Maybe pagans and other religious types were right, though; the divine, whatever it might be, demanded that you work for their favour. So, here she was, on the off-chance that a higher power was listening.
But what if it was true and what if this worked?
Feeling more and more foolish, she whispered, “I don’t mean to banish mum. I don’t want to get rid of her. Not, like, die or anything. Just… okay, maybe it’s part of our relationship that needs to end. Is that it? She needs to be less controlling.” Helena chewed her lip for a moment. Things that had seemed so clear and obvious, earlier in the week, now took on new shades and threw new shadows. “Not that she controls me. I’ve always done what I wanted. So she needs to try to be less controlling? I wish she accepted me.” She began to wonder if it was a banishing ritual that she really wanted to do. Was there such a thing as an acceptance spell?
Oh, this was all bollocks.
“Our relationship needs to change,” she told the candle, regretting now the choice of colour. “Not die or go or leave. Just… shift. She needs to…”
A new thought struck her. How many people were in the relationship? Two.
The foolish feeling grew. “Okay,” she told the flame, as if she were arguing back at it. “Okay, so both of us need to do something. I am, though, aren’t I?” What, by talking to a candle?
Damn.
She leaned forward and pursed her lips to blow the flame out and end this charade, but sucked in her breath at the last minute. Everything she read suggested that she now had to let the candle burn all the way down. Just in case.
Just in case of what? But she felt a shiver down her spine and she sat back in the chair, the foolishness and scepticism fighting the eerie feeling of undercurrents and energy.
Helena shook her head as if to clear it of superstition, and stood up in a rush, twisting to reach for the light switch on the wall behind her. Her hip caught the corner of the table and the candle fell with a clunk; she’d only anchored it lightly with hot wax to a plate. She flicked on the main lights and turned but in the split second, the flame had lit the edge of the dried herbs she was using to represent “Air”, and the bundle flared like tinder.
“Oh shit!” The candle flame hissed out in a pool of its own wax but the stalky dry plants were blazing in a small, merry bundle. Instantly, her hands were sweaty and shaky as she grappled for a tea towel, some rusty advice about kitchen fires coming to mind. She flung the tea towel onto the burning heap of flowers, and paused, her hands held out at an awkward angle as she watched the towel for signs that the smothering had worked.
Too late, she remembered the other crucial piece of advice regarding the tea towel - that it ought to be wet.
A small black circle formed in the centre of the blue and white cloth. It opened up, glowing red now at the edges as the fire ate its way out from under the towel.
“Oh shit oh shit oh shit don’t panic,” she mumbled as she ran to the sink and filled a glass of water. She whirled around and flung it over the smouldering cloth and herbs.
It hissed and a cloud of smoke issued upwards, expanding to fill the kitchen with a curious smell of charred fabric, fragrant herbs, and general unpleasant burning.
Helena leaned back against the sink and her awareness gradually expanded again. She blinked, and coughed, and rubbed her eyes. She felt silly. Another monumental over-reaction! She had always been impulsive but this was getting out of hand. The fire had been tiny and now it was out, though still emitting acrid smoke. She twisted and unlatched the wooden-framed window, letting cooler air and moths into the room.
Under the harsh and unforgiving spotlights, the scene on the table was somehow pathetic. A half-melted candle, a charred cloth, a stone, a tea-light still burning, and a bowl of water.
And a small figurine; the small model of the Lord of the Forest, the Horned God, that she’d been given at the moot. Much as she longed to believe in synchronicity and premonitions, somehow Vicky must have told Jess that she was…
She was what?
Helena glared at the figure as an image of Richard came to her mind. Vicky had dropped more than one hint about Helena’s supposed influence over Richard. She’d mentioned that no one else had ever engaged him in the community before. Helena had brushed the unwelcome insinuations aside.
