Every Woman for Herself

by Trisha Ashley

  ‘Takes a long time, that sort of explanation,’ she said drily. ‘You don’t fool me – I know what I saw in the teacups!’

  ‘Well, whatever you saw, it wasn’t entirely Mace’s fault. You shouldn’t have given him the potion.’

  ‘It would have worked fine except for your meddling.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ve lost my powers,’ Em said dreamily. ‘When I look inwards I can’t see anything except Chris’s face. Isn’t that odd?’

  Yes, that was pretty odd. I tried closing mine for a moment, and immediately saw a dark, strongly boned face as clearly as if he was— I snapped them open again, to find Gloria looking thoughtfully at me.

  ‘I thought sex was supposed to enhance your powers, Em?’ I said hastily.

  ‘Only if she did it as part of the rites,’ Gloria said. ‘In a place of ancient power. Not just flinging herself headlong between the sheets with a man of the Church.’

  ‘I didn’t! We just talked – all night,’ protested Em. ‘Gloria, you didn’t put anything in my drink, did you?’

  ‘Of course not, my blossom,’ Gloria assured her. ‘It must be love.’

  ‘White witchcraft and the Church are not incompatible,’ Em said dreamily.

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Traditionally, the one has been absorbed into the other. Chris and I think our beliefs can co-exist within a relationship of mutual respect.’

  Gloria and I stared at her.

  ‘Have you got one of those, then?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ll have to make allowances for the Dickens, and he’ll have to make allowances for the ways of Wicca.’

  ‘Are his intentions honourable, though, Em?’ I asked.

  ‘I effing well hope not!’ she said, sounding more like herself.

  ‘You could get married,’ I suggested, examining the covers on the hotplate and heaping a plate with slightly dried bacon, egg and mushrooms. Suddenly I felt absolutely ravenous.

  ‘I don’t know – we’d have to find a form of service we could both be happy with. But Chris says vicars aren’t supposed to live with someone unless they’re married to them.’

  ‘You’re going to live with him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, going off into another trance.

  ‘I’ll make you some fresh toast,’ Gloria said to me. ‘And some coffee – or maybe a cup of tea?’

  ‘I don’t feel like tea,’ I protested, but that’s what I got, and she stood over me until I drank it, too, then sat down and spent a long time examining the bottom of the cup.

  She sighed heavily.

  ‘What?’ I said, eating buttered toast.

  ‘It’s still there. I knew he was trouble, but what will be, will be. And it might not have been the potion, not if he already loved you,’ she mused.

  ‘But he doesn’t love me, and I don’t love him – as will become quite clear when you give him the antidote. Last night didn’t mean anything to either of us. For me, it was just a quick last fling before I become a middle-aged artistic recluse.’

  ‘Out with a bang?’ Em suggested helpfully, becoming more alert.

  ‘Thank you, Em. And … do you think you could take Caitlin back to Mace later?’ I asked cravenly. ‘Maybe with the antidote if it’s ready?’

  It would be easier to treat the whole thing as if it hadn’t happened if a bit of time elapsed before I had to come face to face with him.

  ‘Only I promised Vaddie I’d take my new pictures over to the gallery today.’

  ‘You needn’t worry about Mace being there,’ Gloria said, seeing through this. ‘He’s gone and Caitlin with him.’

  ‘Gone? What do you mean, gone?’ I asked, stunned.

  ‘To London,’ Gloria said. ‘That’s the sort of man he is, even with a full dose of love philtre inside him! Chancy.’

  ‘Mace collected Caitlin early this morning,’ Em explained. ‘He phoned first … I’d just got back,’ she added dreamily. ‘Chris walked me home.’

  ‘Em!’ I said sharply.

  ‘Oh yes – he said he was coming to get Caitlin, and take her to his mother’s house in London, because the press had started phoning him at dawn, and they’d be turning up on his doorstep in droves any minute.’

  ‘Didn’t he leave any message?’

  ‘He said to tell you he had to go away for a few days, and he’d let you know when they were back.’

  ‘Kind of him. Was that it?’

