Lilian's Spell Book

by Toby Litt

  ‘And so, in sad mystery, passes from record quite the most fascinating character in the history of our village. Yet the papers of the Jonson family are vastly extensive; and it is to be hoped that, if historians were once again permitted access to them, more might be discovered of the wonderful Elizabeth Jonson, her life and death.’

  My first thought was to wonder whether Andrew Gatward was still alive. I turned to the start of the book, where I found a small note about the author.

  ‘Born in Lambeth in 1931, Andrew Gatward moved to the village at the age of two and a half. He early on in life developed a fascination for St Edith’s church, and served there as a choirboy. Fifty years later, he wrote the definitive history of the church, St Edith’s, Early and Late. In 1950, Andrew Gatward went to Jesus College, Oxford. He read Divinity, but later decided against ordination. Instead, he pursued his fascination with local history, authoring, as well as the present volume, A Small Sussex Village at War, Hidden Histories and the illustrated children’s book Local Ghost Makes Good.’

  I decided then and there to find him and talk to him. It didn’t seem possible that he would have moved away from the place he loved so much. Not unless he’d been forced into a nursing home.

  It was now close to ten o’clock. Mary would be wanting a feed. I checked in on Peter, who was still fiddling with something or other, then went upstairs.

  Jack and Mary were fine. She was still dry and he had cooled down a bit.

  In the bathroom, I turned the tap to put some water on my toothbrush, but nothing came out. I tried the hot tap, but the story was the same. The shower too didn’t work.

  As I couldn’t be bothered going downstairs to test the taps in the kitchen, I started brushing with just the toothpaste. There’s something icky about this – I don’t know what. You need that little bit of water on the bristles, otherwise it’s just all your spit.

  Mary fed without waking up. I think the fresh air of our walk had tired her out. Tomorrow, I decided, I would go into the village again – look at the Jonson graves in the churchyard, and try to track down Andrew Gatward.

  Half an hour later, Peter came up.

  ‘Water’s not working,’ I said, as he went into the bathroom.

  I heard a creak and then a gush.

  ‘Seems fine now,’ he said.

  I hate it when that happens, when you can’t do something and your husband can. I’ll strain and strain before I let Peter open a jar of pickles or bottle of juice.

  I think I was asleep before Peter got into bed.

  Mary stirred twice in the night, but only to feed. Without really waking up myself, I sat on the side of the bed and let her take what she wanted. From outside, I could hear the sound of rain. It sounded quite heavy. But the shutters were closed, so I couldn’t see much of anything.

  Chapter 16.

  The Health Visitor came first thing, as we’d arranged. She was called Miriam Shoulder and she was, let’s say, a large lady.

  ‘What a fascinating pile,’ she said. ‘I didn’t even know it was here.’

  When Miriam arrived, Mary was having a nap upstairs. That’s always the way – when someone needs to prod your baby, they’re fast asleep. Rather than force Miriam up the stairs, I brought Mary down.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Miriam, when I handed Mary over to her.

  She asked me the usual questions. I told her that everything was fine. All the while, Mary was waking up and starting to grizzle.

  Jack came in and tried to turn the television on. The screen came to grey life but there was no picture.

  ‘It’s not working,’ I said, ‘and even if it was, you wouldn’t be watching it at this time.’

  Luckily, Jack wasn’t still in his pyjamas. Peter had got him dressed. I didn’t want Miriam thinking we were a bunch of slackers.

  ‘Dad said I could go with him to the electric shop again.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right,’ I said.

  ‘I’d just like to weigh her, now,’ said Miriam. She had a little hammock-type-thing that she dangled from a hook with a round dial. Mary absolutely hated being swung round in the air. She kicked and wailed. The needle didn’t stay still at all.

  ‘Fine,’ said Miriam.

  She lowered Mary to the sofa, and I picked her up. I could tell she wouldn’t settle until I’d given her some more milk.

