Witch Dust Page 5

  I honestly didn’t know what to think about these hitherto unsuspected relatives on whom we were to imminently descend and indeed, I was still pretty sceptical. The whole enterprise had more than a whiff of the wild goose about it. I wouldn’t have put it past her to have made everything up on the spur of the moment, purely for dramatic effect. I was half prepared to drive for a couple of hours only to end up with her wiping away a wistful tear and stating sadly, the old folk must have moved on.

  I wasn’t even entirely sure what I was hoping for. I was feeling an acutely painful sense of dislocation. All my life, throughout all the hysterical ups, downs, shenanigans and odd goings on, I’d borne in mind the terrible childhood she herself had endured, and felt allowances needed to be made. But last night, she’d casually trampled over all of that. I now had no idea at all of where or who she’d come from, why or when she’d left and whether she’d all the while been in clandestine contact. There were a hundred and one questions I could have asked had she been in answering mode.

  ***

  We made good time, it being mid-week with lighter traffic. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied, I’d have certainly enjoyed the drive more and once off the motorway, roads were scenically lined with trees decked out and dressed up gloriously in burnt orange, not yet completely decimated by spoil-sport winds. My little Fiat, which had seen better days, but of which I was very fond, for once behaved impeccably with none of the bumps and starts to which it was prone. All in all, it was an uneventful journey – until I mowed down a little old lady.

  Ophelia had woken grudgingly when I nudged her for directions.

  “That’s if you remember?” I said.

  “I’m not half-witted, of course I remember.” She sat up indignantly and unhesitatingly issued instructions, which had us negotiating some disconcertingly narrow lanes and passing through several sinisterly named villages, until I was fast on the way to losing both my bearings and my patience. Finally she said, with enough relief to confirm she’d been as doubtful as me,

  “Look, there. Turn right down there, then sharp left at the bottom. I glanced over to see whether she felt as apprehensive about this whole crazy business as I did. My eyes were only off the road for an instant. When I looked back, there was a figure smack dab in front of me, hands outstretched as if to ward off the lethally approaching vehicle. I threw all my weight on the brake. Ophelia and I jerked painfully forward against seatbelts and I felt a ghastly, solid thump as we hit the woman, echoed by another blow as Ink catapulted off her seat, smacked into the back of mine and bounced off onto the floor.

  I could feel adrenaline in the frozen tingling of scalp and fingers, and for a second or two couldn’t unclasp my grip, as if by force of hold on the steering wheel I could pull the car back from whatever terrible damage it had done. I staggered out on jellied legs, dreading what bloody sight might meet my eyes.

  Struggling to sit up in the middle of the road, was a woman, head haloed by fine, curly silver hair. My first impression was late fifties, but as she looked up, I adjusted that to a fair bit older. Relief surged, she wasn’t dead thank God, not even unconscious. She was cradling her left arm in her right, shoulders shaking. I looked a little closer and made another revision, not sobbing, laughing. Laughing?

  Blood that had departed my head, in the general rush to keep my heart going, started to trickle back to work and I felt slightly dizzy. I mustered moisture in a fright-parched mouth, and moved forward even though my legs were urging me to lie down, but two of us on the tarmac wasn’t going to do anyone any good.

  “I’m so sorry,” I croaked, “I just didn’t see you. You came out of nowhere, are you all right?” Replaying in my mind was the sheer solidity of the sound as we hit her, she had to be hurt in some way. l knelt down beside her in the road. I was a bit hazy about what to do next, aren’t you supposed not to move someone, internal injuries and all that. An ambulance, that’s what we needed, an ambulance.

  “Look, you mustn’t move.” I put an arm round thin shoulders to support her and looked back for Ophelia who, unbelievably, was still sitting in the car,

  “Ophelia.” I shrieked, “Ambulance – call an ambulance, mobile’s in my bag.”

