Witch Dust

by Marilyn Messik

  “This staff agency you use, do they supply cleaners?”

  “Suppose so, Elizabeth organises all that, but,” she looked apprehensive, “It’d be awfully expensive wouldn’t it?”

  “Ophelia’s treat.” I said firmly, hoping that in her rapid exodus my Mother had remembered cheque-book and credit cards. “Speak to Elizabeth, get her to organise a couple of people,” I’d been absent-mindedly pushing my thumb nail along the table surface and glancing down, I saw it now bore a solid chunk of gunk, I wiped it hurriedly on my jeans. “Actually, let’s make that three or four people, and say we want a really thorough, deep-clean job. Now, why are you looking so worried?” Gladys drew air in sharply between her teeth,

  “Etty won’t like it, especially not if Ophelia pays.” She warned.

  “You leave Etty to me.” I said. She was unconvinced, but took herself off in search of Elizabeth, untying the overall and slipping it over her head as she went. She passed Ophelia in the doorway with a murmured greeting, and we could hear her muttering anxiously to herself, as she padded and squeaked along the uncarpeted corridor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Good morning my darling girl. Did you sleep well?” My Mother surveyed the kitchen warily as one would do foreign territory – which in a way it was, the only time she spent in our own starkly modern, stainless steel and mercilessly shiny-surfaced area, was when she was being photographed for a magazine spread.

  “Not particularly. You snored and Ink snuffled.”

  “I do not snore, never have done never will,” she said indignantly. “You must’ve been dreaming. I suppose the only coffee is instant?” She looked pained and as I made no comment, gingerly made herself a cup, wrinkling her nose fastidiously and joining me at the table.

  “I’ve just been speaking to Murray.” I said. She shook her head sharply,

  “No, not interested, thank you very much. Don’t want to know. A camel can only handle so many straws before it breaks its back and gets the hump and for me,” she said, mashing metaphors to suit, “Sasha was just the icing on the cake.” She tasted her coffee, adding a little more milk from the jug on the table and tutting as she noticed a chip out of the china.

  She was as always, fully made up, albeit her lighter daytime look and she’d swept her hair back to the nape of her neck, tied with a thin black velvet ribbon. She had on a pair of black, fine wool trousers and a mint green shirt, although how her clothes always emerged from her case as crisply laundered as they’d gone in, was a mystery to me. I noted absently her swiftly critical glance at my own unruly brown locks, which had suffered mightily from a night of tossing and turning and were, right now, without benefit of a good brush, let alone a wash and blow dry. I could, if I worked at it, get my hair to hang straight as my Mother preferred, but laziness tended to get the better of me and I usually let it do its own thing. The hair issue was an ongoing one between us and therefore could be continued without benefit of words – one critical glance and my ignoring it – conveyed in mother/daughter shorthand, all that needed to be said.

  “OK.” I murmured, “Your funeral. Can’t force you to listen, but I think you’d be mad to throw away all those years, just like that. And that’s not all, what about the act?” She ignored me, and as I knew she could continue with the silent treatment indefinitely, I gave up and changed the subject.

  “I need you to make a phone call for me this morning.” I said.

  “I’ve already told you, I am not phoning your Father, nor Murray for that matter.”

  “Not them. I want you to get in touch with the journalist who did this restaurant review.” I leaned across and opened the packed kitchen drawer, pulling out the printed piece. She smoothed it out to read, holding it awkwardly at arms-length and squinting – she needed reading glasses, but hell would freeze over before she’d admit it.

  “Listen,” I said, “You need to tell him that you followed his recommendation to this hotel. You had dinner and stayed overnight – and you and your husband were never so terrified in your entire lives. Actually, make it that you came with a couple of friends and you all had a horrible experience. You have to say you think it’s absolutely disgusting he should write a review on somewhere like this, without giving people fair warning.”

  “Fair warning?”

