by Holly Bell
‘I suppose they mean well. Even if it is a bit stifling.’
‘Tell me about it. When I go to family events I’m still called Piccola, even by people younger, and shorter, than I am. I see it as affectionate.’
‘Fair enough,’ conceded Amanda with a smile.
They found their seats and settled in well before the Five-Minute Bell called the players to the field.
It was a close-run match, but, thanks tp the Middlesex captain, the home team won the day, and he was awarded Man of the Match. Ryan came in for his share of the glory, having partnered his skipper to get his crucial century, in other words, 100 runs. It was their 119 partnership that had pipped the opposing team to the post.
The final applause pattered away, and, variously joyful and disappointed, the members of the crowd gathered their belongings to head for refreshments or the return home. The ladies took their time.
‘Let’s give Ryan a while to change before we turn up. Or he won’t be there yet, and I’ll feel completely out of place,’ said Amanda. Even so, as, by degrees, they approached the Nursery Pavilion, Amanda’s nerve began to fail her. ‘Oh, couldn’t we just go home, Claire? I can text him and convey my apologies. I doubt he’ll notice my absence.’
‘Screw your courage to the sticking place, mon ami,’ said Claire. ‘I think he will notice your absence and you have given your word.’
‘True, I have,’ admitted Amanda. She took a deep breath and straightened her back, a gesture that anyone who knew Senara, her grandmother, would instantly have recognised. Amanda glanced down at her ensemble. She was becomingly arrayed in a new dress that Claire had given her, sheer, self-patterned, soft gold semi-transparent fabric over a layer of cream silk.
No one would have guessed that, below the fitted bodice and beneath the flowing skirt, snug in her stocking top, was a very particular IKEA pencil. The most powerful of all her magical tools, this was, in fact, her Pocket-wand, Dr Bertil Bergstrom’s patent invention, and Amanda knew better than to leave her house without it.
The Nursery Pavilion was distinguished by a glass wall of sliding panels that gave onto a narrow terrace at the edge of the cricket field. At this moment, it was a-throng with fashionable elegance and sporting excellence. Round tables gowned in spotless white damask, were laid with fine dining ware and crystal for the guests, who were seated or standing, chatting animatedly.
Amanda spotted Ryan at the centre of the knot of admirers. The captain's arm was around his shoulders as they were professionally photographed for magazines and selfied for social networking sites.
‘He’s busy,’ stated Amanda, with a certain amount of relief.
‘Come on, let’s eat,’ suggested Claire. ‘The food here’ll be good.’ They approached one of the buffet tables and began helping themselves to the delicacies on offer.
Abruptly, Amanda gasped.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Claire in consternation.
‘Oh, I wish he wouldn’t do that!’ exclaimed Amanda. Claire looked towards Ryan. But he was not the source of Amanda’s irritation.
Tempest had somehow insinuated himself into the Pavilion, and was ensconced under the buffet table, lying in wait for his harem of two to attend to his nutritional preferences. As Amanda had stood pondering the gourmet choices, he had shot out a paw to make sudden and startling contact with her foot.
Amanda knowingly scanned the array for her familiar's favourite. She scooped up a helping of caviar in a lettuce leaf. Pretending to attend to her shoe, she knelt and laid it in front of Tempest, who acknowledged her graciously.
‘Not that you deserve it, Brat Cat,’ she whispered.
Claire found a mini salmon roulade and got it under the table on the ruse of dropping her napkin then bobbing briefly to retrieve it from the floor.
‘Behave!’ Amanda adjured her familiar.
‘Behave? I always behave,’ replied a familiar voice. Ryan had succeeded in detaching himself from his fans, and had navigated the room to Amanda’s side.
‘Oh, I meant —’
‘You made it! How can I thank you? May I assume I’m forgiven?’ he said winningly.
‘Good game,’ commented Claire, weighing up his penitent act and noting that Amanda was ignoring the question of forgiveness.
‘Well, hello,’ said Ryan, recognising her. ‘So you’re Amanda’s best friend?’