  ‘Yes, except that he asked to speak to Jessie. What was all that last night about Caitlin? Isn’t she his?’

  ‘Of course she is!’

  And if he could ask to speak to Jessica, he could have asked for me – if he’d wanted to.

  ‘There you are then, Gloria. Love clearly doesn’t come into it. He’s probably forgotten last night already.’

  Em looked at me severely. ‘I hope you took precautions.’

  ‘Em, I haven’t conceived for years and I’m the shady side of forty; I’m barren.’

  ‘And I left her a brew last night, in case,’ Gloria added. ‘So that should be that … if she doesn’t do it again.’

  ‘I’ve no intention of doing it again!’

  ‘Yes, but it won’t stop her getting Aids or anything, will it?’ pointed out Em helpfully.

  ‘Mace has not got Aids!’ I said crossly.

  ‘He’s put it about a bit, according to Surprise!’ Gloria said.

  ‘I’m not convinced you can believe anything it says in there, and I’m sure Mace isn’t the sort of man who would have … who would have put me in danger of that kind!’

  And I was, too: instincts of a barbarian, manners of a gentleman.

  Gloria looked doubtfully back into the teacup. ‘I’d better get that anti-love potion brewed – he’s coming back soon.’

  ‘I really don’t care; but I’ll miss Caitlin.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s gone to find what happened to Kathleen?’ suggested Em. ‘And did I tell you that Father and the Treacle Tart have gone with him? It was an impulse, but Father’s delivering his manuscript to his agent, and Jessica wanted to shop.’

  ‘But the girls? It’s term time.’

  ‘Anne offered to look after them. She’s taken them out somewhere.’

  ‘Let’s hope she remembers to bring them back!’

  ‘They’re not bad girls,’ Gloria said.

  ‘No, I’m getting quite fond of them,’ I admitted. ‘And Caitlin.’

  ‘Well, I’m not getting fond of Jessica,’ Em said firmly. ‘One of us will have to go.’

  ‘Yes, but Father’s going to marry her, Em, so it looks like she’s here to stay. We might all have to go – she won’t want the whole family round her neck, too.’

  Gloria had been out of the room, but now returned and began to smear a cold green paste over my grazed cheek.

  ‘Gloria, I can’t go over to York looking as if I’m daubed for battle. Vaddie’s expecting me, not the Last of the Mohicans.’

  ‘It’ll soak in. And you were limping – you can’t drive like that. Better stay home, and let me put a compress on that ankle. What did he do to my little chicken?’

  Her expression boded ill for Mace, should he ever return. I said hastily: ‘He didn’t hurt me. I fell down – and it won’t bother me, driving. Do you want to come, Em?’

  ‘No. I’m taking Chris up to the standing stones on Blackdog Moor. He hasn’t been there yet and it’s a powerful spot … I’ll take a flask of something hot, and a few sandwiches.’

  Thank goodness it’s too cold for anything else on the stones besides a chilly picnic, because I do not think Chris has the power to resist Em.

  ‘Where’s Bran?’

  ‘Finishing off his manuscript before it goes off to be typed up by some poor creature at the university.’

  ‘Oh well, I’ll take Flossie, then. She will enjoy the drive.’

  But even Flossie declined to come with me, and retired downstairs to her igloo. Perhaps she is miffed that I left her in the Parsonage kitchen all ni
ght?

  Skint Old Motoring Tips

  The car is not a household god, it is a motorised biscuit tin, and need only have the same criteria: dry, roomy and convenient.

  For once, it was actually quite good to be driving over the moors to somewhere away from Upvale.

  A day away would let me push my confused feelings about Mace behind a locked door. It would also give me a chance to turn over in my mind what was likely to happen if Father did indeed marry Jessica.

  From what he said about nothing changing it is clear he has not thought it through. The day he married Jessica, it would be like shaking a kaleidoscope: the parts would be the same, only they’d all be in entirely different places in relation to each other, some not even touching.

  Nothing was ever going to be the same again.

