The Feud

by James, Amanda

  Morvoren laughs. ‘Dean Martin? If he does, then I’m the queen.’

  A giggle from behind. ‘Hmm. I wonder who it could be… Mind you, I know who it certainly isn’t. Terry Trevelyar. I think he’s the most handsome lad in the village. Clever too. My mum says he’ll go places, that one. But he’s out of bounds for you, cos of your feud.’

  Morvoren’s heart jumps. Elowen likes Terry?

  ‘Why aren’t you saying anything?’

  ‘Eh? I told you I wasn’t telling you who it is.’

  ‘Yes, but the other two I mentioned before Terry – you shook your head and then said Peter wasn’t like Dean Martin. You went quiet when I said about Ter–’

  ‘Course it’s not him! Now can you bloody shut up!’ Morvoren deliberately stamps on a clump of garlic flowers and quickens her pace.

  ‘Hey, no need to go crackers. I’ll shut up now… Oi, Mor, wait for me!’

  Morvoren doesn’t answer, just keeps on stomping down the path, her heartbeat quicker than her steps. There’s a storm in her head and anger fuels the lightning bolt she imagines striking down that little bitch hurrying along behind. If Elowen goes near Terry, then God help her.

  Chapter 10

  Lavender’s rearranging the display in the window of her shop. Nobody has been in this morning so far and it’s almost eleven. She tells herself it’s normal for mid-September after the main tourist season has tailed off, yet it makes the day drag when there’s nobody at all. She wonders if the shop is a waste of time in the autumn and winter. Once she’s paid rent and heating and electric she doesn’t make much. It’s a good job her main income is over the spring and summer. Oh well, she’ll just get on with painting in the back and hope someone comes in soon.

  Half an hour later, inspiration is out the door and beckoning her to go for a walk on the cliff path. Might as well take the canvas and do it in the fresh air, lock the shop for a few hours and pop back around three. As she’s packing up, the doorbell tinkles and her heart lifts. It crashes again when she hears, ‘Lavender, it’s only me!’

  Gran. Not today, please. ‘Hi, just going out to paint. I need a bit of inspiration.’

  Gran’s face falls. ‘Have you got time for that? You have to prepare for tomorrow, don’t you?’

  ‘Prepare? How long does a phone call take?’

  ‘But what if he says no? You have to make it a sure thing.’

  ‘Trust me, he’ll jump at the chance of a drink. He was very keen the other night. Took me all my time to be civil. I could have slapped his face when he said he belonged here. The cheek of him.’

  ‘I bet.’ Gran’s gaze slips away from Lavender’s and she looks at a painting of the old schoolhouse. ‘I was just thinking – it might be better to invite him to your cottage for dinner. Then you could do the deed without the danger of anyone seeing. The Driftwood’s a bit public.’

  ‘What? Him and me on our own in my cottage? Have you gone nuts? Isn’t he supposed to be violent with women?’

  ‘Just his wife, I think,’ Gran says absently and continues to study the painting.

  Lavender’s temper grows hotter. ‘You think? Oh. That’s okay then. I’m perfectly safe!’

  Gran turns to face her. ‘He won’t do anything silly if he’s as smitten as you say. He’ll want to do everything by the book. Talking of which…’ She gets the ancient book from the shelf. ‘How long will it take you to concoct a potion?’

  Lavender throws her hands up in exasperation. ‘I have no idea. Not long.’

  Admiration fills the other woman’s eyes. ‘No, it never does. You are the best, my girl, and that’s the truth. I was good in my day, that bitch Elowen too – but it comes more naturally to you than anyone I have ever seen practice. And I’ve seen a few.’

  Lavender knows this isn’t just Gran flattering. She’s always had a gift for potions, since Gran taught her to recognise the first healing leaves when she was five. Lavender’s always known how much of this, that or the next thing to add without looking at the book. It came by instinct. Besides, the book is going on for a hundred and fifty years old, and she prefers not to use it if she can help it in case it falls apart.

  Gran’s looking at her as a robin views a worm. Those sharp hazel eyes might sit on a concertina of wrinkles, but they miss nothing. Lavender packs her wet brushes and catches her webbed thumb on the bristles. She splays the extra skin and rubs the paint off with a tissue. Cruel children whisper ‘freak’ in her head and she shoves the memory away. Matt Trevelyar didn’t seem to think she was a freak the other night. She’d seen him looking at her hands but there was no trace of disgust in his eyes. All of a sudden, this whole venture seems ridiculous to her.

