There is still no word from Mace, unless you count the nuts, so it looks like the potion wore off all on its own.
* * *
‘The vicar just asked me for Em’s hand,’ Father said on the Saturday, wandering into the kitchen and pouring himself a cup of coffee. ‘I told him he could have any of her he fancied.’
‘He already has,’ muttered Gloria.
‘What?’
‘You didn’t really say that, Father, did you?’ I asked.
‘Of course he bloody did,’ Anne said. ‘He hasn’t realised the implications yet – too full of himself.’
‘What implications?’ Father looked surprised. ‘Em won’t get married. She’s a natural spinster.’
‘Thank you,’ Em said. ‘But as so often in your life, you are entirely wrong.’
‘But are you really going to marry the vicar?’ Jessica exclaimed.
‘I might. We’ve worked out a reasonable compromise about the service. His bishop won’t like it, probably, but everyone round here will be fine about it. Anyway, Chris says he doesn’t want to rise in the Church, he just wants to stay here, with me.’
‘Implications?’ muttered Father, looking slightly dazed. ‘And what do you mean, stay here: is he moving in?’
I think he’s pretty well done that already. I’m surprised Father hasn’t noticed.
‘No, I meant staying in Upvale. He’s got the Vicarage – I could live there.’
‘Well, I think you’re doing the right thing,’ Jessica said warmly. ‘When are you going?’
Em gave her a look. ‘It’s not decided yet, but after Christmas – so you can keep your nose out of everything until after that, since it’ll be the last real Rhymer family Christmas. Then the place is all yours.’
‘What do you mean, all yours?’ Father said, finally getting to grips with the situation. ‘You can’t go, Em! I mean, who’s going to run the house, and cook and…?’ He stopped and stared at her.
‘Your wife, of course, silly!’ Jessica said brightly. ‘With Gloria’s help of course – it is a very big house for just us. But I expect we could shut some of it off, and instal central heating, and showers, and a microwave, and—’
‘How can we shut it off? We use it all,’ Father said, looking bewildered. He dislikes change nearly as much as Bran.
‘She means after Em leaves, and Anne doesn’t come home any more, or Bran – though it might be difficult to stop him – and I vacate the Summer Cottage.’
‘But why would you all want to do that?’
‘Wouldn’t be home any more, would it?’ Anne said.
‘The Vicarage bungalow isn’t very big, but Chris says we can squeeze everyone in, and my family is his family,’ Em said.
‘Tell that to Bran,’ I said. ‘He’ll just turn up in his old room whatever you do.’
‘Me and Walter go where the girls go,’ Gloria said firmly. ‘Big changes are coming: I saw it in the teacups. It’s started, and nothing can stop it now.’
‘Oh, is that all, Gloria? You had me worried there,’ I said.
‘That was just the general overview,’ she said grimly. ‘And you are going to need me the most, Charlie; mark my words. Troubles and changes! And it’s all since that Mace North came to Upvale.’
‘That’s quite unfair, Gloria,’ I said. ‘You can’t blame everything on Mace.’
‘Yes I can – I knew he was trouble. He’s the dark agent of change!’
‘What, like a catalyst?’ Anne asked, interested.
‘I thought he was an actor,’ Jessica said. ‘Ran, isn’t he an actor? Only he writes plays, now too?’
‘Shut up, Jess, don’t let them sidetrack me,’ Father said. ‘Of course the family stays here. If Em does want to go – well, that’s her own funeral.’
‘Wedding,’ Em said.
‘Jess will keep things going here just the same. There’s no need for anything to change.’
Not quite: I think a healthy, fat-free diet will pall on Father quite soon. But perhaps the girls will take over the cooking when they have learned a bit more from Em? After all, she started running the household when she was younger than they are.
Jessica was looking alarmed and thoughtful, but Father, having comfortably decided that things could go on as before, minus Em (the linchpin of the whole house), simply put it out of his head.
Bran hadn’t taken it into his head in the first place. Em was deep in thought – probably thinking about the practicalities of cooking in the Vicarage kitchen – and Anne was looking like she was starting to miss her nice, spartan London flat.
