by Holly Bell
‘Oh, but … yes … sure. Well, now. A lady carpenter … that certainly is a … a cool combination,’ he said hooking his thumbs into his belt, and nodding. ‘Right, well, … come by any time. You’ll be very welcome, I’m sure.’
The ladies thanked him, and they departed, leaving Damian, unusually, on the back foot.
Miss de Havillande chuckled, as they made for Amanda’s car. ‘I expect most male desk workers feel a little threatened by a young woman, whose profession engages her in physical work in a branch of construction.’
‘It happens. But he’s doing a good deed with the Centre,’ responded Amanda on a positive note, while privately putting Damian down as a bit of poser.
Miss de Havillande insisted on travelling beside Churchill in the back of the car. Tempest took up his place on the front passenger seat, every so often turning around to subdue Churchill with The Look.
They took the track to join Muttring Lane then drove south past the Priory ruins on the right, then the church on the left, turning left again by the pub into Trotters Bottom. Finally, they took a right through the open great gates, and parked in the driveway of Miss de Havillande’s residence.
The Grange had an even older pedigree than the 400-year-old Tudor Sunken Madley Manor. Its residents accurately referred to it as ‘a great barn of a place’. For that was precisely what the first structure had been: a storage facility for the millennium-old Benedictine priory on the edge of the village. The priory itself had now lain in ruins for some 500 years, but was a favourite remote vantage point and picnic spot for Amanda and Tempest.
The Grange, by contrast, had been built, burned down, rebuilt, blown down, rebuilt, fallen down, rebuilt, shot down, and finally remodelled and remodelled until it had reached its stately Georgian stone-faced structure. This was pleasantly symmetrical, rising over three floors including the ground floor, with a multitude of sash windows and a modestly pillared porch.
‘Come in, Amanda. Yes, He can come too, only, do you hear me, young man?’ Cynthia addressed Tempest, ‘No harrying Churchill or Pushkin and no harassing Natasha!’
Pushkin was a timid Siberian long-haired, golden tabby and Natasha a Nevskaya Maskaradnaya, a cream, even longer haired cat with a light brown head and tail. She enjoyed blowing hot and cold on Tempest, gazing at him alluringly with sapphire eyes then rejecting his advances in no uncertain terms, when he employed a variety of ways of disturbing her peace. The felines’ human was Gwendolen Armstrong-Witworth.
‘See that you stay away from both of them!’ continued Miss de Havillande, waving an admonitory finger.
Tempest assumed an air of wounded innocence.
‘Don’t play off your airs and graces on me. Off with you to the kitchen. Moffat will see that you get something … Oh, dear no, he’ll still be out …’
‘Miss Cynthia?‘ came the voice of the ladies’ elderly retainer and general factotum. White-haired and insistently attired in a black suit with tails, he was the de facto master of the estate.
‘Oh, Moffat, will you see to —‘
‘— Hm,’ grunted Moffat disapprovingly. He nodded and led the way, muttering ‘Varmint!’
Amanda had helped Grandpa to restore one or two pieces for the ladies and had been to The Grange for the occasional party. She had long yearned for a proper look at the house. It featured an elegantly sweeping main staircase and a decent sized ballroom that she had only ever seen crowded with people.
‘Would you like a cup of tea first, after all the excitement, or are you eager for a little tour?’
‘A little tour first, if I may,’ replied Amanda.
‘Of course, my dear, and by that time perhaps Gwendolen will have finished her stint in the garden and can join us.’
Amanda didn’t know Miss Armstrong-Witworth very well. She always seemed like a shy daisy beside the vibrant rose of her companion.
‘Well, now. Let me take you into the dining room first so that you can see the damage.
After Amanda had made a thorough inspection of the table, and they had discussed how best to proceed, they returned to the hall.
‘We’ll take the stairs to the long gallery, and that’ll be enough for now,’ said Miss de Havillande. ‘I’d think you’d be more than ready for tea then.’
‘Yes, that will be fine,’ agreed Amanda.
