Witch Dust

by Marilyn Messik

  “That’s it really, we get agency staff in on a temp basis when we need them – for waiting in the dining room if we have several tables booked, that sort of thing.”

  “Blimey,” I said. “How does a place this size run, with so little help?”

  “Not well. Although,” added Roland cheerfully, “Looking on the bright side, as we’ve never had too many guests, it’s never really been too much of a problem.”

  “It is,” I pointed out tetchily, “If you’re trying to earn a living.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  We’d been interrupted at that point in the discussion by the entrance of Elizabeth, who had to be disabused, at full volume, of the notion I’d been sent by the agency and that she’d caught me sitting down and socialising on the job. She was even more unimpressed when informed who I actually was. Ophelia’s stock here didn’t seem to be that high.

  “Huh,” she grunted and, “Well that’s all fine and dandy, still means I’m on my own again tonight as usual. Bloody stupid hotel lark. Well, it’s no use you lot sitting there on your backsides, take yourselves off out of it, go on, off you go. You,” she trumpeted, I turned. “As there’s no one coming in for serving help, you’ll have to do, I’ll call you back if I need you.” I nodded reluctantly, there seemed little point in arguing.

  On our way out of the kitchen, we bumped into a subdued Gladys, making her way back in.

  “Bad turn today Glad?” Enquired Roland solicitously.

  “Terrible sweetheart, terrible! Nigella does a lovely duck, so I was aiming for her, but… ” she dropped her voice, looking anxiously over her shoulder, causing us all to automatically scan the hallway behind her too. “…you-know-who came through instead,” she continued. “And once he’s here, he doesn’t half hang around. Anyway, I’ll bring you all some scrambled eggs on toast shall I, in the living room, it’s warmer in there and,” she nodded at me, “You can get something down, before Elizabeth wants you.

  We adjourned to the room I’d seen before and Devorah busied herself with the curtains, whilst Roland put a match to the ready-laid fire. The artificial light was softer and kinder than sunlight, lending the room a minimal shabby cosiness. Roland and Devorah seated themselves on a sofa facing me and Mimi planted herself deep into one of the sagging flowered armchairs that appeared to have had most of the stuffing knocked out of them.

  “We shouldn’t forget Bella’s health and beauty stuff.” Said Devorah, carrying on from where we’d left off. “Now that’s starting to get known again, it’s bringing in some income, and with word spreading we sometimes get two or three women coming in together and staying overnight, you know, making a party of it.”

  “What exactly does she do?” My earlier alarming experience with Bella’s work-in-progress, hadn’t gone into my boots.

  “Well, it’s not the same as when we were in London.” Said Devorah hastily. I held out my hand in a stop gesture,

  “Haven’t you always lived here?”

  “Goodness, no.” Said Devorah, “We’ve moved around a lot, although in the last few years we stayed longer in fewer places, because Bella said it wasn’t good for Henry, all that chopping and changing of schools.

  “Henry?”

  “My brother, haven’t you met him yet?” I shook my head warily. “Well, he’s glued to his screen most of the time, but he comes out regularly for meals and school and things. We lived in London for about three years or so,” she continued, “It was like great. Business was doing really well. Bella rented a couple of rooms in a clinic, just off the King’s Road, posh receptionist and all, and we had a smashing big flat not five minutes walk away. Anyway, the stuff was going so well, she paid a designer to put together some packaging and took on a PR woman – worst mistake she ever made, we were doing well enough with just personal recommendations. Told her it was getting too big and there’d be trouble.” I held up a restraining hand again, I was starting to feel like a traffic policeman.

  “Hang on a minute, what was it she was doing exactly?”

  “Cosmetics and creams, natch,” said Devorah, “Well actually, like what they call cosmeceuticals – you know the sort of thing, make-up that does you good. Bloody brilliant most of it was too. Anyway, we started to get all sorts of publicity.” As she was speaking, an uncomfortable connection was worming its way into my consciousness.