  “Well, the wretched place is haunted, isn’t it? All four of you ‘saw things’ you couldn’t explain. You consider yourself lucky to have got out in one piece – in fact,” I warmed to my theme and leaned forward in my chair, “You were so scared, you packed up in the middle of the night so you could leave at first light, you couldn’t get away fast enough. And you’ve been on tranquillisers ever since. Can you do all that?” Ophelia smirked, she’d lost the tearstained, strained look with which she’d arrived at my flat and for that, I was relieved. I was used to her being difficult, it was vulnerable I couldn’t cope with.

  “Darling, need you ask? I’ll give him the full works. I see exactly where you’re coming from, great idea. And then… ?”

  “We’ll hit him from a couple of other angles too,” I said, “I’ll do an email as well, from someone else – he can’t help but smell a story.”

  “Or a rat?”

  “Not if we play our cards right.”

  “Clever girl.” She grinned at me. I treasured those rare genuine grins of hers – from the heart – not posed, best-profile-to-camera and not the polite, slightly absent effort when her mind was a million miles away. I tapped the newsprint,

  “This’s the guy.”

  “Phone number?”

  “He writes for the local paper, Google it, my laptop’s in our room. He’ll be there, or they’ll be able to get hold of him.” I stood up, brushing the back of my jeans which seemed to have acquired a coating of God-knows-what from the kitchen chair.

  “What are you going to do now?” She asked with interest.

  “A quick tour of the place, get my bearings, decide exactly what we can lay on for Mr Restaurant Rover, and Ma,”

  “Hmm?”

  “I might have to ask you, and maybe one or two of the others to… perform a little.” She glanced up disingenuously,

  “Perform?”

  “You know darn well what I mean, though I’m hoping we won’t even need it.”

  “You always were peculiar about it.” She said, I glared at her,

  “What do you expect? And don’t think for one moment I’ve forgotten or forgiven you for the unspeakable way you’ve behaved. I still can’t get my head around how you bare-faced lied to me.”

  “Interrupting, am I?” Bella, in a cleaner white outfit than yesterday’s, strode across the kitchen, kettle-bound. Now I’d pinpointed where I’d seen her before, I could also see the change wrought in her appearance by the hair style. All previous pictures had been with her hair down, darkly framing her face. Upswept as it now was, it gave her features a completely different slant.

  “Ah,” she said, noting my scrutiny with amusement, “I suspect Devorah’s given you the low-down.”

  “What I don’t understand,” I said, “Is why anyone would still risk coming to you?”

  “Well,” she considered the question. “I’m working under a different name, so most of them don’t even know it’s me they’re coming to. But even if they did, vanity’s everything my sweet – the results I produce are rather startling, even if I say so myself. I’m working on making them longer lasting though, and getting rid of those annoying little allergic reactions. Not too long-lasting of course, otherwise they won’t be back for more. I’m working on a whole new line now – completely different image this time, sophisticated’s out, natural’s in – Grandma Etty’s Cottage Preparations. What d’you think?”

  “Etty must be turning cartwheels with excitement.” Observed Ophelia dryly.

  “Oddly enough she was fine about i
t, you know she never ever reacts quite the way you think she’s going to – anyway, it’s all really low-key; home-spun but classy, earthy colours and brand new slogan.” She paused expectantly, it seemed only polite to look interested.

  “Beauty As It Used To Be.” She pronounced, with a flourish. “Like it? I rather feel it captures the zeitgeist. Now, tell me what plots you’re hatching.” She helped herself liberally to Muesli from a nearby cupboard, seating herself opposite Ophelia, flooding the bowl with milk and munching with gusto. My Mother drew back slightly, breakfasts weren’t really her thing and she blanched at a brioche, let alone a hearty fibre-full bowl.

  “Ophelia can fill you in.” I said briskly, “I’ve things to do. Oh, and Ma, nearly forgot,” I paused on my way out, “I told Gladys to get some agency cleaners in and you’d cover that, thought you wouldn’t mind. Did you bring your cheque book and cards?” She smiled,

  “Not just mine, darling. And if I can slip a little expensive aggravation into a certain someone’s life, then my day will have not passed in vain.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I couldn’t find Elizabeth, or indeed anyone else in the downstairs rooms, but when she’d taken us up last night to our bedroom – it was the only one made up, which was why we’d had to share – the door hadn’t been locked anyway. Maybe they were all unlocked and I could simply have a look around on my own. I’d start from the top and work my way down, by which time Elizabeth would probably have turned up.

