Every Woman for Herself

by Trisha Ashley

  It’s just two rooms, really, built into the hillside, and partitioned off to provide a bed-sitting room and the usual facilities. The decor is a bit flowery – the last mistress’s taste, presumably – and if I’m going to be here for any length of time I will have to paint it.

  I set up my easel in the verandah, a gesture of hope, and arranged my plants around me, though there now weren’t enough of them to quite give me that being-towered-over-threateningly feeling. I’d brought the tall ones, it was just the thick jungle effect that was missing.

  I would have to take a big chunk of the auction money, go to the nearest garden centre – and hope they deliver.

  It wasn’t very warm, either. The two paraffin heaters were only there to stop the plants freezing, and they gave out a pleasant but strange smell all of their own (a bit like Walter).

  I could do with some coconut matting over the stone flags, and electricity so that I could have lighting, and some heating …

  Which sort of presupposes I’m ever going to spend some time in here painting; but Em and Walter have done their best to encourage me.

  I went up the stairs to the kitchen to see if Em fancied a trip out plant-hunting, and Flossie trailed wearily after me, wheezing. I’m sure all this exercise will do her good.

  The kitchen was deserted except for Frost, who lifted his head and gave Flossie a leer.

  Walter was in the small front room, watching TV and carving a walking stick. He grinned, but didn’t say anything. His wig, never worn, occupied its usual place of honour on the mantelpiece, draped carefully over a polystyrene head.

  Father’s study door was shut with his Do Not Disturb sign on it, though if anyone was already disturbed it was Father.

  There was no sign of the Treacle Tart, and the children must be at school, but the sound of hoovering was still audible from above, where Gloria Mundi was singing Gilbert and Sullivan in a falsetto.

  She was a very model of a modern major-general.

  I found Em eventually in the sitting room, the curtains half-drawn, which is why I was well into the room before I saw that she had company.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I didn’t know you were entertaining, Em. I was just going to tell you I was off to the garden centre.’

  ‘That’s okay – you know Xanthe, don’t you?’

  Xanthe nodded graciously at me; she did look vaguely familiar from her days as Father’s Flavour of the Month.

  ‘And this is Lilith Tupman and Freya Frogget.’

  Lilith looked like she’d been blanched under a pot. Freya was large and clad in billowing white like over-exuberant ectoplasm.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, but let me open the curtains first,’ I offered, taking hold of the heavy velvet drapes.

  There was a gasp from Lilith, who held her hands to her temples and exclaimed hysterically: ‘No! No! The light must not touch my face!’

  I hastily unloosed the curtains. ‘Sorry.’

  Maybe she was a vampire? But then, how had she got here?

  ‘Would you like me to make you some coffee or something before I go?’ I offered in atonement.

  ‘Thanks, Charlie,’ Em said. ‘There’s a tray ready in the kitchen – just fill the pot with boiling water and bring it in, will you?’

  ‘You could join us,’ said Lilith, recovering. ‘If you wished?’

  ‘No, no, her aura is blue!’ Xanthe cried. ‘I cannot have blue near me … it drains my psychic energy.’

  If Father didn’t manage to drain her powers, I can’t see how my blue aura would

  ‘Ice, I must have ice!’ gasped Freya, in a parched voice.

  ‘A bowl of ice from the freezer, too, please,’ said Em. ‘Do you want a hand?’

  What, the Hand of Death? The Hand Of Glory? The Hand of the Baskerv—

  ‘No, that’s okay,’ I assured her, backing out, and starting to puzzle over the ice. Still, Em’s friends all appear to be women of a certain age: Freya might be having a hot flush of mega proportions.

  I brought the tray, which contained all sorts of home-baked goodies, plus a pot of some disgusting-smelling herbal brew reminiscent of Gloria’s best, then left them to it.

  Flossie was now snuggled up to Frost, the hussy, and showed no interest in accompanying me, to the garden centre or anywhere else.

  Tips For Southern Visitors, no. 1:

  It is possible to have any variety of Northern accent in conjunction with an intellect.

  At dinner it emerged that Father had also inadvertently crashed Em’s tea party, barely escaping without being ravished by Freya, Lilith and Xanthe. (Well, that was his version, anyway.)