‘Bloody battlefields!’ she said, getting up and walking out; but at least she has a place of her own to go to. I’ve sort of got settled in my cottage, but I’m sure Jessica will want us all to go.
Father, who’d been calmly eating his breakfast now he’d settled things to his satisfaction, looked up. ‘I’ve invited Mace and Caitlin for Christmas dinner,’ he announced.
‘But what about Caitlin’s mother?’ I began.
‘Her mother’s going to be on honeymoon in the Caribbean until the New Year, and Mace said his own mother doesn’t celebrate Christmas – she always spends it quietly in a hotel in Bath.’
Bran looked at him and beamed. ‘Christmas?’ he said happily. ‘Brandy snaps? Snapdragon?’
‘Of course, Bran,’ Emily said. ‘Don’t we always?’
‘Mouse Hunt? Hunt the Thimble?’
‘Yes, this time, but it will be the last Christmas as we know it.’
‘Oh, come on, Em!’ Father protested. ‘Where else would you all go? I don’t believe you really mean to marry the vicar!’
‘I do.’
‘You wouldn’t be happy and neither would he. It would finish his career.’
‘He doesn’t want a career. He wants to stay here, in Upvale with me.’
‘Just as well – he won’t have any option, once word gets round about who he’s marrying. I can’t think what’s got into you.’
‘You shouldn’t go inviting single men round to the house, then, you great lummox,’ Gloria told him shortly. ‘Especially men like that actor. Christmas dinner indeed! He’s trouble and change. I saw it in the tea leaves – and more!’
‘Speaking of Mace, I nearly forgot,’ Father said, feeling in his pocket and producing a slightly mangled envelope. ‘He sent you this.’
I took it eagerly, but then he added: ‘It’s your wages for looking after Caitlin.’
It was, too – nothing else. ‘Was there any message?’
‘No. He said he’d already sent you one.’
‘Caitlin looks forward to seeing you again soon. She’s staying with her granny until after the wedding, then Mace is bringing her home,’ Jessica said kindly. ‘I expect you will see her then.’
‘I don’t want his money,’ I said shortly, stuffing it back into the envelope. Father looked faintly surprised.
Jessica said: ‘Is it because he thought you’d told Surprise! magazine about stuff? That’s all sorted out – he’s not angry with you any more.’
‘Big of him. And I don’t need his money. I’m selling paintings again.’
‘And we’ve got advance orders for Skint Old Northern Woman,’ Em said.
‘Told everyone I know to buy one,’ Anne agreed. ‘And Em’s book, too. Christmas reading. Presents.’
‘Not using my telephone, I hope,’ Father said. ‘Some of your friends live on the other side of the world.’
‘Bloody skinflint.’
‘Advance copies should be here next week,’ Em said.
‘Good. Drum up some more sales.’
Father nodded at the envelope: ‘You did the job, didn’t you? Take the money, and if you don’t want to do any more, tell the man when he gets back on Sunday.’
‘Sunday?’ I said, looking down at the envelope and feeling like I’d been paid off. Was I worth the money? He’s probably had better, but maybe not so easily.
I’m not keeping it.
&n
bsp; Skint Old Beauty: Hair Today, part 2
More bristles than a toothbrush? Finding a solution to the moustache problem.
1) Professional treatment at a salon – but if you can afford that, what are you reading this magazine for?
2) Plucking. This is excruciating, gives you a pink upper lip, and the hair doesn’t even give up and stop growing back, like eyebrows do.
3) Shaving: not unless you are sure you never want to kiss anyone ever again.
4) Cream. This one has a built-in Catch-22: if you leave it on long enough to work, you get a rash.
5) Bleach. This gives you a white bristly moustache and also, sometimes, an interesting rash. (See also no. 4.)
6) Wax strips. This leaves hair and wax behind on your upper lip, thus giving a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘stiff upper lip’. However, excess wax can sometimes be used to shape the hair into a pleasing handlebar moustache.
