After an hour of running steadily along the fringes of the forest, the gathering dark beginning to cloak their progress, Rowan at last came to the stone well she had been told of. It was as the old woman had described; small, low set, unimportant. Its unique properties hidden. Its magic obscured. Out of breath, she leaned against the ancient stones, attempting to steady her galloping heart. The child reacted to the cessation of their movement by starting to whimper. Rowan hushed him, kissing the top of his head, scanning the darkening trees for sign of movement. At last a figure stepped forward, slender and straight-backed despite her age. The old woman pulled back her hood and came to stand close to mother and infant. “You are late,” she said, reaching forward to touch the wool of the blanket. “How fares our newest Spinner?” As a reflex, Rowan drew the child still closer. “Tell me, is it safe, what you would have us do? My son will come to no harm?” The old woman’s blue eyes, their brightness seemingly undimmed by age, regarded the girl soberly. “There is little in this life that does not carry with it a possibility of danger, child. You surely know that. I can give you no promise other than I believe this to be the best and safest course open to you, if the babe is to be saved. For one who has spent so little time on this earth, he has acquired powerful enemies. I will put you both beyond their reach. Come,” she said, holding out an elegant hand. Rowan took it and permitted herself to be led toward the well.
“Wow,” Xanthe muttered to herself, “she’s going to travel through time with her baby!”
With a sinking heart Xanthe realized that the book was going to take time and close study if it was to give up its secrets. She shut the book, shut her eyes, and took a long slow breath. It all felt overwhelming. The person who could best explain it all to her was Mistress Flyte, who was well beyond Xanthe’s reach at that moment. She needed help, needed someone she could talk to about it. Another mind to put to the impossible puzzles. But who? Her eyes sprang open. There was one person who knew more about all the mysteries, folklore, and legends of the area than anyone else she had met since moving to Wiltshire. One person who wouldn’t laugh at what she needed to talk about. Someone outside the family who didn’t have another agenda when it came to his friendship with her. Xanthe made a decision. She would talk to Harley.
At five-thirty she closed the shop and went upstairs to find Flora trying to get dressed.
“Mum, what are you doing?”
“What does it look like? I feel much better after a good soak. And anyway, I just stiffen up even more if I don’t move around.”
“Well, yes, but when you’ve had a bad day you have to go easy.”
“How easy do you want me to go?” she asked, not really expecting an answer, wriggling her left arm into a cardigan sleeve. “Do stop fussing, love.”
Xanthe had to put her hands in her pockets to stop herself helping her mother. It was hard at times to strike the right balance between helping when help was needed and letting Flora maintain her independence.
“OK,” she said with forced cheerfulness, “let’s get you into the kitchen. I’ll make us some supper.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You have to eat.”
“I haven’t done anything to work up an appetite.”
“Mum, you can’t take your medication on an empty stomach.”
Flora stopped trying to do up buttons with her swollen fingers. The short silence that followed was filled with unspoken wishes and if onlys. Xanthe had learned to let these moments move at their own pace. To give her mother time.
Flora picked up her crutches and walked slowly out of the bedroom, maneuvering herself down the stairs with practiced caution. Xanthe followed. In the kitchen Flora sat at the table without further protest while Xanthe took eggs and cheese from the fridge.
“How were sales today?” her mother asked. The moment had passed.
“Not bad. Two leather suitcases, a piece of harvest ware, a set of apostle spoons, um … what else, oh yes, a garnet ring, you know, the one set in yellow gold?”
“Did you get full price for that?”
Xanthe pulled a face as she cracked eggs into a bowl. “They beat me down by twenty quid.”
“Oh, well.”
“And the little table you painted white. A woman from the college bought that. She was very pleased with it.”
“Sounds like quite a good day. Any beer left in that fridge?”
Xanthe opened her mouth to remind her mother that alcohol didn’t help her arthritis but thought better of it. The tension eased, they ate omelettes and shared a bottle of local ale and talked of the shop and the new things Xanthe had found, some of which were downstairs, the rest to be delivered, and discussed the upcoming sale at Ditton. Flora quickly tired, and after supper she put up no resistance to being settled on the velvet sofa in the sitting room in front of the television. Xanthe explained she was popping out for a few groceries before the supermarket shut. She left her mother sitting in relative comfort, picked up her precious book, and hurried toward The Feathers.
Xanthe made a point of doing her bit of essential shopping on her way, knowing that she couldn’t risk leaving it until later. She had to put her mother first. She raced around the supermarket snatching up fresh soups, bread, fish, and some tempting puddings. She remembered milk and sugar, beginning to wish she had brought her mother’s wheeled bag, and then continued on her way to the pub. As she was going in, she met Liam coming out.
“Hey, Xanthe. Long time no whatsit.”
She smiled. “I’ve been…”
“… busy?”
“Away.”
“Again?”
“Buying stuff for the shop.”
“So, not another trip to Milton Keynes?”
