Hark who’s talking, I thought, rattled myself by her peculiar turn. Mind you, I had to admit there was quite an atmosphere in the consulting room. Quite pongy, in fact. But I put that down to the nervous Alsatian who’d earlier defaecated on the spot where Madam Mountjoy was now standing.
She fanned her long black nails in front of her face and her eyelids snapped open again. ‘It’s very strong,’ she added. ‘You should let me cast a spell. Cleanse the place.’
I didn’t know about casting spells or not. If anything, she could have put in a spell of cleaning, but I couldn’t see her knuckling down with her broomstick to give the place a clean sweep. Of course, I kept mum for fear of frog-induced repercussions.
It was at that point that Antac gave a loud miaow. I must admit, it made me jump a bit as he’d been so quiet up to then. Madam Mountjoy seemed unperturbed. She turned to him and bent her head down so that her ear was almost touching his nose. ‘What’s that, Antac?’ she asked. There was another, more muted miaow.
Madam Mountjoy straightened up and stared at me with those laser-like grey eyes of hers. Very unnerving. ‘Antac informs me that many feline spirits have departed from here. Posses of them are at this very moment circling above us. You need to be exorcised.’
Posses of pussies, eh? I bridled. What a nerve. OK, I might not be the most competent of vets and I admit the occasional cat had slipped beyond its ninth life through my fingers. But posses of them? Come on. I wasn’t that bad. This old crone was out of her head.
Suddenly realising Madam Mountjoy was getting inside mine, I hastily terminated the consultation and accompanied her through to reception, where, having paid her bill, she tapped Antac knowingly on the head, looked at me and uttered in a sombre voice, ‘You have been warned,’ before swirling out of the front door, broomsticks whirling, bangles clanging.
‘Crikey,’ declared Beryl, giving her departing figure the eye – her good one – ‘she’s enough to put the wind up anyone’s sails. Which reminds me, Mrs Jenkins wants some more of those charcoal granules for her Cleo’s flatulence.’
I thought I’d seen the last of Madam Mountjoy, but if I’d had the ability to see into the future – as she apparently could – I would have realised that wasn’t going to be the case.
It must have been about two weeks later, time enough for Beryl to have pushed the urinating Father Christmas to the back of her mind – at least I assumed she had, judging from her better mood – when she mentioned Madam Mountjoy. Beryl was standing in front of the electric heater in the office, the sleeves of her woolly, black cardigan hanging down her sides as usual – why she never put her arms in the sleeves, I’ll never know – rubbing her hands together having just returned, ‘freezing’ as she put it, from her morning cigarette, smoked by the open back door leading to the exercise run in the garden. Although smoking in Prospect House was strictly taboo and enforced rigorously by both partners, Crystal and Eric, a concession to Beryl’s addiction of the past 50 years had been made whereby she was allowed her daily quota of fags, to be smoked either out in the exercise yard or, if the weather was too inclement, on the back doorstep with the door open wide enough for her to exhale the smoke through the gap.
‘Yes, I remember her,’ I said at her mention of Madam Mountjoy’s name. ‘Seems I was under threat from the spirits of cats I’d bumped off. Or some such nonsense.’
‘Well, she’s been in touch,’ whispered Beryl, bringing her hand up to cover the side of her mouth. Always the dramatist, is Beryl.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
I smirked.
‘It’s not funny, Paul,’ she hissed, her glass eye fixed on me.
I swallowed hard. ‘No, of course not.’
‘She’s contacted me from the other side.’ Beryl gave an exaggerated wink of her good eye while the glass one swivelled wildly heavenwards.
‘You mean …’ I faltered, pointing upwards. ‘She’s passed on?’
‘No, no,’ said Beryl, tutting, still with her hand cupped over her mouth. ‘She’s been in touch from the other side of town. Teville Gate.’ Beryl must have seen my bewilderment, more induced by her glass eye swinging down to glare at my crotch rather than from learning that Madam Mountjoy lived over in Teville Gate, since she went on in an exasperated tone of voice. ‘She’s worried about Antac.’ Beryl glanced over both her shoulders and then over mine before continuing. ‘Apparently, he’s been in the wars.’
‘The Aztecs have got him, have they?’
‘Shhh … it’s no joke. Madam Mountjoy thinks he’s been possessed.’