  Ascending from the first-floor landing was a further, smaller winding staircase, bannistered by a thick and fraying red cord attached to the wall at intervals by peeling gold fixtures which didn’t seem to be nearly as firmly attached as they should be, I hated to think what would happen if you lost your balance and made a grab. It led up to what looked like three further bedrooms one at the end and two on either side of a surprisingly wide corridor, I assumed this area had been converted from the original attics.

  The first room, to the right was unlocked, unoccupied and unheated, although it was quite a reasonable size and well-lit by a window that climbed up one entire wall and continued into the dormered roof to become a skylight. Spitting on my sleeve and cleaning a spyhole in the dust of the window pane, I could see the view from here was stupendous, uninterrupted as far as the eye could see by any other buildings and overlooking reasonably well kept gardens, presumably the responsibility of the erudite Alfred. The gardens extended to either side, backing the whole width of the house and sloping down to a small ornamental lake where a large weeping willow was doing some graceful, drooping stuff, partially obscuring a weathered wooden bench beneath it. The view alone would sell this room and make for some great shots for a hotel brochure. I mentally pulled myself up, my involvement here was strictly short-term.

  The second door I tried was the one at the end of the corridor. This wasn’t locked or unoccupied. It was a smaller room than the previous one and full to the gunnels with electronic gadgetry. Pieces of equipment were stacked haphazardly, one on top of the other, most in some stage of dismantlement or re-assembly and all trailing a myriad of wires heading off in every direction with an agenda of their own. There was a narrow if hazardous path through the mess, presumably to allow access for the boy seated at the far end of the room in front of a flickering screen, next to a single, unmade bed. A bit of fresh air wouldn’t have done the atmosphere any harm at all, but I couldn’t immediately spot a window, presumably it was currently obscured.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, “I didn’t realize you were here, otherwise I wouldn’t have barged in.”

  “S’okay,” he swung round on the chair, a solemn-looking fourteen or so, with skin just heading into spotty and voice cracking. There was a wire, taped with Elastoplast to his right temple, from where it snaked into the back of one of the computers. He eyed me up and down, “Nice bod!” He remarked with a leer he’d clearly been practising in the mirror, but hadn’t nearly perfected yet.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I said sharply.

  “Sorry.” He was immediately chastened.

  “Henry, right?” I said.

  “Yup and you’re Whatshername’s daughter.”

  “Ophelia. What’s that?” I indicated the wire and he raised a hand to ensure the Elastoplast was holding.

  “Evolution of the mouse.” He said. I looked blank and he tugged gently at the wire, “The disc at the end of this, see – once I’ve prototyped it, it’ll do away completely with the mouse as we know it.” His voice was running up and down the scale, full of enthusiasm and then, as if ashamed of that, he had another go at the leer.

  “You.” I said grimly, “Have been having way too much screen-time. How’s it work?” A thought struck me and he must have read my expression because he sneered,

  “Nah, none of that stoopid mumbo jumbo family stuff – this is pure science, utilising brain waves. Going to sell it and make millions.”

  “Good for you, that’ll come in handy. Does it actually work?”

  “Course – dead simple, only problem is trying to teach thickos how to use it – I’m working on an instruction manual right now.”

  “Will people want to sit at their computer with a wire stuck on their head?” I asked. He groaned,

  “Duh! There won’t be wire when I’ve finished it, just a tiny thin disc, so big,” he spaced thumb and forefinger to show me. “Self-adhesive, disposable, people’ll buy packs, use ‘em once, throw ‘em away, built-in obsolescence, neat huh?”

  “I’m impressed.” I said honestly.

