‘He’ll be no bother,’ Martin said, setting the box on the floor. ‘Once he’s settled in, he’ll live in the garden. Give him that old dog house in the corner. You don’t use it for anything else.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Iris said. It was official; her standing as the scary old witch was definitely waning. Martin would never have dared bring her a tortoise in the old days.
‘Don’t blame me if it dies,’ she said. ‘I don’t know the first thing about reptiles.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ Martin adjusted his cap and dipped his head. ‘It’s just a gift, Mrs Harper. Yours now, to do what you like with.’
‘I’d like you to take it away,’ Iris said, but Martin just smiled idiotically.
‘You’ll like having the little guy around, I promise. Got to get back to work,’ he said, turning to leave.
‘So have I,’ Iris said to his retreating back.
She looked at the tortoise and, with a theatrical sigh, picked it up and put it on the kitchen floor. She ripped the side of the box open so that the tortoise could retreat back inside if it wanted, and put it next to the radiator. Did tortoises even like warmth?
Iris put a dish of water on the floor and some lettuce leaves. ‘You sleep here,’ Iris said. ‘And you can earn your keep by frightening the snails.’
Pride appeased – the tortoise wasn’t a companion or a familiar, it was a snail repellant – Iris retired upstairs. She brushed her teeth, avoiding her own eyes in the mirror.
She had to admit that she might have crossed a line that evening. You had to do the job that was in front of you, but you didn’t meddle. Sometimes, her gift meant that she had no choice, but tonight she’d acted from some other impulse. She’d wanted revenge and it hadn’t even mattered that they were the wrong people. James Farrier was long dead. His son didn’t deserve to suffer for his sins. Especially since he already bore the burden of being raised by the man.
And she’d given them all a truth draught without their knowledge. Iris would never claim to be entirely on the side of the angels, but she had a firm moral code. You could dose people or de-hex them if it was clearly in their best interests, but feeding them spiked wine to extract a confession as piffling and petty as tonight’s was possibly overstepping her mark. That was the problem with witching. You were alone. You had to draw your own lines, make your own marks. And, after a while, it could get more and more difficult to tell if you were drawing them in the right places.
Iris looked at the china dishes she’d inherited from her mother. She no longer saw the jewellery as treasure, the way she had when she’d been a girl, and there was no one left to suffer the consequences if she got rid of them. She could tip the whole lot into the bin. Although that felt wasteful. Wasn’t she supposed to pass it all on, the way her mother had passed it on to her? Of course, she didn’t have a daughter. The closest thing she had lived on the other side of the world and held on to a ball of hate that Iris could neither comprehend nor forgive.
The silver birch outside her bedroom scraped its branches on the window, as if adding its voice to the ones in her mind. ‘All right, all right,’ Iris snapped. She dressed in her cotton night gown and got into bed.
The branch screeched across the window one last time and the bedclothes felt cold and slightly sticky. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d washed them and the mere thought of stripping the bed made her back scream.
It was official. She had lost control over her environment and she was too weak to wrestle it back. Her bones hurt and she was a meddling old woman. She couldn’t do it all alone.
Not for ever.
Iris opened her journal and started a new page. She began writing, ‘My dearest Gwen …’
If you loved The Garden of Magic turn the page for an exclusive extract from
The Language of Spells
the bestselling novel from Sarah Painter
Prologue
The voices in the living room were getting louder. Suddenly the man’s voice wasn’t just loud, it was shouting. A big, frightening sound that sent Gwen out from under her quilt and into her sister’s bed. Ruby was awake. Her eyes were shining in the light that came in under the door. ‘It’ll be over soon,’ Ruby whispered.
‘Who is it?’ Gloria had at least two boyfriends at any time and an endless stream of people came to have their cards read. Gwen felt Ruby shrug.
Gloria’s voice had risen. She sounded really angry. Gwen shrank down until the duvet covered most of her face.
There was a burst of noise as the shouting people moved into the hallway. ‘Tell me a story,’ Ruby said.