‘The very same,’ acknowledged Claire, with her professional, media smile.
‘Delighted to see you,’ said Ryan, courteously. ‘Did you both enjoy the match?’
‘Yes, and you acquitted yourself admirably,’ Amanda praised him.
‘Thank you. I wasn’t expecting quite this level of excitement.’ He moved closer to Amanda and lowered his voice. ‘I’d hoped we’d get more of an opportunity to chat.’
Ryan inhaled sharply as he felt a hand on his shoulder. As he looked, it slid around his neck, and a tall, faultlessly coiffured and made-up brunette undulated into his arm and seemed to coil around him, putting Amanda vividly in mind of the Serpent around the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden.
Chapter 3
Daddy’s Little Project
‘Darling Ry-Ry,’ the Serpent in brunette guise sighed huskily. ‘It’s been forever.’
‘Oh hello,’ he answered, less than enthused but civil. He seemed unable to disengage himself politely. ‘I didn’t see you.’
‘And I could see no one here but you.’ The woman was pointedly ignoring Claire and Amanda who began to take the opportunity to sidle away.
Ryan, still unable to break free from the scented embrace, cleared his throat and performed the introductions.
‘Amanda, Claire, this is Samantha. We … er —’
‘Are old friends,’ she said, looking into his eyes with a sultry smile and touching his neck with an ice-pink taloned finger. Ryan gently removed her hand and said,
‘Amanda and Claire are from my village, two of my especially valued neighbours,’
Amanda refrained from mentioning that he had only just found out that Claire was one of them
‘Oh, I know!’ said Samantha, her attention momentarily distracted from Ryan. ‘Mad Sinking.’
‘Sunken Madley,’ corrected Amanda.
‘Yes, Daddy’s little project,’ she purred.
Amanda was taken aback.
‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s all I hear about from him. He’s raring to go. They’re sticking the poles in and measuring and things on Monday. I expect you’ll all turn out for the occasion.’
‘What?’ queried Amanda, frowning in confusion.
‘Not sure I’ll be there. Mud and wellies. Not really my bag,’ she said, looking down at the Chanel purse dangling at her hip.
Amanda was bewildered. There were no building works scheduled in the village. ‘Excuse me, but … what are you talking about?’
‘The lab? The clinic research centre thing. I’m sure it’s at Mad Whatever.’
Light dawned. ‘You mean the projected asthma research centre at Lost Madley?’
‘Yes, of course,’ replied Samantha, barely escaping adding ‘duh’.
‘But that isn’t for months,’ objected Amanda. ‘What about planning permission?’
‘Oh, Daddy’s got that,’ Samantha uttered dismissively with a wave of her fingers. ‘Yes, and without local backhanders if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s not like anyone wants the land for anything. No rare species there, just a lot of rubble and earth.’
Amanda felt rocked. It was all too quick, too soon, and somehow … too wrong. Not the clinic. The place … That place. And now it seemed there was no time … no way to stop it. ‘You say they’re marking out the foundations the day after tomorrow?’
‘Yes. Why? What does it matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Here, have some champagne.’
Claire looked at her friend in surprise and concern.
In seconds, the voices around Amanda
faded, as though she were under water. The sensation she’d had in Dr Sharma’s office, the day her GP, her General Practitioner, had told her about the site, came back in tripled intensity.
Lost Madley. An annexe of her village, separated by a couple of hundred yards, in the forest. Some houses, a small pub and a shop. Bombed during the 1940s, houses levelled, fatalities and casualties, the fortunes of war sweeping clean the board. The survivors were re-housed, it was never rebuilt. No one spoke of it. The birds did not sing there, and the trees were thin.
She had seen it once, long ago. Only once. The memory chilled her.
Now, standing in the Nursery Pavilion of Lord’s cricket ground on this bright June day, for a split second, the hamlet swam before her eyes as it had been before the bombs fell. The single lane, the old pub with the small-paned window of the bar, a young man and woman …. Suddenly it dissolved and was gone.
