Lilian's Spell Book

by Toby Litt

  ‘You mean Jack?’ I said, standing up.

  ‘It sounds as if he’s got under the floor.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  We were walking towards the hall.

  ‘His voice is low down, like this.’ The gaffer’s hand went to knee level.

  ‘He’s probably just hiding under the bed,’ I said, pretending not to be worried.

  ‘Peter!’ I shouted, when we reached the hall. ‘Peter!’

  The second doorway beneath the zigzag staircase was wide open. I could see steps leading down.

  ‘Coming!’ Peter shouted, out of the darkness. It sounded echoey.

  The other two removals men, carrying Jack’s bed through into the hall, put that down and came to see whether they could be any help.

  I carried Mary up the stairs, her head nodding against my shoulder.

  ‘Which room?’ I asked.

  ‘Bedroom on the right,’ puffed the gaffer.

  I went in as quickly as I could.

  ‘Jack, where are you? Jack?’

  I thought I heard something, but the squeaky trainers of the removals men covered it up.

  ‘Shhh,’ I said to them, a little too aggressively.

  The gaffer stood to attention, as if I were a sergeant major. I hadn’t realized he was so scared of me. The others backed out through the door on tiptoe.

  ‘Jack?’ I shouted.

  ‘Mum! Mum!’

  His voice was down, definitely down.

  ‘Keep shouting! I need to find out where you are!’

  But Peter’s footsteps crashing up the stairs, taking them two at a time, covered over any reply.

  ‘Where is he?’ Peter gasped, when he reached my side.

  ‘Under the floor, I think,’ said the gaffer.

  ‘I’m here!’ shouted Jack. ‘I’m in the wall.’

  Nothing up until now had spooked me. But the idea of Jack disappearing into a wall was just too much. Mary was starting to wail, what with all the shouting. She must have thought we were terribly angry at one another.

  Peter got down on his hands and knees.

  ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘listen to me. I’m going to knock on the wood. Can you just shout “Louder” when it gets louder and closer to you, and “Quieter” when it goes away?’

  ‘Okay, I will,’ replied Jack, then coughed hard.

  Peter started to knock. He began in the middle of the floor, and moved towards the doorway.

  ‘Quieter! Quieter!’

  So Peter reversed his direction, and moved towards the wall. It was the interior wall, facing towards the hallway.

  ‘Louder!’

  Peter reached the wall.

  ‘Louder!’

  As Peter moved, Jack’s location became clearer and clearer. I felt I could almost see Jack through the floor.

  Peter reached the wall and began to rap with his knuckles on the panelling. He hadn’t gone far up before Jack started to shout ‘Quieter!’

  Peter pointed to where the floor met the wall.

  ‘He’s in there,’ he said. ‘Somehow.’

  ‘I found a hatch,’ said Jack. ‘It was open.’

  Clearly, he wasn’t having any difficulty hearing us.

  ‘I fell down. It shut behind me. It’s dark in here. I can’t breathe. It’s so…’ He coughed again. ‘It’s all dust and dust!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Peter. ‘We’re going to get you out.’

  His hands began to feel their way over the oblong grid of the panelling, trying to discover a catch or handle.

  Jack’s coughing got worse.

  ‘I can’t breathe,’ he said. ‘Mum, I can’t breathe.’

  ‘Cover your mouth!’ Peter shouted. ‘Cover your mouth with your sleeve, and spit on it to make it wet!’

  But Jack’s cough got worse and worse, turning into a kind of wheeze.

  All this time, Peter was scrabbling at the wall to try to find the opening.

  ‘Mummy!’ Jack cried. ‘Help me, Mummy!’

  Just then, a voice from downstairs shouted out, ‘Yoo-hoo! Hell-ooo!’

  It was Mrs. Forster.

  I went out onto the landing. ‘Up here,’ I shouted. ‘Jack’s suffocating. He says he’s found a hatch.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs. Forster. ‘Has he, indeed?’