  ‘Congratulations, Em,’ he said through a mouthful of homemade chicken pie. ‘Not one of your friends is normal.’

  ‘Speaking of normal,’ Em said coolly. ‘Your son is coming home tomorrow for a rest.’

  Jessica helped herself to a lettuce leaf, looked at it doubtfully, and put half back again in the bowl. ‘I haven’t met Branwell yet,’ she said. ‘Is he as dishy as you darling?’

  The two little girls, who were doing full justice to the despised stodge, giggled.

  ‘He’s nothing like me,’ he said tersely. ‘Charlie’s nothing like me, either.’

  ‘I’m like Mother, though, and I expect Bran takes after his.’

  ‘Your mother’s very famous, isn’t she?’ Jessica asked. ‘Big in America. But I do think all this writing books and talking about feminism does more harm than good, don’t you?’

  ‘Someone’s got to speak out, especially when men are trying to claim great works of women’s fiction as their own,’ Em commented pointedly, but Father refused to rise to the bait.

  ‘Yes, wasn’t Elizabeth Barrett Browning lucky, having such a clever husband to write her work for her?’ I said innocently. ‘I wonder how on earth she managed before he came along? Perhaps one of her brothers?’

  ‘You mustn’t tease,’ Jessica said earnestly. ‘Ran researches very thoroughly. He works very hard.’

  ‘He has to research thoroughly to find scraps of evidence that can be twisted into proving what he wants,’ Em said.

  ‘And you, of course, are a great writer and know all about it?’ he said sarcastically. ‘My dear Em, I don’t think writing doggerel for greeting-card manufacturers quite qualifies you as a literary critic.’

  ‘No, but I don’t just write for greeting cards – I’m also Serafina Shane.’

  While this was a bit of a damp squib as far as Father and myself were concerned, Jessica laid down her fork and stared.

  ‘What, Serafina Shane out of Women Live! magazine? Womanly Wicca Words of Spiritual Comfort? I’ve ordered the book!’

  ‘Advance orders have been very brisk,’ Em said complacently, and bestowed a slightly warmer gaze on Jessica than I had ever seen before. She might just live, after all.

  ‘Well done, Em,’ I said. ‘If I’d known I’d have read them, but I never buy women’s mags – they’re all New Woman, and Never Admit You’re Forty Woman, and Rich Bored Bitchy Woman, when all I ever wanted was something like Skint Old Northern Woman.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Em said. ‘Weren’t you going to start one?’

  ‘Yes, in fact, my hobby during the last few weeks has been writing articles for the sort of magazine I’d really like to find. I’ve got quite a lot.’

  ‘Do I understand, Emily,’ Father broke in, ‘that you’ve been writing your ghastly doggerel for a women’s magazine, and it’s now coming out as a book?’

  ‘Yes – inspirational verse and prose. I’m very popular.’

  ‘Serafina what?’ I asked.

  ‘Shane.’

  ‘At least it isn’t Rhymer!’ Father said.

  ‘Well done, Em!’ I enthused.

  ‘So what were you plotting with your abnormal friends when I came in this morning?’ enquired Father.

  ‘We were trying various means to discover where Anne is. There’s something the matter with her, and I can’t get any reply from her flat.
Xanthe tried the crystal pendulum.’

  ‘And Xanthe knows everything?’ He frowned. ‘And why does she look so familiar?’

  Em ignored this. ‘The crystal showed us where she was – somewhere near her flat. Then Freya did a reading, and discovered that Anne’s had an operation, but she’ll be here soon to recuperate.’

  ‘I suppose you know this because Anne’s phoned,’ he said sceptically.

  ‘No. You know Anne, she’ll phone when she’s nearly here. Gloria Mundi’s turning out her room, now she’s finished Bran’s.’

  ‘What makes you think the Three Witches got it right?’

  ‘They always get it right. That’s why I’m joining their coven. I’ve been pussyfooting round the mealy-mouthed edges for long enough, and now I’m going to wholeheartedly embrace the Ancient Arts.’

  ‘Prostitution?’ suggested Ran. ‘I hear it’s very well paid.’

