The Language of Spells

by Painter, Sarah

  ‘Imagine that. The horror.’

  ‘She wants to know what I learned, whether I got into trouble.’

  ‘Is that likely?’ Gwen looked at the angelic-looking girl rolling a ball of cake around her plate.

  ‘No!’ Katie pulled a dramatically injured face. ‘I’m never in any trouble. I never do anything.’

  ‘Ah.’ Gwen sipped her coffee. It had almost gone cold, but she didn’t want to get up and disturb the bubble of intimacy that seemed to envelop them. She had the feeling that Katie was working up to something. A question, perhaps.

  ‘Was your mum like that? Gran, I mean.’

  Mum. It was funny to think of her mother with that word. Gloria had never been ‘Mum’, always ‘Gloria’. She’d been affectionate in a distracted way. Except when it came to training sessions. Then her attention had been intense. Uncomfortably so. ‘Gloria wouldn’t have asked you if you were hot if your hair was on fire.’

  Katie thought for a moment. ‘She wasn’t very nice?’

  ‘Not that so much. She’s just in her own little world. Planet Gloria. Population one.’

  ‘But when you were really little—’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I think Ruby is desperate not to be like her. Maybe she tries a bit too hard sometimes, but at least she’s interested.’

  Katie’s face closed down.

  Cat chose that moment to jump onto the outside windowsill, making Katie jump and then squeal. With remarkable energy, she was out of the chair and opening the window, letting in a stream of freezing air.

  ‘Come on, pussycat. We’ve got cake.’

  Katie held out a lump of cake and Cat sniffed it delicately. Gwen opened her mouth to say that lime cake probably wasn’t very good for cats, when Cat jumped in a graceful arc from the sill to the floor, landing in an ungainly puddle and jumping up again to stalk towards the water dish, tail held high and an expression that said: I totally meant to do that.

  Katie brushed her hands on her jeans. ‘So, what are we doing today? More unpacking?’

  ‘I think I’m pretty much done.’ Gwen got up and shut the window. She turned to find Katie frowning at her.

  ‘But where’s all your stuff?’

  ‘I don’t really have anything. I rent furnished places, keep all my essentials in the van.’

  ‘But what about books, music, clothes? You know – stuff.’

  ‘In the van. I travel light.’

  ‘That’s what Dad said.’

  Gwen forced a smile. ‘Well, he’s right.’

  ‘What about your stock, though? Mum said you sold stuff. At car boot sales.’

  ‘Not exactly car boots.’ Gwen kept her voice light. ‘More like antique fairs, craft markets, that kind of thing.’

  Katie pulled a face. ‘Sounds boring.’

  ‘It can be.’

  ‘So where is it?’

  ‘What?’

  Katie sighed. ‘Your stock. Your business stuff.’

  ‘I used to use a storage facility in Birmingham.’

  ‘More renting?’

  Gwen crossed her arms. ‘It makes sense; I can move it if I want to, although Birmingham is quite handy. Kind of in the middle of the country.’

  ‘But you don’t use it any more?’

  ‘No. I’ve downsized. I just keep my stock in Nanette now.’

  ‘It’s not a big business then.’

  ‘Not any more. No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Gwen, who had once withstood four hours of police questioning, gave in. ‘Things haven’t been going so well. Between you and me, the business is pretty much washed-up.’

  ‘Oh.’ Katie paused. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Gwen said. She felt a loosening in her chest as soon as the words were out. It didn’t seem as awful to admit as she’d thought.

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  Gwen forced a smile. ‘Now that’s a difficult question.’ I want to run my business and make enough money so that I don’t keep waking up in the night in a panic. I don’t want to have the Finding. I want to live a quiet, normal life.

  ‘You should move your business stuff into the house. Then you can work on it properly.’ Katie threw her arms wide. ‘You’ve got this whole place.’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘But you’re not staying?’ Katie let her arms drop.

  Gwen was stung by how hurt Katie looked. She took a step towards her. ‘I don’t have any plans—’

  ‘When are you selling this place? Just give me some warning, okay? I don’t want to come by after school and get slapped in the face by a For Sale sign in your front garden.’

