said a voice to her right.
Good. Charleston had decided to make an appearance. She could really show off with him watching her.
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong!” said Gladys, speaking to the room. “Somebody thought it was funny to put this dwarf on a high bar stool! That’s what’s wrong! Look, his tiny feet are dangling in the air, the poor, poor chap!” Gladys plucked the dwarf from the stool, and tenderly placed him on the floor, acutely aware that he was blushing. How could anybody do that to him? “And look at the flagon he’s been given for his beer!” she continued. “He can barely get his baby fingers around it. Somebody get him a beaker more appropriate to his size, and fetch him a chair that will fit his stumpy little legs! When I find out who did this, there’ll be hell to play!”
The dwarf licked bubbles of beer froth from his bushy moustache and looked up at Gladys. “This is very embarrassing.”
Gladys stood tall. “Did you all hear that?” she boomed. “He’s embarrassed! I hope whoever thought it was funny to put him on that stool is ashamed of themselves!” She bent at the waist and stared the dwarf in the eyes. “Who did this to you? Point whoever it was out to me, and I’ll make sure you’ll never be so humiliated again.”
“I got up there myself,” said the dwarf. “I’m not disabled.”
“A good thing too,” said Gladys. “That would have made it immeasurably worse.” She ended the voice amplification spell and put her lips close to the dwarf’s ear, barely preventing herself from sneezing as coarse hair tickled her nostrils. “You’re not a grass, I get it, and that’s very admirable. Nobody likes a grass, but if you change your mind, you come and tell me who did it to you.”
“Come on, Gladys,” said Charleston, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Leave him alone. Let’s dance. You’ve got a big day tomorrow, you don’t want to spend the night worrying about other people.”
Charleston was right. He always was. Thinking of others was her Achilles heel. She knew that, and she had to remind herself to focus on her more often. Anyway, she’d garnered the attention she craved for the night, and she did have a big day tomorrow. She was visiting Wickford to make the final arrangements for her wedding. She had a band to book for her reception, a cake to check on, and an organ player to choose.
It would be a difficult choice. Both organists were very adept, and both seemed very keen to get the gig. It was going to be the wedding of the millennia after all, no wonder they seemed so competitive.
Charleston had argued that the women’s competitiveness was a reaction to the amount of money Gladys was offering for their services. She’d asked for a rendition of Here Comes the Bride to be played as she walked down the aisle, and a few bars of Elton John’s — Rocket Man, as the newlyweds left the chapel. She didn’t think two-thousand-pounds was a gross overpayment, as Charleston had argued. It was obvious to Gladys that the reason both women desperately wanted the gig was not financially motivated, it was so the winner could boast that they’d been a part of the classiest wedding service the small town had ever seen.
Deep down, Gladys suspected that Ethel already had the gig in the bag. Her fingers were a lot slenderer than Mavis’s, and her hair far shinier. Gladys would be very surprised if Mavis was two-grand up on Saturday. She’d find out tomorrow though, when she asked them both to play in the chapel she’d chosen to get married in.
Gladys put her hand on the dwarf’s head and gave his hair an af
fectionate rub. He was still blushing, and she wasn’t surprised. Goddess only knew how long he’d been stuck on the stool. She nodded at the band. “Play!” she ordered, watching in amazement as the dwarf scrambled back onto the stool and picked up his beer. “The night is still young!”
Chapter Three
When Gladys had arrived in her potting shed, the portal closing with a popping sound behind her, she’d set about doing some housework in her cottage. She may not have been living there anymore, but it was still her home, and she was nothing if not house-proud. She wouldn’t use magic to get the task done either – where was the pride in that?
With the dusting finished and the vacuuming completed, she set about walking into Wickford. The bright sun lit the narrow country lane which led her into town, and it wasn’t long before she was on High Street, making her way towards the canal. Penny and Willow were waiting for her on the boat they called their home. Gladys had asked for their help in picking between the two organists, and they’d been happy to help. Or so they’d said.
Gladys was half way down High Street when she heard the noise. She scurried across the road to see what all the commotion was about, pushing through the small crowd which had gathered in front of the Post Office.
“Shut up with that racket, I’m trying to get slaughtered on cider here!”
Gladys frowned at the tramp. Wickford had certainly gone downhill if they allowed hobos to drink cider in the street. The busker that the tramp was shouting at tried his best to ignore the outburst, but Gladys could see the frustration etched on his face as he angrily strummed his guitar.
The music he played wasn’t a racket by any stretch of the imagination, in fact, Gladys found the music right up her street. It was a pleasing soundtrack to accompany her morning stroll, and the man’s voice was as soft as the butter which Gladys had spread on her crumpets that morning.
The crowd of people began to wander away as the tramp continued his outburst, some of them muttering under their breath. “Will you shut up!” the hobo yelled, this time reinforcing his words with the toss of a well-aimed empty can, which bounced off the busker’s full head of curls and landed on the pavement.
Gladys cracked her knuckles, but reminded herself that performing magic was a no-no in the middle of Wickford High Street. Her tongue would have to suffice in her delivery of the hobo’s chastisement. “That’s enough of that, you violent little blighter!” she shouted. “That young man is trying to make something of himself, you, on the other hand, are a nasty piece of work!”
The drunk man scowled at Gladys. “Shut up, you nosy old boot, or you’ll get a can on your bonce too!”
Gladys had nothing against the homeless. She found them to be a brave and resilient sort of person, most of them with higher morals than the richest of bankers. She’d often thrown a coin or two into a hat in the past, but the only thing the man who sat on the pavement at her feet was going to receive, was the business end of her arm if he wasn’t careful.