  Em gave him a look. ‘The Ancient Black Arts,’ she said.

  Jessica gasped, her eyes widening in alarm. ‘You mean – black magic? Oh, my God! The children!’

  But the little girls, bored with the conversation, had crept away unnoticed. One of the dishes of meringues from the sideboard had gone too.

  ‘Oh, Emily – promise you won’t say anything about it in front of the girls! Don’t they sacrifice little children, and sell their souls to the Devil?’

  ‘Hands up all those present who’ve read the entire oeuvre of Dennis Wheatley and believe every word?’ I said. ‘Really, Jessica, grow up!’

  ‘Charlie’s quite right. I wouldn’t harm any animal, even your children,’ Em assured her.

  ‘Thank you!’ Jessica said, slightly hysterically. ‘Ran are you going to sit there and—’

  Father stood up abruptly. ‘No, I’m off to the pub. Coming?’

  ‘How can I leave the girls?’ she shuddered.

  ‘I’ll listen out for them,’ I offered.

  ‘But you killed someone…’ she began

  ‘And I’m Spawn of the Devil,’ Emily finished for her.

  Father sighed. ‘Lock up the pans, Em, and don’t sacrifice the children. Satisfied, Jess? Come along!’

  There was a brief internal struggle as Jessica’s maternal feelings fought a losing battle, and then she hurried out after him.

  ‘Tell me more about this Skint Old Northern Woman magazine,’ Em said, passing the port.

  In the woods the wild violets bloom.

  From a distance,

  the crumpled cigarette packet

  is no less beautiful.

  ‘Words from the Spirit’ by Serafina Shane.

  Serafina Shane’s first book: Womanly Wicca Words of Spiritual Comfort is available, price £5.99, from the Fishwife Press.

  Chapter 8

  Dangerous To Melons

  Skint Old Northern Woman: The Love Quiz

  Would you exchange your husband/boyfriend/significant other for:

  1. A box of chocolates

  A) Yes B) No C) A big box

  2. A bag of pork scratchings

  A) Yes B) Snatch your hand off C) No, I’m Jewish, but try me with pistachio nuts

  3. A night with Robert Plant

  A) Yes B) Never heard of him, but yes anyway C) No, never liked blondes/heavy metal/men even older than me, but try me with George Clooney

  I am afraid our resident thespian caught me taking a swipe at a large yellow melon with a frying pan this morning, so now probably thinks I’m demented, which I’m not: merely obsessed.

  It was not the fatal frying pan, because Miss Grinch cleaned that up once the police had finished with it, and sent it off to a jumble sale.

  Let’s hope it isn’t haunted by the red, bloodhound face of an elderly roué. I mean, imagine that materialising by the cooker, just as you were getting your omelette all puffy.

  The melon was balanced on the gatepost, and I was standing on a large crate. It wasn’t ideal – the relative heights were wrong, and the melon kept trying to roll off the perfectly flat surface as though possessed.

  I’d just started the downward swing on a ripe yellow honeydew when I caught the glint of weak sunlight on raven’s-wing hair above the stone wall that separated my strip of garden from the track, but by then the momentum was unstoppable: the pan connected with a meaty thunk! and the melon bounded past me and ricocheted off the verandah.

  Mace North stopped by the gate, and surveyed me briefly with unsurprised, world-weary dark blue eyes. (Funny, I sort of expected them to be brown.) His black hair looked as if it had been casually hacked off with a sword – something fancy in gold, with a jewel in the end – and covered his head with feathery artlessness.

  Then there was just the clatter of loose pebbles as he headed for home.

  Good morning to you, too.

  From my vantage point on the box I’d seen becoming strands of purest silver among those black locks, so he’s no spring chicken, though I don’t think the weary look is an age thing – he’s probably always looked like that.

  Isn’t it odd how much you can notice about someone in the briefest moment, even when you’re not particularly interested in them?

  He certainly made off quickly enough, probably afraid I’d fling myself on him pleading for his autograph, or something. But he can be permanently incognito as far as I’m concerned, and I don’t expect he will be bothered by crowds of admiring followers up here unless he’s in a popular soap.

