by Lily Graham
Emma nodded. Stella had always seen her as a rival. Unfortunately the feeling was mutual.
‘I better go or else she’ll turn this into World War Three…’ He hesitated before turning to leave. ‘Sorry. I’ll see you.’
Emma retreated inside the cottage, where she closed the door and rested her head against the cool wood, breathing heavily, seeing Stella’s expression behind her closed lids. She couldn’t help but be sucked back into the past.
* * *
Those first few weeks when Emma first came to live at Hope Cottage there were many lessons to learn about the recipes her family made, her new home, and the people in it.
She learned that cinnamon didn’t just provide warmth and flavour; it could help ease fear and anxiety. That celery wasn’t just something you served at really boring parties; it could help lower blood pressure. And that borage didn’t just make a colourful addition to salads; it was said to give courage too.
She learned that food made in the kitchen of Hope Cottage left at dusk, in dishes and on plates wrapped up in dishtowels over a covering of clingfilm, inside baskets that were secreted away to the sound of quick footsteps and desperate hearts. Those same baskets and dishes would return a few days later, in time for their next assignment. The blue casserole dish with the white daisies on its side, the cream plate with the rose pattern and the chip on the rim, the copper pot with the wooden handles, all clean and clear of food, but never empty, all the same.
When the co-owner of the Whistle-In Store, Harrison Brimble, recovered from a nasty fall despite all his doctors’ dire speculations, it could only have been as a result of Evie’s Get Up and Go Gumbo, according to Mrs Brimble, who left six ticket stubs for the vintage cinema in town inside the blue casserole dish. When posh Madge Sanders finally got a proposal out of Timothy Wastrel after ten years of dating, she was convinced that it had to be because she’d fed him every last bite of Dot’s Make Up Your Mind Meringue, and she left French chocolate and perfume on the rose plate.
When old Mrs Morton’s rheumatoid fingers eased up for the first time in months after she’d tried Evie’s Better Than a Holiday Noodle Soup, she left five knitted Christmas jumpers inside the old copper pot. Evie, Emma, Dot, Aggie and Uncle Joe wore them every year at Christmas after that.
But there was a darker side too, which she found out soon enough when she saw Janice Honeymoon hand over a set of earrings that had once belonged to her grandmother after she asked for a recipe to help save her marriage. When Janice had left, she asked Evie, ‘But why did you take the earrings when they meant so much to her – surely, we could have just helped her? It’s a bit mean.’
Evie looked at her sadly. ‘If only it worked that way. But there’s a cost to what we do, for making our recipes. A sacrifice that needs to be paid.’ If Emma was surprised at this, it was nothing compared to her shock when she watched Evie plant the earrings at dusk, beneath the cucumber frame.
‘If you dig just a little in the garden of Hope Cottage you’ll find the others too,’ Evie went on. ‘Tokens from a lover, cherished keepsakes, treasured heirlooms – not all of them would be worth something out in the world, but here they are all the same. They’re precious because of what they meant to the owner. Aggie says it helps the garden to bloom, but all I know is that it helps the recipes. Without this price, this sacrifice, they don’t often work.’
Few in Whistling would ever have believed that that was where all their offerings ended up, that they weren’t all lining some treasure chest somewhere.
‘It’s the price we pay in order to do what we do. We can’t use them – if we do, well, it just doesn’t go so well for us. It changes the effect, poisons it – and us, somehow,’ Evie explained. ‘There have been a few Halloways, in the past, who tried it and found that out the hard way. I don’t blame them exactly – it can be hard our way of life, and it can seem like an easy solution to use them, but it’s anything but.’
They never accepted cash. Even if it was sent after a recipe worked, it was returned with a polite though firm refusal. In time Emma would begin to wish that they would take money; ticket stubs and perfume didn’t mend the leak in the roof or keep the woodburner going. There were other costs too; besides their twice-mended linens and their faded dresses, there were the whispers that followed them everywhere they went, and the stares, and the rumours too.