I began to feel another smirk coming on.
‘It’s serious, Paul,’ she reprimanded.
I bit my lower lip. ‘Yes, of course, you’re right,’ I said, suppressing the bubble of laughter welling up in my throat. ‘You’d better get her to come in.’ I failed to stop the bubble of laughter from bursting out. ‘And let me see what’s got into him,’ I spluttered. ‘A Roman centurion? Or maybe a Benedictine monk?’
Beryl’s false eye stopped rotating and lined itself up with her good one to show her disapproval of my frivolous mood (that juvenile sense of humour again). She fixed me with a cold stare that brought me up straight. ‘I offered her an appointment but she turned it down. Apparently, that time she came in … she got spooked.’
‘Really?’
‘So she says. That’s why she insists you visit.’
‘Over at Teville Gate?’
Beryl nodded. ‘And it has to be you.’ Her voice dropped an octave. ‘Apparently, you are a kindred spirit with whom she can bond.’ Beryl nodded sagely. ‘So …’ She let her voice trail off. Ooo-er. Seemed I was in for a bit of hocus-pocus. Very tricky.
Madam Mountjoy’s place of spiritual bondage over at Teville Gate turned out to be at the end of a terrace, a corner shop called ‘The Olde Wiccan Shoppe’. It was a wet, dark, late January afternoon when I parked a few doors down from the shop and, turning the collar of my raincoat up, beat a rapid path to her shop door. Above it, there was a skull with glowing eyes and a skeletal finger beckoning me in. Creepy.
I half expected the shop to be full of witches on the spend, loading their wicker baskets with bags of frozen fingers and spare ribs, bundles of frogs’ legs and jars of newt jelly. But the place was empty. Yet it still felt claustrophobic on account of the dim lighting, the overpowering smell of incense, and being stuffed from floor to ceiling with shelves – on one side loaded down with wands, dowsing crystals, lucky flying witches and miniature cast-iron cauldrons; on the other side, shelves groaned under the weight of books of all shapes and sizes, catalogued by subject matter. The Idiot’s Guide to Casting Spells and The Good Witch’s Guide to Wicked Ways were two titles that caught my eye. The latter book was on the counter, open at a chapter on potent ways to get your man, and looked very well thumbed. I began to feel distinctly uneasy; this was not helped when I spotted a small occasional table over in one corner, on which was a bowl containing what looked like locks of hair, alongside a burning candle, a mantra of love inscribed on an embroidered card and, behind these items, a gold photo frame containing … I had to move closer and stoop down to make sure … yes, it was … a head-and-shoulders picture of me.
At that point, I thought it wise to beat a hasty retreat, but, as I turned to leave, a figure glided out from behind a rack of elves, pixies and plastic fauns at the back and moved rapidly across to block my exit.
‘Ah, Mr Mitchell,’ exclaimed Madam Mountjoy, in a low, seductive voice, ‘I’ve been expecting you.’
To do what? I wondered, thinking of the love spell on the table.
‘Do come through to the kitchen, please.’ She curved a black-nailed forefinger at me and beckoned.
Oh dear, what was she brewing up? A heady love potion that she’d force me to swallow on pain of death? Something concocted to turn me into a horny demon?
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked.
‘Er, no thanks.’
&
nbsp; ‘Something stronger perhaps?’
‘No. Not if you don’t mind. I’m on duty.’
‘Shame. Another time, maybe?’ Madam Mountjoy threw her arm across her chest, her hand enfolding her right breast. ‘I don’t know what gets into me sometimes.’
Me neither, I thought. Although I could guess what she was after. But I wasn’t going to stoke her fire. Demon or no demon.
‘Never mind.’
‘Sorry?’ I said, startled.
She gave a wry smile, and the merest flicker of her kohled eyelashes. ‘It’s Antac you’ve come to see.’
‘Well, yes, that’s why I’m here.’
‘Indeed. So do come through.’
