The minister shrugged. ‘What the country people wanted them to do. A lot of it was harmless – charming warts – anyone can charm warts, I’ve done it myself. And herbal remedies – useful for poor people in the time before the NHS. Finding things that people had mislaid – telling them where to look for them . . .’ He trailed off again.
‘That sounds harmless enough,’ said Rose stoutly. ‘I don’t see what there is to be scared of in that.’
‘No,’ said the vicar. ‘But there were other things. Putting a blight on people’s crops . . . yes. I know it sounds ridiculous, but there was a lot of that until quite recently, especially round the time of village prize vegetable shows . . .’
‘God, how spiteful . . . and how childish!’
‘I’d believe anything of that Wallney lot. They’re just not part of the twentieth century. As they say here in Cley, one road into Wallney, and the same road out. And the inbreeding . . . they say there are only five faces in Wallney; the same faces recur time and again. Mind you, I think Cley folk have a down on Wallney. It’s sort of bottom of the heap.’
‘That doesn’t excuse them shooting at that cat . . .’
‘Cats? They do it to people, let alone cats. One of my young lads here was foolish enough to try to go courting a Wallney girl. A gang of Wallney youths set on him, half-killed him and chased him out of the village. Burnt his motorbike into the bargain. He took the hint – married a Cley girl.’
‘Didn’t the police . . .’
The minister shook his head sadly. ‘The policeman here knew he’d never get to the bottom of it. Wallney people stick together. They all tell the same story . . . there was nothing he could do.’
‘But why pick on a cat?’
‘Oh, they’d think nothing of killing a cat. Shove it in a bag and throw it in a pool – cat and kittens. Farmers aren’t sentimental.’
‘Yes, but to take the trouble to shoot it . . .’
He was silent an even longer time, watching the house martins and scuffing his little highly polished shoes on the car’s floor-covering. Then he said, ‘Sepp Yaxley had a cat – a striped cat. They said it disappeared the same time as he did. They might think, down Wallney, it was the same cat.’
‘After seven years?’
‘Cats live a lot longer than seven years. When they took against Sepp, they took against the cat. There was a lot of stupid talk.’ He stopped again, abruptly. But she had to know.
‘What kind of stupid talk?’
‘Oh, ridiculous stuff . . . medieval. They said the cat was Yaxley’s familiar spirit. A thing that took the form of a cat, to go about and wreak havoc. It’s unbelievable how stupid they can be.’ He tapped his hand on the dashboard of the car. ‘Look, Nora Yaxley has been very naughty. She’s not liked in Wallney, and she’s used you to get her way, and the dirt’s landed on you. It’s not your fault, but you’ll never get them to believe that. Why not just get out of the place? Now? It’s just not your problem. If you’re stuck for a place to stay, I’m sure my wife can put you up for the night, while you make other arrangements. I’ll come with you now if you like, and help you to clear out your stuff . . .’
A chill went through her, at the worried look on his face. She had a great urge to take him up on his offer. It would make things so simple . . . Wallney was a miserable hole. There were dozens of nicer places in Norfolk. Almost anywhere was nicer than Wallney . . .
And then her stubborn streak surfaced. She had just escaped from a man who ran her life for her, as if she was an incompetent. And within five days, here was another arrogant male doing just the same thing, all over again. I am not a child, she told herself. I am not incompetent. If I have problems, I can solve them myself. If I can’t, it’s about time I grew up.
This man was nicer than Philip, more caring, more gentle. But it was the same old damned male arrogance, the same certainty that they could run the world to perfection . . .
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re very kind. But I’m sure I can manage.’
He got out of the car, a little huffily. He closed the door with a tiny slam of criticism. Then he opened it again and said, ‘Be very careful what you do. They will always take things the wrong way. Anything outsiders do.’
Then he closed the door again, and strode briskly away. Leaving her feeling rather lonely.
As she approached Wallney, her courage began to evaporate. Something deep inside her, not heard for a long time, began insisting that she pack and get out. It nagged and nagged and nagged, until she almost hit a passing car, through not looking what she was doing.