  ‘I don’t have any plans to sell this house, Katie,’ Gwen said as gently as she could. ‘I can’t for a while, anyway, and I might stay. I like it—’

  ‘But not enough to move your stock in. Or your stuff from the van. Yeah, you’re not staying.’ Katie flung open the back door and headed into the garden, throwing over her shoulder, ‘Mum was right.’

  ‘Hey.’ Gwen caught up with her halfway down the lawn. ‘I might stay. I’ve never had a proper home before, so I don’t really know how I’m supposed to feel.’

  Katie rubbed her arms. Her nose was already pink from the cold. ‘Whatever. You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do.’ She pointed at the outbuilding. ‘That would make a good stockroom, though. You could make it into an office. For your computer, packaging stuff, all that.’

  ‘I don’t use a computer.’

  Katie looked at her pityingly. ‘You should. Take a class or something.’

  ‘Why?’ Gwen said, ready to hear the joys of BookFace or VidTube.

  ‘Sell your stuff online. Much better than hanging around crusty old fairs.’

  ‘Crusty?’

  ‘Probably. And wet. I bet you get rained on all the time.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Gwen said, feeling a little faint.

  ‘Let’s look.’ Katie crossed to the building and pushed at the door.

  ‘It’s locked.’ Gwen got the key and opened it. Katie was right. The space was perfect. Before, she’d been distracted by mysteries and magic and silly superstition, but she could see the shelves full of stationery and mailing supplies, and a computer desk on the far wall. She could store things up above in the half-boarded loft, use the table in the middle for packing.

  ‘What’s it called? Your shop.’

  ‘Curious Notions.’

  Katie wrinkled her nose. ‘Could be worse.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Gwen said dryly. ‘Haberdashery like bobbins, needles and buttons is called “notions” and I just liked the way it sounded.’

  ‘Well, you probably need to stick with it. You’ve already got customers; you want them to be able to find you.’

  ‘They can always find me; I do the same shows every year.’

  ‘But you won’t have to,’ Katie said, clearly exasperated. ‘That’s the whole point. You won’t have to trail around the place any more. You can stay here.’

  Gwen smiled at her. ‘Do you want me to stay here?’

  Katie gave her a superior look. ‘I don’t care one way or the other.’

  ‘Right.’ Gwen’s smile widened. ‘I love you too, honeybunch.’

  The next day, Gwen crossed the town bridge, leaving the jumbled cottages and cobbled streets for the grander town houses on the other side of the river. Cameron Laing territory. She started scouting the pavements, as if her desire to see him would make him magically appear. The houses climbed the hill, creamy sandstone peeking from behind evergreens and the bare branches of oak and elm.

  The Greenhouse restaurant was a monstrosity of modernism and glass awkwardly tacked onto a town house in what could only be described as a travesty of planning permission.

  Patrick was already seated and he rose to meet her. ‘I ordered you a gin and tonic, but I can get you something else if that’s wrong.’

  Gwen had resolved to be as awkward as
possible, but now found she didn’t have the energy. ‘That’s fine,’ she said, taking off her coat. A waiter materialised just as she did and tried to help her with it.

  ‘You look lovely,’ Patrick said dutifully.

  Gwen smiled. ‘Thank you.’ She had refused to dress up and was wearing an ancient T-shirt that had once been black but was now a washed-out grey; it had a cartoon of a cow on the front and the words ‘moo power’.

  ‘This is one of mine.’ Patrick waved a hand, encompassing the tables, the waiting staff in their over-sized white aprons and, presumably, the kitchen area and toilets, too.

  ‘Very nice,’ Gwen said politely.

  Patrick laid a hand on top of the menu, very obviously not bothering to look inside. ‘I recommend the lobster.’

  Gwen shook her head. ‘I had seafood once. It gave me a funny tummy.’

  Patrick’s face wrinkled in disgust. A waiter appeared, hovering, and he smoothed it out. ‘White wine to start, I think. Don’t you?’ He didn’t wait for Gwen to answer, so she sat back a little in her chair and looked around while he displayed his intimate knowledge of the menu. The restaurant was about half full and Gwen counted three tables of older ladies. Groups of friends who had probably been meeting for lunches for years, sharing troubles and good times, going home knowing that, whatever happened, they had people on their side. In the far corner, at a small table, Gwen saw a familiar face. A face she had been expecting to see ever since blowing back into town. A face that she sometimes saw before she fell asleep at night. A face that represented every hateful attitude, every disapproving look and whispered comment.

