Lilian's Spell Book

by Toby Litt

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Mr. Gatward.

  He tucked his head into his chest, which gave a heave and then a shudder. I saw a couple of teardrops fall onto his silk tie.

  ‘This is wonderful,’ he said, after a couple of minutes. ‘Bless you, Mrs. Jonson. It’s been such a very long time.’

  He needed a few moments more before he was composed enough to ask, ‘So, you’re interested in history, are you?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘But why didn’t Michael Francis want you near the house?’

  ‘Perhaps I should give you a little background information,’ the local historian said. ‘The previous Mr. Jonson, as you probably know, was an obsessively private man. He took over the house at the age of fifty-six. I had been quite friendly with his uncle, and had even played in the house when I was a child.’

  ‘That’s when you went in the priest’s hole.’

  ‘Indeed. You are an attentive reader. Well, like any family, I suppose, the Jonsons have their secrets. And when Michael Francis came into possession, he soon became quite cranky. For example, the milkman always used to leave the bottles on the doorstep. But Michael Francis now insisted they be left halfway down the drive. He had a special little hut constructed out of bricks, so that the sparrows didn’t get at the tops. The only person allowed into the house, apart from himself, was Mrs. Forster – who I’m sure you already know better than I do, although we were schoolmates a long time ago. Of course, the masons weren’t very happy about this. They had been using the hall for centuries. Some of them practically wanted to storm the place with guns. But Michael Francis could not be pressured. He didn’t care what the village thought of him, because he never visited the village. Everything he wanted came to him. Including a priest to say mass in his private chapel.’

  ‘You know about that?’ I asked, a little disappointed I hadn’t been able to surprise him with it.

  ‘I have never seen it. But I believe I know where it is.’

  ‘We could give you the guided tour.’

  ‘Wonderful woman.’

  Mr. Gatward looked at me with glistening eyes – I swear, he was a little in love with me.

  ‘So, what is it about the house that you want to know, most of all?’

  ‘It is a puzzle,’ he said, after a moment’s thought. ‘It is a very old house, but it doesn’t seem to have very much history. Not in the conventional sense. The Jonsons are an extremely long-lived family. And one has succeeded the other, as owner, quite smoothly.’

  ‘I’m interested in Elizabeth Jonson,’ I said.

  ‘Ah,’ replied Mr. Gatward, ‘beautiful and brilliant Lilian. Yes, we’d all like to know more about her.’ He finished his tea and put his cup and saucer down.

  ‘You wrote quite a lot about her in your book.’

  ‘Which book?’

  ‘A Kindly Place.’

  ‘There’s a tiny bit more in Hidden Histories. But that, alas, is all the information I have upon her.’

  ‘So you don’t know why she disappeared?’

  ‘I have theories,’ he said, then quickly added. ‘Completely unsubstantiated.’

  ‘Do you think you might be able to find out something for definite, if you could look through the archives?’

  ‘I might,’ he said, sitting up straighter. ‘There are no certainties. But… Who knows?’

  ‘You can start whenever you like,’ I said. ‘This afternoon.’

  ‘I would love to. Things aren’t quite that simple, however. I could probably come… tomorrow, Wednesday, in the morning?’

  ‘Whenever you like,’ I said.

  Mary woke up quite suddenly, and began to cry. I knew Mr. Gatward, however well-disposed he was towards me, and however much he said he liked children, wouldn’t be comfortable with what I needed to do. So, I said a hurried goodbye and rushed back to the bench on the green. It was only when I’d sat down and had Mary on my lap that I realized I’d completely forgotten to ask him to sign the books.

  On our way back to the house, after Mary had been satisfied, we stopped off in St Edith’s churchyard.

  Now that I knew where they were, the Jonson gravestones weren’t hard to find. Mr. Gatward’s description of them was very accurate – there were the four keys, and there was the cock. The only thing I wasn’t sure about was the crown on the last key. It did have three triangular points, like a child’s drawing of something a king or queen might wear, but also like a child’s drawing, the lines were rather wavy – and the points weren’t all in a neat row. To me, they looked more like flickering flames than a crown made of metal.