Gwen stretched her legs. She shut the angry voices out and thought for a moment. ‘Once upon a time, there were two sisters, Rose Red and Snow White, and they were walking through a thick forest –’
‘Not that one,’ Ruby said. ‘One with a prince. A really handsome prince. With loads of money.’
The front door slammed. ‘My story does have a prince.’ Annoyance broke through Gwen’s fear. Ruby was always complaining.
‘It has a bear,’ Ruby said.
‘That turns into a prince.’
The bedroom door opened. ‘Girls?’
Gloria was framed in the doorway, her face hidden in shadow. ‘You have to get up.’
‘I’m tired,’ Ruby said.
‘I know, I’m sorry.’ Gloria didn’t sound sorry. She never did. ‘We’re moving on. Get your things together. Don’t leave anything –’
‘Because we don’t look back,’ Gwen and Ruby joined in. ‘We know.’
Chapter One
Gwen Harper had been brought up in the sure knowledge that everything in life came as a pair. Every coin had two sides, every person had an angel and a devil lurking inside, and every living thing was busy dying. Gwen couldn’t imagine a good side to returning to Pendleford but, since she had no choice in the matter, she hoped that Gloria had been right about all that ‘light and dark’ business. She crested the hill and Pendleford spread out beneath her. The town was caught in a basin of land as if cupped by giant green hands, and the yellow stonework glowed softly in the winter sunshine. The dark river cutting through the centre was like a worm in an apple.
Gwen passed a sign that had ‘Pendleford: Historic Market Town’ in smart black lettering and then a smaller yellow one that said ‘Britain in Bloom’. Slung in front of this was a collection of broken-looking dolls, their long hair tied together in a big knot. Gwen slowed down to take a closer look at the creepy faces with their dead eyes and pink Cupid’s bow mouths.
She shuddered, trying not to think about broken things, dead things, or the icy water of the river. Her Nissan Vanette made a crunching engine noise which she decided to interpret as sympathetic nerves. She patted Nanette’s dashboard reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry. We won’t be staying.’ Gwen glanced at the legal documents on the passenger seat that said otherwise but, before she could start worrying in earnest, her thoughts were derailed by the sight of Pendleford. The town looked eerily the same as it had when she’d left thirteen years ago.
Gwen took a couple of deep breaths and tried to calm her racing heart. There was no need to panic. Her mother was on the other side of the world and Pendleford was a full eight miles away from Bath and her exasperating sister. Not even Ruby could shout over that distance.
Navigating her way out of the town centre, past rows of Edwardian villas with tasteful ‘bed and breakfast’ signs, Gwen turned to logic. She was going to spend one night in her Great-Aunt Iris’s house. Take a bath. Get one decent night’s sleep before she headed to the solicitor’s office in the morning and found a way around the stupid ‘can’t sell for six months’ clause. Then she’d be out of Pendleford. Again.
Gwen carried on with the pep talk as she drove. She had a dodgy moment when she thought she saw Cam and nearly drove up onto the pavement. It was a tall man with messy dark hair, but as soon as she passed him and looked in the rear-view mirror, her heart in her mouth, she saw
that it wasn’t him at all. Cameron Laing was long gone. Probably in London. Or prison.
The big houses gave way to row upon row of traditional stone cottages and a town hall with a triangle of grass outside. A man in head-to-toe tweed was changing parish notices on the board outside. Pendleford’s surface was as pretty and as tame as she remembered. If it hadn’t been for the daily taunting at school and a very bad memory that began with the river and ended at the local police station, then perhaps she wouldn’t have hated the place quite as much.
At the very edge of town, there was a row of box-type houses. Council – or more likely ex-council – houses, with neat gardens and freshly painted windows that did nothing to hide the brown pebbledash and the nineteen-sixties municipal architecture. Then the town petered out into farmland and Gwen almost missed the turning for Iris’s road; the small wooden sign was weathered and only the word ‘End’ legible. After four hundred yards up a single track road, Gwen turned a corner and the house came into view. Stone-built, square and bigger than she expected. Gwen got out of the car and pulled on her fleece. The sky was pearl-grey and the weak November sun drooped in the east. It was quiet. ‘Too quiet,’ she said aloud, trying to make herself laugh. It didn’t work.