  ‘Can you get him out?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, and began to climb the stairs, still wearing her coat. ‘There’s a bit of a trick to it. You just have to turn… Well, it’s easier if I just show you.’

  I stood aside to let her pass. Then Peter did the same.

  She approached the wall, went straight for one of the horizontal stripes of wood, pushed it downwards and, almost miraculously, a small doorway appeared – just big enough for an adult to clamber through, and easily big enough for Jack.

  Mrs. Forster stepped away. Her hand gesture was a bit like that of a magician – ta-dah!

  Fingers appeared in the doorway – the pale fingers of Jack’s right hand.

  The gaffer came forwards to help Peter, and together they heaved Jack out of the gap in the wall.

  ‘The priest’s hole, they used to call it,’ said Mrs. Forster. ‘I’m surprised he found it.’

  I wasn’t really listening to what she was saying. I was staring at Jack – he looked like Stig of the Dump. I’ve never seen anyone quite so covered in dust and cobwebs. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of a crypt.

  ‘Panic over,’ said the gaffer to his men. Like they couldn’t see for themselves.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t go in there to clean,’ said Mrs. Forster. ‘It’s not used for anything.’

  Peter gave Jack a huge hug, and Mary and me joined in. I was aware of the four strangers watching, but I really didn’t care. We’ve always been a huggy kind of family.

  ‘You silly fool,’ Peter said to Jack. ‘You haven’t been here five minutes, and you’re already getting yourself into scrapes.’

  ‘Sorry, Dad,’ said Jack, but I could tell he wasn’t, not now he was safe again. Priest’s holes were much more exciting than computer games.

  ‘Did you see any ghosts?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ he said. The whites of his eyes looked very white, against the grey of his skin.

  ‘I think you better have a bath,’ I said.

  Mrs. Forster moved over to the wall. ‘I’ll just close this up,’ she said.

  We all watched as the hole disappeared.

  ‘Show me,’ said Jack. Then, remembering his manners, ‘Please.’

  ‘You’re not going in there again,’ said Peter.

  ‘I just want to know,’ he said.

  Mrs. Forster looked to me, which I appreciated.

  ‘Only if you promise never to go in there when we’re not around.’

  With pretend-weariness, Jack said, ‘I promise.’ We had made him make a whole heap of promises in the previous couple of days: not to rush around the house breaking things, not to scare his little sister with ghostie-wails. We knew it might be hard for him, moving away from his school and his friends. But we assured him that one of them, Jameel, could come and stay very soon.

  I gave Mrs. Forster the nod, and she demonstrated how the secret catch worked. Jack wasn’t the only one watching closely – even the removals men looked on with amazement.

  ‘Marvellous craftsmanship,’ said the gaffer. He turned to walk down the stairs. ‘I’ve been doing removals for twenty-five years, and – I have to say – that’s the first time anything like that’s ever happened. But, then, you don’t get many houses like this one. Not in South London. Not anywhere.’

  Peter suggested cups of tea all round, and orange juice for Jack – and then that bath.

  ‘I think we’ll just be getting on with it,’ said the gaffer. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  He went towards the removals van with his two men. I could hear them talking about what had happened. It was a good story, for their girlfriends, for the pub. Myself, I was concerned that it might add up to som
ething more. Your first day in a new home is so important. If bad things happen, it can sour the place forever. This wasn’t really a bad thing, more a comic thing as it turned out, but it made me anxious that the house might be full of hidden dangers. The sooner I could talk to Mrs. Forster about these, the better. Today wasn’t the day, though. She was a little flustered, and might forget something important. But I knew I should try to befriend her as soon as possible. She had gone into the kitchen and was fetching the cleaning stuff. I went in after her. Already, she had put on her pinnie. Immediately, she seemed more relaxed. It was her uniform, I suppose.

  ‘Thank you for that,’ I said. ‘He was getting really scared.’

  ‘Was not,’ said Jack.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ Mrs. Forster replied. ‘Boys get into all kinds of scrapes, don’t they?’

  Peter and Jack sat down at the table and began to drink their orange juice. Both of them were doing their best not to look like they were listening.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I seemed to get into plenty of trouble when I was a kid.’