  “No, no, no dear, goodness me, don’t need an ambulance, nasty noisy things. I’m fine… not hurt, other than pride that is and bit of a sore arm.” The injured party giggled, she seemed to be a jolly old soul. “So silly… my fault entirely… don’t know what I was thinking… completely misjudged the distance. Could you um… ” she gestured vaguely with her head and I wondered, should I be putting her in the recovery position, or did that only apply if someone was unconscious?

  “I’m fine, really.” She reiterated, “I assure you. Just assist me to stand and perhaps you wouldn’t mind… a lift home? Just the weeniest bit shaky.” She giggled again breathlessly, I wished she’d stop doing that – injury, indignation and shock I was geared for, giggling was unexpected.

  “Do you think you can stand?” I put both arms around her and we rose a little unsteadily, hanging on to each other. She was short, reaching only to my shoulder and so finely boned it was like holding a child. Close up, she was certainly considerably older than my first impression, although her skin was softly unlined. Under an open, moleskin-brown, padded jacket she was wearing a pair of now-dusty black trousers and a soft pink jumper which, I absently noted, she had on not only inside out but also back to front. She smelt mustily of lavender and I sniffed again, hoping for something alcoholic, that might account for a lot and would make me feel less guilty.

  “Rostropovich.” She said suddenly.

  “Pardon?”

  “Rostropovich.” She repeated, casting round anxiously and my heart started to thud again. It was odd that the frail bundle of bones in my grasp had been hit with such a resounding wallop and yet was still in one piece – but if there’d been two of them. Maybe he was under the car. I crouched down again, forgetting in the stress of the moment I was still holding her, and she obligingly scrunched down with me.

  “What are you looking for?” She asked, as we both craned to see into the shadows under the car.

  “Rostropovich.”

  “Well he won’t be under there, dear.” She said reasonably.

  “But maybe I hit him.”

  “No, no, he was definitely behind me.”

  “Well where is he then?” We straightened up and were now both looking round vaguely, perhaps it was catching, perhaps any minute now, I’d start chuckling too.

  “Probably my own fault,” she said. “I’m afraid I didn’t have him on the lead and he’s a bit highly strung. Must have had a fright, but not to worry, he’ll find his way home.”

  “Oh, a dog?” I said. She smiled absently and swayed a little and I hastily grabbed her again, the sooner we moved on the better. Ophelia, wretched, wretched woman that she was, hadn’t budged off her bottom and was just sitting there, gazing absently out at the scenery as if it was still passing. Opening the back door, I unceremoniously shoved an already aggrieved Ink out of the way and folded our new passenger inside. I got her seat belted, patted her encouragingly on the uninjured arm and slid into place behind the wheel, turning back to look at her,

  “Can you direct me?”

  “Well, let me see… a minute… goodness, never quite sure, must get my bearings.”

  “Next right, follow the road down to the end then take a sharp left.” said my Mother firmly.

  “You always had a good sense of direction.” Said the little old lady.

  “Hello Mother.” Said Ophelia.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Well,” I said, and if a touch of bitterness crept in, who could blame me. “Well, well, well. Isn’t this nice? Hello Grandma, and thank you very much Ophelia!” After all, I thought, what’s one shock more or less, when you’ve just nearly killed someone? That the person in qu
estion turns out to be a Grandmother you’ve only just discovered you have, is just the flipping sugar-pink icing on the cake. It wasn’t just the surprise, it was Ophelia’s way of handling things – with maximum theatricality and minimum consideration for anyone else’s feelings.

  In truth, the woman did have an uncomfortably familiar look about her. Matter of fact, I thought grimly, eyeing her in the mirror, she looked much as Ophelia might, were you to add a couple of decades and subtract hairdresser, health farm and Estée Lauder.

