“That’s Thomas,” Gerri nodded in the direction of a small boy sitting at a table by the counter, fully absorbed in a game on his tablet. “And this,” she said, setting down the tray of dishes and ruffling the curls of a smily little blonde girl, “is Ellie. My best helper, aren’t you Ells?”
Ellie grinned and wiped chocolate from her mouth with the back of her hand.
“I’ve been testing the cakes,” she told Xanthe with a gappy grin.
“Sounds like the best job in the world,” said Xanthe.
“A non-teaching day at school,” Gerri explained with a shrug.
“Certainly looks like you’ve got your hands full,” said Xanthe. “Here, I found this.” She held out the wrapped bowl, peeling back the paper. As she did so, she happened to glance over Gerri’s shoulder. She could see the window of her own shop across the cobbles and a movement caught her eye. Thinking her mother must have left the workshop to look for her, she tried to focus on the figure looking out through the small Georgian panes. But it was not Flora. The haggard features of Margaret Merton as she glared back at her were so unexpected that Xanthe gasped, dropping the sugar bowl.
“Oh dear!” Gerri stooped to gather the pieces. “What a shame!” she said, seeing what it was as she tried to fit the little chunks together.
“Sorry, Gerri, I’m an idiot.” Xanthe took the remnants of the bowl from her. “I never break things. How stupid of me…”
“I’m sure it can be fixed,” said Gerri, and then, looking more closely at Xanthe, she asked, “Are you all right? You look quite shaken.”
“I’m fine. It’s … nothing.”
“You sure? Why don’t you sit down with Thomas for five minutes. I’ll fetch you some brownies.”
“No, I can’t stay, sorry.” Xanthe began to move toward the door. “I’ll get Mum to take a look at this.” And with that she left, all too aware that Gerri must have realized that she was, in fact, very far from being all right. Summoning all her courage she marched across the street. Was the ghost going to haunt her even when she stepped outside the shop? Was she supposed to be scared to return to her own home?
“Right, Mistress Merton,” she muttered to herself, “you can just back right off.” She flung open the door of the shop, making the bell clang frantically. She scanned the room. Nothing. Not even the slightest sense of a presence.
“Xanthe, love?” her mother called through from the workshop. “You going out?”
“No, Mum. Just letting some fresh air in,” she called back. She felt anger lending her strength. She might have no choice but to help Margaret Merton, to help Alice, in order to protect Flora, but she was damned if she was going to become a wreck of nerves doing it. She needed to be strong. She was not going to let a ghost reduce her to such a state that she couldn’t function properly. Even so, it took some long minutes before her heart rate steadied to something resembling normal.
The time Xanthe spent working on her own allowed her the opportunity to think about how she could make her next journey through the blind house. She could not go as she had before, simply stepping back unprepared, leaving her dangerously vulnerable. This time she would be ready, all things as helpfully and safely arranged as possible. And part of that preparation involved leaving things in the best possible order for her mother. With that in mind, she began sorting through the mirrors, picking out the ones destined for eBay. It was while she was photographing them that the shop doorbell rang, causing her to roll her eyes at her own stupidity in not locking it.
“I’m afraid we’re not open yet,” she called through as she emerged from the mirror room. She found Liam standing in the doorway, holding up a bottle of white wine.
“Excellent!” he said with a grin. “I was hoping you’d be free to help me drink this while it’s still good and cold.”
“Nice idea, but…”
“Don’t tell me you’re too busy. You know what they say about all work and no play making Jack…”
“… solvent?”
He tilted his head and offered her the bottle. “It’s a Chablis. I splashed out. You’re surely not going to turn me into a sad, lonely bloke who drinks on his own? How about it?”
It was a tempting offer. It had been a long day. She could feel herself flagging, and there were things she could only do once Flora was asleep, so it would be a long time before she could collapse into her bed.
She put the bolt across the shop door. “Come on,” she said, walking past him. “I can see I have to save you from such a terrible fate. Let’s go and sit in the garden.”
