Lilian's Spell Book

by Toby Litt

  ‘I’m fine,’ I shouted. ‘Don’t look.’

  Holding Jack in my arms, I allowed myself to be pushed once around the room. I had to duck to go under the pipe.

  Then I shouted, ‘He’s here. Grab him now!’

  Blindly, Peter’s hands grasped out for Jack’s arms. In a moment, they got a firm grip. I was able to push from the other end. Soon, we had him out. I stood there, relieved.

  All of a sudden, I felt myself soaked and being swept off my feet. The water was freezing cold and a terrible force, pushing me wherever it wanted. A wave slapped into the back of my mouth. I felt myself choke, unable to breathe in. Desperately, I managed to lift my head free of the water.

  ‘Close your eyes, you idiot,’ I heard Peter shout before I was tumbled backwards, upside down

  A second later, the water dropped me. I was on the slippery tiled floor of the room, unable to breathe but no longer being swirled around. I looked up and saw the white churning surface of the whirlpool.

  Getting to my feet, I walked directly towards the door. And, as I did, I quickly ducked my head beneath the water. In the very centre of the room was a large black hole. If Jack or either of the men opened their eyes now, I would be sucked straight down it. That was where Jack had been heading. That is where he would have died.

  I stepped over it and hurried towards the door.

  ‘You can pull me out,’ I shouted, grabbing hold of Peter’s hands.

  He took a firm grip and lifted me clear.

  Jack was conscious, blowing water out of his nose.

  We were too relieved to be angry with him or tell him off. I hugged him tight, and he let me. We were both soaked through.

  Peter shut the door to the water room, locked it, then put the key in his back pocket.

  ‘That was a stupid idea, wasn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry I looked,’ said Mr. Gatward. ‘I thought you were out.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said.

  ‘But I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘What did you do when we weren’t looking.’

  ‘The water doesn’t touch me,’ I said. ‘Not when no one’s looking at me. When they look, it’s just the same as normal. I don’t understand, either.’

  ‘Really?’ said Mr. Gatward. ‘How bizarre.’

  ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ I said.

  Peter helped me lift a still very wobbly Jack to his feet. Then, one on either side of him, we walked him up the stairs, through the hall and into the back sitting room. Here, we laid him out on the sofa.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ he said, so weakly it made my husband start to cry.

  ‘It’s your mum you should be thanking,’ Peter said.

  I gave him the biggest hug.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Jack. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘Don’t ever do anything like that again,’ I whispered.

  ‘I promise,’ he said.

  Mr. Gatward quietly tiptoped out of the room. Peter went upstairs and fetched us both some towels and dry clothes.

  ‘That was quite an adventure, wasn’t it?’ I said to Jack.

  ‘You were so great, Mum,’ he said. ‘I thought I was going to – ’

  ‘Well, you’re all right, anyway,’ I said.

  We sat in silence for a little while.

  ‘Do you believe me now?’ I asked Peter when he came back.

  ‘People can do extraordinary things in the right circumstances,’ he said. ‘Lift cars, jump walls. People get super-strength.’

  ‘Honestly, Peter,’ I said. ‘What’s it going to take?’

  Needing some excuse to get away, I headed upstairs to check that Mary was all right. She was fine – still sleeping. Completely oblivious to almost having lost her brother. And if we never told her, she’d never know.

  Chapter 33.

  It turned out that Mr. Gatward had taken himself off to the kitchen, where he’d made tea and poured out a huge glass of orange juice for Jack. I came across him, carrying the lot through into the sitting room on a painted metal tray.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘I feel so awful,’ he replied. ‘It was me who pushed him in there. I’m so clumsy.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I know you were just trying to help.’ Although, as I said it, the suspicion crossed my mind that Mr. Gatward might have deliberately pushed Jack in. But why? He wouldn’t want him dead, would he? Just to get us out of the house? I dismissed the thought.

  Jack drank his juice and we sat sipping our tea. It was such a contrast to the panic of a few minutes before.