  Then I realized something about the doors in the cellar. I couldn’t wait to tell Peter, so I rushed home. Of course, he wasn’t there.

  Chapter 18.

  I was thirsty when I got back to the house, and wanted a glass of water. But the kitchen tap still wasn’t working. I poured some orange juice out, from one of the cartons in the pantry. Jack practically lives on juice, so we always have plenty.

  Although I wasn’t very hungry, I made a sort of picnic lunch and took it out to the garden. Mary lolled around on the blanket beside me, kicking at things only she could see.

  I left her there while I took the plate back in. Mrs. Forster was at the sink, filling a bucket with hot water.

  I didn’t say anything, just waited until she’d finished.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said when she saw me. ‘Did you want something?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said.

  After she’d gone, I tried the cold tap. As I’d expected, it didn’t work. Air came out but not a drip of water. Then I tried the hot tap Mrs. Forster had just been using. Still nothing. This was weird.

  I hurried back out to Mary, anxious that something might have happened to her in the few minutes I’d been away. And something had happened, Robert Mew was sitting with her on his lap.

  ‘Afternoon,’ he said. ‘I wondered where you were.’

  ‘Just inside,’ I said.

  ‘There are foxes about,’ he said. ‘And a couple of fairly wild cats. I’d be careful about leaving the baby just lying around outside.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. Then I asked, ‘Have you ever had problems with the water supply in the house?’

  Robert Mew looked a little embarrassed. ‘There’s a standpipe behind the garage, and one further out in the woods. I’ve never had a problem with either of those.’

  ‘Could you come into the kitchen for me, and just try one of the taps.’

  Robert Mew handed Mary to me. At first I thought he was going to refuse. I could see thoughts passing behind his clear eyes, but they went too fast for me to guess what they were.

  ‘All right,’ he said. It was hard to tell what his expression was, underneath all that beard. His voice seemed slightly shaky, though.

  We walked up the lawn together. He stood to one side to let me go in. I thought he was just being polite. But when I glanced back, I noticed that he crossed himself before he passed over the threshold – crossed himself just like Father Trovato had made us do, before entering the chapel. I wanted to ask why. He strode ahead, though – I think because he’d seen me looking, and seen my surprise.

  ‘Which one?’ he asked.

  I pointed to the cold tap.

  He turned it, and a thick column of water came out.

  ‘No problem there,’ he said.

  I thanked him. Then, feeling slightly shaky, I tried the tap myself. It worked, thank God.

  ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

  He wandered off through the hall. I waited until I could no longer hear his footfalls.

  Again, I tried the tap.

  This time nothing came out, just a hiss.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ I said.

  Suddenly, water started to gush out.

  ‘Yes?’ said Mrs. Forster, who’d done her old trick of sneaking up on me.

  ‘Just talking to myself,’ I said.

  But later, as
I was upstairs changing Mary, I realized that I hadn’t been talking to myself. I had been talking to the house. I had been telling it to stop misbehaving.

  This scared me a little, and I hurried outside again and waited in the garden with Mary. My mind was going very fast, all this time – making connections. The dirt. The water. The carved phoenix.

  Mary was very happy, making her little noises and kicking her legs. She got a dimple in her left cheek whenever she smiled. I wondered whether this would still appear when she lost her chub.

  But my thoughts couldn’t stay on simple things. I realized I needed to check something.

  Carrying Mary on my hip, I reentered the house and went through to the study. On my last visit here, I’d seen a battered dictionary on Michael Francis’s desk. I opened it and looked up the word I needed.

  I was just reading the entry when I heard the grrr of our car’s engine and the crunch of its wheels on the gravel.

  Peter and Jack came into the hall, carrying brightly coloured cardboard boxes. Peter also had a plastic bag dangling from his fingers. As I approached, I saw it was full of DVDs.

  Although I didn’t really want to say what I was about to say in front of Jack, I just couldn’t wait until the evening.

  ‘I think I know what’s going on,’ I said, hurriedly. ‘With the doors downstairs and everything.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that, too,’ Peter said. He wasn’t happy – a bit grim, even.