Taking two lead crystal glasses from the cabinet they pushed their way through the muddle of the hallway, which was still filled with antiques waiting to go back into the shop. One of the advantages of selling antiques was that there was never a shortage of something nice to drink out of. Outside the evening was hot and still. They sat on the old stone bench beneath the shade of an unruly butterfly bush. Among its purple blooms flitted red admirals and small tortoiseshells. Some settled on the flowers, spreading their wings to catch the last of the evening sun. Sitting so close to the jailhouse made Xanthe’s skin tingle and she glanced about nervously for sight of Margaret Merton. It was beyond unsettling, being pulled in two directions at once; she needed to be at home, with Flora, helping her and setting up the business, but she had to take the ghost’s threat seriously. Margaret had said she would do anything to save her child, and she had demonstrated that she was capable of doing Flora harm. Xanthe had to accept that she had no choice but to go back to rescue Alice, though heaven alone knew how.
Liam poured the wine. “Here’s to screw-top bottles, summer evenings, and a well-earned break,” he said, raising his glass.
The wine was sublime. As she savored it Xanthe realized that she had not eaten for several hours and the alcohol was going to go straight to her head. She closed her eyes for a moment and leaned back against the wall, the bricks warm against her back through her cheesecloth shirt. Dappled sunlight danced upon her eyelids. When at last she opened her eyes again she caught Liam gazing at her. He looked away quickly, but there was no mistaking the intensity of the way he had been studying her. She suddenly felt uncomfortable. She liked Liam but was far from ready for any sort of romantic entanglement, and did not want to give him false hope.
Desperate for something to say that would defuse the moment she blurted out, “I’m going to sing in The Feathers on Friday night.”
“Hey, that’s great!”
“Harley got let down at the last minute, talked me into it.”
“He can be surprisingly persuasive. I’ll get there early and bag a front row seat.”
“Don’t you dare. You’ll put me off. Much easier singing to people I don’t know.”
He nodded, a fellow performer who understood such a foible. “Well, at least let me buy you a drink afterward to celebrate your return to the stage.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got a lot on the next day.”
“On a Saturday? I am seriously worried about the way you antique people work.”
“You are going to have to stop calling us that if you don’t want Mum to take against you. Actually, it’s not work. I’m going away for a couple of days, and there’s loads I need to see to before I leave.”
“Oh?”
Such a small word, but it was full of so many unasked questions. Such as, why are you going anywhere when you claim to be so busy getting the shop up and running? Xanthe tried to tell herself she was merely being overly sensitive.
“Yeah, a friend of mine, in Milton Keynes, she’s had a bit of a crisis, you know, relationship stuff. Got herself in a right state. Needs a shoulder to cry on, that sort of thing.” She supposed she should have been glad to find that she was such a poor liar, but it was not helpful. She stared into her wine, twirling the glass in her hands. “It’s just for two nights,” she added.
“That’s quite a drive.”
“I’m going by train. Less stressful than tackling all those
motorways.” Even to her own ears it sounded unconvincing. She had realized it would be difficult to hide her taxi somewhere while she was away, so the train was a better option. She had checked them online and thankfully found that there were a couple running on a Saturday morning from Chippenham. “I love my taxi, but she’s a thirsty old girl. Would cost me a fortune in fuel to drive that far. No, train’s better for a long trip. I’ll get a minicab to the station,” she told him.
“Don’t be daft. Let me give you a lift.”
“No,” she said, more sharply than she intended. “No, thanks. I’m fine.” She felt bad for snapping at him. Of course he could not know how carefully she must plan her “trip.” She had spent most of the day thinking about how she could explain her absence, go somewhere Flora would not check up on her, actually appear to leave, yet double back, slip through the shop and get to the jailhouse. And then there was the difficulty of returning a couple of days later without being seen emerging from the direction of the garden.
Liam showed his good sense by changing the subject back to something she was evidently less prickly about.
“So, are you excited about singing again?” he asked.
“Excited and nervous. It’s been a while. And, well, solo is new for me. I used to sing in a band.”
“Are they still playing back in London?”
“We broke up. Actually, we pretty much imploded. Marcus, he was our songwriter, keyboard player, and my boyfriend. When he and I split the band did, too.”