  ‘Ah, you were a tomboy, were you?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘just a normal, healthy girl.’

  I knew I shouldn’t have challenged her. People in the country say these sorts of old-fashioned things – you just have to let them. They’re not going to learn.

  There was an awkward silence while Mrs. Forster waited to see what I’d say next.

  ‘They’re just going to make a mess today,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you can find something to do that you don’t normally do.’

  ‘You mean keep out of their way,’ said Mrs. Forster. ‘It’s quite all right. I was planning on dusting the books in the library. They won’t be going in there, will they?’

  I thought of all our dog-eared paperbacks. We’d certainly have to find somewhere else to put them. It would be ridiculous to have them leaning up against all those leather-bound volumes.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Mrs. Forster gave a nod. If I’d been someone who impressed her more, I think she’d have done a curtsey. She picked up her wicker basket full of dusters and polishes then left the room.

  Peter waited until she was out of earshot.

  ‘Trouble with the domestics?’ he said.

  ‘What’s a “domestic”?’ Jack asked.

  I tried to explain without using the word ‘servant’.

  ‘Does that mean I don’t have to tidy my bedroom?’ said Jack. ‘Great.’

  ‘Mrs. Forster will not be picking up your stinky socks,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t want her to,’ said Jack. ‘She’s creepy.’

  ‘You think anyone over fifty’s creepy,’ said Peter.

  ‘Not like her,’ said Jack. ‘She’s supercreepy. She’s a ghost-helper.’

  ‘Thank you for pointing that out,’ I said. ‘You must be polite to her.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise,’ he said.

  Mary was ready for a proper sleep. We’d brought the travel cot in our car. I asked Peter if he could go and fetch it, then put it up in our bedroom.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. Because he’d been drinking juice, his top lip was a crescent of orange.

  ‘Come here,’ I said.

  He approached, a little wary.

  I wiped the juice off with the muslin I always carry for Mary.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Peter, then gave me a kiss on the lips. The orange smelt very strong, very chemical. For a moment, but only a moment, I couldn’t smell wood polish.

  ‘Stop!’ shouted Jack, who, despite us being a huggy family, hated parental PDAs.

  But Peter took the opportunity of whispering in my ear. ‘I’ve got something to show you, later.’

  I stepped back to give him a questioning look.

  He leaned towards me again. ‘In the cellar,’ he whispered. ‘Very odd.’

  ‘What? What?’ shouted Jack.

  ‘Nothing,’ Peter said.

  Mary went down without much of a struggle, despite the occasional bangs and clatters from the removals men.

  Back in the hall, I asked the gaffer to keep everyone away from the main bedroom until Mary woke up.

  It’s a strange thing, being moved. You know it’s all being done for you, for your benefit, but, at the same time, you yourself are surplus to requirements. The removals company had done most of our packing for us – and each box now had a label on it, to say where it should go. The sum total of our possessions wouldn’t take up more than a tiny fraction of the hall. I knew that, over the coming weeks, our things would spread out, until we had colonized the house completely. Then, perhaps, it would really feel like our home. I wasn’t going to be sticking up any of Jack’s drawings of spaceships and Transformers on the wooden panelling, though.

  Thinking that I could probably risk it, I went out of the front of the house and round to the garden. The afternoon was still very sunny. I sat at the far end, on the bench I’d shared last time with Peter, and I looked up at the house, our house.

  This little moment was the happiest, least troubled one I was going to have – until the whole thing was over.

  Chapter 6.

  Our first night in the house began quietly enough. The removals men left around five thirty, after both Peter and me had checked inside their van to make sure we hadn’t lost anything. We gave the pink gaffer an even more generous tip than we’d planned, to thank him for finding Jack. He said he would share it with the lads.