  ‘You know, Gran, I’m not sure I want to go ahead with this potion. I mean, what if he reacts badly? Much as I don’t care what happens to him, given the monster he is – I don’t want to be a murderer.’

  Gran coughs out a wheezy laugh. ‘There’s not a chance you’d do that, my beauty. You’re too skilled, clever.’

  ‘There’s always a chance. Everyone reacts differently.’ Lavender folds her arms, stands her ground. Gran’s obsessed, but she won’t take the fall if anything goes wrong. And to suggest that he comes to her house? The two of them alone. Does she care more about driving this man out than her own granddaughter’s safety?

  Gran slaps her hand down on the shop counter and Lavender blinks. The old woman can still scare the shit out of her, even now. ‘Look here, my girl. This man beat his wife until she couldn’t take life no more. Then he molested little girls – you know full well what that’s like! Do you want him to do it to our little ones? Where’s your backbone!’

  Lavender’s stomach turns and tears well up behind her eyes. Memories surface of that day at school again. The day when… She closes her eyes, shoves the scene into a dark cupboard, bolts the door. ‘Okay! Okay, I’ll ring him and invite him to dinner tomorrow if it makes you happy.’ Her voice sounds thin, wobbly, and Lavender hates it.

  Her gran sticks her chin out, bangs the counter again. ‘Aye, it do make me happy. Ought to make you too! The sooner that sick devil Matthew Trevelyar is gone from here the better we’ll all be.’ She sweeps out of the shop, slamming the door behind her. Lavender covers her ears against the jangling of the doorbell and leans against the counter until silence returns. The canvas waits on the table, but all desire to paint has gone.

  * * *

  Matt’s just arrived home from school when his phone rings. His heart leaps when he sees Lavender’s name. ‘Hi there, Lavender. How are you?’ He walks to the window and looks out over the fields, excitement building in his chest as if he’s a teenager again.

  ‘Good thanks, Matt. I was wondering if you’d like to come for dinner tomorrow evening?’

  Bloody hell! Does she mean at her house? ‘What, you’re going to cook for me?’

  ‘That was the plan.’ Lavender’s laugh sounds nervous.

  ‘How nice!’

  ‘I’d wait until after you’ve tasted it before you make a judgement.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be wonderful.’ Matt plonks himself down on the sofa, kicks his shoes off. ‘Can I bring anything?’

  ‘No, just yourself. About seven?’

  ‘Yes, great. Looking forward to it.’ Matt’s smile is so wide he can hardly speak.

  ‘Okay. Bye, then–’

  ‘Er, I need your address.’

  She laughs. ‘Of course you do. I’m a few miles from you, so you’ll need to drive. It’s Headland Cottage on Atlantic Spur Lane. Go right to the end and the cottage is on the left. There’s only two houses on there, can’t miss it.’ She gives him the postcode and hangs up.

  Matt notices his daft grin in the dining room mirror and laughs out loud. Who’d have thought it? Lavender Nancarrow asking him to dinner. He must be pretty special given what Jessica had told him about how she was with men. That Jamie bloke in the pub the other night didn’t stand a chance, but she obviously likes me. Then he tells himself off.
Tomorrow might be a test to see if he’s a gentleman… so he has to be on his very best behaviour. Matt can just imagine the old witch Penhallow going berserk when she finds out. Unless Lavender hasn’t told her of course. Matt’s glad he has to drive to Lavender’s, because he can only have a glass of wine. The last thing he wants to do is get merry, because he tends to say things he shouldn’t when he is. Last night, after he’d spoken to her, he was a bit worried that things were moving too fast. Dinner was a huge thing so early in a… what? A relationship? They didn’t really have one – so it was a bit odd. Besides, did he actually want a relationship? Then he’d told himself to just see where things went. Lavender wasn’t just anyone, she was one of the most beautiful and interesting people he’d ever met. He’d be stupid to say no.

  * * *

  Outside her house, he looks at the flowers he’d purchased from the garage and wishes he’d got chocolates too. Do they look too droopy? They hadn’t a lot of choice and he wanted to bring something as well as wine. He looks at the bottle of red in his other hand. What if she only drinks white? She was drinking white the other night at the pub, so… The door opens as he’s contemplating.