  ‘At least this didn’t get wet,’ said Mr. Gatward, and produced Lilian’s book from his coat pocket. He passed the little volume to me.

  ‘What’s that?’ Jack asked, at exactly the same time Mr. Gatward said, ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a very old book,’ I said. ‘And, yes, it’s lovely.’

  ‘Something you found?’ asked Peter.

  Mr. Gatward explained about the envelope.

  With a deep breath to calm my nerves, I opened the book at a random page.

  Maybe not so random – the first thing I saw was an amazing drawing of a whirlpool. On the facing page, the left, were the roots of a tree against a dark background. Here were Earth and Water.

  On the next page was a leaf, spinning in the Air. And on the right hand page were dozens of spiky Flames. Everything was drawn in very black ink but with very thin lines. Air and Water.

  I flicked a few pages further, hoping that I might find some explanation. I could feel everyone looking at me.

  There was a page of words. I brought it close to my eyes and tried to make out what it said. But the handwriting was too difficult, too old-fashioned. I couldn’t tell one letter from another.

  I flicked back to the whirlpool page, then turned the book round so the others could see. No one said anything – not until Jack said, ‘Weird.’

  ‘Can you read it?’ I asked Mr. Gatward. ‘Can you read her writing?’

  ‘If I may,’ he said, and held out his hand.

  I gave him the book. He took a while to examine it closely, holding the page right up under his nose.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can read it. But it will take some time. It would be better if I were able to work at home, where I have my magnifying glass. The hand, as you’ll see, is miniscule.’

  I was very reluctant to let him take Lilian’s book out of the house. But at least now I knew that, even if I had found it first, I would have had to go to him sooner or later. He had the skills I lacked.

  ‘Well, let’s see if it is the one in the painting,’ I said, trying to gain a little more thinking time. I held my hand out, and Mr. Gatward – perhaps a bit slowly – passed me the book.

  We all traipsed across to the parlour, where I went and stood below Lilian and then lifted the book until it was alongside the painted book.

  ‘They’re the same,’ said Jack. ‘She’s holding that book, and she’s in the past, but the book is here.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Isn’t that exciting?’

  ‘It’s marvellous,’ said Mr. Gatward. ‘One so rarely has moments like this.’

  ‘Or moments like down in the cellar, just now,’ said Peter.

  ‘Thankfully,’ said Mr. Gatward.

  ‘What did you know about the cellar?’ I asked. ‘You were pretty cagey about it before.’

  ‘I knew about the four doors, at the four compass points, each one representing an element. That was the legend, anyway. I got a glimpse down there, once or twice, when I was a child.’

  ‘Were any of the doors open?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘I don’t think they’ve been opened in decades. I doubt if Michael Francis ever went down there.’

  I remembered how Father Trovato, Michael Francis’s spiritual guide, had warned me to stay out of the cellar.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ I said. ‘Especially as he put all the alchemy books up in the attic.’

&nbs
p; ‘Can you do any spells yet?’ Jack asked Mr. Gatward.

  ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘And I wouldn’t want to, even if I could.’

  ‘I would,’ said Jack, ‘I’d want to fly.’

  I thought of Mary, and couldn’t help laughing. Jack was probably closer to his wish than he realized. The others looked at me a bit oddly, but the moment passed.

  ‘I think you should learn to swim properly first,’ said Peter.

  ‘And be invisible,’ said Jack.

  I glanced up at Lilian. I wondered where she was. This thought reminded me of Mary. And just then I heard a faint cry. I handed the book over to Mr. Gatward, deciding that I would try trusting him.

  ‘I’ll report back as soon as I can,’ he said. ‘Goodbye, Mrs. Jonson.’

  When I got to the bedroom, Mary was blinking and stretching. I thought she was grizzly because she was hungry, but it seemed she had just woken up and was bored. After trying to feed her one last time, I changed her nappy – which was almost dry – and took her downstairs.