“Ah. Not easy, being a rock star, all that adulation, adoring fans.…”
Despite herself she laughed. “Hardly that! No, Marcus had a habit. Cocaine. And to fund it he sold the stuff. Just to his so-called friends at first, but then, well, he needed more money so he sold to more people. Until eventually he got caught out. Only his stash was in our flat, and when the police found it, Marcus was nowhere in sight. And as the lease was in my name.…” She left the statement unfinished and drained her glass.
“Oh my God, he let you take the blame, didn’t he?” Liam poured them both more wine. “Selfish bastard.”
“Yes, as it turns out. Let the whole thing go to court without speaking up. The way he put it to me was that as he had a previous conviction, if they prosecuted him, he’d go to prison, no doubt about it. Whereas I was Miss Squeaky Clean. No way I’d get a custodial sentence for a first offense.” She took another swig of Chablis. “Or at least, that’s what he told me.”
“Shit! Sorry, but did you actually get sent to jail? For his gear? And he let that happen? That’s taking being a bastard to expert level, sorry to say, but it is.”
“I’m not going to argue with you. You can imagine how much my mum loves him.”
“What about your father? Didn’t he try to … persuade him to do the right thing?”
“Let’s just say my father had other things to deal with. And he’s not the strong-arm type. He did shell out for a good lawyer, though, thank God. I spent twelve weeks in Holloway Women’s Prison before he got me out on appeal.”
“The whole thing stinks.”
“Yup, but there it is. You are currently quaffing very fine wine with a convicted drug dealer. Imagine.”
Liam thought for a moment and then said, “I think it’s great that you’re going to sing again. No one should be able to take that away from you. If you’ve got a talent, if music is part of your life, you shouldn’t give it up, no matter what.”
“Have you been talking to my mother?”
He smiled. “I guess she’s pretty wary of any new men in your life.”
“She’s not the only one,” she warned him.
“OK. I promise not to give your mother any cause to hate me, and I further promise to hide at the back of the crowd tomorrow night, but clap loudly at the end of each song. What sort of stuff are you going to be singing?”
“Ah, that is a secret only me and Harley know about so far. The rest of you are just going to have to wait and see,” she said, finally allowing herself to smile. It had not been her intention to tell him all about her disastrous past, but the wine had loosened her tongue. And now that it had been said, now that she had put the whole sorry fiasco into a few short sentences, it seemed somehow diminished. And for the first time in a very long while she began to think that perhaps she could enjoy singing again. Which was just as well, because the only job she believed she might convincingly undertake back in the seventeenth century was that of a minstrel. In both her own century and the one long passed, she was soon going to have to literally sing for her supper.
11
Much of the next day was taken up with gathering the things she required for her journey back to the past, and all her preparations had to be done in snatches of time without attracting her mother’s attention. Mercifully, Flora’s arthritis flare-up had, just as she had predicted, subsided, and she was happy to be back at work cleaning and repairing stock. Xanthe began the task of putting things out in the shop, which meant she was able to search through boxes of old coins. Most of what they had were job lots bought at auction, so that she had to sift through muddles of coins from different periods. There were plenty of Victorian pennies and Georgian coins of various values, but earlier ones were more scarce. The handful of seventeenth-century ones she found were mostly from the later years of the century. The last thing she needed was to be caught in possession of “impossible” money and accused of forging it! In the end she struck lucky in a shoe box among Mr. Morris’s stock, which yielded four pennies, three shillings, and a sixpence. Hardly riches, but then she was supposed to be a traveling minstrel, and it would arouse suspicion if she had too much money in the little drawstring velvet bag she had found to use as a coin purse. It occurred to her that she might need something as a bribe. Something silver, she decided. A further search turned up a silver thimble and a silver pocket knife. The knife gave her pause for thought. Should she take a weapon? On one hand it seemed sensible; after all, she would be a woman alone and a stranger in a familiar and yet strange place. But then, could she actually use it? She had never stabbed anyone or even threatened them with a knife. It seemed more likely she might be overpowered and the thing could be used against her instead. And then, were the 1600s really any more violent than the twenty-first century? Somehow she doubted it. She did not wish to go there with the idea of violence in her head. She chose the thimble for its value and left the knife in the glass-fronted cabinet that she had repositioned in the bay window of the shop.