Suddenly, irrationally, she wanted to hear Philip’s voice. Philip’s strong certain no-nonsense voice, that would blow away in a trice all these dark cold thoughts that were invading her. She pulled up by the phone-box in the village, and looked in her purse for change.
Damn. She had nothing but notes. She would have to get change at the shop, the hostile shop.
She took herself in charge, and read herself a lecture. It was only a shop, like any other shop. It sold things. For profit. It had a living to make. It was her obedient servant. Going in to the shop would be a first step to becoming a more confident Rose. It was time she toughened up; grew a thicker skin.
She got out of the car, and locked it decisively. Strode across the square with a dominant mannish no-nonsense stride that would leave them in no doubt, as they watched her come, that she meant business.
The shop bell gave a sharp ting. But nobody in the shop took any notice. Not a head turned, though she knew they knew it was her. She pushed through them. Of course, she wouldn’t just ask for change for a five-pound note. She would buy something, anything.
‘Three cans of Coke!’ she said briskly; at the same time realising they had enough Coke at the house already to float a battleship.
The woman looked at her, hard. There seemed to be a little gloating glint in her eye.
‘I’m afraid I can’t serve you, madam.’
‘Can’t serve me? Why ever not?’ Rose couldn’t help her voice squeaking upwards with surprise.
‘No reason.’
‘That’s just stupid!’
‘I’ll thank you to keep your insults to yourself, madam. It is not the policy of this shop to serve you.’
‘But you have to serve me! It’s against the law for you not to serve me!’
‘We can serve who we like. And not serve who we don’t like.’
For a wild angry second, Rose had thoughts of returning with a policeman and demanding her legal rights. Then she thought perhaps she had no legal rights.
‘Oh, come on, be sensible.’ She heard an unwelcome note of desperate pleading in her voice.
‘It’s within my legal rights, not to serve troublemakers!’ The woman was smiling now; it was not a nice smile, and Rose had an idea that she was sharing it with the others in the shop, behind Rose’s back. Rose’s mind shot from pleading to rage. She was being put down with drunken teenagers, and children who shoplifted.
‘How am I a trouble-maker?’ The moment she said, it, she knew it was a mistake.
The woman looked at her even more gloatingly, as if assessing which words would cause most pain. She really took her time; Rose felt inwardly frozen by such exultant cruelty.
‘You come here, with your big car, and all your money that you haven’t lifted a finger to earn, and you stay where you’re not wanted, and poke and pry into what doesn’t concern you and you plague decent law-abiding people. What respectable woman dresses up like a teenage kid? Mutton dressed as lamb? Well it might do for your grand friends up London, but it doesn’t wash with folks down here. Get back to where you belong.’
There was a sort of low growl of approval from the customers. Rose didn’t even dare look round. She was surrounded by a massive wall of monumental ignorance and stupidity. It drove her mad; and at the same time to the verge of tears. The trouble was, she was used to always being loved, or at least liked, or at the very worst i
gnored.
‘Oh, go to hell the lot of you!’ she shouted, before she could stop herself. ‘I hope you all roast in hell.’ It was a thing she had once heard her father shout, many many years ago. It was the one thing that came into her mind; she had never felt the need for rude words since then.
There was a long profound silence in the shop. As if the people were digesting carefully what she had said, and waiting nastily for her to go on. They were so much together, so hard and unrelenting. Rose hated such people so much; she thought them the cause of all the trouble in the world.
She turned and walked out, her head held high. But she could not bear to leave them to their triumphant gossip afterwards. She turned a last time to their impervious faces, wanting to hurt as she had been hurt, and said, ‘You’re nothing but a bunch of ignorant pigs, ignorant Norfolk pigs. You’ll be sorry for this!’
And with that meaningless, pointless threat, she left.
Nine
She walked into the cottage with a face like thunder. The children were not in the kitchen; but she heard voices from the sitting-room. What the hell were they up to now?