I expected to enter a witch’s den. Not necessarily a cauldron hanging over a pile of burning logs, but certainly something akin to the image of Madam Mountjoy I’d conjured up. But her kitchen was modern. There was a gas range – black, naturally – a microwave, and in one corner stood not a broomstick but a Dyson. There was a shelf on which was stacked a line of glass-stoppered jars. Spaghetti, rice and sugar, I recognised. I wasn’t so sure about the jar containing the dried, shrivelled carcasses of frogs. Well, that’s what the leathery, brown lumps looked like to me, but then my mind had gone into overdrive ever since spotting the love spell in the shop. The kitchen was filled with a sweet, rather sickly smell. More hocus-pocus in the making, I thought, glancing across at the range on which a black, covered pan was quietly bubbling, emitting the occasional hiss of steam. Probably a stew of newt, snails and puppy dogs’ tails.
‘Just a load of rhubarb,’ said Madam Mountjoy, giving me a wistful look. I swear she was reading my mind.
Today, as on the previous occasion when I’d met her, Madam Mountjoy was wearing a voluminous white kaftan, cut low at the neck, the hem trailing across the kitchen floor as she swept to the middle, turned and faced me. She put her palms together as if to pray, an action that caused her silver bangles to cascade down her forearms. Her black-lined eyes snapped shut while the lashes continued to flicker, a movement that was echoed in the rest of her body. It was all of a twitch, as if there were internal weights being shunted and pulled about, and, although concealed by the kaftan, it gave rise to an uneasy feeling that the body beneath those layers was preparing itself to be fired into orbit. It just needed a deep thrust to ignite it. Well, I certainly wasn’t going to light her touchpaper. The mental image coincided with her opening her eyes abruptly and staring at me, her face full of disappointment.
‘Just trying to summon up Antac,’ she explained, a little peeved. She stretched her closed palms above her head and tried again. ‘Antac … Antac … Where are you?’ She arched her head back to gaze up at the ceiling. ‘Antac, come down and show yourself.’
For a split second, I had a vision of the cat materialising from thin air, careering down from heaven, paws splayed, to land at Madam Mountjoy’s feet. Clearly, it wasn’t a vision shared by her, as with an exasperated click of her tongue stud against her teeth, she glided over to the fridge, pulled out a half-empty tin of tuna and, with a spoon from an adjacent drawer, rattled it inside the tin. That did the trick. Antac suddenly appeared in a flash. He padded round the edge of the units until he reached the fridge, where he turned, arched his back, tail up, and sprayed against the door, a steady stream of urine shooting up the side.
‘Just look at that,’ seethed Madam Mountjoy. ‘It’s so out of character. I reckon he’s been cursed. Possessed by another person.’
A peeing Santa briefly flitted through my mind, and I silently rebuked myself for being juvenile. Yet again.
Madam Mountjoy went on to explain that they had been having a battle recently with a certain Sybil Clutterbuck. ‘They’ being the Order of the Golden Dawn, a coven of white witches over in Chawton. It seemed this Sybil had been the High Priestess up until last month when, due to the discovery that she’d been fiddling her expenses – a new broom paid for out of club funds – they had cast runes to have her replaced. Only she had refused to step down. Apparently, club rules stated that casting runes for new priestesses could only be carried out on the fourth night following a new moon. In her case, the runes had been cast on the fifth night, so, according to Sybil, they were invalid. As Madam Mountjoy had been the one to forward the motion to have Sybil removed in the first place, it was she whom Sybil blamed.
‘And this is the result,’ said Madam Mountjoy, pointing at her cat.
I couldn’t quite see the connection between an embittered witch and a spraying cat. In fact, to be honest, I couldn’t see it at all. A fact that Madam Mountjoy saw all too well, as she went on: ‘Antac’s been acting strange ever since. I’ve tried all sorts of things. Lunar scheduling … herbal remedies … and I am just going through some ancient mantras from my dictionary of spells. It’s all Sybil’s fault. She’s put a spell on him, you see.’
At last, I did see. Sort of. I certainly could see the dangers of becoming embroiled in some sort of witch warfare. Drawn broomsticks at dawn. Cudgels in the coven. It was all getting a bit nonsensical. Everyone getting in a flap. The word ‘flap’ coincided with me glancing round the kitchen and observing that the back door had a cat flap in it.
‘Is that new, by any chance?’ I asked.
‘Well, actually, yes,’ replied Madam Mountjoy, nodding – an action which caused the silver broomsticks in her earlobes to swing violently.
‘And have you had any unwanted visitors?’ I wasn’t thinking spirit-wise – more flesh and blood. ‘You know … local cats.’
‘Now you come to mention it, I have seen a couple slip in. I soon shoo them out though.’