Chapter 20
Returns
I spent most of Sunday painting more small, mounted infidels in the verandah.
Just as the light was starting to fade in the afternoon, Mace’s low, dark car slid past down the track, with lowdown dark Mace in it.
It didn’t stop.
Not that I expected it to, of course – and I wasn’t watching out for it. It was simply a coincidence that Flossie gave the one sharp yap that was her summons for me to open the door and let her out just as he went by.
Three seconds later the door opened again, and Em walked in, followed by Chris, tastefully (and tastily) attired in motorcycling leathers and dog collar.
‘Close the door, you’re letting all the warm air out,’ I said, putting the brush down again. It really was too dark now to see tiny barbarians; or even whopping great big ones.
‘Mace is back,’ she informed me, patting Flossie, who had followed her back in.
‘I know.’
‘Hi, Charlie,’ Chris said. ‘Hope we’re not interrupting you?’
‘Not at all,’ I said politely; I might block the door down from the Parsonage kitchen to keep Gloria out, but it didn’t stop anyone walking in the front. My house is like a railway station.
‘Did Mace stop on the way down?’
‘No.’
‘The bastard!’ she said.
‘Why? Were you expecting him?’ asked Chris, looking puzzled.
‘No!’ we said in unison, and he recoiled slightly.
‘Chris’s bishop wants to see him,’ Em told me.
‘Perhaps he’s heard about the engagement, and is going to congratulate you?’
‘Someone must have told him about us, but I’m not too sure about the congratulation bit.’
‘I expect he’ll get used to the idea,’ Chris said calmly. ‘He will have to.’
‘We’ve been to buy a betrothal ring – look,’ Em said, flashing a large, strangely set yellow stone in my face.
‘Nice,’ I said. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘Chris had it made for me – a friend of his near Huddersfield has a jewellery workshop.’
‘Ah, Huddersfield – cultural Mecca of West Yorkshire,’ I said nostalgically. It was ages since I’d been to Huddersfield.
‘I’d better go and start dinner,’ Em said. ‘See you later. Come on, Chris.’
Flossie followed them out and upstairs. She clearly sees the Parsonage kitchen as her spiritual home now, to the point where I’m thinking of moving her igloo up there.
Gloria seized her chance to descend with tea and dire warnings, before leaving by the verandah door, her basket over her arm.
I assumed she was going home early, and went up to see if Walter was still about.
Chris was standing by the Aga stirring something and reading Hard Times, so even love hasn’t yet cured him of Dickens.
Walter was still there, so I asked him to fix a bolt on the door at the bottom of my staircase.
He didn’t ask me why, just did it, regarding his neat handiwork at the end with a pleased smile, while passing a pink hand over his shiny pate.
Apart from Father’s study, and Anne’s bedroom, Rhymers don’t lock doors on each other, but I’d like to be able to if I feel the need … Or don’t feel the need for yet another cup of tea.
Before I got the chance to use it Anne and Em trooped past me, saying they were going out for some fresh air before dinner, which I thought was very odd, especially since they didn’t ask me to go, too. Em said Chris was watching dinner, so not to worry.
‘It’s cold out there,’ Walter said, gazing after them worriedly. ‘Especially without a hat.’
‘Yes, but they’ve both got lots of hair,’ I pointed out.
After that we went upstairs and he showed me the walking sticks he’d been carving for the little girls for Christmas – including one for Caitlin, which was a nice thought. Then he hid them away in the cupboard by the fireplace and locked the door, before putting the key under his wig on the stand.
There were shavings neatly brushed into a little heap on the carpet; but then, there usually were shavings around Walter.
Em and Anne couldn’t have had much of a walk, for they were already back. Em was talking in a low voice to Chris by the stove, while stirring something into the big cauldron. (Probably the Dickens.) Anne was sitting at the table with a glass of whisky in her hand, marking possible Christmas gifts in Extreme Terrain: The Catalogue.
‘Drink?’ she asked.
‘No thanks – I’m just going to go back down to stretch another canvas for tomorrow.’
‘Dinner in one hour,’ Em said over her shoulder.