  Peter and Jack were out in the garden, kicking a football around. It was such a male way of dealing with near-death experience.

  I stood and watched them for a while. Then turned round and looked at the painted phoenix carved in stone at the back of the house. It was identical to the one on the red ribbon in Lilian’s book. I cursed myself for not making a note of which page was marked that way. Surely Mr. Gatward wouldn’t just pull the ribbon out and use it as an ordinary bookmark? I felt like leaving a message for him at home, but then remembered he didn’t have an answerphone. Again, I’d have to trust him.

  I didn’t know much about what the phoenix meant – probably no more than the average person. Phoenixes were mythical birds that were reborn out of fire – ‘like a phoenix rises from the ashes’. Even sports commentators used that one. The stone phoenix in front of me sat on what looked like quite a toasty little campfire of logs. It was lifting its beak to the sky and stretching its wings out to either side, just as if it had been cramped up inside an egg for a few hundred years. The two halves of the egg lay on either side of it, their zigzag edges looking like they’d fit together quite neatly. That would be one puzzle solved. There was a dome behind the phoenix that at first I’d thought was another egg, but now I realized it must be the sun shining.

  ‘What else is there to see?’ I muttered to Mary.

  She gazed up at me – just as, perhaps, she’d gazed up at the ghost of Lilian.

  Jack scored a goal and began celebrating over by some yellow roses.

  ‘Unless you’d forgotten,’ I said. ‘We have people coming for dinner.’

  ‘No,’ said Peter. ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’

  ‘I think this means a trip to the supermarket.’

  ‘Dad,’ said Jack. ‘Can I stay here?’

  ‘Not a chance,’ I said.

  We did the whole round-trip in about two and a half hours. I decided on a menu while we were driving there. Avocados to start with, as long as I could get ripe ones (I could). Then posh fish pie with scallops and a cheesy breadcrumb topping, peas, French beans and carrots. Then chocolate pots for pudding (not home made).

  I wasn’t at all hungry when we left the house. By the time we got back, though, I was starving – like I hadn’t eaten in days. Mary, too, seemed to have got her appetite back. She fed once in the car park when we got there and then once again in a layby. That was the only way to stop her bawling out the car.

  I had to start cooking as soon as we got home. Peter helped by peeling potatoes, and because he stayed in the kitchen I had no problems with the water. Jack – relieved that we were connected to the outside world again – was allowed to watch television. Mary watched me, from the recliner, gurgling like a little darling.

  Halfway through, I had a real moment. Everything appeared to be so normal – we were just getting on with stuff. But underneath it all was something that none of us could understand. What if we were living in a house that would keep us alive forever, just so long as we never left the house? What would we choose to do? Jack certainly wouldn’t want to stay six years-old for eternity. He already knew that most of the things he really wanted to do – drive a car, fly a plane, fire a gun – were things that only sixteen-year olds were allowed. (Most of them I’d try and stop him doing even if he were thirty-six.) And Mary’s growth had slowed the first time the Health Visitor came. What if the next time Miriam Shoulder weighed her, she hadn’t put anything on? And then the next time after that, too? What if Mary never put on another pound? Never started to laugh, get teeth, walk, talk? How terrible would that be – a baby who never grew up? Peter might be more tempted. He didn’t like the idea of getting older, of not being able to do the things physically that he used to do. It would be reassuring to know that injuries, like my scalding, would heal themselves in a few hours. But maybe, knowing that, Peter would start to take huge risks. What was to stop him breaking every bone in his body, just so long as he did it inside the house? And then there was me. I didn’t relish the idea of becoming an old woman. I didn’t want to lose my remaining looks, feel by body go saggier, worry about forgetting everything from my past. But I also didn’t want to watch everyone I knew and loved die off without me getting any closer to that myself. I didn’t want to be that unnatural. Even with all the terrible things about it, I believed there was a reason for growing older and dying. If we didn’t do that, we wouldn’t be human. And I didn’t want to be anything other than human.

