The Language of Spells (5 page)

‘Like homeopathy?’
Please let it be homeopathy
.
No flipping tarot cards.

Marilyn’s face brightened. ‘Exactly. People are always using homeopathy or reflexology or having someone stick needles in their sore bits. Seeing Iris was no different.’

‘And you paid her?’

Marilyn’s face fell. ‘It wasn’t like I didn’t try. She wouldn’t take it.’

Well, that was different. Gloria had had a price list printed up.
Gwen got up and stirred the sauce. The motion was soothing and so was not having to look at Marilyn Dixon, who had popping blue eyes and a determined set to her mouth.

‘I always knew I owed her a favour, though. She didn’t take money, but you knew she’d ask you for something, some time.’

Okay. Enough nonsense
. Gwen stirred the sauce faster. She couldn’t help this woman. She didn’t make potions or cast spells or even give good advice.
And she wasn’t about to start.

Gwen turned to face Marilyn. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just not sure how I could help you. I’m not Iris.’

By the door, Marilyn gave her a long sweeping look, up and down. ‘No.’ And then she left.

Gwen ate her pasta and drank a glass of red wine, but she didn’t feel any better. Marilyn Dixon. The name seemed oddly familiar. Against her better judgement, Gwen fetched Iris’s notebook and opened it at random. It was disturbing how easily she found an entry about Marilyn. Almost as if the book was being deliberately helpful.

Marilyn Dixon was here again about dry patches on her cheeks. That woman sees problems where there are none. I gave her tincture of rose for her nerves and told her it would give her the skin of a fourteen-year-old.

Gwen flipped the book shut and put it in the bread bin so that she couldn’t see it any more. If she couldn’t see it, she wouldn’t be tempted to read it. She needed to stay strong.
Don’t get sucked in.

She also needed to repay Lily for the casserole and the soup, and something told her that a packet of HobNobs wouldn’t cut it in Pendleford. She baked a couple of fruit cakes, steadfastly ignoring the siren song of the notebook. She vacuumed the living room and plumped the thin cushions on the sofa. It just looked sadder and quieter, and the cat wouldn’t settle. He kept crying to be let out and, sixty seconds later, crying to be let back in. By the tenth round, Gwen was losing her patience.

‘For the love of—’ Gwen flung open the back door, ready to sit the cat down for a serious heart-to-heart vis-à-vis the wisdom of pissing off his source of food and shelter. ‘Oh.’

‘Don’t leave me out in this cold; I’ll catch my death. And you’re letting all your heating out.’ The man was at least a hundred years old, his face scrunched-up like a used Kleenex.

Gwen stepped back and he made his way up the step and into the warmth of the kitchen.

‘I need Iris,’ he said, taking the comfy chair.

‘Course you do,’ Gwen said. She flicked the switch on the kettle. ‘Tea?’

‘This isn’t a social visit.’

‘Fine.’ Gwen sat opposite him. ‘You are aware that I’m not Iris?’

‘I’m not senile.’ The man glowered at her. ‘I went to her funeral. You don’t get up after one of those.’

‘Not usually, no. What can I do for you?’

The man looked down, his face abruptly red. He didn’t answer.

‘The thing is, as we’ve already established, I’m not Iris, so I probably can’t help you anyway. You’re better off going to the chemist. Or the doctor. Or A&E.’
Not my bloody kitchen
.

He looked up. ‘You’re turning me away?’

‘No. It’s not like that. But I can see it’s something you’re embarrassed about and if you do tell me, I’m not sure it’ll be worth it as I don’t know how I could help. I run a crafts and antiques stall and I barely knew my great-aunt and I’ve just moved in and people keep turning up and won’t leave me alone.’

The man chewed his lip. ‘Iris mixed me a cream. It soothed my chilblains.’

‘Chilblains?’ What was embarrassing about poor circulation?

He nodded defiantly.

‘The problem is, I don’t know how to make the cream. And there wasn’t anything left in her work room. It was cleaned out as far as I could tell. I don’t even know what’s in it. I don’t know where to start.’

The man got creakily to his feet saying, ‘I won’t bother you again.’

Gwen felt like hell. ‘Won’t you stay for a cup of tea, at least?’

‘I won’t bother you,’ he said again, his mouth set into a stubborn line.

‘I really am sorry.’ Then Gwen spotted the fruit cakes she’d just taken out of the oven. She got one of the tins down from the cupboard.

‘Take this.’

‘What is it?’

‘Fruit cake. Drop the tin back to me when you’ve finished.’

‘Will it help my chilblains?’

‘No, no. I just feel bad about you coming out in this cold and—’

The man had the tin and was tucking it noisily into a carrier bag that had appeared from his coat pocket.

He stuck out his hand and they shook awkwardly. ‘I’m Fred Byres. Number six Meadowmead.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Gwen said.