When she opened the door, an appalling sight greeted her. The door of the cupboard was wide open, and the shelves were nearly empty. Every chair, table and flat surface was decked out with the contents of the cupboard. On the centre table, the awful embryo in the glass jar took up pride of place, surrounded by the jars of newts and toads. There were pots and bags of odd stuff scattered everywhere.
Timothy was holding one bag; he took his nose out of it as she glared at him.
‘Smell this powder, Mum! It smells ever so weird.’
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Put that stuff back instantly!’
‘We were only having a nosy,’ said Jane. ‘The cat wanted to have another nosy, so we thought we’d have one.’ The cat was contentedly clutched in her arms.
‘Put it all back this instant,’ Rose screamed.
‘Careful, little Mumsy,’ said Timothy, mock-threateningly. ‘Or we’ll turn you into a frog!’ Holding the bag in one hand he moved glowering towards her. ‘Or a slug. And then feed you on slug-pellets.’ He began to gesture in the air, and then made a sign with two fingers that he’d learnt on a trip to Italy, which was either a sign for warding off the evil eye, or the sign for putting it on somebody; she couldn’t quite remember.
She grabbed the bag off him and said, ‘Stop it, you little devil . . .’
And at that moment, she sensed the light from the open window darken. Heard an elderly voice begin. ‘I’ve seen to the . . . missus. That’s all right now – ’
She turned and saw Mr. Gotobed standing there. Mr. Gotobed stopped in mid-sentence. His tombstone mouth fell open. She watched his eyes widen and swivel. From the open cupboard to the embryo on the table, amidst its circle of the dead. From the gesture that Timothy was making to the bag in her own hand. And on to the striped cat that was lying purring with delight in Jane’s arms . . .
Their total damnation grew on Mr. Gotobed’s stupid old face. He gave a whimper, like a baby. Began to edge away from the window.
‘Mr. Gotobed, I can explain everything,’ she wailed. And then despairingly, ‘Mr. Gotobed, wait!’
But already he was a frantically bobbing head above the hedge, on his desperate way down to the village.
‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’ she said wearily, putting the last horrible object back in the cupboard, and slamming the door shut as if that very act of will would undo the damage.
‘Looking for . . .’ said Timothy.
‘Treasure,’ said Jane defiantly. ‘And we found it.’ She dangled a worn leather bag with a drawstring defiantly under Rose’s nose. ‘Tim says they’re sovereigns, and worth about a hundred and fifty pounds each. Will we get a reward off Miss Yaxley for finding them?’
‘There’s a hundred and five in that bag,’ said Tim. ‘That’s over fifteen thousand pounds. Finders usually get ten per cent. I’m going to buy a new mountain bike with mine.’
‘And I’m buying a combined colored television and VHF radio from Dixon’s,’ added Jane.
Their eyes glowed with covetousness. For a moment, Rose felt truly scared of them. Damn them! Damn Miss Yaxley and her stupid brother who did nothing but make trouble! Damn the cat, damn this whole place, damn, damn, damn!
‘There’s another book, too,’ said Timothy. ‘And you can read this one.’ He tossed it to her, saying regretfully, ‘There’s no magic spells. It’s only an account-book . . .’
She caught it, and it fell open as it came into her hands. And there it was, full and real, in Sepp Yaxley’s crabbed handwriting:
To charming a wart for M.J. Two pounds
To B.S. for a mixture to cure his back Two pounds
To finding Miss A.M.’s purse Five pounds
But there was worse to come:
To putting a blight on N.P.’s beans Five pounds
To taking off the blight from N.P.’s beans Ten pounds
The old thief, not even honest in his foul witchcraft. Taking one man’s money to blight, and another’s to take the blight off.
And there was one thing that was worse still.
To curing Mrs. L.C. of her child Thirty pounds
She shut the book. She felt very sick.
She made lunch for the children, her hands moving automatically. She couldn’t eat any herself. Things whirled round inside her head, out of control.
While she washed up, she made up her mind. She would go and have things out with Miss Yaxley, once and for all. And then they would get out of this horrible place for good.
The children were down the garden again, playing with the cat. She called to them.
