The Limits of Enchantment

by Graham Joyce

  After Peggy left Greta brought in a second character witness. She’d decided to play it like a court of law for exaggerated effect. But no one was more amazed than I was when this second woman appeared. It was MMM.

  She bustled in and sat upright and somehow made the others feel she was doing them an enormous favour by being there. But she turned this to my advantage by describing how she’d given up her precious time to speak for me. She told them I was one of her most promising students and that for my age I knew an enormous amount about midwifery, even if some of my ideas were a little old-fashioned. I’d got my head screwed on, she insisted, in all the right places.

  Things became a little sticky when she revealed the mix-up over the application form. Glaister pressed her on whether she thought I’d deliberately misled people in filling in the form. MMM said that the form was complicated and in her experience there was no relationship between bureaucratic skills and bedside craft. She said that she would always be prepared to recommend me providing I saw through the proper period of training.

  I was moved almost to tears by this unexpected tribute, and MMM nodded briefly at me before leaving. I looked to Greta, since it had been entirely her idea to recruit her from the college. After MMM had gone out, Jean Cavendish gave me the first sign of encouragement. She did this by compressing her lips and raising her eyebrows at me, as if prepared for the first time that day to concede that I wasn’t after all a complete imbecile.

  I wanted to slap her.

  I was even more astonished when Judith appeared as my third character witness. Greta and I had discounted her because of her possible suspension from school. If Judith were seen to be supporting me then her position might be further imperilled, especially if the assessment went against me. I had no right to expect her there after the inexcusable manner in which I’d treated her. But here she was, and so shamed was I by her presence I had to look away.

  Though I was disturbed by what did happen when she made her entry. Precisely because all eyes except mine were trained on Judith as she came into the room, no one else saw it. It was Bloom. He coloured instantly. Judith, appearing in her most conservative schoolteacher clothes, sat and as she spoke up for me she pinned Bloom with a commanding gaze. Indeed she never took her eyes from him for a moment. Whereas Peggy and MMM had addressed all three of my interrogators, Judith looked only at Bloom for the entire time she spoke. It wasn’t what you would call a glare or a glower. It was more at ease than that. But throughout he stared back at her like the startled hind before it bolts for cover.

  ‘I’m a local schoolteacher and I’m here to give a character reference for this young woman, Fern Cullen,’ Judith said. ‘She’s a perfectly ordinary and respectable young woman. She’s been upset lately because she’s still grieving over the death of the woman who was a mother to her all her life. Grief can make anyone withdraw. Anyone.

  ‘Her mother Mammy was an exceptional woman who performed a lot of services for women in the district. She helped many desperate women – and I mean desperate – in ways that often had to go unthanked, and she herself was never served well by some cowardly men who hid behind the cloak of authority when the chips were down.

  ‘But hopefully these are different times. Mammy was a strong woman and I daresay Fern misses her badly. Well, people wear their grief differently, don’t they? Some show it. Others don’t, and then find that it comes out later at odd moments. Others bide their time, and for them it becomes a kind of anger.

  ‘Fern is no different from anyone else. I don’t know what this is about. I’ve heard talk about her state of mind, but talk is cheap. Reputations can be ruined by talk. You all do important work. But if you make the wrong decision here today you could be seen as vindictive. Mammy’s reputation was similarly ruined and she had to fight all her life to win it back. The wrong words out of place could easily ruin a reputation, for anyone.

  ‘Fern has a community of friends here to help her through the difficult times of her bereavement. My own mother, Doll, was a friend to Mammy though when my father chose between them they stopped speaking for ever. Otherwise I would have been a better friend to Fern over the years. Well make no mistake, we will change that, and we will help her now. We will. That’s all I have to say.’

  Judith stood, pushing back her chair. It scraped the floor hideously as she did so. She went out, leaving a stunned silence behind her. Bloom gently scratched the inner shell of his ear. Cavendish, with her chin on her hand, looked from one to the other of the two men.

  Glaister pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. ‘Well I didn’t understand a single word of that.’

  ‘I’m satisfied with what I’ve heard today,’ Bloom said. ‘I think the girl is better off in the community.’