  I waited a beat or two to see if any more revelations or indeed relations were forthcoming, but neither passenger seemed inclined to add anything. As I carefully pulled away – running over the missing Rostropovich, at this point, would just about finish me off – I wondered what I might have expected. Probably not a falling on each other’s bosom and weeping kind of a reunion. On the other hand, a ‘Well, so how’ve you been?’ wouldn’t have gone amiss. But next to me, my Mother had her compact out and was powdering her already impeccably powdered nose, whilst the newest addition to the family was busy muttering to Ink in the back. At least I think it was Ink to whom she was muttering, to date she had more of the Loopy Lou about her than I’d have preferred.

  Still shaky and driving slowly and carefully, I followed Ophelia’s instructions, stopping before the sharp left turn she’d indicated, because it obviously wasn’t the right place. An ornately lettered sign told me it was The Home Hill Country House Hotel and Spa.

  “Well I never.” Observed Ophelia with interest.

  “You mean this is it?” I said.

  “Indeed it is dear,” a whiff of lavender and a chuckle from the back seat confirmed the last ten minutes hadn’t been a bad dream. I turned in between the couple of open, somewhat rusty, wrought iron gates trailing former glories and a fair amount of ivy, and we bumped and jerked down a not very wide, winding drive bordered and darkened by canopied trees, sunlight breaking through only with persistence and intermittently. I devoutly hoped there wasn’t going to be anybody bombing down the other way. The drive was in a dreadful condition and our progress was punctuated unnecessarily at every lurch, by irritated little tuts from Ophelia. I was about to point out testily that I wasn’t doing it just to annoy her, when the drive widened into a circular gravelled area, fronting a large rambling building whose slightly neglected appearance, couldn’t conceal an original pleasing symmetry of design. In the centre of the gravel in a grassed circle, a moss-greened mermaid was perched on a plinth clasping, without enthusiasm, an urn from which a trickle of water splashed desultorily into a small pond. Wide, slightly chipped stone steps led up to open black, gold-knobbed, double doors flanked by two large terracotta pots whose contents looked in need of urgent floral first aid.

  A couple of vehicles were already parked to the left of the fountain, so I drew up alongside them and got out. The place seemed pretty deserted. I turned to extract my back-seat passenger, helping her out before quickly shutting the door in the face of an indignant Ink who, I hoped was just curious and not answering an urgent call of nature. She’d just have to wait. Ophelia was already standing on the other side of the car, gazing at the house with an unreadable expression.

  “Come along then, no point standing out here, we’ll go in the back way, shall we?” The sight of home, if indeed that’s what it was, seemed to have galvanised the new-found grandparent and before I could protest, she’d grasped my hand in a surprisingly firm grip and, pulling me briskly with her, was trotting towards the side of the building. Ophelia, despite raising her eyes to heaven as she caught my glance, had grabbed her handbag and butter-soft leather jacket from the car and was following at a more sedate pace, no doubt counting the cost of gravel scrapes to her elegant heels.

  Rounding the side of the building, we ran full tilt into a woman surging the other way. An imposing figure with a slightly grubby white medical-style coat, buttoned and straining over an impressive bosom. She had fine cut features and a face made paler by a slash of deep red lipstick and kohl-rimmed eyes. Jet black hair, hauled high on her head was held with two tortoiseshell combs.

  “Mimi, there you are.” She snapped. “Take this… no, on second thoughts you’ll only drop it. You hold it.” She thrust what she’d been carrying at me and I automatically put out my hands to take it. It turned out to be a baby in a grubby pink dress. The infant and I contemplated each other in mutual astonishment.

  “Can you cook ducks?” Said the woman. I stared at her, was she being affectionate or specific?

  “Well, I… ”

  “Come on, haven’t got all day.” She placed an authoritative hand on my waist and whirling round, propelled me briskly back in the direction from which she’d come. I hastily readjusted the babe in my arms to avoid it plummeting to the ground.

  “Look,” I said crossly, “I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I only just arrived. With my Mother.”

  “Ophelia?”