  ‘Hi, Matt. I thought I heard a car pull up.’ Lavender’s standing in the hallway wearing a flowery dress. Sunflowers on a red background would look garish on anyone else, but Lavender rocks it. Her hair’s loose, cascading over her shoulders, and she gives him a warm smile that lights up her face. She eyes his gifts.

  ‘Hi Lavender. I brought you some flowers and wine.’ Well, duh. She’s not blind.

  ‘Thanks, that’s so kind.’ She takes the flowers. ‘Come inside.’

  Matt’s only just set foot inside Lavender’s home, but he wishes he had a place like it. From the patio doors, there’s a panoramic view of the ocean, a field or two and a rugged cliff over which the sun’s setting. The inside walls are made from huge stone slabs, upon which some colourful fabrics hang. There’s similar fabrics woven into the rugs on the stripped floors, and in the wide chimney breast, an open fire. The furniture has seen better days, but the old leather overstuffed sofa works so well in this setting. The cottage is perfect.

  ‘Wow, what a wonderful view, and a wonderful home too,’ Matt says, slipping his jacket off and hanging it on the back of a kitchen chair.

  Lavender turns from arranging his flowers in a yellow ceramic vase, a smile on her lips. ‘Thanks. I love it. My granddad used to rent it out when I was a girl and I always said I’d like to live in it one day. When he died he left it to me in his will.’

  ‘That must have been a lovely surprise.’

  ‘It was. Not sure Gran was that pleased, though. I think she was going to sell…’ Lavender’s words are cut short by the stream of water gushing into the vase. Matt thinks she realised she was telling him too much about her gran. That wouldn’t do, given she and Matt are enemies. ‘Please take a seat at the table. It won’t be long now.’

  Lavender sets the flowers down on the big farmhouse table and hurries back to the kitchen. Matt scrapes out a chair and sits. Then he stands up again and takes the top off the wine, pours a little into a glass by a set place. ‘Hope you like red?’

  ‘Love it. It’ll go well with the beef stroganoff.’

  ‘Lovely. It smells divine!’ Divine? How pretentious. Just act normal, Matt. He pours himself a glass and takes a sip. His pulse quickens. Why is he so nervous? ‘Can I help at all?’ he calls through to where he can see Lavender crouched in front of a cupboard.

  ‘You can come and drain the rice if you like.’ She smiles and hands him a colander.

  A few minutes later, he’s feeling calmer. He always feels better when he’s doing something and together they have carried in plates, dishes of salad, rice and home-made bread. Now they’re sitting opposite each other, and he’s taken by her beauty again, her face aglow in the candlelight.

  ‘Cheers, Lavender,’ he says, raising his glass.

  ‘Cheers, Matt. Now dig in before it gets cold.’

  He does as he’s told and finds the food is delicious. The conversation flows easy between them and they share their backgrounds and interests on a perfunctory level. Once or twice Matt notices the extra skin between her thumb and index finger and wants to ask about it. Instinctively he knows that would be a bad move at this stage. She surprises him therefore by saying, ‘I know you’re dying to ask about my webbing. You keep looking.’

  Matt glances at her face, but there’s no trace of discomfort in her eyes. Just openness. ‘Um. Only if you want to tell me. It’s none of my business.’

  ‘It isn’t, but I don’t mind. I was born with it. My gran has it between her index and middle fingers. Mum wanted me to have the op to remove it when I was a kid, but Gran wouldn’t hear of it. She says those who’ve got it have a special relationship with nature and the sea. Dad went along with his mother.’ Lavender pauses, shrugs. ‘I don’t care now, but it was pretty grim when I was at school.’

  ‘Did the other kids bully you?’

  A cloud passes over her eyes and she takes a sip of wine. ‘They did. Sometimes I didn’t want to go to school because of it, but Gran said I had to go in and show them all I wasn’t bothered. She said it would make me strong… and I think she was right.’

  ‘Kids can be cruel.’

  ‘And adults.’

  The pointed look she gives him is fleeting, but Matt’s convinced she meant her words for him. He swallows a mouthful of food and asks, ‘In what way?’

  ‘Just in general. I don’t have many friends… I have the webbing and dress differently. I’m committed to using herbs, plants, nature’s gifts, to heal ailments, create well-being. Some say I’m a witch like my gran.’ She smiles but he can’t see warmth in it.

