by DH Smith
Bessie had taken out all her plants as far as the fence. They lay in a line of soily roots and straggled leaves on the lawn, away from where Jack was working. He found he minded her less when she was busy, her chat perhaps a little inane but she was pleasant enough. He was impressed by her efficiency; once she realised what was needed, she was off. With a small handsaw and a pair of secateurs, she pruned the climbing rose hard back, and cut the ties that held it to the wall. He wondered why she was always at home. She wasn’t stupid and could work hard enough. From what she said he felt it had something to do with her father who drove a cab. He was curious about their relationship but didn’t pry; he had work to do and his own life to dwell on.
From time to time he glanced at the French windows, and occasionally caught a glimpse of Anne, and more occasionally caught her looking out at him, when both would give a wave of recognition, like two goldfish trapped in their respective bowls.
The sun had gone in, but Jack although in a T-shirt had built up enough heat to not care. He looked up at the clouds, he’d become quite a weather watcher and knew the clouds to watch out for. These were patchy stratocumulus and layered in some places, but had plenty of blue spaces. It was once the blue was shut out that rain might follow.
He wanted to go out with his telescope tonight. His daughter Mia knew her craters of the moon. It was a favourite for the two of them. There was a half moon tonight, better for viewing than a full moon. The sky was probably clear enough, and might improve. He thought about the possibility of her going to Brighton. And didn’t like it. Well, Alison would have to get the job first. Worry about that one when it’s real.
Late afternoon, he accepted an offer of a cup of tea from the girl. Sweaty and dusty; it was good to get the gloves and goggles off for ten minutes. And have a stretch. The girl didn’t have her tea with him but had brought down an old, rusting, oblong biscuit box, along with his tea. She was gathering up bits and pieces from the garden and putting them in. A slug, was that? He couldn’t help his curiosity.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Magic,’ she said. She spoke to him confidently now. He’d been kind to her, was protective as he could be of her plants and always thanked her for tea and biscuits.
‘You a witch?’ he said as he supped.
‘I know a few spells,’ she said cautiously.
Her tone made him realise she took this seriously. But he didn’t.
‘Can you magic me up the name of the Derby winner?’
She shook her head, and screwed up her face at his lightness.
‘I don’t know any white magic,’ she said. ‘Only black.’
She was examining a piece of muddy root, rejected it and tossed it aside.
‘What magic have you done?’ he said.
She was crouching on the ground, looked up at him and bit her lip.
‘I can’t tell you,’ she said at last.
Jack finished the last of his tea. He didn’t believe in witchcraft but the girl plainly did. He shouldn’t be so dismissive – but couldn’t help it.
‘Are you wicked?’ he said.
She chewed her thumb. ‘Not mostly,’ she said, ‘only when I’m forced to be.’
He stared at her, her very white skin and blue eyes. She wasn’t kidding.
‘Promise you won’t change me into a frog.’
She half shrugged and grinned. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘What can you do?’
She closed her box and stood up.
‘Not telling you.’
And clutching her box close to, she ran across the grass into the house.
He watched her disappear in the back door. Bet next week’s wages she was going to put a hex on someone. Would she do it on Alison for him? Change her into a snake. He grinned at his meanness, his stupidity. Amazing people still believed in that medieval stuff. It reminded him of the woman in the burqa. You don’t have to look hard to find the primitive in all communities. But Bessie specialised in black magic. Pins in dolls, he imagined, but what about love potions? Which made him glance at the French windows. Anne wasn’t in sight but he could see one of the twins on a rocking horse. Tomorrow, dinner. Then what? He couldn’t help fantasising. Bed perhaps. Knew it never paid to think too far ahead. Sure he wanted sex, but didn’t want to be ensnared in some sticky relationship. Anne had said something about the hell of her ex. What was that about? Serious enough for her to run away from it.