‘Now … there are a number of paintings whose frames have suffered neglect over the years, and are fit to fall apart. Let’s start here. Would you like a look at the bannister. I expect it could do with some attention too.’
Amanda regarded the practically polish-free, dented surface, and the damaged spindles.
‘I must say, Miss de Havillande, this rail would be spectacular with the right care. It would gleam.’
‘Noted. Now, here is the first of the artworks.’ She gestured to the wall and a half-length portrait of a woman, dark with age-discoloured varnish. The deep, ornately carved wooden frame was gaping at the seams.
‘This is my great-great-Aunt Sarah,’ explained Miss de Havilland. ‘A thought occurs to me. Have you done any restoration of paintings?’
That drew Amanda’s attention to the picture itself. She gazed at the canvas. Suddenly she had the sensation of being underwater. Miss de Havillande’s voice sounded distant and muffled. Her vision fizzed and darkened …
Notwithstanding her age, Miss de Havillande still had her strength and could move quickly.
She caught Amanda before she hit the floor.
Chapter 10
Aunt Amelia
At 7 o’clock that evening, a 1955, brown and cream, R-Type Bentley drove into Sunken Madley, the low, evening sunshine glinting on its winged bonnet ornament.
It was the green apple of Dennis Hanley-Page’s eye, and one he yearned to possess. For 23 years he had been trying to persuade Ms Amelia Reading to part with it, for steadily increasing sums of money. He had even proposed to her three times.
‘Yes, Dennis,’ she had replied, with amused tolerance, ‘I know that it has absolutely nothing to do with —’
‘Alas,’ he mourned, ‘you know me too well, Amelia.’ He brightened. ‘You see how well suited we are. Dammit, you’re a woman after my own heart. Never met a lady who knew as much about classic cars as I do. You know, I do believe, I’d propose to you even if you didn’t own the most beautiful motorcar between here and the National Motor Museum at Beaulieu. What d’you say? Shall we make a match of it?’
‘I don’t know what you’d say if I agreed! But I’ll say the same thing that I always say! No, Dennis. I had that car from my uncle, he entrusted it to me, and we will not be parted nor united with your collection. You are, however, welcome to admire from afar. Which deep down you know suits you far better, Dennis,’ Amelia added knowingly.
‘Dear lady, you strike another blow to my heart,’ he said with mock sorrow, a hand to his chest
‘I’m sure you’ll recover,’ said Amelia encouragingly. ‘Especially if you give up the cigars.’
‘What? Am I to be permitted no solace?’
‘Your solace can be dwelling on your élite collection that’s worth millions and is the envy of three counties.’
He puffed out his chest.
‘True true ... and it could all be yours …’
She laughed outright and shook her head.
Amelia turned left into Orchard Row with perfectly judged speed, and drew up, with both offside wheels an inch from the pavement, outside number 26. She rose elegantly from the driver’s seat, drawing her peach, ankle length, vintage summer coat free of the door. Her thick, short, dark chestnut bob, echoing the warm brown of her eyes, was ruffled by the breeze as she entered the gate and walked up the path as the door opened. Amanda welcomed her in.
‘Hello, sweetie. You needn’t have got up. I could have used my key.’
‘It’s all right, Aunt Amelia, I’m feeling much better now. I expect Mr Hanley-Page knows you’ve arrived.’
&nb
sp; ‘I think he’s got a proximity alarm that sounds when it detects Priscilla.’
Amelia saw that Amanda had been curled up on the sofa with a blanket, and bade her sit down again as she left for the kitchen. Ms Reading presently returned with mugs, and took a flask out of her ubiquitous black velvet holdall, of which Amanda had made a copy in her teens. It contained hot chocolate spiced with a little chilli, and made with coconut milk and cream.
‘Here you are, Ammy. This should perk you up.’ She waited while Amanda took a couple of reviving sips. ‘Now … what happened?’
‘Well … I was at Miss de Havillande’s. She asked me to go back with her and look at some jobs. And Granny and Grandpa, who I hadn’t seen for a couple of days, suddenly appeared and told me to bump her to the front of the queue, so I knew it was important. But of course, I didn’t know why, because they still never tell me anything!’