  ‘Is she a white witch?’

  ‘If being an authority on herbs, healing and plants makes you a white witch, then yes.’

  Matt shifts in his seat. Was that an admission of Morvoren being a witch? Is he having dinner with one? Does it matter if he is? Struggling for something positive to say, he offers, ‘There’s a lot to be said for holistic methods of healing nowadays. So many conventional drugs can harm the body, I’ve read.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Lavender tears a hunk of bread and dips it in her stroganoff sauce. How refreshing to see no inhibitions. ‘Too many chemicals can do more harm than good.’ She pops the bread in her mouth and chews, stares into the middle distance and says, ‘How did your wife die?’

  Taken aback by her abrupt change of topic and matter-of-fact tone, Matt takes a moment, pushes some rice around his plate. ‘She had a serious illness.’ Even now the word ‘cancer’ sticks in his throat.

  ‘Mental illness?’ Lavender takes a sip of wine, fixes him with a cold stare.

  ‘Eh? No. What make you say that?’

  She shrugs. ‘People talk. I heard she was depressed.’

  ‘Which people?’ Her attitude and manner are beginning to piss him off.

  ‘I can’t remember now. Don’t tell me if it upsets you.’ Lavender avoids his gaze, picks up her wine glass, circles her finger around the rim.

  Matt’s struggling to cope with her abrupt manner. Why has she suddenly switched her personality? But if she wants the miserable truth, she can have it. ‘My beautiful wife and soulmate Beth, died of leukaemia after a three-year battle. When she was first diagnosed, she was pregnant – we agreed she should terminate so she could have chemo, to give her the best chance of survival... but it was for nothing in the end. That still hurts. I often wonder whether our child would have been a girl or boy… what they’d be like now as a five-year-old.’ There’s a tremor in his voice so he takes a drink of wine and notices he’s nearly finished the glass.

  ‘Oh dear. That must have been tough, sorry,’ Lavender says, and starts to clear the table. She sounds about as sorry as a fox with a free pass to a henhouse. She shouts from the kitchen, ‘Apple pie or cheesecake?’

  Is she for real? He’s just opened up to her, and she’s behaving as if they
’d been talking about the weather. If she doesn’t alter soon, he’s out of here. He shouts back, ‘Surprise me. Just going to the loo!’

  Upon his return, on the table there’s hot apple pie and cream and another glass of wine. Matt sits down and pushes the wine to the side. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’m driving.’

  Lavender gives him a sweet smile and seems back to normal. ‘It’s a dessert wine, non-alcoholic. Made it myself.’ She takes a spoonful of pie.

  Matt smiles and does the same. Then he takes a sip of the wine and finds it a bit too sweet but very pleasant. ‘Hmm. The blackcurrant tones compliment the apple pie perfectly,’ he says in a plummy accent.

  She laughs and soon they’re talking about anything and everything, just as naturally as they were before she went weird on him. She pours him another glass of the wine and they go to sit by the open fire, Lavender on the sofa, him in the armchair. It’s so cosy here. His place is warm now they’ve fixed the heating at last, but it lacks the cosy feel... Matt could listen to Lavender talk all night. Her voice is so soft and that subtle Cornish burr… He closes his eyes, lets it wash over him and thinks what a wonderful evening it’s been… mostly anyway, apart from the little blip. He opens his mouth to ask her something… but he can’t for the life of him remember what he wants to say…

  Chapter 11

  September 1956

  Morvoren can’t quite recall when she fell out of hate and in love with Terry Trevelyar. It was probably last year at the farmer’s dance when he’d walked in looking like he’d just stepped out of a Hollywood movie. With his slicked-back hair and quiff, wearing a leather jacket, he could have been Elvis, without a word of exaggeration. Those blue, and dare she think it, come-to-bed eyes had sent a fire through her cheeks and other places it had no business being. It was shameful the way he made her feel.

  Tonight would be the night that he’d fall in love with her too. There’d been precious little opportunity to be anywhere near him for months, even though she’d tried her best to bump into him around the village. These attempts were awkward and painful on her part. On these occasions she asked if he was well in a stiff little voice, and he just grunted – looked at her as if she’d been something on his shoe. Unsurprising, given the bloody feud that had gone on for far too long now.