Amanda came back to the present at the sound of Ryan’s anxious voice in her ear. She took a deep breath and forced a smile.
‘It’s nothing. Just surprised. Too much champagne,’ she jested, although she had yet to sample so much as a sip.
‘We’ll leave you to recover,’ said the Serpent, still coiled around Mr Ford. ‘Ry-Ry, Daddy will be devastated not to have been here to see you, but Sir Michael is very anxious to meet the hero of the match.’ She inclined her head in the direction of one of the club’s most influential sponsors.
‘But …,’ objected Ryan, ’Ok, I’ll be right th—’
‘Sir Michael is waiting, darling. Do come along.’
Samantha maneuvered him inexorably away as he called back to Amanda and Claire, ‘Thank you for making it here. I’ll call you. Do enjoy yoursel…’
Claire rolled her eyes. Amanda nodded her head and smiled at her friend. ‘Yes, now that we’re here, let’s do just that.’
They gathered delicacies into three napkins, and looked at one another conspiratorially.
‘And now…’ They nodded and said simultaneously, ‘We have another appointment.’
‘With darling Pierce-y!’ declared Claire, affectedly, in a passable imitation of Samantha.
‘Indeed. I have a treat for us,’ Amanda confided ‘Pierce Brosnan in Goldeneye. Special Edition.’
Claire’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, marvelous!‘
Their light-hearted exchange considerably restored Amanda, after the shock of Samantha’s announcement, and her brief flashback to a past she had never known.
‘Come dahhhling!’ said Claire and they linked arms and exited laughing into the late afternoon sunshine. ‘Don’t take any notice of Samantha.’
‘You know her?’ asked Amanda. ‘She acted like she’d never seen you before.’
‘Oh, I just assume it’s all fake. Maybe she isn’t like that at all. Actually, I don’t think she’s ever had the chance to find out what she’s like. Between wealthy, divorced parents bidding exorbitant stakes for her affection, Sam’s had her every whim catered to. She’s never had to even think for herself. She’s probably just copying her equally clueless friends.’ Claire sounded to Amanda like she was trying to convince herself.
They reached the Audi to find Tempest curled up asleep on the newly parked, still-warm, bonnet of a red and black Mini Cooper S. He unwound himself, dropped lithely to the ground, and took a leisurely stroll in through the back passenger door of Claire’s car that Amanda was holding open for him. He reflected that his witch was a good little thing and did have her uses after all.
Amanda settled herself and fastened her seatbelt.
As they emerged from the underground depths of the car park, into the street with its trees and open sky, her mind returned to the Pavilion. In spite of the cloudless afternoon, a shadow crossed her mind. She stared unseeing through the windscreen at the passing London plane trees, and said, half to herself,
‘It must be a mistake. They can’t possibly be starting tomorrow. Samantha must have been winding me up …, surely?’
.
Chapter 4
Monday Morning
By Monday morning, Amanda had decided that she didn’t believe, or, at least, didn’t want to believe, Samantha’s tale. The work on the asthma research centre couldn’t possibly be commencing in Lost Madley that day.
Amanda resolutely walked up the path by the early fruiting cherry tree. She glanced up to see how the crop was growing, while fledgeling starlings on the grass tried to hurry off on inexpert wings. She entered her workshop and had barely begun to lock herself in, when the doorbell rang.
It was Joan the postlady holding a sheaf of letters and a packet easily small enough to have fitted through the letterbox. That meant only one thing: Joan had News.
‘Good morning, Joan.’
‘Morning, love. Well.’ She paused for dramatic effect. ‘They’ve started!’
‘They?’ queried Amanda.
‘You know … the works.’
‘The works?’
‘The building in Lost Madley,’ explained Joan.
‘You know about that?’ asked Amanda, in surprise.
‘Course, I do. Everyone knows.’
‘How come?’
‘Oo, these things get around you know. And he did come and ask,’ Joan said with typical vagueness.
‘Who did?’
‘That Damian with the car.’
‘Sorry?’
‘He came and explained. In the pub.’