‘Where are the girls? It’s very quiet.’
‘Out at a friend’s. So’s Jess. Bran’s doing a jigsaw puzzle in his room, and Father’s in the study, snoring.’
I went down, resolutely picked up the envelope of money, put on my coat, and set off down the track in the dusk to throw it back in Mace’s face – metaphorically speaking.
Or maybe even literally speaking, for I was still angry enough: laid off and paid off.
By the time I got there, though, I’d remembered Mace’s scarier aspects, and my nerve for a confrontation had pretty well ebbed away, though the money still weighed on my heart like lead.
So I sat down on his doorstep and scribbled on the envelope with a stub of pencil out of my pocket: ‘I don’t want your money…’
I couldn’t think of anything else to say, since that pretty well summed it up, so I quietly lifted the flap of the letter box and slid the envelope through the rectangle of yellow light.
As I straightened up, the door swung suddenly and silently open. Backlit in the doorframe stood Mace like the Demon King, the envelope in his hand.
‘Oh no, you don’t!’ he said, and reaching out a long arm yanked me inside and closed the door.
Still gripping me with one hand he glanced down at the envelope. ‘Terse,’ he said. ‘Admirably to the point. But why not?’
‘I – just don’t,’ I said lamely.
‘Why? I’m not paying you off for services rendered, if that’s what you think,’ he said sardonically. ‘I just owed you your wages for looking after Caitlin, and I thought you might need them.’
‘Well I don’t. I’m selling paintings again, now I’m over Dead Greg.’
‘Is it because I didn’t write?’ he said, gazing at me, brows knitted. ‘But I did send you a message. Didn’t you get it?’
His beautiful mouth quirked up at the corners.
‘The coconut trees?’
‘Of course.’
‘To say what, exactly, Mace? Nuts to you?’
‘No, to say I’m nutty about you. Isn’t it evident?’
‘No it isn’t. I think my first interpretation was right – it was a “thank you and good-bye” present: but you needn’t have bothered. I don’t think Gloria really needs to bother with the potion she made for you now, either,’ I added.
He frowned. ‘I don’t know what you think you’re talking about.’
‘T
he other night – you don’t need to feel guilty about it, it was just the love philtre. But I’m sure the effects have worn off now, so we need never mention the whole unfortunate episode again.’
‘Guilty? Why should I feel guilty? And I told you – I don’t believe in magic potions, or Sabrina the Teenage Witch, or the Tooth Fairy, or—’
‘You don’t have to believe in them, they work anyway. And just look at me. I only had one sip and I did something totally out of character.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘What, that I only had one sip?’
‘No, that you don’t jump into bed with every passing man.’
‘Oh? Well…’ I looked at him uncertainly. ‘You may not believe in it, but perhaps you ought to have the antidote, just in case?’
‘Have you had it?’
‘No – I didn’t tell Gloria I’d had any love philtre in the first place and anyway, it was just a temporary blip in my sanity. It’s worn off.’
‘Has it? So, let me get it straight: you only slept with me because Gloria’d spiked the sherry with a bunch of herbs picked naked by the light of the full moon?’
‘Something like that,’ I agreed. ‘But not naked; she’d catch her death.’
‘Why do I not feel too concerned about that?’ he asked himself aloud.
‘I love Gloria! She’s been like a mother to me.’
‘I think we have a different understanding of the word “mother”,’ he said wryly. ‘So you believe that I only slept with you because I’d had a mega-dose of the brew? And you only had a tiny bit, so it’s worn off: but if I still fancy you, mine hasn’t? Right?’
‘Er – yes.’ I found his expression very disquieting … And the way he was standing so close to me, looking down thoughtfully, even more disturbing.
‘So, darling, does that explain why the bottle of whisky your father just sent me, delivered with suspicious cheerfulness by your Gloria, had its seal broken? I thought maybe she’d just had a swig and topped it up with water.’
‘Gloria wouldn’t do that!’ I said indignantly. ‘She can help herself to any drink she wants, she doesn’t have to sneak it.’
Every Woman for Herself Page 16