Gwen hesitated at the front gate, her body rebelling against setting foot inside the boundary of the property. Which was ridiculous. She was homeless and she’d been given a house. It was crazy to be anything except insanely grateful. Crazy.
The front door had once been dark green, but was sorely in need of a paint job. To her left, fields stretched out to the horizon and a flock of black birds swooped down to the frozen earth.
Gwen spent five minutes attempting to unlock the door before realising it was already open. The porch was cleanly swept and a neat pile of mail sat on the windowsill.
The inner door opened and a woman wearing narrow black trousers and a yellow blouse looked at her in surprise. ‘Yes?’
‘Um, is this End House?’
‘Yes.’ The woman’s pale blonde hair was cut in layers and she shook her head slightly to flick her fringe away from her eyes.
‘This is my great-aunt’s house. Um. That is, I think this might be my house.’
The woman’s face changed and what could charitably be described as a smile appeared. It displayed a disturbing number of teeth. They were small and white, like baby teeth; alarming in an adult-sized mouth. ‘You’re Gwen Harper. I wasn’t expecting you yet.’ She took a step back. ‘I’m not ready for you, but I suppose you’d better come in.’
‘Thanks.’ Gwen stepped over the threshold. The hall was large and square, floored in red quarry tiles. The walls were whitewashed, but patterned with tiny black cracks, like something dark was trying to break through.
‘I’ll show you around.’ The woman turned to go, but Gwen stopped her.
‘I’m sorry, but … who are you?’
‘Oh, bless you. I’m Lily Thomas. I’ve been helping out your poor auntie for years.’
‘Helping?’
‘Cleaning and cooking, that kind of thing.’ Lily frowned at Gwen. ‘She was very old, you know.’
Gwen looked at the woman’s frosted-pink fingernails. They didn’t look like they’d scrubbed anything in their lives.
The woman followed her gaze. ‘Falsies.’ She waggled them. ‘Aren’t they brilliant?’
The doors off the hallway were all shut, but the staircase of polished dark wood curved invitingly and Gwen took an involuntary step towards it.
‘She needed help with all kinds of things towards the end, bless her.’
Lily’s voice seemed to be coming from far away and Gwen could hear a rushing in her ears. I must be holding my breath, she thought. Good way to faint. She made herself take a lungful of air, but the rushing continued and the stairs seemed to be glowing just for her. She walked towards the bottom step, confused when yellow silk appeared in her vision, eclipsing the lovely warm wood. It was Lily, barring her way.
‘The upstairs isn’t ready. I’ve not had a chance to clean. I wasn’t expecting you –’ Lily hesitated. ‘Not yet, I mean. I wasn’t told –’
‘That’s okay.’ Gwen stepped around Lily and took the stairs at a jog.
Weird, she decided, already on the landing. The door on her right was wide open, like someone had come out in a hurry. Through the gap she saw a double bed with a flowered wash bag lying on the quilt.
Lily appeared behind her, puffing slightly. ‘It’s a mess. I haven’t had a chance –’
‘Don’t worry.’ Gwen opened the other doors from the landing and discovered a small bedroom with a single bed and a desk underneath the window and another double with a brass bedstead suffocated by layers of blankets and a patchwork quilt.
‘Let me show you the kitchen,’ Lily said firmly.
Gwen allowed Lily to usher her back down the stairs and into a long room lined with 1950s cream cabinets with pale green trim and lemon Formica worktops. A red enamel coffee pot and an electric kettle were the only things visible on the spotlessly tidy work surface. A small table with two chairs tucked in was at the end and the small window above the stainless-steel sink was cracked.
‘What’s through there?’ Gwen gestured to the door behind the table.
‘That’s the pantry. It’s very small.’ Lily smiled again. ‘Go and take a look at the garden. I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.’