  Miriam noted down the weight in Mary’s baby book with the red plastic cover. The proper name is ‘Personal Child Health Record’. Then Miriam plotted the week and weight on a growth chart.

  ‘Wow, she was shooting up,’ she said.

  ‘She’s a hungry girl,’ I said, ‘Aren’t you, love?’

  I began to feed her.

  ‘It’s a little less in the past fortnight. But that’s nothing to worry about. I’d like to see you in a week’s time, if that’s okay with you. Just to check you’re all settling in.’

  I knew there was no need for it. She was just being careful. Sussing us out.

  ‘That would be fine,’ I said. ‘Same time?’

  We agreed she would come back on Tuesday morning.

  ‘I’ll show myself out,’ Miriam said. ‘Leave you to it.’

  She stroked the back of Mary’s head and then walked off into the hall. Peter came out of the kitchen to say goodbye. He was holding a drying cloth because he’d been doing the washing up.

  ‘Nice woman,’ he said, as he came to join me. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Nothing wrong with our Mary,’ I said, although I was slightly worried she might have stopped putting on weight. She’d been such a great grower, so far.

  ‘I’ll take Jack off as soon as we’re ready.’

  It didn’t take them long. Jack always hurries when he knows there’s a chance someone might buy him something. He was also carrying his Gameboy, so I knew he was expecting to be slaying ghosts in the car – all the way there and all the way back. I still wasn’t quite sure what Peter needed so urgently.

  ‘Don’t forget the fridge-freezer’s coming,’ he said, just before they left.

  That was annoying. It meant I had to stay in and wait for the delivery men.

  Mrs. Forster arrived, bang on nine o’clock, and started cleaning. She was mopping the floor in the hall, which turned it even more treacherous.

  I decided to make a cup of tea and take it, and Mary, out into the garden. It was a very sunny day. Looking through the windows, I couldn’t see any trace of last night’s heavy rain.

  When I got to the kitchen, though, I found that the taps here didn’t work either. But, then, how had Mrs. Forster filled her bucket? I didn’t want to start a conversation with her, so I thought I’d go without. Luckily, though, there was enough for one mug still left in the kettle – although I found the thought of reboiled water a bit yucky.

  I don’t know why I didn’t realize the significance of the water not working – not working for me. Looking back, it seems so obvious. And that it hadn’t rained in the night.

  I was halfway across the hall when there was a knock on the door. Mrs. Forster opened it – to be faced by a tall white oblong. It looked for a second like some futuristic robot. Then a man appeared to one side of it – it, which was our fridge-freezer.

  They carried everything in to the kitchen and left it there, still in the bubblewrap. Jack would have fun with that. I thought about offering them tea, but was worried that if the taps still refused to work I wouldn’t be able to make them any. They left a little slowly, taking the chance to examine the hall. Probably, because we lived in such a big house, they were expecting a big tip.

  It was a relief to know I could now escape. I got Mary ready as quickly as I could, shouted goodbye to Mrs. Forster – not really caring if she heard – and pushed the buggy through the door.

  Once we were out from the cover of the trees, it was a scorchingly hot morning. I stopped to put sun-cream on Mary’s face and arms. We didn’t meet any tractors or cars on our way to the village.

  The shop was open, so I went
straight in and said hello to Mrs. Willows. She didn’t seem as warm as she had the day before – not as interested in Mary or as keen to chat to me. I bought a few things, then said, ‘I was reading a local history book last night.’

  ‘One of Mr. Gatward’s?’

  ‘Yes. It was very interesting.’ This was the big moment – alive or dead? I tried to make my voice sound as casual as possible, but it still came out a bit flutey. ‘Is he still around?’

  ‘He’s in and out all the time. He smokes too much. Wasn’t he here yesterday, when you first came in?’

  ‘The man with the hat,’ I said.

  ‘Cricket,’ said Mrs. Willows. ‘Apart from history, that’s his great passion.’