She had already chosen a tatty leather satchel as her bag. It looked suitably well-traveled and not glaringly modern. Into it she could comfortably fit her valuables; a small, rolled-up picnic rug; and a tiny LED flashlight. She knew this was the one item that she must keep hidden but decided it was small enough to conceal in a pocket if necessary, and it would undoubtedly be useful, for such a time would seem alarmingly dark to her.
After lunch and an afternoon helping Flora add to the shop displays, Xanthe showered and then dug through the clothes in her bedroom in search of something suitable for her journey. She kept the chatelaine unwrapped and on her beside table, so that each time she glanced at it she was reminded of what it was she was trying to do and why. Most of her clothes being vintage, she was well supplied with long bohemian dresses, and selected the warmest, plainest one. It was a linen maxi pinafore in dark blue. She tried it over a cream blouse. It might have been summer in Marlborough in the present, but it had been cold when she had ventured back into the past, and she remembered the leaves were turning on the trees. Unable to find a suitable coat, she layered a vest and T-shirt beneath her dress, as well as thick leggings. The layers were helpful for hiding her gold locket, too. The feel of it next to her skin was a constant reminder that it was her ticket home. Her heavy boots were barely visible and would not be a million miles in appearance from the boots of the day, at least the ones the men were wearing. After something of a tussle she succeeded in pinning her hair up and then tying a small cotton scarf ove
r it. She found another thin woolen scarf to wrap around her shoulders in the manner of a shawl, and tied the whole thing together with a supple Sam Browne wide leather belt. She stood in front of the bedroom mirror. The reflection that peered back at her was worryingly unconvincing. More peculiar than medieval. Would she pass for a minstrel? Would her artistic profession grant her sufficient license to look so odd? This was not a harmless game of fancy dress. This was a mission with a very real objective, and the consequences of failure could be grave indeed. As if it could sense her thoughts, and as if it were reminding her of the urgency of her mission, the chatelaine began to sing to her once again—a high, keening note.
“Is that what you’re wearing tonight?”
Flora’s voice from the doorway made her jump. “What? Oh, no. I don’t think so. Do you?” she said, pretending to be seriously considering the awful outfit. She had been so taken up with what she was planning to do the next day she had almost forgotten she would be singing in public again in a couple of hours.
“To be honest, Xanthe love, it’s not my favorite look for you,” her mother said gently.
“No? Oh, well, maybe not.” She pulled the scarf from her head and let her hair down before rummaging among her clothes again. “Must be something here…”
“Don’t take too long. You should eat before you go onstage.”
“It’s just The Feathers, Mum. Not the Royal Albert Hall.”
“You know what I mean. And you know how you get before a performance. You need food.” She turned and headed for the stairs. “Half an hour,” she called back as she went.
Suddenly Xanthe was pulled back to the demands of the present with an unpleasant jolt. As quickly as she could she removed her traveling clothes and slipped on a shorter, red ditsy print tea-dress. She teamed it with her faithful boots and a pair of antique garnet stud earrings. Her face had caught the sun, so that she looked reasonably healthy, if a little tired. She seldom wore makeup, but decided the event called for a bit of effort and glamor, so she applied some dark-red lipstick as deftly as she could. Next, she grabbed some balm, rubbed it into her hands, and then combed her hair with her fingers to give a smooth gloss to her ringlets. Butterflies had taken up residence in her stomach, not helped by the thought that she had not had nearly enough time to rehearse her new songs. She stood for a moment and took some long, slow breaths, then began to sing, quietly at first, but with growing strength, picking her way through the songs she had selected. She had practiced that morning in the shower and while working in the shop, but only quietly, as much to familiarize herself with the new tunes and words as anything else. This time she let herself sing at full volume, drawing encouraging cheers from the kitchen between songs. As she still had to keep checking the sheet music and Harley’s books to remind herself of the words, she decided she would keep them in front of her for the performance to avoid the risk of standing onstage with a blank mind and no memory of what she should sing next.
The Little Shop of Found Things--A Novel Page 13