  “Yes.” I looked helplessly over my shoulder to where Ophie was following us, picking her way gingerly along the flag-stoned path which ran around the back of the building. Typically, she appeared more concerned about her Jimmy Choo’s than anything else that might be going on.

  “Well, unless she’s changed a hell of a lot,” said the white-coated one briskly, “She wouldn’t know her arse from her elbow in the kitchen, always next to useless when it came to anything practical, so, can you tackle duck?”

  “Well, I… ”

  “For goodness sake girl, yes or no. Don’t faff. We’ve five booked for dinner and Gladys is having one of her turns.”

  “Just hang on a minute.” I stopped dead against the propelling hand. Mimi who’d been trotting too close behind and couldn’t stop in time, barged into us both. Ophelia tutted, Mimi giggled and the baby, who I’d almost forgotten I was holding, gave a small yelp and rammed a fist into its mouth. “Who exactly are you?” I demanded.

  “Bella.”

  “Cousin.” Muttered Ophelia sourly in my ear, catching us up. “Always was a bossy so and so.”

  The hand was in place on my back again and whilst I was still largely unenlightened, it was impossible to resist such onward pressure. We surged briskly onwards then swiftly through an open back door, arriving in a large, square, chilly and distinctly un-gleaming kitchen. Initially I thought it was empty, then realized with a fright that made my heart hammer, there was a thin, dark-clad woman sitting cross-legged on the floor in the far corner of the room. She had her eyes tightly closed and was, disconcertingly, rocking back and forth and crooning softly in a high sing-song. She didn’t seem to hear us, certainly didn’t acknowledge us in any way, and as if that wasn’t weird enough, none of the three women with me spared her so much as a glance.

  A massive brick-built walk-in fireplace took up a major part of the wall opposite the back door. It was bordered on one side by a carved and weathered, high-backed wood settle, on the other by a glass fronted dresser, holding a large assortment of mismatched china. The adjacent wall hosted an elderly fridge chugging loudly, alongside a more modern chest freezer, dishwasher and a capacious white porcelain sink. To the left of the door we’d come in by loomed a gas cooker that, from the look of it, hadn’t seen a Brillo pad anytime in the recent past and centre stage was a four-square, not particularly well-scrubbed, pine table on which a heap of ingredients were piled higgledy-piggledy – potatoes; vegetables; three still cling-filmed ducks; herbs spices and one solitary saucepan.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Please tell me,” said Bella, indicating the table, “That you can do something with this little lot. I’d have a go myself but I’ve got a soak and wrap at 3.00, a colonic irrigation at 4.00 and a Miracle Rejuve at 5.00, Elizabeth says she’s bitten off far more than she can chew already and Devorah’s as much use as a sick headache.”

  “N
ice welcome.” Ophelia, having ostentatiously dusted a kitchen chair with her handkerchief had seated herself at a little distance from the table, fastidiously turned away from the ducks.

  “What were you expecting?” Enquired Bella politely, “A brass band?”

  “Now, now girls,” interrupted Mimi, “No bickering, I hate bickering. It’s not that we’re not pleased to see you Ophelia dear, you know that. Things are just a little… tense right now.”

  “Nothing new there then.” Said my Mother.

  “Oh, please don’t say that dear. It’s all just a bit awkward… ”

  “For God’s sake,” Bella snapped “Call a spade a spade, can’t you Mimi. What she’s trying to say Ophelia is that we don’t all have your financial resources.”

  “Is that what all this hotel stuff is about?” Ophelia asked with interest.

  “Hush, oh shush,” Mimi fluttered agitated hands at the two women facing off across the kitchen table. “You know Etty doesn’t countenance money-talk, if she hears you, there’ll be trouble. Now… here’s an idea, why don’t I take charge of dinner?”

  “No!” Ophelia and Bella spoke as one, then looked at each other and laughed and in the softening of both faces, despite the different colouring, I saw resemblance and shared history. Bella turned back to me,