by Heide Goody
Sarah nodded. “I know what you mean. The life coaching thing is new though.”
“Yeah. I wasn’t a fan of that,” said Noelle. “Do they seriously think we’re suddenly going to want to share our innermost thoughts in groups like that? Don’t they know witches are solitary people?”
Sarah hissed. “We’re not supposed to use the W-word,”
“So what are we now, ‘Holistic Consultants’?” Noelle mimed the air quotes with mild contempt. “Give me strength! We have to spend time and energy helping each other achieve our personal goals. How can a goal be personal if we’ve shared it with everyone?”
“Well, we’ve signed up for it now,” said Sarah. “In blood and everything.” She half-smiled. “What about Tracy’s goal? I’ve no idea what’s involved in synchronised swimming.”
“Neither have I,” said Noelle. “Though I do know that with those false boobs of hers acting as buoyancy, she’ll never manage the underwater bits. Not without our help, anyway.”
*
Tracy picked up the phone. It was Sarah.
“We need to talk. Noelle wants to paint like Picasso, and we’re supposed to help her do it. Where do we start?”
Tracy thought. “There are some basics that might need sorting out first. We can all go and daub paint around; it might even be fun. But have you ever wondered if Noelle might be colour blind?”
“I think I know what you mean,” said Sarah slowly. “You’re talking about that hat she knitted, aren’t you?”
“Now don’t get me wrong,” said Tracy. “It might be part of a charm: something to frighten small children or whatever. But we need to assume there’s an eyesight problem.”
“Great, let’s have a think about how to tackle it and start preparing. See you next week.”
*
Noelle and Tracy waited for the barista to prepare their coffees.
“Did you know I sometimes go past Sarah’s house when I’m walking Buster?” said Noelle. “When it’s warm she has the windows open and I hear her singing along to the radio.”
“This is related to her goal, isn’t it?” said Tracy. “Wanting to record a pop song?”
“She’s got that thing.” Noelle frowned. “I don’t know if she’s tone deaf, her voice isn’t under her own control, or whether she just don’t realise the noise she’s making is all wrong. It’s horrible, though. Horrible. I’ve seen birds fall out of the sky.”
“I guess that’s where we come in,” said Tracy. “We need to prepare for next week.”
*
“A recording studio! We’re really going to lay down some tracks!” Sarah jigged with impatience as she was checked in at reception, along with Tracy and Noelle. “Look! I can see all the sliders and knobs and twiddly things. We’re gonna sound so great!”
They were ushered through and introduced to the sound engineer, Ted.
“Morning ladies! Can I ask what song you’re planning to record today?”
“I want to sing Kate Bush’s Wuthering Heights,” said Sarah.
Tracy and Noelle looked at her in horror.
“Challenging song,” said Ted. “Do you want to warm up first? Maybe sing something rousing with your friends on backing vocals?” He held up a songbook.
“Oh yes! That’s a great idea. We could be The Supremes or The Bangles!” said Sarah, taking the book and flipping the pages.
“Or The Muppets,” muttered Noelle. “Tracy, shall we, er, you know?”
Tracy gave a small nod and the two of them murmured a quiet incantation.
Eye of potato and toe of shoe.
Wool of jumper and tongue of boot…
“What about this one?” said Sarah, holding up the book. “Oh – I sound funny!”
Noelle and Tracy exchanged glances. Too much, mouthed Tracy.
“Too right too much!” said Sarah, catching the exchange. “You auto-tuned me! I sound like a singing robot! Why would you do that?”
“Why don’t you try Wuthering Heights?” said Noelle, quickly. “Go on. Give it a whirl.”
Sarah sang the first line and grinned at the immaculate high notes that came soaring from her mouth. Noelle’s spectacles shattered. She hurriedly stuffed them into her bag and smiled at Sarah.
Tracy made a thumbs-up sign at Ted. “I think we’re good to go!”