  Elaine Laing looked the same. The neatly styled hair was streaked with silver and white and the neckline a little softer, but otherwise it was undoubtedly the same woman. Perfect posture, a teeny-tiny padded handbag and pearl earrings. Gwen straightened her spine. Elaine’s companion looked familiar, too. When she turned her head slightly, Gwen caught sight of Lily’s profile.

  ‘I didn’t know they knew each other.’

  ‘Everyone knows everyone around here.’ Patrick glanced back. ‘Do you mean Elaine Laing?’

  Gwen nodded. ‘That’s my neighbour, Lily. I didn’t know they were friends.’

  ‘Colleagues, really. They’re both on the community council. And I think Lily got involved with Elaine’s pet charity, too.’

  ‘Charity?’

  ‘Feline Leukaemia, I believe. Yes. Lily has done very well, really. You don’t often see her sort getting involved at that level.’

  ‘Her sort?’ Gwen said. ‘Do you mean because she was brought up in a council house?’

  ‘No, no.’ Patrick waved a hand,.’I just meant that she’s made something of herself. It’s admirable.’

  ‘Right.’ Gwen folded her hands carefully in her lap to stop herself from stabbing Patrick with a fork.

  The waiter reappeared with a half bottle of chilled Sancerre. It was delicious and Gwen had to grudgingly admit that Patrick had good taste. In some areas, at any rate.

  ‘I actually invited you for a reason,’ Patrick said. He paused while another waiter placed rolls onto their side plates with tongs.

  ‘Well, I figured you weren’t trying to get into my pants,’ Gwen said cheerfully. The bread roll slipped and she caught it and set it on her plate. She smiled reassuringly at the blushing waiter, who looked all of sixteen. He hurried away.

  ‘Um…’ Patrick said.

  ‘Anyway, I called you. I wanted to talk to you about having a regular craft market in the town,’ Gwen said. She buttered her roll and took a large bite.

  Patrick frowned. ‘We can get to that later.’ His crushing tone signalled that ‘later’ meant ‘never’. ‘I actually wanted to ask you for a favour.’

  ‘You and the rest of the world,’ Gwen said, slightly muffled. ‘This bread is amazing.’

  ‘Really?’ Patrick frowned. ‘Has Ed been to see you?’

  ‘Ed?’

  ‘He manages the Travelodge. I say “manages”, but that’s something of a matter of opinion.’

  ‘Never met him.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Patrick cleared his throat again. ‘As a new resident in the town, I was wondering how you felt about progress.’

  ‘Are you a politician?’

  ‘No. Not yet, anyway.’ Patrick gave a little laugh. ‘I own some businesses in Pendleford and I take a keen interest in the future of the town.’

  ‘And what can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s just a small thing,’ Patrick said.

  ‘What?’ Gwen tried to keep the impatience out of her voice, but her social skills, rusty at best, were stretched to breaking point.

  ‘Did Ms Harper leave you anything?’

  ‘She left me End House,’ Gwen said. ‘As you are already aware.’

  Patrick poked the asparagus on his plate. ‘Did you inherit the contents, too?’

  ‘You know I did. You’ve seen the furniture.’ Gwen had a horrible feeling she knew what Patrick was going to say next.

  ‘Right. Well. Did she leave papers of some kind? Diaries. That kind of thing.’

  And there it was. Gwen thought about the sacks of paper: the notebooks, the receipts, the used envelopes with lists of numbers scrawled in biro. ‘She left me everything and I haven’t had a chance to go through it all yet.’ Of course, she had a pretty good idea of which papers Patrick was particularly interested in. Iris’s diaries.

  ‘Completely understandable,’ Patrick said.

  ‘Did you know my great-aunt well?’ Gwen said. She wondered whether Patrick knew about his unfaithful wife, and a very evil part of her imagined his face if she were to let him read that particular entry.

  ‘Not well, no. We didn’t move in the same circles.’