  “So you should be. And Sweetpea, feel free to come up and check all of my wires, any damn time you want.” I told him sharply to mind his manners and shut the door briskly, continuing my exploration with a glance at my watch, just gone 10.00, I was already behind on my self-imposed agenda of practical action, I needed to get a move on. I tried the third door, the one opposite the unoccupied room but this one was locked. I was heading back downstairs, when it abruptly opened behind me and a woman clutching a pink quilted dressing gown closed to her neck, peered out.

  “Have you brought breakfast?” She demanded, “I did ask for it to be brought early this morning.” I gaped at her for a second or two, I could have sworn Elizabeth said last night and Gladys confirmed this morning, there weren’t any guests staying at the moment. But such was the management style round here, perhaps this was just someone they’d forgotten. And one thing we, I hastily amended that to they, couldn’t afford to do, was antagonise a paying customer.

  “I’m terribly sorry, it must have been overlooked, can I get it for you now?” I asked. She tutted impatiently,

  “I’m not impressed with the service here you know, not impressed at all.” Birdlike, she put her head on one side and blinked at me expectantly. “Well?”

  “Sorry?”

  “On what do you plan to take my order?” I whipped out pad and pencil, which I’d stowed in the back pocket of my jeans, “I’d like half a grapefruit, segmented of course, pith and pips removed properly mind.” She said. “One portion of cornflakes, milk in a jug please, not in the bowl – it came up like that the other day and was soggy, soggy, soggy. Two slices of wholemeal bread toasted – but only very lightly and I think I might manage a bit of jam today,” she tossed a long gray plait over her shoulder and patted what looked like a concave stomach, beneath the faded dressing gown. “One has to be so careful if one isn’t to slip into a portly middle age.” I glanced up surreptitiously, a portly middle age wasn’t something I would have thought she needed to worry about, she’d be lucky if she saw sixty again. “And a pot of tea for two.” She added. “And please don’t forget both cups this time.”

  “For two?” I queried.

  “I believe that’s what I said, didn’t I?” She said sharply and loudly, maybe she was used to talking to Elizabeth.

  “Right, I’ll just run down an
d get all that for you. I’m so sorry you’ve had to wait, Madam.” I wasn’t quite sure about the madam, but it seemed the right sort of room servicey thing to add and I headed down the stairs at speed to a now deserted kitchen although, I crossly noted, Bella’s empty bowl still sat on the table, alongside Ophelia’s cup.

  “What’d their last bloody servant die of?” I muttered to myself, “Probably food poisoning.” I came back quick as a flash – honestly, I could keep myself amused for hours. I really would though have to insist that everyone pulled their weight, otherwise this enterprise was going nowhere, except further to the dogs. I thrust the offending crockery into the sink and got busy with the breakfast order.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Finding everything I needed took a little time, although I felt I was coming to grips with Gladys’s unorthodox storage methods. For reasons best not delved into, she kept cutlery in a cupboard, saucers and plates in a drawer and eventually, after a frustrating search, I stumbled across a couple of slightly shriveled grapefruit, hanging around with a gang of apples in a string bag and sharing a hook with a wall calendar that was still showing August. Segmenting, I discovered was not my forte, and as no psychic assistance was forthcoming from Delia and co, the results of my labours looked decidedly ragged. To cap it all, the only tray I could find was still the big silver effort, which seemed to have put on weight overnight. I was all too keenly aware of the passage of time – if I didn’t get my skates on, I’d be dashing up with an early lunch rather than a late breakfast. I’d just have to bank heavily on the fact that my upstairs friend had opted to stay here for character rather than class.

  I staggered up one flight, pausing to catch my breath and rest the tray on the landing. The only bright side of this whole episode, I could currently see, was that I’d almost certainly lose some unwanted pounds through a combination of stress and weight-lifting. By the time I’d hauled my load up to the third floor, I swear I could feel my arms working their way out of their sockets and I was pretty certain, if I put the tray down to knock on the door, picking up again might not be an option. There was a strong temptation to simply bang my head against it, I restrained myself and sang out,