He put his goggles back on and then his gloves. He picked up the sledgehammer and stepped through the gap into next door’s garden. Swinging back the sledgehammer he took aim at a section of wall, and heaved at it. The head struck with a bouncing thump and the mortar shivered and cracked. Another whack, and a clump of half a dozen bricks fell to the earth.
Chapter 9
Nancy was seated in her armchair, her feet on a pouffe. The gas fire was on, the window closed. Bessie at the table found it rather stuffy in the room but didn’t complain. It wasn’t her flat and she knew Nancy needed it warm. The old lady was watching her as she took bits and pieces out of the old biscuit tin and laid them on the table.
‘Have you got everything?’ said Nancy.
‘Yes, everything,’ said Bessie without looking up. ‘Come to the table, please.’
She was arranging the objects in the shape of a pentagon. A buttered penny one corner, an oak gall the second, a forked root another, a worm stuck through with a pin the fourth, a pinned slug the last.
Nancy took her feet off the pouffe and, pushing on the seat arms, stood up. Gripping one of the table chairs, she took the few steps to the sitting room table. And then sat herself down, opposite Bessie. She grimaced at the worm and slug, the former wriggling helplessly on its pin.
‘I hope you are going to clean up afterwards, Bessie.’
‘Of course,’ said Bessie. ‘Black magic is always messy. This one isn’t so bad. One spell I used had an ox tongue and half a frog.’
‘What happened to the other half of the frog?’
Bessie said she didn’t know, but she did. She’d given it to Tickles, who was now licking himself on the rug in front of the gas fire.
‘You know, I can’t get over how he just pushed me over and stole my shopping trolley,’ said Nancy. She rubbed her ribs which still ached.
‘He does worse than that,’ said Bessie, not quite happy with the way the forked root was orientated.
‘I was lucky that young woman helped me and got the manager… Morrison’s, Stratford. He just left me lying on the floor and walked away laughing.’
Bessie switched the positions of the buttered penny and the oak gall.
‘That will do,’ she said. ‘Now we have to put both our hands in the pentagon.’
Nancy put her hands in. Bessie adjusted them slightly and put hers over them.
‘And now you must repeat after me, line by line.’ She was looking at a rough piece of paper on which she’d copied out the spell. She began:
By this oak gall, I give you pain.
By this worm, I put hell in your brain.
By this slug, your bowels will shake.
By this buttered penny, your bones will break.
By this crooked root, I split you in twain.
At the end of the declamation, they stopped. A long pause for the magic to soak in.
‘Please remove your hand,’ said Bessie.
Both took their hands out of the pentagon. The worm still wriggled and the slug’s back was arching against the pin.
‘I have to put them away in exactly the right order,’ she said. ‘Oak gall, worm, slug, buttered penny and crooked root.’
One by one, they went in the tin. The pentagon had gone, the corners in the old biscuit tin.
‘Now we have to decide what we want done to him.’ She gave Nancy a small piece of paper and a pencil. ‘Write on it in capital letters. Screw it up, don’t let me see it, and put it in the tin.’
‘Anything?’ said Nancy.
‘Anything yo
u want done to him. In no more than three words.’
Nancy shivered and closed her eyes for an instant. Then wrote, her arm round it, like a schoolchild hiding her work. When done, she screwed up the paper and put it in the box. Her hand hesitated above the box as if she wanted to take it out again. But she left it there.
Bessie thought for a few seconds, her teeth gritted. Then wrote – DROP DOWN DEAD. She folded the paper in half and then screwed it up and put it in the box. She put the lid on and pushed it down hard.
She said, ‘This must go under his bed tonight. And be left there all night, so the magic seeps into him as he sleeps. Then tomorrow night, when the moon is up, we must bury the box in the garden.’
Chapter 10
Maggie got to the front door just as Frank was opening it to go in. She’d thought of dawdling when she’d got out of her car and spotted him ahead of her going through the gate, but by then he’d seen her. So she smiled and waved as if she meant it. She might not love her neighbour but it made life easier to pretend friendliness.