  Vaddie fell on my paintings with cries of great joy. She loved the ‘Jessie Down the Well’ series, and when I told her that it would be on the cover of Skint Old Northern Woman she ordered a personal copy in advance, and said she’d like a whole stack to put on the desk, sale or return, under the actual picture featured.

  I’ve decided not to sell that one, but give it to Father and Jess as a wedding present, assuming she actually manages to pull it off.

  Vaddie said I looked totally different, and actually my change of hair colour and clothes made me look years younger and twice as pretty, which was kind of her. She had a cheque for me from the last lot of paintings she had sold – she doesn’t part with money unless you go to her in person and demand it – and after that I went out and bought myself a turquoise cashmere tunic sweater and then, as an afterthought, a rose pink and silver nightie and dressing gown.

  Definitely Pisces and slithery, although I’m not sure about the rose colour.

  I popped in to see Miss Grinch on my way home, and told her about Angie, and my melon catharsis, and in return she told me all about the goings-on of the new people who’d moved into my house.

  They sound like they are providing a lot more entertainment for her than I ever did.

  * * *

  During my absence, Gloria had found a chewed document addressed to me in Frost’s basket, which proved to be the final bit of my divorce: I have absolution.

  I don’t know how long it had been in the basket, and nor do I really care.

  I have absolution already.

  Divorced Skint Old Northern Woman?

  The should I?/shouldn’t I? dilemma: some common questions answered

  1) Will I be lonely?

  Answer: Yes, but probably not any lonelier than you were before the divorce. Buy a dog.

  2) I’ll never be able to understand the paperwork, the tax returns, the bills …

  Answer: The running costs of an accountant are much less than a husband.

  3) Will my married friends still invite me round?

  Answer: No.

  4) Will all my ‘happily’ married friends’ husbands suddenly make a pass at me?

  Answer: Yes. You now have ‘Divorced and Desperate For It’ stamped across your forehead in a special ink only they can read.

  5) Will I ever have sex again?

  Answer: Only if desperate. (See question 4.)

  6) Will I ever find a new partner?

  Answer: What are you, some kind of masochist?

  Chapter 19

  Nuts

  We settled down to quite a pleasant and normal week before Father and Jessica returned (by train). Pleasant and normal by Rhymer family standards, that is.

  Perhaps searching the woodland nearest to Mace’s cottage for signs of freshly dug earth was a trifle on the bizarre side, but I only truly accepted this when I bumped into Anne and the twins doing the same thing. (Only the girls thought they were looking for acorns.)

  Besides, we’re quite high up here, and the ground has been frozen underneath ever since I moved home, even when the surface seems to have thawed out. (Just think of Upvale and the surrounding Blackdog Moor as being in a sort of snow dome, with its own ecosystem. Hence the early snow when other people are having Indian Summers.)

  I’ve been spending almost all the daylight hours painting minute barbarian warriors on horseback being sucked into vortexes of savage greenery, like warped Persian miniatures.

  It’s very enjoyable. And no, I’m not going to think about the significance at all.

  Anne seemed happy looking after the girls, although Em took over one day when Red showed up in order to abase himself.

  Once he’d grovelled enough they vanished upstairs. Anne was saying as they went: ‘So what’s the matter with sodding war wounds? Seen them before, haven’t you? One battle’s the same as any other bloody battle, isn’t it?’

  I assume their entente was cordiale, since although he will be away now until the New Year on an assignment, they will resume their semi-attached state of shared flat-dwelling when Anne’s back after Christmas. Her treatment will finish just before, so she will be fully revitalised after one of our family celebrations.

  It could be the last, for everything is bound to change when or if Father marries Jessica. The kaleidoscope will shift permanently and we will all be cast to the edges.

  The family circle has expanded already to include Chris – since the picnic at the standing stones he and Em seem mysteriously to have become one entity.

  Indeed, they are spending so much time together, it makes you wonder if he ever does any vicar stuff at all – not that I know what they are supposed to do anyway.