It was on her first day at the Whistling Infant Academy that she discovered, like many Halloways before her, that she’d also inherited the old feud between the three oldest families in Whistling. No recipe in The Book had been able to change the fact that an Allen never spoke to a Halloway if they could help it, just like a Lea would cross the street before they would ever stand next to someone who came from Hope Cottage. Or that a Halloway would make a recipe for anyone, anyone at all, unless that someone was an Allen or a Lea.
The Leas thought the Halloways were witches; the Allens thought the Halloways were expensive frauds. There wasn’t a week that went by when the vicar, John Lea, like his father and his father before him, didn’t deliver a sermon to encourage his delegation not to seek a solution from the faded blue door of Hope Cottage.
Just as there wasn’t a day that went by that Janet Allen didn’t judge the people who went to the Halloways for help as blind fools. No one seemed to remember that once, long ago, they had all been friends.
It was Stella Lea, a girl with pale blonde hair in two long plaits and very serious, dark eyes, who conveyed a rather rudimentary version of this to Mrs Prudney, Emma’s new teacher, who hadn’t lived in the village long and therefore had no idea herself just what she was asking when she requested that she take a seat next to Emma on Emma’s first day. And Stella refused and matter-of-factly said, ‘Leas are never friends with Halloways, that’s what Mummy said.’ She crossed her arms. ‘So, no.’
Emma had gone home hurt, confused and embarrassed at being singled out, but most of all unable to explain what had happened, though Evie soon guessed. By that evening Dot, who’d never met a rumour she didn’t like to share, confirmed it.
Her round face was splotchy and red from her anger. ‘It was that Stella Lea – refused to sit next to her in class.’
‘You’ll make other friends, don’t you worry,’ said Evie – calmly, but her ears had turned pink in ire despite her consoling tone.
‘You wouldn’t want an Allen or a Lea as a friend in any case – they’re all idiots,’ said Agatha, who wasn’t the type to ever mince words.
Even Uncle Joe was there, Dot’s husband, a shy quiet man who generally liked to stay out of the way. But he had a fondness for the little girl with sad eyes and had come to offer some silent sympathy and an awkward pat on her head, before he retreated fast to the living room with the latest Whistling News and its crossword puzzle.
‘Well, I’m sorry but I couldn’t stand by and just take that. I walked past Netta Lea outside the Brimbles’ store,’ said Dot with a sniff. ‘Stella’s mother,’ she explained for Emma’s benefit. ‘I called her name, and when she turned I pointed at her, then drew three circles in the air, very slow-like, while I muttered, “Wisha washa wisha”, giving her a very hard stare while I did,’ she went on, pushing up her jam-jar glasses. Dot’s lips twitched. ‘I made her think I cursed her.’
Evie gasped. ‘You didn’t!’
Aggie laughed. ‘She doesn’t really think that? Could she be that daft?’
‘She really does, the silly arse.’ Then Dot gave a little snigger. ‘It’s gobbledegook, obviously,’ she said, giving Emma a wink. ‘But she doesn’t know that. She looked like she was ready to pee her pants. She ran inside, howling like nobody’s business.’
Emma’s mouth gaped as she imagined the scene, Dot with her flyaway hair and jam-jar glasses making circles with a pointed finger, Netta Lea’s horrified face (she pictured an older version of Stella). A tinkling laugh escaped her mouth, her shoulders started to shake and tears leaked out of her eyes. Soon they were all giggling. It was the first time sh
e’d made a sound since she’d arrived.
‘You might have made things worse though,’ said Evie, sobering, giving Emma a nervous look at the thought.
Dot sighed, bit her lip. ‘I know, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. That woman!’ she said, gritting her teeth.
Emma patted Dot’s soft, pale hand with its chipped polish, violet this time. Dot had become a firm favourite. Anyone who would ‘curse’ someone like Netta Lea, whose daughter had decided to be mean for no other reason than something that had happened hundreds of years before, for her was worth shouldering a few dirty looks for, she decided. Besides, it wasn’t going to be easy anyway – not being able to speak had already made certain of that.
Dot’s actions, however, did have one unintended effect, which was that they got the attention of Maggie Gilbert, who was the class chatterbox. She was slightly plump, with light brown, shoulder-length hair and sparkly pink glasses that were peppered with silver unicorns on the sides.