He was shorter than her by a few inches, tubby, terrible teeth. Well, appearances were one thing and she’d learnt as a teacher not to judge by them. But there was a meanness about Mr Brand, a misanthropy. No, let’s not disguise it, he was a wicked racist.
She could feel it by the way he was looking at her belly. She was six months pregnant and definitely showing. He twisted his lips – and was that a hiss?
Oh for heaven’s sake, she was barely home and she’d had a bad enough day without dealing with this creep. She put down her shopping bag while he opened the door. She had marking in her backpack.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Brand,’ she said, giving him the best smile she could manage.
‘Afternoon,’ he said grudgingly, watching her belly all the time as if he would like to cauterise the contents.
‘I do like a bit of Indian summer,’ she said.
‘Leaves are a nuisance,’ he said.
What on earth could she reply to that?
‘Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun,’ she gathered up from a dusty attic area of her brain.
‘What?’ He looked up from her belly, puzzled.
‘Autumn by John Keats,’ she said. ‘David and I like autumn walks. The berries and the leaves turning.’
She knew it was a challenge mentioning her husband. But he did exist.
‘How’s your daughter?’ she said to his silence.
‘Fine,’ he said, to cut that topic short, holding the door open for her.
With relief, she went in ahead of him. Though she felt uncomfortable with him walking behind her as she went through the hallway. She stopped for an instant to look at the post on the shelf, putting down the shopping, and let him get ahead. Now he wouldn’t be examining her bum and legs in that foul head of his. His daughter though wasn’t unpleasant, a little subdued; she could do with taking in hand clothes-wise and her teeth, but she was surprisingly nice considering the loins she’d come from.
There were a couple of letters. One a bill from the electric company, the other from Nigeria for David.
Frank was well up the stairs by the time she made her way up, keeping it purposely slow, as if it was her pregnancy. But it wasn’t. She didn’t want another encounter as she passed his door, and made sure he was inside. One was more than enough for the day.
Though there would be another with the meeting. She dismissed the thought, a couple of hours yet. And the others would be there. In fact, why not check on Nancy? See if she was alright and coming this evening. On the first floor landing, she rapped on her door.
‘Nancy,’ she called. ‘It’s me, Maggie.’
‘Won’t be a minute, dear,’ came a call from inside.
Maggie felt she should keep an eye on the old lady, knowing she didn’t have many visitors and a five minute chat was hardly out of her way.
Nancy came to the door, her hand on her stick, a little breathless. She gave a bright smile.
‘Would you like to come in for a cuppa, dear?’
‘I’ll come in for a minute, no cuppa though. I’ve got to get ready for this evening’s meeting.’
She followed Nancy into her room, leaving her shopping by the door. So hot and stuffy. If it was hers she’d open a window immediately. Still, when she got to 87 who knows what temperature she’d want her sitting room?
Nancy sank heavily into her chair. Maggie felt she could hear the creaking of her bones as the old lady relaxed into the cushions.
‘You should get a zimmer frame,’ said Maggie. ‘My granny has one. Makes life a lot easier round the house.’
‘I should, shouldn’t I?’ said Nancy. ‘My friend Millie says so too.’
‘Why don’t I take you to the doctor’s during the school holidays and arrange it. It’s only a couple of weeks from now.’
‘Oh that’s very kind of you, dear.’ She smiled wearily. ‘Sit down please, are you sure I can’t make you a cup of tea?’
‘No, Nancy, I just popped in to make sure you were OK.’
‘I am now, but what a day I’ve had! I had a fall in Morrison’s supermarket. Nothing serious.’ She decided not to mention Frank’s part in it. ‘But it does throw you. They were very nice about it. The manager helped me with my shopping, and there was this young woman who got me to my feet…’ She didn’t care to mention the black magic which seemed rather silly to her now with its forked roots and slugs.