  ‘What?’ went Glaister. Cavendish swivelled her head towards Bloom.

  ‘Policeman’s wife, senior midwife, respected schoolteacher. It’s obvious she’s well thought of.’

  ‘That’s quite a somersault Dr Bloom,’ Cavendish said.

  ‘Well thought of?’ said Glaister. He looked pole-axed. ‘So was Lucrezia Borgia.’

  ‘Fern’s not a poisoner,’ Greta snapped.

  ‘No?’ Glaister said. ‘Not what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Well, what is this anyway?’ said Bloom. ‘The star chamber? I’m satisfied.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Glaister said.

  ‘I think I am,’ Cavendish said, closing the file in front of her. ‘Indeed I think I am.’

  Greta looked at me across the top of her spectacles, and she beamed that ridiculous smile of blue-sky heaven. I allowed myself a nervous smile back at her, but all the while I was thinking about Judith and Bloom. And I thought: Judith, you’ve also had your own sadness. Poor Judith. Wonderful Judith.

  33

  I heard nothing after they went away. Ever. They never wrote to me nor did they communicate their conclusions in any way. Though these three worthies had decided not to exercise their informal power to declare me insane and have me whisked away to the same horror-house of Mammy’s torment, neither did they declare me sane. I suspect I had fallen into the category of unproven.

  Thankfully I had other things to occupy my mind, namely a huge pie to bake ready for Monday morning. I would spend Good Friday gathering together all the ingredients; Saturday chopping and preparing; Sunday for baking. I was getting help with the pastry making – that being a very fine and underestimated skill – from two other ladies, who were to come with the giant tin tray and roll out the pastry. Our domestic ovens not being up to the size of the thing, they were then to take away the pie to the bakery, ready for Easter Monday.

  Meanwhile I had two matters to attend to. Firstly I went to the churchyard. Someone from the church had fixed the stone and had dealt with the worst of the mess. I tidied it up a bit more and I wiped off the unpleasant words that had been painted there, knowing it would scrub up easily enough. I set new flowers in a vase, and after I’d finished I thought it looked quite smart if anyone was bothered.

  I had further business at Croker’s. I washed my face and I smoothed my hair. It was beginning to grow out again, a little tufty but I could almost like it. I even put on the tiniest touch of eye make-up and lipstick. Just a little.

  When I got to Croker’s the sun was warm and there was a modest breeze streaming from the west. The hedgerows were writhing and tangling beautifully and the ditches were a mêlée of forget-me-not and primroses and purple vetch. It all gave me a confident step. Chas and Luke were sitting by their greenhouse development, constructing and smoking cigarettes. The greenhouse was built and ready and smarting with new glass. There was also another man I hadn’t seen before. He wore sunglasses, which was ridiculous because although the sun was out it really wasn’t all that bright. Perhaps he wasn’t either. He looked at me with his mouth hanging open.

  Chas looked up and said, softly, ‘Hey.’ Luke waved his lazy hand at me.

  ‘What will you grow here?’ I asked.

  ‘H
erbs,’ said Luke. ‘There’s a lot of interest in ’erbs these days.’ And for some reason they all laughed.

  I coloured and asked Chas if I could have a word with him. He got up, dusted off the seat of his jeans with putty-soiled fingers and beckoned me away from the other two men. As we made to walk away I heard the man with the sunglasses say, ‘Foxy.’ Then I saw Luke put his finger to his lips in a kind of warning.

  When we were out of earshot, Chas said to me, ‘Hear you’re making a pie. Can out-of-towners come to this thing on Monday?’

  ‘People come from all over. Pie for everyone. I’ve come to apologise. Properly this time.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I think I made a mistake.’

  ‘I think you did.’

  ‘Maybe it was something I wanted to happen, and you wanted to happen, but neither of us would let happen. Maybe it was something that hatched out between us, but in another place.’ Somewhere in my head I heard Mammy say The difference imp. I think I said it aloud.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Mammy always used to say that feelings between people made things happen in another place, and we couldn’t control it. When something should happen but couldn’t.’ I felt myself blushing. ‘That ‘‘difference imp’’. That’s what Mammy said. Anyway.’