‘Is it true that Dot Halloway cursed Stella’s mam?’ she asked Emma the next morning at the school gates, pushing up the glasses on her small button-like nose. Her green eyes were curious.
Emma nodded, with a shy grin. She didn’t have the words to tell her it was only a laugh, but perhaps Maggie sensed the joke, because after that she decided that the quiet red-haired girl who smelt a little like cinnamon, and brought the best snacks of anyone she knew to school, seemed rather sweet, and so she took pity on her and welcomed her into her little group, which was made up of Gretchen Hannah, a serious girl with very straight black hair and a fondness for Star Wars, and Jenny Hughes, a tow-headed string-bean with a shy smile, who always had her head in a book.
Fairly soon no one remembered a time when Emma hadn’t been part of the group, and life took a decided upturn after that, even though she still hadn’t found her voice.
Emma’s real trouble, though, started a few months later on the day she fell in love with Jack Allen. It was also the day she got her voice back and the day that Jeremy Lea’s dog, Ripper, followed him to school and introduced himself to the children, and Emma in particular, showing that the Leas had passed down the family feud to every member of their family, even their dog, by going for her first and taking a sizeable chunk out of her leg.
In her swarm of fear and pain, she saw a slightly older boy with dark blond hair, who she hadn’t noticed before, run in front of the dog and distract it by letting it bite him too.
She found out his name while they were being rushed to hospital, sitting side by side in the ambulance, where she forgot all about the pain in her leg and noted that his eyes were hazel with flecks of green.
‘I’m Jack Allen, by the way.’
‘Nice to meet you. Does it hurt?’ she asked.
‘Not really,’ said Jack. ‘He didn’t get me all that bad.’
‘So you can talk,’ he went on, smiling slightly. ‘You haven’t before. Not for months – at least, that’s what everyone’s been saying.’
She nodded, eyes wide. ‘I couldn’t.’
‘Well then,’ he said, looking from the bite on his hand to her with a grin. ‘It was worth it then, just so I could meet you.’
Her mouth split into a wide, starry-eyed smile. By the time she was being stitched up, and she remembered the old family feud, it was already too late; she’d already started picturing their wedding.
She’d wear pink, of course, even if it did clash with her hair. It would go nicely with Jenny’s troll ring. This was a common playground game that usually ended with a few light-sabre noises from Jenny, daisy petals from Maggie and some important words of pronouncement and blessings from Gretchen, such as ‘Favourable tax treatment’ and ‘Off-shore banking’. Gretchen, who hadn’t quite made up her mind whether she was going to be a barrister or a tax solicitor when she grew up, listened in on a lot of her father’s business calls.
At A&E Emma waved goodbye to Jack as his mother came to fetch him, then blinked when Mrs Allen gave her son a smack on the head for returning the gesture, shooting her and Evie a look of pure loathing as she went past.
‘She hates me,’ Emma said in hurt and surprise, all thoughts of their troll and Star Wars-themed wedding crumbling to ashes. They were the first words she’d spoken to her grandmother since she arrived at Hope Cottage.
Evie sighed, shaking her head. An Allen could do that to you, crush you like you were something nasty under the heel of their boot.
Evie’s eyes were kind as she stroked Emma’s hair. ‘She doesn’t hate you, she just hates where you come from, the Halloway family,’ she explained with a sigh.
‘But why?’
‘It’s a long story, and it happened many years ago. But I suppose the Allens started hating us when they came to us for help and it didn’t work.’
‘What didn’t work?’
‘A recipe. Sometimes, things go wrong. We try our best but we can’t make guarantees. It’s why we always say the words “I make no promises” before we agree to do one, because we can’t know – who are we to promise such things? All we can do is offer hope.’
Emma looked at her, thought of all the things she’d seen and heard. ‘Is that all it is – hope?’
‘Sometimes. Sometimes that’s all you really need. Hope can do a lot of things. It grows with just a touch of light, in even the most desperate, forsaken heart. We should never underestimate the power a little hope can bring.’