  ‘So, you’re interested in her diaries because—’

  ‘May I be frank?’ Patrick leaned forwards and, without giving Gwen time to say ‘no’, he continued. ‘A lot of people visited your aunt. A lot of people had faith in her… um… abilities. It was a load of nonsense, of course – forgive me – but harmless nonsense, I’m sure.’

  Gwen nodded. ‘No worse than aromatherapy.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Patrick said, visibly annoyed at the interruption.

  ‘And a damn sight less dangerous than organised religion.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure Iris never started a war or burned anyone at the stake.’

  Patrick faltered, then rallied. ‘Well, yes. I suppose that’s true.’

  ‘And you’re interested in taking a peek in her diary in case there’s some juicy gossip about your colleagues, employees, whatever.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘As a businessman, sometimes I make investments, back community projects, that kind of thing. It’s sound practice to research people who I may be entrusting with considerable sums of money.’

  Gwen nodded. ‘And you wondered whether any of these potential business associates had visited Iris and told her all about the time they lost a ton of cash or built a housing estate on marshland or—’

  ‘Nothing salacious. Just anything that might be pertinent to my business interests. I wouldn’t expect you to show me things that weren’t of my concern. You could vet the information first.’

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ Gwen began. ‘If you think I’m going to show you my aunt’s private papers—’ She broke off as she realised that Elaine had stood up and was walking purposefully towards her table.

  ‘I can see I’m wasting my time,’ Patrick was saying.

  ‘Hello, Gwen. You haven’t changed a bit.’ Elaine’s cut-glass tone was as terrifying as it had been back when she was a teenager.

  Patrick stood up quickly. ‘Elaine! You look radiant as always.’

  ‘Don’t talk drivel, Patrick,’ Elaine said, looking pleased. ‘I’m simply haggard at the moment. Too much to do, too little time.’

  ‘Would you care to join us?’ Patrick looked arou
nd for a waiter.

  ‘No, thank you. I just had to take a closer look at Gwen here. I didn’t know whether to believe the rumours.’

  ‘Believe them,’ Gwen said. ‘I’m back.’

  ‘Not for long, I hope.’

  Gwen was staggered by her open hostility. Patrick didn’t seem sure what to say, either.

  ‘I don’t see what business it is of yours,’ Gwen managed.

  ‘We were just having a spot of lunch,’ Patrick said, indicating the plates of food unnecessarily.

  ‘Well,’ Elaine said. She gave Gwen a swooping look up and down. ‘I hope you manage to conclude whatever business you believe you have here.’

  After she’d walked away, Patrick gave Gwen a questioning look. ‘I didn’t know you knew Elaine Laing.’

  Gwen shrugged. ‘I don’t. Not really.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’ll think about my request. I might be able to help you settle into Pendleford, if that’s what you decide you want. Smooth the way.’ Patrick nodded in the direction of Elaine’s retreating figure.

  ‘I wouldn’t let you look at my great-aunt’s private material if it would make the entire community council prostrate themselves in front of me.’

  ‘There’s no need to be vulgar,’ Patrick said. ‘I can see this is a waste of everybody’s time.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Gwen said, getting up to leave. ‘It’s been very eye-opening.’ The only question in Gwen’s mind now was: how badly did Patrick Allen want the information in Iris’s diaries? Enough to have broken into End House? Gwen hadn’t got enough of a sniff to know whether his aftershave matched the one she’d smelled before. She tried to picture Patrick Allen breaking into her house and smashing up her boiler, but it was difficult. He didn’t seem the type with his manicured hands and cut-glass accent … But appearances could be so deceptive.

  Chapter 13

  After another broken night, turning over and over in her bed, unable to get comfortable, unable to switch off the ‘Cam and Gwen’ show in her mind, Gwen was half-mad with exhaustion. She put on her headphones and turned the music up to wake herself up, but clashing guitars just reminded her of Cam. She pressed shuffle on her iPod until an acoustic track came on, but that was worse. A song that she’d avoided for the last decade because it reminded her of Cam started playing, as if to taunt her. Dave Grohl’s gravelly voice over a driving chord pattern. He breathed directly into Gwen’s ears, wondering if ‘anything could feel this real forever’. She tried to work on her shadow boxes, but made mistake after mistake until the frustration became unbearable.