Xanthe registered the mention of the specific place. It reminded her he had been complicit in some of the white lies she had had to tell Flora in the past. She had never fully explained all the strange requests for help she had made of him only a few months before. He had been good enough not to press her, even when he had had the chance to, but she sensed his patience was wearing thin.
“I’m sorry, really,” she said.
He gestured at the pub. “Were you going for a drink? Will you let me buy you one?”
“Oh, thanks, no. I just needed a quick word with Harley.”
“Are you singing this week?”
“Not sure yet.” She knew she was being maddeningly evasive. She noticed Liam’s naturally bright expression dim just a little. “Look, you have every right to be fed up with me.”
“I’m not. Well, maybe a bit…”
“To be honest, I’m not good company right now. Mum’s had a flare-up. Needs a bit of TLC.” She raised her shopping bags by way of explanation.
Liam nodded. “Sorry to hear that.” He paused, then added, “I did wonder if maybe you had someone else to think about right now.”
“Sorry?” Xanthe’s mind instantly pictured Samuel and then dismissed the possibility of Liam knowing anything about him.
“Your ex,” he said. “Thought perhaps…”
“Marcus? You thought I was seeing him again?”
“Well, him turning up here, like that…”
“God, no. There is nothing left between us.”
“Sure about that?”
“Completely.”
“Not sure he is.”
“He’s been writing more songs. For me. He wanted me to sing with the band again.”
“But you know that would be a bad idea, right?”
“Of course. Look, forget about Marcus. His life is in London, and that suits me fine.”
Liam shook his head slowly. “I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news but I saw him coming out of the off-license at lunchtime.”
“What? Damn!”
“Looks like there’s still unfinished business, at least as far as he’s concerned.”
“I can’t be responsible for what Marcus does or does not think, but believe me, I have no interest in him whatsoev
er.”
“Great. As long as you’re not thinking about him, I’m not thinking about him.”
“Our minds are both Marcus-free then.”
“Not that I ever really had anything to worry about,” Liam said with exaggerated swagger, turning up the collar of his jacket and standing tall. “Why would I?”
“Absolutely no reason,” Xanthe agreed, and found herself wondering how different her life might have been if she had met Liam a few years back instead of Marcus.
Liam laughed and shoved his hands in the pockets of his old leather jacket. He looked at her differently then, his expression for once serious. “I’ve missed you,” he said simply, and then, before she could respond, he went on, “Come and have a cuppa with me. I know you’re busy, but just give me ten minutes?”
Xanthe fought frustration at not being able to get to speak to Harley. However much she liked Liam, she couldn’t talk to him about the Spinners. She just couldn’t be sure he’d understand. At least Harley had a declared interest in such things. It had to be him. At that moment, however, with Liam still looking at her the way he was, it was hard to say no to him. And anyway, she had to be a proper friend to him. It wasn’t fair to keep leaning on him and then being so unavailable, so distracted, so busy all the time. Friendship was a two-way thing.
“Ten minutes,” she agreed.
Liam grinned, taking her bags and leading her along the pavement and around the corner to his workshop. They went up the narrow stairs to his flat, which, while scruffy, was reasonably clean if not particularly tidy. Xanthe had to admit to herself that at least he managed to keep fresh milk in the fridge, which was more than she did most of the time. She sat down at the small kitchen table. Liam set about making tea, passing her the biscuit tin to dig into while he switched on the kettle.
“I recommend the shortbread,” he told her, dropping tea bags into mugs. “You look like you could do with a bit of feeding up.”
“Um. thank you?”
“Not that you’re skinny.”
“OK…”
“I mean, you’re just right,” he said, raising his arms and then dropping them in a gesture of exasperation. “This is not going how I’d hoped.”
“Oh, and what had you in mind?”
“Me making witty remarks, you impressed, laughing, despite your natural inclination to cynicism.”
“There you go again with the compliments.”
He threw her a despairing glance.
“I’ll just eat the shortbread,” she said, taking a biscuit.
Tea made, Liam sat down opposite her, placing the mugs on the table. “Milk no sugar, right? See, I remember the important little things.”
“So you do.”
“So, I take it you are definitely not going to sing in Marcus’s band again?” he asked suddenly.
“What? No.” She dunked her biscuit in the steaming tea. “Although, I have to admit, him suggesting it did make me realize how much I miss being part of a band. Miss performing with other people.”
“But you are singing again. You don’t need him.”
“I’m singing on my own. I never expected to end up being a soloist.”
Liam smiled.
“Well, that is easily solved.”
“It is?”
“Come and sing with Tin Lid.” He leaned forward, his face lit up with the thought of what he was offering. “I have a band. You need a band. Join my band. And Marcus can sod right off.”
“You haven’t thought this through. I might not be a good fit for your band. What about the other band members? Don’t you think you should discuss it with them before asking me? They might hate the idea. We might sound terrible together!”
“You and I sounded pretty good in my van, I seem to recall,” he reminded her.
Xanthe hesitated, feeling herself tempted, unsure of the possible commitment. “It might be a disaster,” she said.
“We’ll never know unless we try, will we?”