  It wasn’t until I had closed the door behind them, and heard their van start up and drive away, that I began to realize what living in such a big old house really meant. The feeling was similar to when you pass your driving test – that first time out in a car on your own, when no one is there to grab your hands and stop you ploughing into the opposite lane. All this, I thought, and we are responsible for every last bit of it. Perhaps the solicitors had been wise in trying to put Peter off. They were coming to see us first thing Monday morning, to deal with the last of the formalities. There was the rest of the day and the whole of Sunday to get through before then, though. It felt like a vast amount of time.

  We had brought enough food with us for the first couple of days. Earlier, though, I’d looked around the kitchen and discovered that Michael Francis had made do without either a fridge or a freezer. This was perhaps because there was a large larder, off through a side door.

  When I went inside the larder for the first time, and switched the light on, I was quite astonished. It was stocked with food – cheese, eggs, some glass bottles of milk. And there were two shelves full of bright, shiny apples. I’d given one to Jack straight away, because he’d been doing between-meal whining. This must all be down to Mrs. Forster.

  But when I’d tried to thank her, she seemed surprised, then awkward. Finally she said, ‘Oh, well… Mr. Jonson always liked to keep it well stocked.’

  Later on, when I was starting to make us all a big omelette, I noticed something very strange. Mary was in her relaxer chair, up on the kitchen table. She was gurgling away in her own little language. I went into the larder, and fetched out everything we needed. In the light of the kitchen, I saw that the eggs had dates stamped on them, like eggs do these days – digital-type lettering, in pink ink – and, if what I saw was right, they were from the week before Michael Francis died, which was over two months previously.

  I cracked the first egg into the white china bowl, expecting it to explode or slide out as a horrible green mess. But it was perfectly fine. I picked up the bowl and gave the yolk and white a very suspicious sniff. It didn’t smell of anything much.

  I had been intending to make a cheese omelette, because that was Jack’s favourite. The cheddar from the larder was a proper truckle, with cloth-like texture around its edge. Alongside this was a selection of other cheeses bought from the supermarket. And these, I saw, had a use-by date that was only a week after Michael Francis’s death. They looked fine, tho
ugh. No mould on them.

  Because I wasn’t sure about the larder eggs, I decided to use those we’d brought with us from London. But I cut a large chunk out of the larder cheddar, and grated it on top of the bubbling omelette.

  I shouted for Peter and Jack, my voice sounding huge in the echoey hall. They had been exploring the ground floor rooms. Peter had found the inventory that the solicitors had mentioned – it was in Michael Francis’s desk, just as they’d said.

  ‘Mum,’ said Jack, ‘we’ve got a gains-brew.’ Or that’s what I heard him say.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘A painting of a field. It’s a bit boring.’

  ‘Jack means,’ said Peter, ‘that we have a Gainsborough. And a Constable. And two Canalettos.’

  ‘Those ones are of canals in an old city,’ said Jack. ‘And the other is just of clouds in blue sky.’

  I put my hand to my mouth and stopped thinking about eggs and cheese. For a moment, I was speechless.

  Peter, who seemed very calm, said to Jack, ‘Go on. Sit down.’

  ‘Are you happy, Mum?’ asked Jack. ‘Dad said you’d be very happy.’

  ‘They’re worth lots of money, aren’t they?’ I said to Peter. ‘I mean, millions.’

  ‘We’re rich,’ he said.

  ‘Yippee!’ shouted Jack.

  ‘Go on, eat your omelette,’ I said. ‘Before it gets cold.’

  ‘We’re rich,’ said Peter. ‘But we can’t really sell them.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘But…’

  ‘Plus,’ said Peter. ‘I quite like them.’

  ‘Oh, in that case,’ I said, ‘we definitely can’t sell them.’

  Difficult as it was, with all the excitement, we sat there and ate our dinner. But we finished it really fast, and then went through to have a closer look at the paintings. Jack pointed out which was of clouds and which of canals. Peter held the inventory, reading the proper historical details. They were certainly lovely. It was something new to feel that we owned them. I’d never owned a painting before, apart from the beautiful browny-orange ones Jack had brought home from nursery.

  ‘Do you like them, Jack?’ I asked.

  ‘They’re all right,’ he said, pretend-grumpily.