  Still, Em’s powers seem suddenly to have returned to her with a vengeance: she was very practical when I told her about my dark thoughts regarding bodies in woods. Having borrowed a copy of Surprise! with a photo of Kathleen Lovell from Gloria, she called in Freya, Xanthe and Lilith and sat down to discover her whereabouts.

  The unanimous result was that Kathleen is certainly alive, somewhere far away from Upvale. And they all felt that Kathleen was … well … dwindling was the way they put it.

  I hope she has not succumbed to some wasting disease? But no – surely she would have told someone?

  It is certainly a relief not to have to look for the body any more.

  Lilith, Freya and Xanthe seem quite resigned to Em not joining their coven after all. I don’t suppose it will affect their friendship.

  And speaking of friendship, Freya has managed to strike up an acquaintanceship with Angie, and invited her to meet the other two at the pub tonight to, as she put it: ‘direct her out of her present circle of hate, and into a more profitable frame of mind that will take her orbit elsewhere.’

  Mars would be good.

  * * *

  On the Tuesday Branwell finished his book – or, at least, stopped scribbling and took to staring at the pile of manuscript as though he couldn’t remember how it got there.

  He was extremely averse to the idea of its being taken away so we could post it off to the poor woman at the university whose job it is to type up this scrawl into something readable. In the end Em had to lure him away to visit a second-hand book shop, while I had the whole thing photocopied and returned to his room before he realised it had been removed. Then I sent the copy off; it was clearer and darker than the original, anyway.

  Of course, when we get the typescript back he will scribble all over it again, but the end is in sight.

  When I got back from the Post Office I found Walter arranging a plant delivery in the verandah. There were six coconut palms, one almost touching the roof.

  I only know one person who can afford this kind of extravagant gesture – whatever sort of gesture it is – for there was no message, unless it was something to do with nuts.

  I suppose it could just be a final farewell from Matt, in lieu of ducks? But I don’t think he has the imagination, and anyway, he seems to have forgotten about me entirely.

  So it must be Mace. But what did it mean? Nuts to me? You’re nuts? What’s got a coconut in every bite?

  Friday’s copy of Surprise! contained what could only be construed a
s an abject apology and retraction about their alleged Mace and Kathleen item. Of course, when you have only hinted at something it is very hard to hint that really your first hint wasn’t true, but they did their best.

  I expect having Invasion of the Kalmucks in your office does wonders for your powers of retraction.

  * * *

  Father was abstracted when he and Jess got home. I fear inspiration for the next character assassination has struck, although we don’t know yet who the victim is to be.

  Perhaps he will surprise us by proving that Dorothy actually wrote all Wordsworth’s poetry for him, in a literary about-turn; but then again, maybe not.

  Jessica was, I think, miffed that the girls hadn’t missed her more, though they were delighted to see her back, and quite polite about the gifts she had brought them.

  They had had a busy week, and we had not found them any trouble at all: Anne did the school run and subverted them, they had painted with me, and learned to cook with Em, been for dug-earth-spotting expeditions in the woods, played with the dogs, learned to whittle with Walter and helped Gloria coat every wooden surface in the house with home-made beeswax and turpentine polish.

  Clo shows an interest in photography, and she and Anne have set up a darkroom in an unused back pantry.

  They are perfectly happy, just as we all were, growing up here in Upvale. We are adults long enough – why start too soon?

  Indeed, why start at all?

  Jessica found solace in having increased her store of worldly goods by about half, which, while lifting her spirits, must have stretched Father’s credit card until it bulged at the seams.

  Sit in the sun and

  hold out your hand.

  How heavy the world feels

  in your palm.

  From ‘Words from the Spirit; by Serafina Shane

  Jessica has started to try and assert herself around the house already, the engagement ring flashing on her bony finger.

  Of course it hasn’t got her anywhere, but it is a sign of what is to come.

  Walter is spending much time in the small sitting room constructing Christmas presents, and Gloria continually thrusts cups of tea into people’s hands, especially mine, and fusses after me so much that I have even taken to shutting the door at the bottom of the Summer Cottage stairs and ramming a chair under the handle. (Only I’m continually having to remove it to let Flossie in and out.)