‘Well, there’s your answer then.’ I went on to elaborate. I felt pretty sure that Antac had been unnerved by the encroachment of strange cats on his territory. Nothing to do with being put under a spell by some demented old crone. The response to the invasion of his space was to mark out his territory by spraying.
Having explained this to Madam Mountjoy, I then went through a plan of action to counter the behavioural pattern, with tips on how to clean the sprayed areas and prevent reoccurrence of spraying in those spots. When I’d finished, the look of relief that spread across Madam Mountjoy’s face suggested a whole cauldron of pee had been voided. Her lips puckered into a smile. Her blackened eyelashes fluttered in wild elation.
‘Oh, thank you, Mr Mitchell, thank you so much,’ she gushed, advancing towards me, her kaftan billowing open against her breasts, her lucky charms fully displayed. ‘You’ve raised my spirits enormously. Is there something I can do to raise yours? Massage your aura maybe?’
‘Er, no, I don’t think so,’ I spluttered, and beat a hasty retreat.
When I got back to Prospect House, Beryl was agog to learn what had gone on. Her ‘You don’t say … goodness … did she really?’ peppered my account as her good eye stood out like an organ stop while the glass one rotated a full circle at every juicy detail.
‘You’ll have to watch out for her in the future,’ she warned, when I’d finished. ‘She obviously fancies you.’
‘Who does?’ We both turned, startled, as Lucy, striding into reception, asked the question in a rather brittle voice.
‘Oh, hi,’ I said, feeling guilty for no real reason, other than the fact that, for the past few weeks, I’d been treading rather carefully, with Lucy’s mood swings making her liable to flare up at the slightest thing. I didn’t dare to try lighting her touchpaper for fear she’d go off like a rocket.
‘One of Paul’s clients,’ said Beryl. ‘She’s taken a shine to him.’
Beryl, Beryl, Beryl … that’s not helping, I thought.
‘Good for her,’ snorted Lucy, throwing me a glance that conjured up a barrage of barbed arrows winging my way, each with my name on it, destined to score a direct hit. ‘I’m working the late shift tonight,’ she added gruffly, addressing me. ‘So I’ll stay over upstairs. Just make sure the animals are fed.’
The animals she was referring to were the menagerie of wai
fs and strays we had accumulated over the past six months we’d been living together in the practice cottage over the Downs in Ashton. Among them, Nelson the deaf little terrier; Queenie, and two other cats; and, of course, Gertie, the goose given to me to fatten up for Christmas, but who had become a family pet instead. I wasn’t so sure ‘family’ was the appropriate word to use in the current circumstances, with Lucy and me circling round each other on emotional tenterhooks. How long that was going to continue was anyone’s guess. Maybe I needed the likes of Madam Mountjoy to read our tea leaves. Or palms. Or whatever.
‘She’s in a bit of a mood, isn’t she?’ said Beryl, watching Lucy flounce out. ‘Wonder what’s got into her?’
I wondered, too. It certainly hadn’t been me for quite a while.
BERYL’S BEAU JANGLE
‘Do you think you’ll get one?’ queried Beryl, ten days into February, scratching the prominent mole she had under her chin.
One what? I wondered. A punch on the jaw from Lucy? Things were no better with her. Still bumpy. Whatever was bugging her had yet to be exorcised. Madam Mountjoy’s intervention was still a possibility.
Beryl studied her scarlet talons briefly and then looked up at me. ‘I was thinking of a St Valentine’s Day card. You know … from that medium.’
‘Oh, come off it, Beryl. You’re just winding me up.’
‘Well, you never know. You’re certainly not going to get one from Lucy, that’s for sure.’ Beryl finished scrutinising her nails and proceeded to fish in her handbag for her packet of cigarettes, ready for her back-door smoke. We were in the office at the time, having our coffee break. It was a small room, five steps down from the reception area, and had a window that overlooked the parking area in front of Prospect House. That was an advantage for Beryl, since, whenever she took a break, she could keep an eye – her one eye – on any cars coming in and, by leaving the office door open, keep an ear open for any clients who might have sneaked in unseen via the path along the side of the property; a path which gave access from the Green, a remnant of what had been the village green before Westcott-on-Sea expanded as a retirement town in the mid-Fifties.
Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) Page 2