‘Right.’ Gwen left Lily moving comfortably around the kitchen and walked into the cold, dead air. Place must be well sheltered; there’s no wind at all. The garden was separated from the fields by a stone wall on one side and a line of trees at the bottom. Gwen identified rhododendrons in the corner, a giant spreading conifer thick with cones, holly, ash and hornbeam. A few fruit trees were dotted about the lawn. A lot of work, she found herself thinking. Around the corner was an untended vegetable plot. It had been cared for at one time, though, that was easy to see. Stone paths led along rows and the edges were defined with old red bricks. There were willow wigwams for peas or beans and fruit canes, but one was half pulled down by a mutant rhubarb that had clearly got ideas above its station.
The front garden offered more grass, many bushes, and wide borders filled with the seed heads and brown plants of a dead summer.
The crisp evening air cleared Gwen’s mind. What was Lily Thomas doing in her aunt’s house? The way she seemed so at home wasn’t that odd – especially if she’d been working for Iris for years – but why on earth was she here now? She hesitated, wondering whether she was overreacting, when some bundles of greenery caught her eye. Half-tucked behind the water butt, three tied-together collections of foliage. She recognised branches of ash and broom, and remembered her mother fixing something similar above the door to their flat; to ward off malignant forces, she’d said. Gwen dropped the bundle as if it were hot, and went back inside.
Lily was squeezing a tea bag against the side of a mug as if it had personally offended her.
Gwen sat down at the table, feeling slightly dazed.
‘I’ve made you a casserole but it’s down at my house. I’ll bring it up later.’
‘That’s very kind,’ Gwen said, ‘but I’m not sure –’
‘No need to thank me. Least I can do for Iris’s niece.’
‘Great-niece.’
‘Right.’ Lily popped open the lid on a plastic tub and arranged slices of fruitcake on a plate. ‘So, are you from the area?’
‘Not really.’ It was true. They’d lived in Pendleford for three years, but had moved around a lot before that. Gwen had never really felt like she was ‘from’ anywhere.
Lily frowned. ‘Somerset?’
Gwen shook her head.
‘Where do you live?’ Lily pressed on.
‘I’ve been in Leeds for the last six months.’ Gwen had a rule for dealing with people: never give away more than strictly necessary.
‘But where do you come from? Originally.’ Lily’s inquisitive tone reminded Gwen of every bitchy queen bee at ev
ery new school she’d ever had to start. ‘We moved around quite a bit.’
‘Oh, you poor thing.’ Lily pulled a face. ‘I wouldn’t have liked that.’
‘It was fine,’ Gwen said automatically.
‘I didn’t see you at the funeral,’ Lily said. ‘Were you close to Iris?’
‘No.’ Gwen didn’t feel like explaining that she’d barely known her great-aunt and had no idea why on earth she’d been given her house. She tried to gain control of the conversation. ‘Do you live in Pendleford?’
Lily nodded. ‘Just on the corner. I’m your nearest neighbour.’
Gwen opened her mouth to say that she wouldn’t be staying, but Lily was still talking, listing names of neighbours that Gwen knew she would instantly forget even if she were paying proper attention.
Lily stopped listing and said, ‘You look tired out, if you don’t mind my saying.’
Gwen felt a yawn coming on. She put a hand to her mouth and then apologised. ‘This is all quite sudden.’
Lily shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t say that. She’d been poorly for ages.’ She took a generous bite of cake before adding, ‘Bless her,’ through a mouthful of crumbs.
‘Why are you …?’ Gwen stopped. ‘I mean, did you have some sort of contract with my aunt? For this, I mean.’ She waved a hand, taking in the freshly cleaned kitchen, the tea, her presence.
‘A contract?’ Lily laughed, a bizarre, high-pitched laugh. ‘We didn’t need anything like that. She was more like a sister – well …’ – she wrinkled her nose – ‘… a mother – to me than an employer. I know she’d want me to keep an eye on the place. Welcome you properly.’ She paused, giving Gwen an appraising look. ‘I’d be very happy to stay on and clean for you, too.’
So she was angling for a job. Fair enough. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I’m not sure what I’m doing about the house yet. And even if I did stay, I wouldn’t be able to afford to pay for cleaning.’
Lily shrugged. ‘No problem. Just offering.’ She pushed back her chair. ‘I’ll let you get settled in and pop back later with that casserole.’
The Garden of Magic Page 9