‘Going up to see Miss Yaxley. Won’t be long. Stay close to the house, and don’t do anything!’
They nodded absently. They had heard her; but, she suspected, only as one hears the irritating buzzing of a fly on a window. ‘Don’t do anything. Don’t touch anything,’ she shouted again. Timothy waved an idle lordly hand.
As she turned out of the ruined gate, she saw ahead the bent figure of an old man. He seemed to be working on the hedge that bordered the next field. Laying it, as Mr. Gotobed would have said. But he had none of the terrible hacking vigour of Mr. Gotobed. He flailed weakly, and often the result of his hacking was little more than a shower of severed leaves. Poor old thing, having to work at his age, and in his arthritic state. As she drew nearer, the sound of his puffing wheezing breathing came to her through the still air. Her heart filled with pity for him.
‘Good afternoon,’ she greeted him with extra warmth. He glanced up at her, from his bent position. And all pity froze inside her. He had an absolutely expressionless face; a face of red-veined marble; and his dull green eyes were as cold as stones. She felt she might as well have said good morning to the expressionless eyes of a basking lizard.
Then he dropped his head again, and went on feebly working; the sound of his gasps growing in volume.
A hundred yards on, she turned to look back at him. He had stopped work, and was standing with his elbows on the top of a nearby gate, his huge sharp billhook in his hand.
She was quite sure he was watching her house. That laying the hedge was simply an excuse, however sharp and murderous his billhook had been.
Suddenly, she felt uneasy about leaving the children alone. She hastened her steps. She must deal with Miss Yaxley quickly, and get back.
She went round the back way into Miss Yaxley’s. There was no sign of the old lady in the back garden; though the garden kneeler still lay there, with a trug of weeds and a knife beside it. The weeds were old and withered; the blade of the knife was rusted with overnight dew. It made her more uneasy; Miss Yaxley was not one to forget, and leave a good knife out to rust.
She knocked on the back door. No answer, though it swung open under her knocking. She put her head round the door, and shouted ‘Yoohoo’ as she had done so long ago, at her granny
’s. Then jumped with shock.
Against the dim light of the lace-curtained window, Miss Yaxley was sitting in her chair, as still as a stone. Her head did not turn; her body did not move.
Oh God, thought Rose, a stroke, a heart attack. She moved across trembling and took hold of Miss Yaxley’s hand as it lay in her lap. It was very cold. The certainty of the presence of death closed in on Rose like a cold shroud; a still agony inside a shroud of calm.
So it came as an even more dreadful shock when Miss Yaxley did move her head; when she opened her eyes. When she opened her old wrinkled lips feebly and no sound came out.
‘Are you all right?’ squeaked Rose. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Cold,’ said Miss Yaxley. ‘Cold.’
Rose looked wildly round. There was a heavy velvet cloth on the table. She whipped it off, and tucked it round Miss Yaxley’s shoulders and across her knees, lifting the cold hands one after the other and laying them on top.
The fire in the grate was cold white ash, long beyond reviving. But there was a worn greasy fan-heater lying in the corner. Rose pulled it out to Miss Yaxley’s feet, and pressed the switch. To her relief, it came on with an ancient chirruping whirr. Real heat came out, dry and oppressive, but welcome to her hand.
‘Cup of tea,’ she said to Miss Yaxley loudly. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’ She found the kettle and blundered about, looking for tea, sugar, milk in the strange kitchen and eventually finding them, slowed up by the constant glances in Miss Yaxley’s direction. The kettle boiled, she made the tea, and took it across to Miss Yaxley. Put it on the table beside her, and took and chafed old cold hands.
‘What happened, Miss Yaxley?’
The old bleary eyes looked at her emptily. The old lips moved, with their pathetic fringe of stray hairs.
‘They broke my winders,’ she said. And began to cry silently, the tears coursing down the wrinkled cheeks.
Rose whirled. The windows of the kitchen looked intact. But the room was cold, full of draughts coming under the door. She went and opened the door into the sitting-room, and gasped in disbelief.
Spectral Shadows Page 29