  Still, as an actor I don’t suppose he found my behaviour in any way unusual.

  Last night Father, who has got acquainted with Mace up at the Black Dog, warned me that he liked to be treated just like everyone else (although not, perhaps, to the point of being struck by a frying pan). That is fine by me – I was not about to follow him around with an autograph book clutched in one sweaty hand and my tongue hanging out, and he will probably keep a healthy distance from me, too, now he knows I’m armed and dangerous, if only to fruit.

  But the most interesting thing about our encounter was that I’d noticed him just as I’d lifted the pan above my head ready for the swing, and I still didn’t manage to stop it or even divert it. If I could try that again with the heights properly measured …

  It would be a bonus if the sound was right, too. If I could hear it once more outside my head instead of in. It’s all pretty cathartic, but I feel that if I find one that makes the right sound, I’ll be exorcised to the point where I can at least paint again, especially if I can convince myself without doubt that it really had been an accident.

  I’ll never be able to forget I’ve killed someone, but at least I will know I didn’t intend to do it.

  I tried melon number three, a smallish watermelon, but it still didn’t make quite the right hollow, meaty noise. Then I took the battered fruit upstairs to the Parsonage kitchen and put them on the table.

  ‘Canst tha not bash something more useful than a melon?’ demanded Gloria Mundi. ‘A turnip, maybe? There’s none here will eat melon.’

  Em, who was removing perfect loaves from the oven, said over her shoulder: ‘I’ve got a recipe for melon and ginger jam. I’ll make it later. We all like ginger – and you’re forgetting, Gloria, that Bran likes melon.’

  ‘Yon Branwell’s one on his own.’

  ‘The university phoned, Charlie. Bran needs to come home for a little rest. Rob’s set off to get him. I told him to make sure Mr Froggy doesn’t get left behind this time.’

  ‘How is he?’

  She shrugged. ‘Talking a bit fast. Then yesterday he told one of his students that a spirit ordered him only to speak in ancient Amharic from now on.’

  ‘Not too bad then – he’ll be right as rain after a little rest at home.’

  Jessica stuck a cautious head through the doorway. ‘I’m just off to school with the girls and…’ she stopped, and looked from the battered melons on the table to me. ‘You know, when I looked out of my bedroom window just now, I could have sworn I saw you hitting one of those with a pan.’ She laughed uncert
ainly.

  We stared at her. Gloria gave an audible sniff and went out past her with her mop and bucket.

  ‘Well,’ said Jessica into the silence, ‘I’d better be off and – oh, that’s what I came to say: Ran says he’d love to try a pasta dish tonight – perhaps with a big salad, and some garlic bread and—’

  ‘He’ll get what he’s given,’ Em said shortly.

  ‘If you don’t know how to cook it, I’ve got a recipe book you could borrow.’

  ‘Hark at Lady Muck!’ said Gloria, briskly and sloppily swabbing down the flagged passage round Jessica’s feet so that she jumped back. ‘She’ll be giving out the household orders next!’

  ‘Mummy!’ shrilled the girls. ‘We’ll be late!’

  With another uncertain look Jessica went, skidding on the damp floor with a certain coltish grace. I bet she can ice-skate.

  ‘I wonder if we could put something in her food?’ mused Em.

  ‘Not unless you can coat a lettuce leaf in it – she doesn’t seem to eat anything else.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to take some action – our Ms Tickington-Tingay’s getting on my wick.’

  ‘Is that her real name? Jessica Tickington-Tingay?’

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Gloria. ‘Double-barrelled names are breeding up here.’

  ‘Look at the time!’ Em exclaimed. ‘You should be on your way to the nursery. You’re supposed to be there well before the children, to set things up, aren’t you?’

  I shifted uncomfortably. ‘Em, I don’t really think I can do this. I mean, they can’t know about the Greg thing, and I’ve had no experience with children.’

  ‘Forget about the accident with Greg, and as to the experience with children, you will pick that up as you go. You need the money they will pay, until you start painting again.’

  I glared at her a bit resentfully. She’s never had to go out and earn her living, although she does run the house like clockwork, cooks wonderfully, and makes what money she needs writing her verses … and now the book.