‘Yes, I know, sweetie,’ said Amelia, understandingly.
‘Anyway … I’d looked at the dining table and the bannister, and then Miss de Havillande started showing me the portraits. She wants the loose frames repaired. And then she asked me about cleaning the canvasses themselves. So, for the first time, I actually looked at the painting and then … all at once, everything went muffled and foggy and … black …. The next thing I knew, I was waking up on the drawing-room sofa, and Miss de Havillande and Miss Armstrong-Witworth and Moffat and Tempest were there. No one made a fuss; Moffat brought me some hot sweet tea and biscuits, and after a while, I felt better, and Miss de Havillande said, we’ll carry on another day and drove me home in the Astra.’
‘I see …. Hm. Interesting. Let’s go back to the painting. You’re standing in front of it and …’
‘I was looking at the surface … and I noticed … let's see … it was a woman. She had a … wait … yes … I had a flashback. Or maybe a vision or daydream, I don’t know … suddenly I was floating — no, well anyway, I wasn’t standing — and I was looking at a painting, only it was a different painting … and that was all. Then just now …’
‘Yes?’ prompted Amelia
‘About half an hour ago, I was having a nap, and I had a dream. The same thing, only this time there was a voice, talking close to me …. And then there was that episode at Lords —’
‘When you saw Lost Madley in the past?’
‘Yes, and now this build on that place. The first time Dr Patel told me about it, it gave me the shivers and now …. And the man on the site. It’s just happening so quickly. Everything is happening so quickly!’
Amelia looked at Amanda compassionately, then spoke gently, ‘What did you expect? You crossed the Rubicon, sweetie.’
Amanda turned from consternation to puzzlement. ‘What do you mean, Aunt Amelia?’
‘You told me yourself. What happened at the Manor and in the Wood. The spells. For the first time, you used spells on a living thing, and a human at that. And more than once …’
‘But … but … you all said —’
‘Oh yes, my dear, you did very well indeed. We are all immensely proud of you. But magic has consequences. Every spell has a residual effect, just as every action has a reaction. It might be a smell or a colour change in the eyes, like yours, or a ... billowing in space and time … but it will happen. There is no silencer for a wand. Magic is part of nature, just as much as gravity, and it cannot escape its laws.’
Amanda was shocked. ‘What have I done?’
‘No more than any of us would have done, and perhaps we might not have been as quick thinking or done as much as good. We would only have been more aware of what might come after.’
Amanda sat and thought, looking into her hot chocolate. ‘Granny said something,’ she recalled. ‘after all that business at the Manor … when she reappeared …. she gave me some Golden Rules. And one of them was to be sensitive to the side effects of a spell, however small and to remember it. And the strange thing is that in the Wood I did feel something, and again in the Manor. But it was so slight, and I was too distracted to ….’ She looked up at Amelia. ‘Do you remember when I was about 12 years old, and I asked you if someone was looking for me?’
‘Yes, I do, and I looked, and no one was.’
'Well … now?’
Amelia looked into the west with inner far-seeing eyes. ‘I‘m not sure if they are looking. It is more that someone has been reminded of your existence.’
‘I see. And somehow all of this is connected with the flashbacks?’ asked Amanda.
Amelia took a crystal ball from her bag. It looked like a golden firework exploding over a silver beach, floating in a globe of water. ‘I believe so,’ Amelia answered, looking into the orb.
Amanda looked serious. ‘It is one of the ripples from the stones I threw into the pool, the effects of the magic I used on living things?’
‘Yes, so it would seem. But the waters may calm. And we need not assume that the pool is just full of piranha!’ said Amelia smiling, ‘Oh, and the upside is … I think you may be getting a welcome visit sooner than you expected.’
‘From a tall, dark, handsome stranger from over the sea?’ asked Amanda teasingly.
‘Tall yes, dark no, handsome … yes, … and he will be crossing water. Hmm …,’ replied Amelia, with an impish smile.