  “What were they called?” I asked with apprehension.

  “Bella Donna Treatments, maybe you heard of them?” I sat forward in the chair, good God, of course I’d heard of them, everyone had heard of them, I could even picture the distinctive black and gold packaging.

  “Bella Donna?” I said. “For Women Who Like A Walk On The Wild Side.”

  “Yeah, great line wasn’t it?”

  “So she’s… ?”

  “Bella Belinfante.” Confirmed Devorah with a touch of defiance.

  “My word,” I said weakly, less than thrilled. “She was all over the papers, and tv – didn’t that guy from Watchdog try and get an interview and someone threw him and his cameraman down the stairs?”

  “Yeah, well that was all like a bit unfortunate.” Devorah conceded. Unfortunate? That’s hardly how I’d put it, although it had of course made for riveting television and some great newspaper headlines.

  “But didn’t those cosmetics do dreadful things to people’s faces?” I asked. More and more of the story was coming back to me, “Weren’t the police involved?” Devorah sat up straighter and transferred the ever-present gum from one cheek to the other, battle-light in her eyes – I wondered whether it was her or the formidable Bella who’d done the down-the-stairs throwing.

  “Honestly Sandra,” she said. “You know very well you simply can’t believe all you read in the press. Truth was, they worked like, amazingly.” She paused. “It was only when they wore off, that people made a ridiculous amount of fuss and bother. For heaven’s sake, they were only face-creams, if they were after permanent, they should have gone for surgery or just waited for a bleeding miracle.”

  “Nobody’s grateful for anything these days.” Mimi contributed unexpectedly, Roland patted her hand.

  “Not wrong there, Mother.”

  “Well, anyhoo,” Devorah continued, “Bella’d been approached by this like, ginormous cosmetics company and a deal was all drawn up for them to buy her out – it would have meant a shitload of money, we wouldn’t have had to worry any more – ever. But with all the rotten publicity, the deal fell flat on its face, dead in the water. And what with all the scare-mongering and stupid fuss in the papers, there was no way she could carry on at the clinic and we weren’t sure what to do for the best. London suddenly wasn’t very comfortable any more.” She paused for a moment, her flushed face reflecting the extent of the upset and disappointment. “And of course,” she continued, as though it were somewhat of an afterthought, “I was pregnant by then, so we came here.” Roland gave her an affectionate mock shove with his shoulder,

  “To re-group, as it were, right?” He said. I was intrigued, it was the nearest thing to normal family interaction I’d seen. But I well remembered the whole Bella Donna scandal. It had been a lean time news-wise, so the media fell on the story with unashamed alacrity and there were numerous before and after shots of women who’d purchased the ludicrously expensive face treatments.

  It seemed, contrary to their life-changing claims, the miraculous results were remarkably short-term, one of the main complaints being that the further down the jar you got, the less effective the contents. That though wasn’t the main issue, the big problem was the rashes that set in after a few weeks of using the stuff. The Daily Mail, becoming ever more hysterical by the day, had roped in lots of disgruntled Bella Donna users, who all recounted a remarkably similar story. Whilst they’d seen fantastic results initially, from there on in it was a slippery slope and many of them, the paper shri
eked, swore they looked far worse when they’d finished using the product than when they’d begun – and with a whole range of angry red blotches to boot!

  I remember Ophelia and I discussing it one morning, over the breakfast table, when I was there for the weekend. There’d been numerous pictures of Bella, dashing in or out of somewhere, with her hand raised and offering ‘no comment’. There was no way Ophelia wouldn’t have recognized her, but she’d said not a word, not a single solitary syllable. I wrenched my attention back with an effort and a grimace.

  “I hate to ask.” I said, “But these creams Bella was producing, were they um . . ?” I paused, not quite sure how to put the question, not even sure I wanted to hear the answer, but Devorah caught my drift, surprised I think that I’d even asked.