Since Kevin, she was over men. It just wasn’t worth it. She preferred to be herself. Getting into relationships just meant she had to fake it, and pretend to be someone she wasn’t, and even when she had done that - all the make-up and the dress and the flowers and every other stereotype she was supposed to buy into - she still got jilted.
The kitchen was clearing of smoke and bad smells, so she pulled the window closed again, and began to tidy up the sad remains of the ritual. She pinched out the tea-light and tipped away the water into the saucer around the pink cyclamen on the windowsill. The tea towel and the burned herbs went into the bin.
Finally, she picked up the heavy model of the Horned God, and sat him in the middle of her palm. She considered what he represented. He was the lord of the land, its protector and its consort, hunter and hunted. The parallels with Richard were too obvious and she smiled at her sentimentality. He would mock her mercilessly for these thoughts.
And yet, clichés sprang from kernels of truth. That was how they began, after all. Richard was important to this area, and he knew it. If he could get involved a little more, she was sure he’d feel better. Sadness dogged the man. He seemed to have built an idea of himself as bitter and lonely and all he could do was live up to that idea.
He clearly needed friends.
This wasn’t about relationships or love or lust or any of that nonsense, she told herself sternly. She wanted the project to succeed, and he was crucial to it. And he was fun to spend time with. Sort of, when he wasn’t being grumpy or sarcastic or angry. He could be more fun, for sure, if he could lighten up a little.
Yeah. She nodded at the little figure in her hand. You need me like the land needs you.
I have more than one project to take on, now.
* * *
Helena was extremely glad that she hadn’t had any breakfast. Her stomach churned and she stood in the centre of the office at the manor’s stables, clutching a bottle of water and trying to breathe.
“Good morning. Just. For most people this is still the middle of the night.”
“Oh Jesus you made me jump.” She stumbled backwards, holding the bottle to her chest like a protective talisman. Richard was dressed in a casual plaid shirt and stone-wash blue jeans, and he leaned on the door jamb, smiling at her.
“What, you didn’t expect to see me on my own property?”
“Well, as you say, it’s early.”
“It’s six am. That’s earlier than early. Unless you’re a farmer, or you have small children, this time simply doesn’t exist. You look somewhat panicked. Have you even slept?”
“Yes. No. I mean, I went to bed. But I just can’t stop thinking of all the things that can go wrong today!”
“Such as?”
“Oh God. Everything. Did we get all the right licences from the council? Will the WI poison everyone accidentally? What if it rains? Or floods? Or, I don’t know, what if it snows. This is Lancashire, after all. Someone might hurt themselves and I’ll be sued. Worse of all… what if no one comes?”
Richard grinned, his white teeth showing stark against his summer-tanned skin. “I was going to offer you a coffee but I think you’re quite wound up enough already. I don’t think any of those things are going to happen, realistically. Except the one about the snow, of course.”
She realised, from the pain in her wrist, that she was still holding tightly to the bottle. She lowered it by degrees and shook her head ruefully. “I’m sorry. I know I’m being an enormous idiot. Lack of sleep, and just general stress, all building up. I mean, I’ve never run a fete before.”
“It’s not just you on your own. What about Vicky, and me, and all the good folk who’ve
contributed time and effort and ideas? Henderson’s been smashing, for a start. Have you seen the amount of bunting his son’s girlfriend has made with her craft group?”
“I’ve heard the rumour that it’s measured in miles not metres.”
“It’s true. They’ll be in the school playing field soon, wrapping it around anything that stays still for long enough. Now look,” he said, gently, moving towards her like he was herding a nervous sheep into a pen, “I am going to assume you haven’t had a decent breakfast yet.”
“I can’t. I mean, I haven’t. Oh God, don’t offer me bacon and sausages and eggs. I’ll puke.”
“What do you take me for?” he argued back. “I was going to suggest a bit of dry toast and you should be grateful for that. What am I, a cafe?”
“I can’t win, with you, can I?”
“Nope. No, you can’t. Come on into the kitchen, and let me make you a brew, at least.”