  ‘I’d quite like to speak to him. It’s about the house.’

  ‘He hasn’t been in today. He lives down the road. Number six on the green. But he’s a late riser. You’d best give him another half an hour, just to be certain. He’ll be at home, unless there’s a match on at the Oval or Lords or Hove County.’

  We chatted for a little while longer before I thought to ask. ‘Do you have any of his books on sale?’

  Mrs. Willows smiled. ‘Of course. Which one do you want?’

  ‘Could I have a look at them?’

  She went into a back room, rustled around for a while, then came back with a small pile. On top was A Kindly Place, with a different cover to the one back home. Then was A Small Sussex Village at War, which I flicked through quickly. It started in 1913, so wasn’t any use to me. Next came St Edith’s, Early and Late. This, too, didn’t seem to mention our house. It was possible it might have something about the Jonson’s graves, though. I put it to one side. The bottom book was Local Ghost Makes Good. It was very old-fashioned, but the illustrations looked quite fun. And because Jack was going through a ghost phase, I thought I’d buy it anyway. Only as I was closing it did I recognize that the windows in one of the pictures looked just like those in our bedroom. I didn’t turn back – I’d have plenty of time to look at it.

  ‘You don’t have Hidden Histories?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, you do know your stuff,’ said Mrs. Willows. ‘No, that went out of print quite a few years ago. Mr. Gatward always talks about reprinting it. It was probably his bestseller.’ She looked around the small shop. ‘Relatively speaking.’

  I decided to buy St Edith’s as well as Local Ghost. At worst, I could ask Mr. Gatward to sign them both. He couldn’t object to that. The copy of A Kindly Place in the library hadn’t been signed. But it sounded as if Michael Francis and Mr. Gatward hadn’t got on. That was one of the things I wanted to ask about.

  Mrs. Willows rang the sales up with great pleasure.

  ‘He will be pleased,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t need a bag,’ I said, and slid the books into the hood of the buggy.

  ‘Mr. Gatward’s a bit deaf,’ said Mrs. Willows, as I was halfway out the door. ‘You’ll have to make sure you speak up.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  I went back to yesterday’s park bench, and tried to feed Mary. But she was too sleepy to take the nipple. Then I went through St Edith’s page by page. There was no index, but the book was divided into sections for different parts of the church – altar, nave, pews, etc – and then a long chapter about the graveyard. I skim read this, until I came to a paragraph containing the familiar names.

  ‘It is perhaps surprising that William Jonson, a well-known recusant, desired his mortal remains and those of his family to be buried in the grounds of a then-Protestant church. However, with the less intense religious climate of the years leading up to his death, it is possible that his views moderated. It is also possible that he was in some way compelled to submit to convention. Records show that the plot was purchased around the time that William purchased the land on which he built the first Great House. So economy might also have been a reason for using what he could not, once paid for, sell back.

  ‘The carvings of the headstones show some unusual, not to say unorthodox features. These, perhaps, were William’s revenge. It has been suggested that the very unusual shape of the stones is that of a Bishop’s mitre. Arranged around the frontage of William’s headstone are four large keys, one of which is surmounted by a crown. This may be intended to signify that although there are many authorities that claim to possess the means of entering heaven, there is only one true church. St Peter received the keys from Jesus, and they have been passed from Pope to Pope ever since. This lineage is what Catholics believe gives unique legitimacy to their faith. At the bottom of the stone is a large and rather fierce-looking cock. This surely represents the cock which crowed thrice upon our saviour’s death, before which Peter – as prophesied – had thrice denied Jesus. Perhaps this should be taken as a check to all human vanities of orthodoxy and belief. It would be nice to think so.’

  I went through the rest of the book, but only found one more mention of William, to do with tithes or taxes to the church – and nothing at all about Elizabeth or Lilian.