Amanda relaxed and grinned. ‘Oh, Aunt Amelia, I do love you. Somehow you always make things seem all right again.’
‘Well, that’s what I’m here for, sweetie!’
Chapter 11
Impulsive
Amanda had never been impulsive. That is, more accurately, not since she was six years old.
It was the year that the first sign of her magical nature had clearly shown itself. The year of The Day of the Mustard Spoon, when reaching for the tiny implement she had moved it without making contact of any kind.
Training began, and within weeks she was able to slide and roll various objects in different directions at different speeds.
It was summer. A Sunday. And Grandpa and Granny had taken her to watch the cricket. Afterwards, they had made a detour to the playground near The Grange.
It was on the way back that it happened. Amanda, remarkably, in the opinion of some Sunken Madleyists, was not lonely, certainly not for the companionship of the other village children. She enjoyed the company of her grandparents and certain villagers. Sometimes, Amanda helped Joan the postlady deliver letters along Orchard Row, or, while Granny ran her errands, she would sit with Mrs Sharma’s mother, enraptured, hearing tales of India. She would help Mr Jackson next door with the garden, or stay with the rector and offer her thoughts as Jane wrote the next Sunday sermon, which, being for a multi-faith and non-faith community, was basically variations on: be nice to each other.
Nevertheless, Amanda had been reading stories that contained children who did have friends of their own age, and wondered if she was letting the side down by not having made any.
Amanda had done the school experiment at the age of three, at nursery. This was a success, in that it yielded a definite and clear result: it was not the place for Amanda, home was where she would thrive educationally, and that was very soon borne out.
Senara and Perran were excellent educators, or facilitators, as they thought of themselves, serving the enquiring and sponge-like mind of their little granddaughter, as it hopped from one passion to another. However, Amanda had heard them asked by the neighbours ‘what about socialisation?’ and she knew that meant ‘friends who were children’.
As they approached the High Street, an older child, Jade Kemp, crossing the road, lost control of her ball. It bounded along straight into the path of a car. Amanda, quick as a flash, let go of her grandparents’ hands and swiftly moved in closer to alter the course of the ball with a spell. Being six years old, her judgement of speed was undeveloped, especially of a car driven by the village’s (in the words of Miss de Havillande) demon driver. The car skidded to a halt with a screech of tyres, in front of Amanda, as
Grandpa scooped her up. He gave a wave of apology to Mr Hanley-Page, who was at the wheel of his Aston Martin DB5.
‘Is she all right?’ the driver asked anxiously.
‘Yes, yes,’ soothed Perran.
‘No harm done, then.’
‘Not to your tyres, I hope, Dennis,’ said Perran, checking the offside ones.
‘No, they’re fine, I’m sure. Mind yourself on the roads, young Amanda,’ he called as he drove on. Jade meanwhile had snatched up her toy, and, with a scowl, shouted, ‘Leave my ball alone!’ before running off towards Hog Lane.
Amanda’s breathing became short from the stress of the near miss and the child’s hostility in the face of her good intentions. They took her home, and, once she was calmed and had used her inhaler, Granny went off to the kitchen, and Grandpa, with Amanda on his lap, asked her gently what she was intending to do back there.
‘I thought I could just change the direction of the ball, and then the car wouldn’t squash it, and then she’d be grateful and like me, and I could make a friend,’ Amanda explained with simple logic. ‘I just needed to be a lot closer to make the spell work. I didn’t know it was Mr Hanley-Page.’
‘Well, that was a generous impulse,’ commended Grandpa. ‘It might be difficult at your age, but you need to think carefully before you act, about everything; as you do about running or going in the garden when there’s a lot of pollen or eating things that might not be good for you.’
Granny came in with the tea tray and took up the thread.
‘And imagine if the child had seen you change the direction of the ball or heard you saying your spell? What if Mr Hanley-Page hadn’t seen you in time? I don’t want to sound harsh, but this is serious, dear. Remember what has happened today. Remember that impulsiveness can get you killed.’