*
Sarah was still buzzing with excitement when they got to the swimming pool later that afternoon. “That was the best! I can’t believe how amazing we sounded. Uh, one thing, guys?”
“Yes, hun?” asked Noelle.
“How long will I sound like this?” trilled Sarah. “It will wear off, won’t it?”
“What’s that?” said Tracy, trotting past in her new one piece swimsuit. “Is Sarah still singing everything?”
Sarah reddened. “I sound silly,”
“Well, you’ve always treated your life like a soap opera,” said Noelle, not unkindly. “For now it’s a regular opera.”
The swimming pool was closed to other users so that the synchronised swimming tutor could work one to one with Tracy. “You two not coming in?” she asked.
“You’ll need someone to record this for you so you can see how amazing you were!” said Noelle, holding up her phone.
“We’ll record everything twice. Make sure we cover all angles,” sang Sarah.
Tracy went down the steps and entered the water after speaking briefly to the tutor.
“You take the left side, I’ll take the right,” whispered Noelle. They both worked a charm.
Plastic fork and CD by Sting,
Table leg and chicken wing…
They raised their phones to record the lesson.
“That’s strange,” remarked Sarah. “See how she’s corkscrewing in the water?”
“Yeah,” said Noelle. “Spinning, like a crazy thing. Who knew she had those kind of moves?”
“Wait a second, let’s zoom in,” said Sarah. “Can you see what’s happened?”
“I put a shrinking hex on her left boob: took it down to nothing. What did you do with the right side?”
“I meant to do the same. Do you think singing a hex is different to saying it?”
“It does look like you’ve just tucked it under her arm,” said Noelle. “We’ve put her off centre! That’s why she can’t stop spinning.”
“It’s eye catching,” said Sarah thoughtfully. “Hope she can still smile, shaped like that.”
“Surely you mean breathe?”
“Nah, she’ll be thinking of the footage. Keep filming.”
*
The painting studio was light and airy. Sarah and Noelle glanced at the paint and the easels laid out for them. Tracy was more concerned about her personal attributes. “They’re definitely different,” she said, juggling her boobs.
Sarah pulled a worried expression at Noelle. “They’re fine. Perfectly symmetrical. Look, we have the whole evening in here. A bottomless jug of G and Ts, and finger nibbles galore. Enjoy it, eh?”
“I’m so excited!” squealed Noelle. “I just can’t wait to get started. I’m going to paint like Picasso!”
“Quick word, Sarah?” said Tracy, nodding to the corner. “Ready to do what’s necessary?” she added as they stepped away.
“Yup. Let’s go.”
The two women lowered their heads in concentration.
For a charm with zero trouble,
Like a hot broth boil and bubble...
A small bald man with a heavy tan walked through the door. “Morning!” he said, his words flavoured with a Southern European accent.
“You look familiar,” said Noelle.
The man was distracted by Tracy’s lopsided breasts. “So strange. So unique.” He mimed with his hands. Big, small. Near, far. “Like one of my cubist women. And you!” He stared at Noelle and made a lusty guttural noise.
“Me?” squeaked Noelle.
“Your hat. Bella, bella! We can use this.”
Noelle’s hand went to her favouri
te knitted creation. Her face creased with confusion. “I know you! You’re dead. I thought—”
“Remove the clothes, ladies. All of the clothes.” He pointed at Noelle. “The hat stays though. We are going to create beautiful art today. Beautiful, beautiful art.”
*
As the day drew to a close the three women got ready to leave. Tracy used baby wipes to remove smudged paint from her hips. “I’m not convinced he wasn’t just a pervy old man, you know. He was a bit too hands-on for my liking.”
Sarah regarded the huge canvas that all three had worked so hard on. “I think we look pretty good, to be honest. Even with our bits all mixed up. Just look at the colours he made us use, though.”
“Yes!” sighed Noelle. “The colours of my hat! I knew it was special when I made it. Look, I realise you two used magic to summon Picasso and everything, but I reckon I could make some money on the side as a fashion consultant. Who’d like me to put some outfits together for them?”