  “Duh!” She said, “Natch.” I didn’t think there was anything natural about it at all, but that was beside the point, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know further details. Call me an ostrich, but hiding my head in the sand and not thinking where, why and how, when it came to my Mother’s oddities, had worked well enough for me in the past, although I was realising it might not work quite so well in the here and now.

  “So, these treatments she’s doing next door… . ?” I enquired cautiously, Devorah nodded again, baffled I think that I needed to ask. I sighed, noted Health and Beauty in my notebook with a question mark on income or indeed outcome and continued, “Is there any other money coming in at all.” The three of them exchanged a look.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “Well, Etty always has a small cash stash.” Murmured Roland, “Well, not so much has, more makes.”

  “Right.”

  “Only in very small amounts of course,” he added reassuringly, “So it doesn’t make a huge difference, I mean we can never use it for anything big, too many rules and regulations on money laundering. You simply can’t move cash any more, so we only use it for small everyday expenses.”

  “Isn’t that forgery?” I’d unconsciously lowered my tone to a horrified hiss. Roland looked affronted.

  “Certainly not. It’s just she…”

  “No.” Up shot that traffic police hand again. “Don’t tell me any more, I don’t want to know. Think I’ve got the overall picture. I’ll put together some strategies and ideas for you – for you to implement, but as I said, once I’ve done that, that’s it. I’ll get you started, but then you’re entirely on your own.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Morning Murray.”

  “Sandy, you all right? Thought you was coming back last night.”

  “Change of plan, we stayed over and, um… we’re probably now staying on for a couple of days more.”

  “Why the hell you doing that?” He was indignant.

  “Said I’d help them out. Everything’s a bit of a mess here.”

  “Well, what they expect you to do about it?”

  “Help them get organised.”

  “What, with the hotel thing?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Blimey, what d’you know about hotels?”

  “Stayed in enough of them.” I said. Murray snorted,

  “And that qualifies you to do what exactly, ring for room service? Aren’t you flipping listening to me Sandy girl, I told you, Ophelia needs to get her backside back here, more than sharpish.”

  “Murray, I know, I do know. I’m as worried as you, but when has anybody ever been able to make the wretched woman do anything she doesn’t want to until she’s ready to do it? Truth is, quicker I get things ironed out here, quicker I can get her home. Is Sasha still there?”

  “Still here? Course she’s bloody-well still here, got her feet right and proper under the table, hasn’t she? Right now she’s busy re-arranging the furniture, says the way it is, is bad Fang Shooey or some such.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “You hear me laughing?”

  “Ophelia’ll go mad.”

  “Sandy, I gotta tell you, it looks pretty serious with this girl and Adam, he’s like a dog with two tails, haven’t seen him like this for years and Ophelia’s the one walked out, isn’t she? I don’t know, maybe they really have got to the end of the road.”

  “But they adore each other. You know they do.” I was disconcerted to hear a catch in my voice and realized just how miserable all this was making me. They may not have been the best parents in the world, but they were mine, and the solidity of the marriage and the continuity of the stage act, formed a security backdrop to everything I knew.

  “Now, look,” he said, “Don’t go getting your knickers in a twist, maybe it is just a flash in the pan. All the same, you know Adam’s a real soft touch and that Sasha’s no fool, for all she’s so young. She’s a bloody quick mover with an eye on the main chance and right now, that’s Adam. Best thing we can do is get your Ma and Pa talking again and quick.”

  “I’ll do my best.” I promised.

  “OK. And Sandy,”

  “What?”

  “Be careful.”

  “Meaning?”

  “They sound like a right rum lot down there – stick your nose in too far and you might not like what you smell.”

  “Murray, listen, about Ophelia’s ‘funny stuff’, the others here…”

  “Gotta go now pet.” He interrupted. “Talk later, eh?”

