Spellbound - Stories of Women's Magic Over Men

by Joel Willans

  Edgar looks at the lawn and massages his temples. Sometimes getting everything straight in his head is like trying to juggle jelly. Things that make sense one minute, suddenly don’t seem so certain. ‘No matter,’ he shouts louder than he means to. ‘He betrayed my trust. He’s my bunkmate and he shouldn’t be seen out with my wife. Even if we aren’t married any more.’

  ‘Come back into the house, Granddad, and I’ll give you a game of draughts.’

  Edgar carries on staring at the torn turf, thinking his old Captain might have been right all the time. ‘If I’m a vandal it’s only because I’ve been provoked. You understand that lad don’t you? Now, I’ve only got one mate left and when I die I want you to look after him.’

  ‘Granddad, you aren’t dying.’

  ‘When Nelson kicks it, I want him buried with me.’

  Gavin shrugs. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Edgar is about to tell him he’ll do better than that when the old fellow in question starts barking. The backdoor opens and out strolls Percy, smiling like a matinee idol. Edgar feels a sharp twinge in his chest and wonders if his heart has finally called it a day.

  Percy stops right in front of him. ‘Bloody hell! What’ve you done to my lawn? Have you been drinking for breakfast again?’

  ‘Keep away from my kin, understand?’

  ‘What’s got your goat?’

  Edgar lunges at him then. ‘How could you do it? I saw you with her, not an hour past.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Edna, that’s who!’

  ‘You silly sod…’

  Edgar doesn’t let him finish. The punch isn’t as hard as ones he’s thrown in the past, nowhere near, but Percy takes it right on the nose. Blood drizzles over his shirt.

  Gavin grabs him. ‘Stop it, Granddad! He’s just been helping her, that’s all.’

  Edgar is shaking. He looks at Percy, who’s trying to speak through his fingers. The words are all clogged up. ‘Her back’s gone. Can’t carry a thing.’

  ‘What’s he going on about?’ Edgar ask Gavin. ‘Why didn’t she ask me?’

  Gavin shrugs. ‘You never go and see her, do you?’

  It comes back to Edgar then, a great gush of memories. Him leaving her when he came back from sea and heard talk of her dancing with some fella. Him punching the fella, so hard he broke his knuckle. Him finding out later, too much later, that it was nothing. Just a birthday dance. He looks at the faint scars on his knuckles and wonders how many years past that was. Percy is staring at him. He’s a good mate to take care of her like that, Edgar thinks.

  ‘I’m sorry, pal. My head’s not what it used to be.’

  ‘Your head was never up to much,’ Percy mumbles.

  ‘I’ll help you do it up again.’ Edgar nods at the lawn.

  ‘That’s not good enough. You can bloody well go see Edna May too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. I’ll look a right state tomorrow and I’m not doing any errands with a face like a pig’s arse. You’ll have to help her.’

  Edgar looks at Gavin again, but he avoids his eye. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  Percy wipes blood off his nose. ‘You’ve ruined my garden and smashed up my face, so if you don’t want to take the risk, take your scraggy dog and piss off home.’

  Edgar stares at him and at the lawn. They both look a proper mess. He wishes he’d never taken Nelson out. Wishes he just stayed at home and done a bit of weeding in the sun. Half a bottle of Johnnie Walker is sitting on the table in his living room. I’m too old for making up, he thinks, I should just go and polish that off. Get the day over and done with. But then he sees the look in Gavin’s eyes.

  He stares up at the sky, puts his chest out and stands up straight. He might lack sense, but he’s never lacked courage. That’s what his captain used to say.

  ‘Be a good lad, and get your Uncle Percy some tissue and a glass of beer, will you, son,’ he says, waving Gavin over. ‘And pick up Nelson’s lead too. It looks like me and him have got a visit to make.’

  All Because

  In 1968, Cadbury introduced the Milk Tray Man to the world. For nearly four decades, this tough action hero overcame a vast array of obstacles to deliver Milk Tray chocolates to beautiful ladies.

  He was the first person I ever truly admired. That unabashed Romeo moving amongst the shadows was everything that I, a pimpled stick of a boy, could only ever dream of being. No wonder then that I so relished watching his daring deeds. Sitting in front of the TV, hugging my boney knees, I’d chew my knuckle as he dangled from helicopters or leapt from hurtling trains. No obstacle was ever too great to stop him delivering his precious cargo to the woman he loved.

  My enthusiasm for him would most likely have withered and died, like so many childish things, had my parents not been so suddenly taken from me. Even now, years later, I can still see Mrs Mower’s expression as she called me to the front of the class, and I can still smell the rosewater on her floral blouse when she hugged me to her chest. A heady mix of emotions washed over me, yet it was only the tiniest taster of what was to follow when, after an eternity, she let me go and led me to the headmaster’s office to hear the news.

  A terrible accident. He was very, very sorry. Try to be brave, he said. The rest of his words were lost as Mrs Mower sobbed and drew me once more to her immense bosom. And that was where I dealt with the news, wedged between her breasts. I don’t know how long I stayed there, but when she let go, I wished I might go back and stay in their warm embrace forever.

  As an orphan, the gentleman in black became ever more important in my life, the father I no longer had. I imagined my mother, her beautiful eyes looking down upon me with delight as I planned a way of delivering joy to the women of the world. Look at my son, isn’t he a wonderful and sweet boy, so kind and brave, she’d say to the audience of angels, who’d flutter their wings and nod in agreement.