Tracy looked at her chest. “A padded bra wouldn’t go amiss.”
THE LAUGHING GNOME
“Oi. Wake up!”
A thrown biro slapped his cheek.
Stenton Jones’ chin slipped from the hand supporting it as he jerked awake. He looked at the ledger. The last entry read GPO sack - conts. fireworks (assortd.) – found platfrm. 3. He looked at Archie. “Huh?”
“Shop front,” said Archie.
Stenton could hear the bell at the front desk being dinged repeatedly. “You do it.”
“I’ve got four bob on the 3:15 at Chepstow,” said Archie, holding up a Bush wireless (lost property tag still attached) as further explanation.
With an affected groan, Stenton dragged on his cap and went out to the counter. A biddy with a blue rinse and pottery garden gnome stood waiting.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” said Stenton. He tipped his hat at the gnome. “Sir.”
The biddy’s mouth pursed up tighter than a cat’s arse.
“How can I help you, ma’am? Lost something?” Your sense of humour? The old Blitz spirit?, he thought.
“I found this on the train.” She put the gnome on the counter. It wore a red jacket, grey trousers and a cheeky expression.
“Which train, ma’am?”
“From Eastbourne,” she said.
“And where did you find this fellow?”
“In First Class.”
“Did he have a ticket?”
“Are you being funny, young man?”
“Apparently not,” said Stenton. “So, you didn’t see who the owner was?”
“There was no one with him. Otherwise, I would have said something.”
“Got on by himself.” Stenton picked the gnome up. “Fancied a day trip to London, eh? Well, thank you, ma’am.”
The biddy nodded firmly, her duty done. The problem was now Stenton’s. “I don’t approve of this sort of thing,” she told him.
“I’ll be sure to report it to the Gnome Office,” he said and took the little lost gnome down to the lost property stacks.
He wrote it up in the ledger and wondered where to store him. British Railways guidance for lost property offices was firm but light on details. Stenton, Archie and the other lads at Victoria Station had opted for a thematic approach to storage. Suitcases and coats predominated, but the gnome clearly didn’t belong with them in the ‘wardrobe’. Nor did he belong in the ‘kitchen’ or the ‘hospital’ (where they held a surprising number of crutches and wheelchairs). He certainly didn’t belong in the ‘armoury’ with the swords, knives and the recently acquired fireworks. Stenton considered putting him in the ‘garden’ where they had various tools, wheelbarrows and even a lawnmower that had turned up on an early commuter train. Eventually Stenton decided to take him to the ‘nursery’.
“You’ll like it,” he told the gnome. “Lots of friends for you.”
The ‘nursery’ was a series of shelves filled with dolls, teddy bears, figurines and pretty much anything with eyes and faces, overseen by three prints of Tretchikoff’s green-skinned Chinese Girl. Stenton put the gnome next to a badly-painted plastic doll in traditional Welsh dress.
“Look, a girl for you,” he said. “And she’s better than a real girl.” He gave the gnome a look. “You’re surprised? Let me tell you why. This one won’t expect you to be anything other than what you are. She won’t try to change you or make you see the world. And she won’t leave you.” He patted the gnome on the head. “Yours for life, mate.”
“You soppy, miserable git,” said Archie, lounging in the doorway.
Stenton scowled at him. “Don’t you have a horse race to listen to?”
“Bloody nag fell in the first furlong. Tripped. On what, exactly?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t throw your money away on the gee-gees.”
Archie scoffed. “I’ll make it back on the next race. That’s the difference between us.”
“What is, oh wise savant of the East?”
“I move on. Get yourself another bloody girl.”
“I don’t want another girl,” said Stenton.
“Then go get that one back. She’s only in Eastbourne.”
Stanton hunched his shoulders. “I don’t know.”
“That sodding gnome managed to make it here from Eastbourne,” said Archie, pointing. “It’s not the ends of the earth.”