  ‘Can I see the doors?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Not now,’ I said. ‘Mummy needs to speak to Daddy.’

  ‘And Daddy needs a cup of tea,’ said Peter.

  ‘Well, you’ll have to make it yourself,’ I said.

  ‘Look,’ said Peter, ‘we won’t have the television for a day or two. I just bought him a few DVDs – as a special treat.’ He thought I was angry about him encouraging Jack’s TV habit. And I was, but other things were far more important.

  ‘I couldn’t make you a cup of tea, even if I wanted to. Not unless you’re there. The water’s refusing to work for me.’

  Jack turned to Peter. ‘Is Mummy being funny?’

  ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘But I’ll make the tea, anyway.’

  We all went into the kitchen – where Peter, with a puzzled smile, filled the kettle and clicked it on.

  ‘One for you?’ he asked.

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Peter, it’s the elements, the four elements. You know – earth, water, fire and air. Behind the first door was earth and behind the second door was water. I saw the fire on William Jonson’s gravestone.’

  ‘Now Mummy really is being funny,’ said Peter, signalling to me that I was being too intense – that if I wasn’t careful I might freak Jack out.

  ‘The dirt in the larder at night, that was earth,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. You may be right,’ said Peter, with a blah-blah-blah tone. ‘We’ll talk about this later.’

  ‘No!’ shouted Jack. ‘That’s boring!’

  ‘If you want to watch any of those DVDs, you better not shout at me like that,’ said Peter.

  ‘Sorry, Dad,’ said Jack.

  ‘I think you should go outside for a bit,’ I said. ‘Get some fresh air. Play with something that isn’t electronic, for once.’

  Jack hunched his shoulders and crossed his arms.

  ‘I’ll come out and play football,’ said Peter. ‘When I’ve had my tea.’

  There was a silent stand-off. Then Jack backed down. He liked football, and being out in the big garden was still a novelty. ‘Okay,’ he said.

  ‘Would you like some juice?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m good.’

  He slouched away.

  ‘He’s a teenager already,’ said Peter.

  ‘Please take this seriously,’ I said. ‘There’s something very strange going on in this house. The stones that fell in Jack’s room – they were earth, too. And since we opened the water door, everything changed to water-things.’

  ‘We better not open the fire door, then,’ said Peter. I gave him a look. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Fine. What’s this about the water not working?’

  ‘If someone’s there, the taps are fine,’ I said. ‘Look.’

  I turned the faucet, and water came out. I shut it off.

  ‘But if you leave the kitchen, no water. Try it.’

  Peter carried his tea into the hall.

  ‘Doing it now,’ I said.

  Water flowed.

  ‘Maybe you need to be further off!’ I shouted.

  ‘I’m on the stairs,’ Peter shouted.

  Again, water came from the taps.

  I felt very foolish. Perhaps I should lie and tell him it was as I’d said.

  ‘Come back!’ I called.

  Peter came and stood in the doorway.

  ‘That seems to have stopped,’ I said. ‘Perhaps because I told you about it.’

  ‘I’m not calling you mad,’ said Peter. ‘But I’d just like you to think for a second about how mad what you’re saying sounds. “The water is working because it heard you say something to me.”’

  ‘Not the water,’ I said. ‘The house.’

  ‘And that isn’t mad?’

  ‘You said you weren’t calling me mad.’ I realized I was shouting.

  ‘I’m not,’ said Peter, trying to speak calmly.

  ‘I am completely sane,’ I shouted. ‘It’s this house that’s mad.’

  Mary started to wail. She hated raised voices – although hers was by some margin the loudest in our family.

  A football bounced a couple of times in the hall and then rolled into sight. Mrs. Forster wasn’t the only eavesdropper around.

  ‘Come in,’ said Peter.

  Jack appeared round the door.

  ‘I thought you’d gone outside,’ I said, cradling Mary.

  ‘Why are you shouting?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Go outside,’ I said.

  ‘I went upstairs to get my ball,’ said Jack. ‘It’s not fair!’

  ‘Sometimes Mummys and Daddys don’t agree,’ I said. ‘And it’s usually because the Daddys are wrong.’