* * *
As Emma’s first year at Hope Cottage drew to an end, Evie tried her best to be what Emma needed. When Emma came home in tears thanks to Stella Lea, Evie would wipe her eyes and take her for ice cream. Chocolate and pistachio, her favourite – just like her mother.
‘It’s not going to solve anything, but it does help,’ said Evie with a wink one bright, crisp afternoon in spring, when the heather was turning the moors into a purple carpet. Evie listened as Emma explained the latest humiliating attack.
It wasn’t that the day had been that much worse than any of the others, or that Stella had found a novel way of being mean; she wasn’t all that creative as far as bullies went. Though some of her tricks were rather nasty. One involved pulling up Emma’s dress while she was standing in line so that her underwear was exposed to the class, then running off before Emma could catch her, and getting back in line so that Emma was the one to get into trouble. She was always mocking her accent whenever Emma spoke up in class.
The latest, though, had been particularly horrid, and humiliating. ‘Did you smell that?’ Stella asked Jack Allen just as they were leaving the school grounds, pulling a face in her direction. ‘I think Emma farted.’
Emma’s mouth fell open, and she gasped. ‘I didn’t.’
When Emma turned red in her humiliation Stella pointed it out as proof. ‘Look at her face – she did, yuck,’ she laughed.
Seeing her mortified face, Jack gave a short laugh and told Stella to shut it. ‘Just leave her alone, Stella.’
‘Well,’ said Evie, taking a lick of her lemon sorbet as they walked home from the cobbled high street, Emma’s short legs busy keeping time with hers. ‘You’ve tried ignoring her, which doesn’t work – she’s just become more of a bully – so perhaps it’s time to tell her to leave you alone? If that doesn’t work, I’ll have to go and speak to the Leas myself.’
Emma shook her head. ‘No, it’s fine, I can handle her.’
Emma had told Stella to leave her alone, but it hadn’t made one bit of difference. That was the problem. She had thought of another way though, one she hoped would shut her up for good.
‘If you’re sure,’ said Evie.
Emma suspected that Evie had already gone to the school to speak to the teacher, Mrs Prudney, though, because in class at least, Stella now simply ignored her.
It was Maggie who explained why she thought Stella had become that much worse during the past year. ‘I mean, when I first got here she wasn’t nice or anything, but she’s become really horrid since you arrived, like really h
orrid.’
‘Is it because of the stupid thing between our families?’ asked Emma.
Maggie shook her head and pushed up her glasses, their silver unicorns flashing. ‘I think it’s because you’re friends with Jack,’ she said wisely. ‘She hates that.’
‘Why?’ asked Emma in surprise. Jack was in the year above her, so it wasn’t like they spent that much time together, just a few conversations snatched here and there in the playground. Emma, of course, wished it were more.
‘Well, she likes Jack, always has, and until you came along he never really spoke to any other girls.’
‘Well, there was the time he asked if he could borrow my pen…’ added Jenny, tucking a long strand of mousy-coloured hair behind her ears.
Maggie grinned, ‘Yes, well, besides that, of course.’
They all laughed.
The next day though, when Stella snuck up behind her and her friends, a large pile of leaves in her hands, ready to dump them on Emma’s head, Emma turned and stood up, saying, ‘I’d rethink that if I were you Stella’, then she raised a finger and took a leaf out of her Aunt Dot’s book as she narrowed her eyes and muttered, ‘Wisha washa wisha.’
Stella blinked and her face paled. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Oh, you know, just cursing you,’ she said, cocking her head to the side as if in thought. ‘I’m trying to decide whether to turn you into a pig or not.’
Stella’s dark eyes bulged. Emma almost laughed. The girl was as silly as her mother. ‘Isn’t she one already?’ asked Maggie.
Emma shrugged. ‘She acts like one, that’s for sure.’
Stella let out a little squeal, dropped the leaves, and she and her gang of girls ran away, to the sound of Emma and her friends’ laughter.
Chapter Nine
It was the first week of November and Emma was sitting on the bench in the greenhouse, with her broken leg propped up on a cushion and a blanket over her.