Xanthe sat back in her chair and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “It’s sweet of you, Liam.”
“No, it isn’t. I’m not sweet. Seriously, I’ve heard you sing outside the van and without Neil Sedaka helping you. You’d be great for us. For Tin Lid. What have you got to lose?”
“My self-respect?”
“I’m not asking you because I feel sorry for you!”
“My reputation as a singer around here? I was just beginning to get known for what I do and how I sing.… This would have to be something completely different, unless your band wants to start playing stuff that’s four hundred years old.”
“One song. Come on. Next time we have a gig you can be a guest artist for one song. You can’t be too chicken to try that, now, can you?” He grinned, helping himself to another biscuit and enjoying watching her come to the realization that she was going to say yes to the idea.
At last she smiled. Smiled at the thought of the possibility of being part of a band again. At the thought, in fact, of spending more time with Liam.
By the time Xanthe left Liam’s flat it was past eight. Conscious of the fact that her mother would be wondering what had happened to her, and that she would need help getting to bed with her arthritis as bad as it was, she opted for a quick phone call to Harley as she walked home. She asked if she could see him later to have a chat about something connected with local ley lines. He must have picked up on the note of tension in her voice as he didn’t question her further but simply told her to come after closing when they would have plenty of time to talk without being disturbed. It would be late, but she had told herself Flora would be settled in bed by then, so it would be easier for her to slip out for an hour. Ordinarily her mind would have been filled with thoughts of what she had agreed to with Liam. It was no small thing, to undertake to sing with a completely new group of musicians. She had only heard them play once, and while she remembered them being good, she wasn’t even sure their styles would work properly together. Would they truly want her? It might be what Liam wanted, but the other band members might resent her taking center stage. As it was, the matter of the book on Spinners was taking up so much of her thoughts that the whole business of any upcoming performances receded in her mind. There would be time enough to worry about that when she met the other musicians and they had their first practice together. At that moment she had something altogether more difficult to fathom, and she needed Harley’s help to do it. He had studied all manner of legends and folklore and local history; he might just be the one person she knew who could help her unravel the mysterious book. Could it be that somewhere in all those wild stories lay a workable system, a method by which she could travel back in time when she wanted to? When she needed to? She already felt a little better just knowing that she would have Harley to talk to about everything. Even so, she struggled to imagine exactly how she was going to begin talking out loud to another person about the fact that she knew what it meant to travel through time.
13
Flora’s condition was much improved so that she only needed mild painkillers in order to get through the business of climbing the stairs to her room and getting into bed that night. Even so, Xanthe was concerned about leaving her again. She had to make sure she could journey with more control; that she could travel confidently, rather than feeling like a passenger. She needed to know she could come home when she wanted. For both their sakes.
By the time she returned to the pub it was nearly midnight and a sharp frost glistened on the pavement under the low glow of the streetlights. As arranged, Xanthe let herself in through the back door of the pub. Harley called up from the cellar.
“Be with you now, hen. Just finishing up with the barrels. Go on through to the bar.”
She did as he suggested, perching on a barstool, enjoying the peace and quiet of the empty pub, which somehow still held an echo of the energy of the busy evening.
“What’ll ye have to drink?” Harley asked, appearing through the hatch behind the bar, dropping the t
rapdoor behind him.
“Coffee would be great.”
He made a face. “After the day I’ve had? I need something a wee bit stronger. And so do you, by the look of you, if you don’t mind me saying so.” He fetched two brandy balloons from their high hooks and drew doubles from the best brandy among the bottles suspended within handy reach. He came round to sit on the stool next to Xanthe and they silently toasted each other.
“That’s wonderful, Harley. Good idea.”
“Aye, one of my better ones,” he agreed, swirling the dark brandy around in the ample glass. “I saw that fella of yours earlier today.”
Xanthe waited, for a moment not sure if he meant Marcus or Liam, struck by the fact that neither of them was, in fact, her fella.
Harley went on, “Aye, he looked a bit worse for wear, if you know what I mean?”
So, Marcus.
“He’s not my anything,” she said.
“Thought he’d have taken himself back off to the big smoke by now.”
“He can be … stubborn.”
“Is that right? So, is it ridding yourself of the man you were wanting help with?” he asked.
Xanthe shook her head and reached into her bag. She took out Spinners and placed the book on the bar in front of Harley.
“I wanted to talk to you about this,” she said, leaving the statement hanging, saying as little as possible, wanting to gauge his response.
Harley frowned at the book, his bushy eyebrows converging in scrutiny and concentration. He took another swig of his drink and then set the glass down. He didn’t pick up the book, he just put his hand on it. It was a gesture almost of reverence.
“Have you seen this before?” Xanthe asked.
“I have not. But I have heard tell of it. Where’d you get it?”
“It was in with a bunch of other books. Along with Mr. Morris’s stock that we bought when we bought the shop.” There was another silence. It was as if they were both testing each other out, treading warily. Xanthe broke first. “Do you know what it’s about? What the Spinners are? What they do?”
Secrets of the Chocolate House Page 20