  Half an hour had passed. Mary was completely zonko. I decided to look through Local Ghost before knocking on Mr. Gatward’s door.

  I’d only just opened the first page, though, before I saw a familiar straw hat and, beneath it, a familiar body – one shaped just like a question mark.

  Chapter 17.

  Mr. Gatward was just where I’d seen him yesterday. This time, I saw him glance across, but he didn’t raise his hat. Perhaps, as a breastfeeding woman, I was beyond the pale. He went inside the shop. I thought it would probably be best if I waited until he came out, then I could go and introduce myself. There was no doubt that, even with a buggy, I’d be able to catch up with him.

  A couple of minutes later, Mr. Gatward came out of the shop, the door tinkling as it shut behind him. I was just about to get up and follow him when, instead of turning hard right, he crossed the road and made straight towards me.

  ‘Mrs. Jonson,’ he cooed. ‘It’s a very great pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

  He held out his hand to shake mine. I realized that I was still holding his children’s book. Authors must like that sort of thing, though – I know I would.

  ‘A little old for that one, aren’t you?’ Mr. Gatward said.

  ‘It’s for my son. Jack.’

  ‘And this is Mary who is three months. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Mrs. Willows told me. She also told me just now that you were interested in speaking to me.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am.’ Although I was finding it quite difficult. His spine was so curved that in order to look at me, he had to turn sideways on and twist his head round at what looked like a painful angle.

  ‘Please, then,’ he said. ‘Come to my house.’

  He looked both ways before setting off across the road. I followed, with Mary still fast asleep in the buggy.

  Until we reached his front garden, we chatted politely about the weather and my children. Mr. Gatward had none of his own, he said, although he liked them very much.

  The cottage was one of those I’d noticed before, right after the turn into the village. It had a thatched roof that came down very low. Even I had to stoop to go through the front door, and I’m certainly not six foot.

  ‘Please, make yourself comfortable. We can sit on the patio,’ said Mr. Gatward. ‘Tea will be up shortly.’

  The front room was full of books – and, when I say this, I really mean that it was full of books from floor to ceiling. A narrow path (luckily wide enough for the buggy) led through this towards a glass door. Beyond that was a conservatory, also full of books. And, beyond this, was a charmingly overgrown garden.

  Living in the maisonette, I’d never had the chance to have a garden. But, when I’d imagined one for myself, I’d always had something like this in mind – the cosy sort of space where all the flowers and bushes seem to be reaching in towards you.

  There were a couple of wicker chairs, so I parked Mary and took the one
without the cushion. Mr. Gatward, carrying a metal tray that also just fitted through the book-alley, joined me five very relaxing minutes later. I’d been watching bees going in and out of flower-heads, and thinking how magic it was they turned pollen into honey.

  ‘It really is wonderful to meet you, at last,’ he said. ‘I had been meaning to visit you at the house. You must have had quite a few visitors.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I suppose we have.’ And I mentioned Father Trovato and the local M.P.

  ‘Well,’ said Mr. Gatward, ‘that’s interesting. Church and state. I’m hardly surprised, though. Everyone’s been speculating madly about you ever since we knew you were coming. In a village like this, there’s not a lot else to do. You’re big news.’

  ‘You would have been very welcome,’ I said, though it was a little difficult to see when we could have fitted him in.

  ‘Unfortunately my Alvis is out of action, and it’s too far to walk in my present condition.’ This made me wonder whether he was expecting his condition to improve. ‘Also, I must admit, I was wary of antagonizing you. Relations between myself and the previous owner were…’

  ‘There was something in your book,’ I said. ‘You say that Michael Francis wouldn’t let you examine the family papers.’

  ‘He wouldn’t even let me on the grounds,’ said Mr. Gatward. ‘I was persona totally non grata.’

  ‘We’ll let you look at whatever you want,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry about that.’

  ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘Just – Just like that. Without proviso?’

  ‘You can come whenever you like. Only, give us a little notice.’