  It was strange that I wasn’t having this as a conversation with Peter. But I knew that if I brought it up, he would change the subject. The house was coming between us in a hundred different ways.

  Chapter 34.

  Normality continued through bedtime. Jack had been exhausted by his day, physically and – though he wouldn’t ever admit it – emotionally. He was asleep before I was halfway through ‘Hey Jude’.

  Mary, too, was tired. But I wanted to keep her awake as long as possible. That way, she might sleep through the whole dinner party.

  Mr. Gatward phoned at a quarter to eight.

  ‘I’ve made some discoveries,’ he said. ‘I can’t wait to tell you. It all ties in.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Nine.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he replied.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘And the ribbon – you haven’t moved it, have you? It’s still in the same page. That might mean something.’

  ‘You’re ahead of me, Mrs. Jonson. You think you’re not, but you are. Tomorrow. All will be revealed.’

  Then, at five to eight, with Mary safely asleep, there was a sharp knock at the door. Even though I hoped it was Matthew Maddox and Gracie Dearie, turned up a little early, I knew that particular rap-rap too well.

  I was still putting on my make-up. It was a long time since I’d made any effort to dress up – since before Mary was born. Peter was just zipping up his trousers. The knock came again twice before Peter made it to the door.

  ‘Father Trovato,’ I heard him say. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I would like to speak to you, and to your wife, together. It is very important.’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’ Peter said. ‘We have people arriving for dinner in – well, now.’

  ‘No, it cannot wait.’

  I was just about done.

  ‘In that case, please come through,’ said Peter.

  I should have predicted that my husband wouldn’t be able to say no to a priest.

  ‘I will await here,’ said Father Trovato, and remained standing out in the porchway.

  ‘Mrs. Jonson,’ said Father Trovato, as I came where he could see me. ‘You look beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Is there some emergency?’

  ‘You might say that,’ Father Trovato said. ‘I heard about the cellar. I heard that you have been visiting it, exploring it, despite my warning. This was a serious warning I gave to you. A very serious forbidding. You do not yet know what the cellar means. It is extremely dangerous. Dangero
us in ways you can’t understand.’

  I thought of Jack, being dragged round and round, down and down.

  ‘How do you know we’ve been in the cellar?’ Peter asked.

  ‘I know you discovered some people down there. One of these people is very important, and very angry. Of course I would hear about that eventually. But my source is more immediate.’

  ‘So it’s all right for them to be there?’ I said. ‘But not us.’

  ‘No,’ said Father Trovato. ‘It is not right for them. Absolutely not. I have attempted to speak seriously to Mrs. Forster, over many years. She will not listen. She is greedy and besotted.’

  ‘So you heard from Longbone?’ Peter said.

  ‘Not directly,’ said Father Trovato. ‘From someone close to him. I have tried to talk to him, as well. But he will not accept advice or consolation.’

  ‘He wants to live,’ said Peter.

  ‘There is life,’ said Father Trovato, ‘and there is life.’

  ‘Eternal life,’ said Peter.

  ‘Yes,’ said Father Trovato. ‘To live for a very long time on earth means nothing if you die eternally thereafter. Mr. Longbone is merely delaying his damnation.’

  ‘Because he’s not a Catholic?’ I asked.

  ‘Because he is in a state of sin,’ Father Trovato said.

  This was when I heard a car approaching through the trees.

  ‘These are our guests,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to go.’

  ‘Unless you are protected against this house,’ said Father Trovato, ‘you will be seduced by it, and by what it has to offer. Only the church can offer you the protection you need.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s this house which protects us. You know that. And that’s the problem. You’re worried what else we might find out.’

  ‘I am worried for you,’ said Father Trovato, ‘and for your children. I need to talk seriously to you.’

  Headlights passed over us.

  ‘I will return tomorrow morning,’ said Father Trovato, stepping away towards his car. ‘But you must promise to do nothing tonight.’