Her curiosity overrode everything. To get into the manor house at last! She smiled her acceptance and followed Richard out, across the courtyard, and through a back porch area into a long, wide kitchen that was immediately everything she had imagined it was.
Not that she spent any time dwelling on what his house was like, of course. Oh no. But still, if she had, it would have looked like this. The floor was a cool red tile, with rugs under the pine table and by the wide cast-iron range in an alcove.
“Do you use it?”
He filled the kettle by the sink - a proper butler’s sink! - and flipped the switch. “Not really. It’s a pain to keep stoked all the time.” He nodded to the modern cooker that stood along one long side of cupboards and appliances. “That does for just me. The range is like an Aga so it needs wood and it runs twenty-four seven. Boiling in summer and hungry as a beast all winter.”
“Oh.” Helena spun around, taking it all in.
“I feel like I’m under the spotlight a bit,” he said. “Like you’re an estate agent come to value the place.”
“It’s gorgeous! And it’s all so clean and…” she tailed off as he huffed and folded his arms.
“Oh, I see. You were expecting me to be living in the filth and detritus of a typical bachelor, right?”
“Yes, I was.”
His eyebrows shot up at her cheekiness but she was unrepentant. Two could play his game, after all, and he had to be able to take it if he was giving it out. Before he could come up with anything else to say, she continued. “Oh - tea, milk, no sugar, thanks.”
She let him busy himself with making the tea, and just watched him from the spot she’d taken up by the range. Funny how people gravitated to standing next to fires and ovens, even when they weren’t lit. At first he seemed awkward in his own space, keeping one eye on her as he moved around. She wondered about that. Putting two and two together, she decided that he obviously didn’t have many visitors up here. If the rumours were to be believed, no one at all, in fact. She should feel honoured.
Seeing his awkwardness, though, made her hold her tongue for once. She was in his special place and she didn’t want to antagonise him any more - tempting though it was to prod at him. She accepted the tea with a grateful nod, and stayed quiet.
They drank in silence, and Helena found that she didn’t mind. Richard pulled out a ladder-back chair from the table and waved her onto it. She perched on the faded gingham cushion and rested her arms on the table, and turned her thoughts to the fete once more. He was right, of course; it was all planned and nothing major could possibly go wrong. She decided not to let the myriad little niggles build up. It was all too late to change now.
When her phone beeped a message at her, her hand jerked, knocking her mug. They’d lapsed into such a comfortable stillness that it took her by surprise. “Oh! Vicky’s at the field! I had better be going.”
“I’ll come down with you. Finished your tea?”
“Yes - thanks.”
“Can I tempt you to a biscuit before you go? Or are you still too nervous?”
“I… er…”
“Hesitation always means yes,” he told her. He rinsed his mug under the tap and then dragged a tin from between some kitchen paper and a pile of old Farmers’ Weekly Magazines. “There’s rich tea, ginger nuts and possibly a few limp cookies at the bottom.”
Helena took a handful of biscuits, saying, “I’m disappointed you have this fantastic kitchen but you have shop-bought biscuits. I expected piles of home-made goodies.”
“Steady on now. One minute it’s bachelor filth, the next it’s The Good Life? I keep things clean but that’s only because opening a Pot Noodle doesn’t make much mess. Ready to go?”
“Sure.”
* * *
The fete was supposed to officially open at ten, but already the school sports field was milling with people. Vicky sprang forwards as soon as she saw Richard and Helena appear at the blue metal gate. She was waving madly and looked as stressed as Helena felt.
“Okay… I’ll just…” muttered Richard as he melted away to one side. Helena turned her head to thank him for the morning’s hospitality but he had already presented his back to her as he sidled off.
“Huh.”
Vicky looked pointedly at the disappearing figure, back at Helena, and back at Richard again. “Oh yes? Something to tell me, love?”
“No. I was up at the office this morning, having a panic, and he made me a cup of tea.”