  Chas smiled. ‘Have you been eating those red mushrooms?’

  ‘Don’t mock.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, I’m the one who is sorry. I maligned you and I’m apologising. I’ve come to repay you.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that.’

  ‘Yes I do. I’m giving you permission to catch two hares. You see this pie? It’s a hare pie but they make it with beef, which is no good to anyone. And Easter is the only time we can eat hare. And I give the permission. It’s very special. The hare won’t mind at this special time.’

  Chas scratched his head. ‘And you get to give the permission?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Mammy gave me the permission.’

  ‘Why you?’

  ‘That’s for me to know. Will you do it?’

  ‘Haven’t you got to hang a hare for three days?’

  ‘Not essential.’

  ‘And this is your way of apologising? Having me run round for a couple of hares?’

  ‘Yes. You’re a good poacher and I need them by Sunday midday at the very latest.’

  ‘You’re a strange one, Fern.’

  ‘Strange can be good, though.’

  He let some air escape between his teeth. ‘Beautiful,’ he said in an underbreath. I don’t know if I was meant to hear it. He turned away from me and walked back towards Luke. Then he whistled his dogs. Two old greyhounds and a whippet cross came bounding from the house, yapping, jaws open, eyes glinting with avidity.

  ‘What’s happening, friend?’ said the new hippie, the one with dark glasses.

  ‘I’m going hunting. Going to check my traps. You coming, Luke?’

  ‘No, I’ll stay here and relax hard,’ Luke said, in the middle of rolling himself another reefer.

  Chas was already on his way.

  ‘Dig that,’ said the man with dark glasses, his mouth still hanging open. ‘Totally.’

  I spent the Saturday chopping vegetables and I flung open all the doors and windows of the cottage and had my record-player blasting ‘Green Onions’ for anyone who wanted to hear it. I chopped mainly potatoes and onions – yes green onions, it had to be green onions – and I made stock. It was a lot of work. Chop chop chop. Several pounds of each. I kept a very sharp knife and I whetted it on the stone step of my threshold. I chopped herbs too. And there were other things to chop, very fine and secret things I would have powdered if I could. I undid bunches hanging from the rafters. I took down old jars from the shelf, and I chopped as fine as I could.

  In the afternoon a butcher, pink-faced and sprightly, came in a white van delivering the beef to mix with the hare. He brought it wrapped in bloodstained brown paper tied up with string. He asked me where I wanted it, in that way they do. I got him to put it all in the sink.

  Then I set about chopping the beef into small cubes. That was a long job. While I was doing that the flour and the lard arrived. The grocer was chipper, stacking it on the table as I continued to cube beef. ‘You’ve got your work cut out for you,’ he said. They’d also thought to send seasoning. Goodness, I told him, I can run to seasoning! We shared a laugh over that.

  And with the vats all simmering on the stove in the evening I sat and chopped and powdered insofar as I could. I was disturbed shortly after dark by Judith, who was on her way to see Chas at Croker’s. I let her in and resumed my work, there being no need to hide it from her.

  ‘What’s that you’re doing?’ she said innocently enough. Then she looked at the clippings jar and said, ‘Oh.’

  ‘You disapprove?’

  ‘No. Carry on.’

  ‘I saw Chas,’ I said.

  ‘I know. He hasn’t time for me. Too busy haring. For you.’

  ‘Do you know what?’ I said, putting down my chopping knife and my pestle. ‘Here’s one that is said to put lead in a bloke’s pencil. Mammy told me this, and I’ll bet you’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘Go on.’

  And when I told her she was amazed, and admitted she’d never heard of it. ‘You could try it,’ I said.

  ‘I might give it a run,’ she said.

  I didn’t know how to mention the assessment without raising the question of Bloom. Judith seemed sad. I asked her why.

  ‘This thing with Chas,’ she said. ‘I like him a lot but I’m not sure I want to be a hippie. Plus I want to keep my teaching job. What about you? Been chucked off your midwives’ course, haven’t you?’