Amanda’s sleep had been restless and ridden by unremembered dreams for the last two nights, and she wasn’t feeling at her best and brightest. ‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Damian from the building, the research centre project,’ said Joan patiently. ‘He came in the pub and talked about it and what he wanted to do and his poor mum and, of course, no one had any objections. Though some said, who knows what’s still down there, poor things. And best not to disturb the dead, but as far as we were concerned it was all fine with us, and good luck to him. And. of course, we all thought of you, and wouldn’t it be a marvel if they had a cure for you, love, bless your heart.’
Amanda followed Joan’s rambling monologue as best she could and extracted the essential information, saying, ‘So, you knew they were starting today.’
‘Oh yes, and those of us who can are off to have a look. You want to get a move on, dear, if you want to see the start, though I dare say they’ll be there all day. I’ll be along when I finish my rounds, you can be sure. Most exciting thing that’s happened round here since the new church roof!’
Amanda wasn’t sure what to say. Or, indeed, what to do.
‘Well ... Joan. Thank you for bringing me up to speed.’
‘That’s all right. Mind how you go. See you in a bit!’
And she was off down the path with Amanda standing rooted to the spot as Joan closed the gate and waved. Amanda felt Tempest rubbing comfortingly around her ankles and looked down.
‘What do you think about all that?’
He looked at her intently.
‘You, think we should go and take a gander, don’t you?’
He blinked slowly once, for ‘yes’.
‘All right. Let me just add another coat of lacquer to that side table and it can be drying while we’re out.’
It was soon done. Amanda shed her overalls, replaced them with jeans and yellow top, grabbed her jacket and went out to the British racing green Vauxhall Astra. Emblazoned in gold lettering down the sides was: Cadabra Restoration and Repairs
It had been bequeathed to her by Grandpa, together with the business.
Curiously enough, today, neither of her grandparents was to be found. Grandpa hadn’t been in the workshop and Granny hadn’t been around the house or garden. It wasn’t exactly unusual. Since they’d transferred to the spirit plane they had come and gone with not much explanation, but it did seem like a curious coincidence.
‘Where are they?’ Amanda said rhetorically to Tempest. He clearly either knew and
wasn’t saying, or neither knew nor cared, especially in the case of Granny with whom he shared a mutual antipathy. To him she was still as solid, real and unpleasant as ever. He considered the inability of most humans to perceive either her or Perran as a singular mark of their species’ inferiority.
Amanda noticed that Tempest had chosen to sit on the front passenger seat. Probably so he could remark on the standard of her driving and tell her where to park.
She drove to the end of Orchard Row and turned left into Hog Lane, then left again round the green into Muttring Lane, which led north to the next village of Upper Muttring. However, as soon as she had passed the last house in Sunken Madley, Amanda took what was little more than a mud track leading off into the trees, to the right of the road. She slowed the Astra to a crawl, and the lane gave way to thinning silver birches that showed the ruins-cum-building site to the right.
This was the first time Amanda had been up close and personal to Lost Madley, and she was glad to have Tempest with her. He meowed, and she pulled off the track and parked.
Chapter 5
Pegging Out
As Amanda approached on foot, she saw various villagers on the left of the track and strangers on the right of it whom she assumed were part of the construction crew. Most wore hi-visibility jackets of neon yellow and hard hats. They seemed to be organising themselves into teams. One or two kept glancing along the road as though watching for someone.
The silver birches were spindly here and even though it was summer not one of them bore a living leaf. Tall, spritely 90-something Miss de Havillande of The Grange was there with her great friend and contemporary, the petite, fairy-like Miss Armstrong-Witworth. Miss de Havillande’s terrier was exploiting the comparatively abundant proximity of trees.
Amanda looked around for Tempest who was passing the time attempting to intimidate Churchill, by advancing by degrees into his space. But Churchill was too elderly and oblivious to be perturbed. Since the day Tempest had defended him against an overexcited visiting Chihuahua, he had refused to be convinced by Tempest’s fake guerrilla incursions.