*
Stenton always walked home. After a day in the gloomy glasshouse of Victoria Station, he liked to get some London air in his lungs. Sometimes, he’d stop on Vauxhall Bridge, smoke a fag and watch the Thames creeping eastward to the sea. Tonight, he didn’t. He smoked half a packet between Victoria and Slade Gardens. When the rain started he turned up his collar and hurried down to the shops on Stockwell Road for a pint of milk.
When he got home, he was wet and cold. The Prisoner was on. Stenton couldn’t remember leaving the television on last night. He ignored it, stripped off his wet clothes, made a cuppa in the kitchenette and returned to the front room. There was a garden gnome on the settee, positioned as though it was watching Patrick McGoohan’s latest exploits.
“Who the hell let you in?” said Stenton.
It was the same gnome he had taken in at lost property: same red and grey outfit, same amused expression.
Stenton stood in his pants and socks, sipped his tea and tried to think it through. The only people with keys to the flat were himself, Jeanie, the landlord, and Hansa Schilling. Hansa – West German émigré, second floor resident, professional party girl, occasional provider of pot and dodgy twelve inch television sets – seemed the only rational candidate. But why? “And how?” he added aloud.
He shook his head. “Sorry, cock.”
He picked the gnome up, took it out the flat, down the hall and chucked it in the dustbin on the house’s rear steps. It clattered, spinning like a sinking billiard ball.
Stenton went back in, drank more tea, smoked fags and made a fried egg sandwich for his tea. He settled on the settee to watch television. If he squeezed the cushion tight against his chest, he could close his eyes and imagine Jeanie was still there. The nights they had spent lying together on that narrow settee, watching Ask the Family or The Golden Shot…
In the end, Patrick MacGoohan failed to escape the Village again.
In the end, Stenton fell asleep.
When he woke, the room was dark. The television was a snowstorm of static. He sat up and found he was hugging not a cushion, but a garden gnome. He yelled in surprise, dropping the gnome as though it was a rat, and leapt onto the settee. After a second or two Stenton calmed, swore at himself and got down. He picked up the gnome, walked out to the back door and the bin.
He glanced up at the second floor window, half-expecting to see Hansa laughing down at him. The windows of the upper floors were dark.
“Very funny, Hansa,” he said and lifted the bin lid. There was a gnome already in there: similar, but noticeably different to the one in his hand.
Stenton was tired. He threw
the gnome in with his brother. “Goodnight,” he told them both firmly and went to bed.
*
Stenton was not surprised to find a gnome in his flat when he woke in the morning. It was by the kitchen sink, loitering among the unwashed plates and cups.
“Let yourself in, did you?” said Stenton. “Fancy a cuppa?”
The gnome didn’t seem fussed.
Stenton dressed for work, gathered the two gnomes from the bin and, along with the newcomer, took them to work. He opened up the lost property office and went straight to the ‘nursery’. Did he expect to find the gnome from yesterday still there? Did he expect to find a clue as to why three gnomes had since appeared in his home?
The space on the shelf was empty. The cheap doll in Welsh national dress was still there, alone.
“Which of you mean buggers abandoned this lovely girl?” he asked the gnomes in his arms.
“Who are you talking to?” said Archie, walking in. He nodded at Stenton’s armful. “What’s this?”
“Nothing,” said Stenton. He’d made a decision.
On his morning fag break, Stenton gathered the gnomes and went out to platform 15.
“Where you off to?” called Archie.
“Sending these fellers home,” said Stenton.
“And where’s that?”
“Gnome-man’s land.”
Stenton nodded to platform staff. He got a few funny looks and more than a few funny comments. The Eastbourne train rolled in on time. Stenton opened a carriage door and arranged the three gnomes on seats inside.
“Now, go home,” he told them. “I don’t expect to see you around here again.”
He took his spent fag out of his mouth and jammed it between the lips of the one he thought was the original: the ring-leader. “And give my regards to Jeanie,” he said.
He watched the train pull out then went back to work.