  The older I got, the more determined I became to spread happiness. The love I could no longer give her, I would give to other women. I was fourteen when I made my first delivery. A box tucked under my arm, I sneaked into the girls’ dorm, heart pounding so loud I was sure that at any second the sleepers would stir and scream to the heavens. With a shaking hand, I slipped the package onto the bedside table of Anna Goodwin, pausing only for a second to admire the soft curve of her lips and the delicate slope of her nose. The pleasure I felt on returning to my bed was only surpassed the next day when news spread of the mysterious Milk Tray, which had so magically appeared beside her.

  Even if I’d known what fate would await me, I wouldn’t have changed the course of my life. For without these adventures, my time on this earth would have been one of unbroken tedium. To some, it might seem strange that so much joy can be gained from the secret delivery of a box of chocolates. But let us not forget that chocolate, so readily available these days to every Tom, Dick or Harry, was in ancient times a gift from the gods.

  Straight from paradise it came, so the Aztecs said. Carried by Quetzalcóatl himself as he travelled to earth on a beam of light. By eating it, you were blessed with wisdom and power. Though I’m no god, and I doubt my mouth-watering gifts endowed their recipients with these talents, I like to think that when the ladies awoke they felt something akin to wonderment.

  This belief has carried me through the bleakest of days. It is what I repeated to the police officers who cuffed me like some common criminal, and what I told Detective Sergeant Heaton when he questioned me. It still pains me to remember the way he sneered at my answer.

  But I do not ask for pity. I’m merely a product of a system that has treated me as an inconvenience since the very day my parents passed away. As I gaze over the skyline of a town that houses more than a million unhappy souls, I wonder why our society so vilifies a person whose genuine, heartfelt desire is to spread joy amongst his fellow human beings.

  Now that parole has taken that opportunity from me, I have no choice but to leave the country of my
birth. I do not for an instant blame Miss Brook for misunderstanding my intentions when finding me in her bedroom. I blame myself for being so casual in my preparation and so clumsy in my execution. Such sloppiness is unforgivable to one with so many years of success, so many missions completed and so many boxes of cheer left behind as magically as coins from a tooth fairy. Carelessness is no doubt a symptom of arrogance and it seems I fell pray to that very vice.

  So now it must end. I have made all the preparations. My bag is packed and my bills paid. I have dressed for the journey in my uniform of black roll neck and trousers, but before I close my door forever I will indulge myself and enjoy a final Milk Tray fancy. Like any sane man, I have a soft spot for soft centres. My most enduring love affair, though, is with the Strawberry Kiss. It is not just its gooey sweetness, but the fond memories it provokes of my darling mother’s habit of always saving it till last.

  Relishing this final taste, I think ahead to my new life in warmer climes. The only thing that tinges me with sadness is that when my quest begins anew, I will have to use a different box of chocolates. It will not be the same. Everybody knows that ladies love Milk Tray. But, although the magic they’ll feel upon awakening will not be as great, even the smallest dash of magic is surely better than no magic at all.

  Acknowledgements

  Firstly, thanks to all the editors of the publications who said yes to many of these stories. ‘One Bright Moment’ originally appeared in The Best of Every Day Fiction 2008; ‘The Wrong Bus Girl’ in Prick of the Spindle; ‘Buy Ma Biscuits or Kiss Ma Fish’ in Riptide and on BBC Radio; ‘The Cost of Advertising’ in The Remarkable Everyday; ‘Lola’s Chair’ in Pangea: An Anthology of Stories from Around the Globe; ‘Estella and the Gringo’ in Voice from the Planet; ‘Burnt’ in Message in the Bottle and Other Stories; ‘The Grounding of Tiffany Hope’ in The Bristol Short Story Prize Anthology and on BBC Radio; ‘All For Just Fifty Baht’ in Southword; ‘Break a Brick’ in Not About Vampires: An Anthology of New Fiction Concerning Everything Else.

  The act of writing is by necessity a lonely business. Happily, everything else to do with writing is not. Many people have helped with this book, some without even realising it. I’d like to especially thank Alex Keegan for setting me on the right path, Vanessa Gebbie for her constant warm encouragement, and everyone who critiqued my work in Bootcamp, Writewords, Fiction Workhouse and Fiction Forge. Thanks also to Tom Vowler for his kind words and Adam Monaghan for his cool photos. Huge thanks to Ian Daley, Isabel Galan and everyone at Route Publishing for being incredibly patient and working magic on my manuscript. I’d also like to thank my family. My mum and dad, Sally and Paul, brothers, Oliver and Harry, and sister Gemma for inspiring me. My step dad, Peter, for helping choose the cover. My parents in law, Riitta and Pekka, for their enthusiasm. My children, Lotte and Eliot for simply being fantastic. And finally, Anna Maria, my amazing wife for being the best critic, editor and muse any man could ask for.

  Joel Willans

  Since leaving the English county of Suffolk, Joel Willans has lived in London, Vancouver, Helsinki and an Andean village in the Peruvian department of Apurímac. Currently, he lives in the Finnish countryside, in a converted hospital sauna, with his wife and two children. A partner at the communications agency, Ink Tank, his prize-winning stories have been broadcast on BBC radio and published in dozens of magazines and anthologies worldwide.

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