He raised a hand and disappeared down the path at a surprisingly fast clip, rustling.

Gwen took a deep breath and then dialled the number on the solicitor’s letterhead and asked for Cam. When she heard his voice, she sagged against the wall.

‘It’s Gwen. Harper.’

His voice changed, went tight. She couldn’t blame him. He’d made it quite clear that he was still angry with her for the way she’d left things all those years ago.
Time heals
was a big fat lie. ‘I was wondering if I could talk to you about my aunt.’ She looked around the hallway; the doors leading off were like eyes watching her. ‘I feel a bit weird living in her house when I didn’t know her. I’ve been sorting through her stuff and it just feels wrong. I feel like an intruder.’

‘So go home.’ Cam’s voice was flat.

‘I don’t want to,’ she said carefully. No need to explain that she didn’t have one. Or, rather, End House was it. ‘I’m going to stay.’

Cam didn’t say anything and Gwen could almost hear his sneer down the line.

‘At least for the time being,’ she added, wishing with all her being that he wasn’t so hostile. Or that it didn’t bother her so much.

‘Why don’t you ask your family? What about your mum?’

‘They didn’t get on. Something happened when I was a kid and we weren’t allowed to see her any more. We weren’t allowed to use her name, actually.’ Gwen forced a laugh to show she knew it sounded overblown and ridiculous. Not the kind of way that she, rational, normal, Gwen Harper would ever behave.

‘I didn’t know her very well,’ Cam said. ‘Just in a professional capacity.’

‘Please. Anything at all would help.’

‘Didn’t you say you live next door to her old carer? She’d know more than me.’

‘Cleaner. And I’d rather get a different viewpoint. I know it’s an imposition, but I won’t take up much of your time. I’ll come into town and we could have coffee. Or lunch. I’ll buy you lunch.’

‘Bribery is illegal, you know.’

Gwen smiled, relieved at the lightening in his tone. ‘Whatever it takes.’

There was a sudden loaded silence. Then she heard him sigh. ‘Tomorrow. One drink after work.’

‘That’s brilliant, thanks so much—’

He cut across her. ‘And you’re buying.’

The next day, Gwen parked Nanette as close as possible to the town centre, realising too late that she would’ve been better off just walking from the house. She ended up in a small pay and display car park, and trekked the mile to Cam’s office. Irritatingly, he was waiting inside his Lexus at the kerb. She pulled open the passenger door and he jumped slightly. ‘Hello.’

‘Is the pub far, because my car is practically back at End House, closest I could get.’

‘Oh, yes. Sorry. Parking is a pain.’

‘It’s fine,’ Gwen said, and got into the car. She needed to dial down the hostility, get things with Cam onto a polite, grown-up footing. He wasn’t looking at her, though, which was annoying. Then he spoke to the steering wheel. ‘I was just about to call you and cancel, actually.’

‘Oh?’

A high-pitched chiming noise interrupted them. Gwen winced and looked around for the source of the awful sound.

‘Yeah.’ He frowned. ‘That’s the seat belt warning.’

‘But we’re not moving.’

‘We could get rear-ended and you’d fly through the windscreen.’

Gwen put the belt on.

‘Anyway,’ he said, in what could only be a deliberately casual tone, ‘it’s been a mad day and I’m knackered.’

‘But this is the time we’re meeting. You couldn’t call to cancel at the exact time of the appointment. That’s not cancelling, that’s cutting the meeting short.’

‘Okay. Then I’m cutting our meeting short.’

Gwen made a show of looking at her watch. ‘One minute. That’s very, very short.’

‘I’m exhausted. We can do it another time.’

‘Fine,’ Gwen said tightly.

His shoulders sagged slightly. ‘I’ll give you a lift back to your car.’

‘Thank you.’

Cam drove carefully and in silence, keeping his eyes on the road. Gwen looked at him once, clocked the set of his jaw, the faint brush of stubble and the dark shadows under his eyes. He did look tired and he didn’t owe her a thing. He looked so familiar, she had to stop herself from reaching out and brushing a stray hair from his jacket. It was as if she’d been carrying around his image, tucked safely in a corner of herself, without even knowing it.

She looked out of the window instead. The tail end of the shopping crowd was straggling home and they passed a bus queue so full it was spilling into the street.

‘I don’t remember there being so many people.’

‘We kept different hours.’