  “Oh, OK.” He’d already hung up on me, not like him. All that was known territory, seemed suddenly much farther away than the few miles which in reality separated us. It was my own stupid fault of course, all these years I’d deliberately not seen or heard things because I simply didn’t want to and now my three-monkey policy – hands tightly over eyes, ears and mouth was coming back to bite me in the bottom. Probably served me right.

  Murray’s concern was as warming as his warning was chilling, but he needn’t have worried. I’d categorically made up my mind, I was going to poke my nose in only as far as was strictly necessary. That way I could get this lot kick-started and hopefully inject a bit of common sense into the whole operation. In the long reaches of that first night, interrupted by the combined efforts of Ophelia and Ink, I’d had more than enough time to think, and I had the basis of what I felt was a well-shaped and workable plan.

  ***

  Although I’d risen early on what was to be my first full day, Gladys was in the kitchen before me, unautomated, so far as I could tell. She gave me an anxious little smile and a bob of the pony-tail in greeting and hustled to get me some coffee, although I refused on grounds of self-preservation, her offer of a cooked breakfast. I opted instead for a couple of slices of toast, for which she produced butter and a dusty china pot of jam which looked as if it had been hanging about, aimless and uncovered for some while. I scraped off and jettisoned the top layer as a precaution when her back was turned.

  Gladys was not a restful person to be around, she had an unnerving habit of sliding her eyes away and downwards whenever I looked directly at her, provoking me, oddly enough to do the same, so conversation was conducted geisha girl fashion.

  This morning she was attired in baggy gray track suit bottoms and a long, shapeless black and white striped jumper, which loitered uneasily round her knees as she walked. She’d topped this snazzy ensemble with a flowered overall, and was wearing once-white sneakers which protested squeakily with every step. As a fashion statement, it didn’t say much, as professional chef’s garb, even less.

  It was a bright, crisp morning, but she had the light on because the sun was fighting an uphill battle to get even a ray or two through the grubby glass of the back door and adjacent window. There was a lingering odour of roast duck which was warring with the newer one of coffee and burnt toast. Gladys didn’t sit still for a moment, although none of her activities looked to be on the constructive side, maybe I was making her as nervous as she was making me. Somet
hing would really have to be done about the state of the kitchen, not to mention the state of Gladys, I couldn’t even begin to imagine the effect both would have on a health and safety inspector. You didn’t have to be au fait with the latest catering rules and regulations to know we might be working with more than the odd infringement.

  “Gladys,” I said cautiously, “You know I’ve agreed to see if I can help get things moving for you all?” She nodded,

  “Yes, heard you last night.”

  “Well, I think it might be a good idea to start in here, what do you think?”

  “Here?”

  “Well, there’s a bit of ship-shaping called for, isn’t there?” I said tactfully. She looked around in vague astonishment,

  “Well, I s’pose I could wash up the breakfast things.”

  “Oh for goodness sake,” I said, throwing diplomacy out the window – sometimes I worried that there was more of Ophelia in me than I imagined. “Look at it woman, the room needs scrubbing out and disinfecting from top to bottom.” Her face fell and I thought for a moment she was going to break down and start crying again. Still, needs must and time was short.

  “Gladys,” I persisted firmly. “Didn’t you have to get a license in the first place, to run this as a hotel I mean?”

  “Course we did, a man came round to look at everything. Here for hours he was.”

  “And he was happy?”

  “Happy as Larry; said it was one of the best equipped kitchens he’d ever inspected.” She looked up, caught my baffled expression, gave what could have been a wink or maybe was just a twitch, and looked quickly down again, “Etty was here with him all the time,” she added. “He said he only wished all the kitchens he saw were up to this standard, we were a shining example of what could and should be done.”

  “Right.” I said grimly, “Got it.” I’d resolved to do all this on a need to know basis and whatever kind of jiggery pokery Etty had pulled, came under the heading of superfluous to my requirements. I lurched back to practicalities like a drowning man to land.