  I got up to attend to a steaming pan. ‘Yes. Come and help me strain these potatoes.’

  She couldn’t stay long. ‘Thank you, Judith,’ I said. Thank you.’

  She ran a hand through my hair, searching me with eyes that leaked colour the way a curative plant seeps resin. Then she was gone. Afterwards I went back to chopping and powdering into the night. ‘Mammy, you were wrong about Judith.’

  I remembered Mammy sitting in her chair and administering her snuff. She would take it right back into her sinuses and blink and pause before answering a challenge like that. ‘Sometimes I am wrong,’ Mammy would say. ‘Sometimes I am.’

  Early Sunday morning Chas came with his two hares for me. Killed with the dew still on them. No, I didn’t feel sad for them. It was their sacrifice. I took them by the ears from Chas and weighed them in each hand. Not bad, I thought. They wouldn’t make a complete pie, not even half a pie, but they would mix in well with the chopped beef and this year the Hallaton Hare Pie Scramble would be fought over a true hare pie. I told Chas not to say too much about it, since some folk might have a distaste for eating hare. I mean amongst other things there were rumours you could become homosexual after eating hare. I don’t know where in the world this sort of nonsense comes from, but it keeps coming.

  ‘Led me a dance, they did,’ Chas said.

  ‘I don’t care. They’re going in the pot.’

  ‘What else is going in that pie?’

  ‘Taters. Onions. Beef. That’s about all. Now if you’ll clear off I’ve lots to do.’

  ‘Don’t I get a cup of tea as a thank you?’

  ‘No. I don’t want you under my feet.’

  He rubbed his face with his hand and showed no sign of shifting. ‘I was talking to Greta, you know. We agreed that, in a strange way, whoever it was that messed up Mammy’s grave did you a favour. I mean it turned the village people around, didn’t it?’

  ‘Where’s my knife? Have you seen my knife?’

  ‘I mean it couldn’t have worked out better if you’d done it yourself, could it?’

  ‘Here it is. Shall I show you how to skin these hares?’ I said.

  ‘No, Fern. I’ll leave it to you. I reckon you’re the best skinner of the two of us
.’

  And our eyes met, and that difference imp leapt again. ‘That’s right,’ I told him. ‘I am.’ And when he saw me starting to deal with the hares he left.

  First you chop off the feet at the first joint; then remove the head at the first joint below the skull and slit the skin of the stomach from a point between the forelegs to the hind legs. You can pull out the paunch after that. Then you slit the skin from the opening in the stomach around the back to the opposite side. If you catch hold on the back and pull the skin first from the hind legs and then from the forelegs, off it comes like a jacket. Mammy used to make gloves out of rabbit fur once upon a time but nowadays there’s no profit in it.

  She made me a pair once.

  I chopped the hares up and boiled them and I disguised the meat amongst the beef. By the time the two pastry ladies arrived at my house I had all my pie mix bubbling away in two great vats and I’d played ‘Green Onions’ so many times I didn’t care if someone came in and broke the damn record.

  The pastry ladies weren’t known to me. Taciturn, white-haired women, they came with bright smiles and shining eyes. I fancied they’d been baking the hare pie pastry for a thousand years. They set out their store without even so much as a critical glance around the cottage, so intent on making their pastry were they. They even – gently – took over my kitchen and steered me around it without making me feel displaced or under their feet.

  They brought with them their own mixing bowls and utensils and an enormous baking tin for the pie itself, and they stored them in the larder to keep things cool until ready. It was a marvel to watch them mix the lard and the flour, building the dough and flaking it between their fingers, working silently and in mesmerising rhythm. Working in a kind of shining light they part-baked a sectional bottom for the pie. Using my oven and these sections they cut and laid it into the giant tin tray.

  Then they stood back and looked at me with those gleaming eyes. ‘Your turn now,’ one of them said.

  I suddenly became nervous. They watched me intently as I ladled in the pie mix, spreading it evenly to the four corners of the baking tray. I was about to ladle more when one of the ladies stopped me simply by raising the palm of her hand. Then they added the thick top layer of dough. When they were satisfied they covered the pie over with a cloth.