That was true, she thought. She’d been half-halfheartedly completing her A levels while Cam was doing whatever mysterious things he got up to in the hours they were apart. She’d been out with a couple of friends, going from pub to pub, waiting for the clubs to open, and everywhere was packed. She’d gone to the beer garden in the Pig and Fiddle to see if she could find a seat and there he was. Sat on top of a bench, reading a paperback copy of
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
. If he’d looked like a student from the university on the hill she’d have thought he was a pathetic poser. But he didn’t. He had scuffed black boots and narrow jeans that looked genuinely old and not ‘artfully distressed’ by some designer. He was wearing a faded black band T-shirt and his dark hair was falling into his face. He was completely absorbed in the book and didn’t look up when his companion spoke. His friend nudged him and he finally glanced up and Gwen realised that she had been standing still and gawping like a lovesick teenager. Which, she’d abruptly realised, was exactly what she had become.

It would always be something that Gwen would be grateful for. No agonised waiting, no sleepless nights, no wondering. One moment she was staring at Cam with the full knowledge that her world had tipped forwards, propelling her towards the man on the bench, and the next moment she was so close she was touching him and his hands were on her face, holding her gently while he kissed her, the paperback discarded on the bench next to them. At least, that was how she remembered it.

‘We did,’ she managed. ‘I don’t remember a lot of shopping trips.’

‘No,’ he said, his voice clipped, and she wondered if he was having a memory-fest, too. Probably not.

‘I need a drink,’ he said.

‘I would love a drink,’ Gwen said.

‘I have alcohol.’

That was more like it. ‘Is your place far?’

‘You know it: Widcombe Street.’

Gwen looked at him in horror. ‘You live with your mother?’

‘No!’ Cam said. ‘I have a flat. It’s self-contained. Separate entrance.’ He collected himself. ‘I have the top floor.’

‘Oh.’

‘Those houses are too big.’

‘Okay.’

‘And I needed somewhere to live while I was getting qualified.’

‘Right.’

‘And then I got the job at the firm and it seemed easier to stay.’

‘It’s really none of my business.’ Gwen paused. ‘How is your mother?’

He gave a wry smile. ‘The same.’

‘Super.’ She looked at her watch. ‘You know, I’ve just remembered I’ve got to be up early in the morning. I think I’ll just head home.’

‘Coward.’ Cam was smiling.

Gwen pulled a prim face. ‘I’m a very busy woman.’

‘You made this date.’

‘And you broke it. We’re even.’

There was a pause. ‘So, you’re really not coming for a drink? I have Southern Comfort.’

‘So do I and mine doesn’t come with a chaser of abject terror. Sorry.’

‘That’s okay,’ Cam said. ‘I’d forgotten how much you disliked her.’

Gwen sucked her breath in. ‘That’s it. Stop the car.’

‘What? No. We’re nearly there.’ And he was right; the entrance to the car park appeared. Cam flicked the indicator and slowed down.

‘Pull over. We need to talk.’

‘We’re already talking,’ Cam said, but he steered the car into the nearest available space.

By the time he cranked the handbrake and half-turned in his seat, an expression of patient confusion on his face, Gwen was furious. The words came out distinct and calm, though; she enunciated each one carefully. ‘It isn’t a question of my disliking your mother. She hates me.’

Cam smiled and shook his head slightly. ‘Come on now. She’s not a very warm person, but that’s a bit over-the-top.’

Gwen bit her tongue to keep the words
She told me I was no good for you
inside. She tasted blood. These things only worked if you did them for real.

Cam fidgeted, reaching into his pocket before withdrawing his hand empty.

‘You gave up, then,’ Gwen said. ‘Smoking.’

‘As soon as I realised I wasn’t actually immortal,’ Cam said, the corners of his mouth turning down in a sardonic smile.

Why did he have to look so good?
‘Yeah, that’s always a tough one,’ Gwen managed, after a pause.

There was silence again. Then Cam said, ‘It’s really weird to see you again.’

Weird. Nice.

‘It’s going to take a bit of adjustment.’

Gwen felt angry again. Something about his sensible phrasing pissed her off. ‘I didn’t ask to come back here. And I didn’t do it to mess with you or anything.’

Cam raised his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t say that you did.’

And there was that tone again. Gwen felt words building up, but she knew she wasn’t going to voice any of them. He was a stranger to her now. The silence stretched on. Gwen realised that she was physically incapable of looking at him. Incapable of speaking. And that if she stayed in that car for one second longer, she was going to start crying.

Across town, it was lunch break at Millbank Comprehensive and Katie was getting the third degree.

‘Does she turn people into frogs?’

‘Shut up.’

‘I heard she dances naked when it’s full moon.’

‘Seriously. Shut up.’

Katie stretched her long pale legs, inched her navy school skirt a little further up her thighs. She was sitting with her back against the gym and Imogen was lying flat out, face down, her head cradled in her hands.

‘Are they turning brown yet?’ Imogen asked.

Katie squinted at the backs of her friend’s calves; they were goose-pimpled in the cold air. ‘Not really.’ She didn’t know why they were attempting to tan in November. Imogen had said something about classy people getting brown in the winter.