Vicky’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Did he bring it out to you on a silver tray? Was it in some heirloom porcelain?”
“Nope, it was in a thick mug, in his kitchen.”
Vicky’s pretend surprise became real. “Oh my God! You actually went into his house!”
It confirmed Helena’s suspicion and she smiled as smugly as she could. “Yes, of course.”
Vicky was about to ask more but three women clutching plastic boxes surrounded her and began clamouring, as one, for table space and access to water and folding chairs and permanent marker pens and a rough idea of timings for the day and possibly, the moon on a stick.
Helena let her deal with that, and began to walk the area, pulling her crumpled and well-read list of last-minute checks from her pocket. She couldn’t get more than two paces before being stopped, and having questions to answer, all of life and death importance to each individual.
She caught up with Vicky half an hour before ten. Helena could see from a dozen yards that her face was set in a frown, her hands on her hips, and her feet already in a fighting stance. Helena drew near.
“No,” Vicky was telling a thin, spiky young man, in her blood-curdling ‘teacher voice’. “You will stick to the pre-agreed play-list.”
The rat-faced boy, in his late teens, threw a pleading look towards Helena as she reached the confrontation. She recognised him as one of the band members. “What were you going to play?” she asked.
“They had agreed to play a selection of pub classics. The old favourites that everyone loves,” Vicky said darkly. “Now he’s telling me that they only really know The Sex Pistols.”
“Wow. Really?” Helena couldn’t help but smile at the boy. “They’re proper retro to you, surely? I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be,” Vicky interrupted. “It just means they don’t really know any chords, they like spitting and shouting, and they think it means they’re okay to swear a lot.”
“No, that ain’t true!” he objected, staring at the floor, and reddening.
“What can you play? Aside from the Sex Pistols?”
“Um, Smoke On The Water.”
“You told us you had an extensive list of pub classics.”
“We were going to but we got side-tracked when we did rehearsals.”
“Side-tracked, as in, you got drunk - or high - in your parents’ garage?”
The teenager didn’t even answer that, but his head sank lower. Vicky curled her fists into balls and squeaked in rage.
Helena shook her head, laughing ruefully. “Of all the things I thought wer
e going to go wrong, this was not the thing.”
“What do we do? We’ve got less than half an hour, and we promised everyone a live band. Everything else is in place.”
“We could jam…?” the boy suggested, still not daring to look up.
“I could make you into jam,” Vicky retorted. “Mince you small, boil you up and shove you in a very hot jar.”
“Sounds great. Is that one of the attractions?”
Even the boy looked up at the sound of Richard’s amused voice. He materialised behind Vicky and Helena, a plastic cup of lemonade in one hand and a small Lancashire flag on a plastic stick in the other.
“No,” Vicky said, still angry. “The band is… banned.”
“What?”
Helena felt strangely calm. Perhaps it was because she had hit peak-panic earlier and now, everything was a fog. Or maybe it was just the pleasing presence of Richard. She said, “We didn’t think to actually audition the band. And it turns out they only know Smoke On The Water, and punk.”
“And we cannot have them spitting on the WI.”
“Good Lord no,” Richard agreed. “Those women have knitting needles. It wouldn’t be fair on the lads. Can’t we play something through a loudspeaker system?”
We, thought Helena with pride. My plan to make him part of the community is really working! Aloud, she said, “Licenses. We’re okay for a live performance, but that’s all.”
“Leave it with me.” Richard spun around and headed off, with purpose in his step.
Helena took a moment to survey the field as Vicky frogmarched the unfortunate proto-punk back to the rest of his band mates to break the bad news. All around the outside were tables, floats, stalls and kiosks. There was a bouncy castle for the kids in the middle of the field, plus some old-time fairground games that had been built by the local Scouts and Guides. For a moment, she wondered if there would be any visitors at all - everyone in the entire village and from its surrounding farms was already here, setting up stalls.
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