  ‘Listen and learn,’ said Peter to Jack.

  ‘You’re joking,’ said Jack. ‘Stop it! I want you to be serious with me.’

  ‘We will,’ I said. ‘We just need to talk about it first.’

  ‘You’re rubbish,’ said Jack, on the point of tears – tears of anger and frustration.

  ‘Come on, Jack Rabbit,’ said Peter, and drank down the last half of his tea. He placed the mug carefully on the kitchen table. Mary had stopped wailing and started sobbing. ‘I do not think you’re mad,’ Peter said, very quietly, leaning towards me. Then he turned to Jack, ‘Right, you’re Plymouth Argyll!’

  ‘Chelsea,’ said Jack.

  ‘Raith Rovers,’ said Peter.

  ‘Chelsea,’ said Jack.

  ‘Partick Thistle,’ said Peter.

  They went on like this until I couldn’t hear them any more.

  I held Mary until she was so calm she fell asleep. Then I put her in the recliner.

  When I tried to wash up the mugs, the water didn’t come.

  ‘Sucker,’ I said, as if the house were saying it to me.

  Chapter 19.

  Straight away, I carried Mary across to the library. The dictionary entry on ‘elements’ had been fine, as far as it went. It had told me the basics – earth, water, air and fire. But I wanted to know more.

  After half an hour, I still hadn’t found anything. There wasn’t even an encyclopedia.

  Peter eventually sought me out, to apologize. I’d given up on the books and was cuddling Mary.

  ‘I want to talk about it, too,’ he said. ‘Just not in front of Jack.’

  ‘What’s he doing now?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve got him practicing free kicks,’ said Peter.

  ‘You do believe me?’

  As is the way of these things, someone knocked on the front door just before he could answer. />
  We all went to see who it was, me carrying Mary. It turned out to be Gracie Dearie, the farmer’s wife. She was wearing – wow – a bright emerald silk blouse, a matching pleated skirt, light green tights and green Converse trainers. She looked stunning, very fashion shoot, and not a little bizarre. ‘Oh, hello. I’ve been sent to invite you to dinner,’ she said. ‘Welcome you to the area.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, immediately foreseeing problems. ‘That would be lovely.’ We had no babysitter, and I wouldn’t want to leave Jack in the house with a stranger.

  ‘It might be a little easier if you came here,’ said Peter.

  ‘Oh,’ said Gracie, ‘well, we thought that, too. But we couldn’t very well say, “Can we come round to supper, please?”’

  ‘If you bring some more of those delicious vegetables, you can,’ I said.

  Peter said, ‘Thursday night all right?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think Sunday night might be better.’

  It was a strange suggestion. We’d always kept Sunday evening free, so that Peter could get a good night’s sleep before the week started. Peter looked at me, slightly bemused.

  ‘How about next Monday, then?’ I said.

  ‘It’s Midsummer’s Eve on Sunday,’ said Gracie, as if that was significant. ‘Sunday would be most convenient.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said, then explained about our Sunday night tradition. I was starting to want to get this out of the way as quickly as possible. ‘You really can’t do Thursday night?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course we can,’ said Gracie, reluctantly. Midsummer’s Eve was clearly her desired date. ‘I’ll check with Matthew.’

  ‘Eight o’clock,’ I said. ‘Or eight fifteen. Then Jack will be safely in bed.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Gracie said. Her eyes were twinkling as she tried to hold back the tears.

  When she’d gone, Peter went out to check on Jack. Mary was falling asleep, so I thought I’d put her down for a sleep in our room. I was half way up the stairs when Mrs. Forster started hoovering. Mary woke up and started to cry. I went into the bedroom.

  ‘Turn that thing off,’ I said, loudly.

  Mrs. Forster complied.

  ‘You make too much noise,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t want you in our house, cleaning all the time. The place doesn’t need as much attention as you give it. We are a family. We need time on our own. Without other people around. And I don’t want you starting first thing every morning.’ Already Mrs. Forster was looking distraught. ‘You can work from one to four p.m., three days a week. You can choose which. If we need more, we’ll let you know. So, please pack up and go home. I want to try and get my daughter back to sleep.’