The tramp stared up at her. “What you looking at?” he taunted, using a dirty hand to shield his eyes from the sun, and drawing his tongue across the top of his long, matted beard.
Gladys bent down and adjusted her eyebrows into high arches as she peered over her spectacles. With her face fixed in the expression which had once made her children run for the stairs, she spoke slowly and clearly. “I don’t know who you think you are, or what you think you’re doing, but I swear by all that is good, if you don’t stand up right this very moment, walk away, and crawl back under whatever stone you slid out from beneath, I will make you sorry that you ever crossed me.”
The man opened his mouth to speak, but sensibly thought better of it. Silently, he placed his cans of cider in a plastic bag, stood up, gave Gladys a nervous frown, and wobbled off down the street, scowling at the busker as he pushed past him. He looked over his shoulder and gave a parting statement. “I didn’t crawl out from under a stone — it’s more of a rock.”
“Well hurry up back there!” said Gladys. “The other creatures will be missing you!”
The busker sighed. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m trying to earn enough money to fix my car, but he’s been scaring people off all morning, and I don’t like confrontation.”
“No thanks are necessary, young man,” said Gladys. “I won’t stand for rudeness like that from anybody.” She opened her purse and took out a handful of coins. “Here,” she said, dropping them in the little box at the busker’s feet. “You play beautifully.”
The busker smiled his appreciation, and twisted one of the guitar’s tuning pegs. “Can I play something for you? Name your favourite tune. I’d be happy to oblige.”
“Anything?” said Gladys, her eyes sparkling as an idea formed. “Can you play Wichita Lineman?”
“Of course,” said the busker, adjusting his fingers of the neck of the guitar. “It’s one of my favourites.”
That was enough for Gladys. Anybody who shared her highly refined taste in music was worthy of her help. “How much will your car cost to repair, young man?” she said, before the busker had time to strike the first chord. “And have you got friends who can play with you? I’m looking for a band.”
The busker scratched his head. “Urm… I’m not sure about the cost of the car, but I’m in a band, yes. We’re called The Blanket Statement.”
“Would four-thousand-pounds cover the car?” asked Gladys. “Because if it would, and if you’re free on Saturday night, I’d be happy to offer you a gig at a wedding party. I’d pay each of you four grand of course, if the rest of the band are as good as you.”
Since taking up residency in The Haven, money had become no barrier to Gladys. Gold was abundant in the magical dimension, and Gladys had secured herself a precious metal broker in the mortal world, who would happily take it off her hands for a fair price. She needed to be careful though. The first broker she’d approached had phoned the police when Gladys had told him she had as much gold as he could take off her hands, and then some more.
The police couldn’t really bother Gladys. She could spend all her time in The Haven if she liked, but she didn’t want the stigma which surrounded being a wanted person in the mortal world, so she only sold gold when her bank account balance dropped below thirty-thousand-pounds, which seemed like a nice round number to her. The bank she used had never questioned her cash deposits, and if they ever did, she’d cast a spell and shut them the heck up. Nosy buggers.
She enjoyed spreading her wealth with people who deserved it, and seeing the busker’s eyes light up was reward enough for being thousands of pounds lighter.
“Of course,” stammered the busker. “I’d be happy to, but that much money… really?”
“Yes, really,” smiled Gladys. She looked the young man up and down, his jeans and t-shirt ensemble was acceptable for a street performance, but not for a performance at her wedding. “Six o’clock — in The Poacher’s Pocket Hotel, next to the canal, and make sure you all wear something smart. I’ll pay you on the night.”
“Thank you…”
“Gladys Weaver,” said Gladys, accepting the busker’s handshake.
“Thomas Ericson,” said the young man. “And I’ll make sure it’s the best show the band have ever put on.”
“I have the upmost trust in you,” said Gladys.
Gladys left Thomas looking very happy with himself, and headed for the bakery. With the band arranged so quickly, Gladys was sure the day was going to go as smoothly as she’d expected it would. Good luck seemed to stalk her, and finding Thomas singing in High Street was good luck indeed. All she had left to do was check on the cake and pick an organist for the church. Simple, just how she liked things.
The sun sparkled on the water, and the bright reds and greens of the paintwork that decorated Penny’s boat stood out beautifully against the lush foliage of the canal bank. Gladys had been adamant that she wanted to arrive at the bank-side chapel on her wedding day aboard The Water Witch. She was fed up of seein
g brides arriving at their weddings in horse drawn carriages or long-past-it classic cars. She thought it was about time somebody made a stand against tradition.
Today would not only be about choosing an organist, but would also give Penny a trial run at mooring the boat in the correct position next to the chapel. Canal narrowboats were very long, and the wooden pier which Gladys wanted to step off the boat onto was very narrow. She didn’t want to suffer the indignity of having to wait while Penny reversed and tried again on the day of her wedding. If she didn’t pull off the perfect mooring procedure on the first time she attempted it today, there would be no second chance — Gladys had already decided that, if required, she’d use a spell on the day of the ceremony to ensure the smoothest of aquatic arrivals.
Gladys gazed around the mooring. Her granddaughters were sitting at one of the two picnic benches on the bank-side, drinking tea, but apart from Penny’s cat, Rosie, and the birds in the tree tops, there were no other animals to be seen. “No Mabel?” she said, slightly disappointed.
Mabel was a goose which had suffered at the hands of Gladys’s witch dementia. When a spell had gone awry, it had made the goose believe she was a dog. It had been fun watching the goose cock its leg while it went to the toilet, and her barking had certainly been a talking point in the town. When Gladys’s dementia had been cured, all her accidental spells had been reversed at the same time, the most important one being the freeing of Charleston’s mind from the body of a goat.