‘Are you alright for the meeting this evening?’ said Maggie.
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘It might have been better to have had it here, instead of making you come up another two flights…’ she stopped. ‘Too late for that. There’ll be a nice bit of cake for you. Marks and Spencer’s coffee cake and some chocolate biscuits too. I’ll come down and help you up the stairs.’
‘No, dear, you have enough to do. I’ll make my way up slowly.’
‘I’ll come down for you and that’s that.’ She rose. ‘Do excuse me, Nancy, but I’ve quite a bit to do before the meeting. We need to get together every so often or the agent will just push us around.’ She saw Nancy was about to rise. ‘No, you stay there. I’ll see myself out. And I’ll come down about twenty past seven for you.’
Maggie went to the door where she gathered up her shopping bag, opened up and waved as she left.
‘See you later.’
‘Bye, dear.’
And closed the door.
Ooh, the heat of that room. Not that it helped her being in her outside clothes. But what must her bills be like! Sixty years to worry about that, if she ever made it. What with climate change and the bomb, might anybody? She continued up the stairs, past Frank and Bessie’s flat where she could hear the TV droning. She gave the door two fingers. And climbed the final set of stairs to her own flat at the top of the building.
They’d have to leave the pram downstairs in the hall. Couldn’t take it up and down three flights. Not that they wanted to stay here, but what you want and what you can afford don’t always coincide.
She opened the door and let herself in. And with relief put down her shopping and took off her backpack.
By the time David was home, she’d put everything away and showered.
‘Coffee, love?’
‘Yes, please.’ He pecked her on the cheek. ‘Ooh, you smell nice.’
‘Just for you, honey. And we have the meeting tonight. Remember? Meet the neighbours.’
David sank into an armchair. He was a slim, tall black man, about her age, mid 20s, smart in his dark blue suit and tie.
‘I’ve been offered promotion,’ he said with a proud smirk.
‘What as?’
‘Area manager.’
‘What’s the catch?’ she said as she poured out his coffee.
‘You might never see me.’
‘Is that a catch?’
She put the coffee on the table beside him and went to kiss him on the forehead, and stumbled.
‘Careful, careful, with the bump,’ exclaimed David.
‘So am I now just a vessel for your offspring?’
‘A very lovely vessel.’
She sat on his lap. He put a hand on her tummy.
‘I can feel him kicking,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t want me to be area manager.’ He held his hand firm against her belly. ‘Listen, kid. My kingdom will stretch from Ilford out to Romford.’
‘How do you feel about it, David?’
He sighed, taking his hand away. ‘It was never my dream. I wanted to be a human rights lawyer, but I couldn’t get a bloody job. So I took a temporary job in a coffee shop…’
‘And in no time you were manager.’
‘Then I met this high flying teacher…’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘And got her pregnant. And here we are stuck in a one-bedroom flat.’
She sat up. ‘It does make things tricky. Do I go back to work or not? What’s area manager worth?’
‘Another seven thou a year.’
She sniffed. ‘Well that’s alright. But not enough if we want to buy our own place.’
‘But that means the two of us working,’ he sighed. ‘And me never getting back to law.’
‘Oh this goes on and on,’ she sighed. ‘Capitalism’s lock in. It makes us all wage slaves, spending our lives grubbing away to buy houses which are way too expensive, simply to pay for our last years in care homes.’
‘Beautiful analysis, dear. But no help. So if you’ll kindly get off my lap…’
‘Don’t want to get off.’
She kissed him on the lips. He held her to him, and they murmured in mutual comfort for a minute.
She broke away.
‘We’ve got guests in forty minutes.’
‘Off, off, off.’ He lifted her off and rose.
‘How brutal you are.’
‘I want a shower, change, need a bite to eat…’
‘You shower. I’ll make us scrambled egg on toast.’
‘Go to it.’
And he strode off to the bedroom.
‘Hey!’ She picked up his coffee and took it after him.