Dark Sister Page 11

  "Alex—"

  He held a finger in the air. ".. . in order to carry out one of the few simple tasks allotted to my wife in any working day. In the general ratio of distribution of tasks and workload in a relationship between two' people, I must declare—no, protest—that this is just a tad unfair."

  "Alex, I'm sorry. Look. I brought you a peace offering." Maggie handed him the bottle of elderberry wine.

  Alex looked at the unlabeled bottle, stood up, and took it outside. There was the sound of it smashing in the yard. Alex disappeared past the kitchen window, looking intent on a visit to the Merry Fiddler. Maggie held her head in her hands.

  "Daddy's angry," said Amy.

  Sam smiled, because he thought it was all a kind of game.

  TWENTY

  Alex called his team together the following morning. He wanted to give them a pep talk. The dig was working out badly, discipline was awry and morale was plummeting. He felt responsible.

  His normal style of managing a dig was through the device of what he called "pretend panics." If he felt things slipping, he would gather everyone together, tell them there was a threat of bogus authorities threatening to close the dig, call for greater commitment to prove everyone else wrong, and then hand round the cigarettes. It usually did the trick.

  But this was different. He felt depressed about the work and about his relationship with his team. To the volunteer diggers and students alike he seemed as approachable as a pit of snakes. He got wind of the fact that they referred to him, in whispers, as Vlad the Impaler. He decided to do something he'd never done with subordinates before. He decided to take them into his confidence and be open and honest.

  The team stood around in a loose half-circle at the site of the dig, bored and barely awake, waiting for him to say his piece and get it over with.

  "Let's sit down a minute, shall we?" said Alex. He squatted on his haunches. They exchanged a few looks before following his example.

  "I wanted to have a few words with you before we started work today. Things haven't been going well and I wanted to make an apology to you all." Faces that had been looking away suddenly stared at him. They'd been expecting a collective bollocking, an exhortation to work harder and laugh less often. "That's right, an apology. I've been behaving like an arsehole lately and I haven't been the help to you I should've been. At first I blamed them upstairs, because of some of the pressures on this dig to succeed. But that was only because I wasn't honest enough to admit to myself that I've got problems at home, and that's why I've been taking it out on you. So I apologize and it won't happen again, okay?"

  A few people looked nervously at each other. Mostly they stared at the ground.

  Alex smiled. "Just to show I mean it, I'm buying the beers at lunchtime for anyone who'll join me and Vlad the Impaler at the pub. That's all. Let's get on with it. Anyone want a ciggie before we start?"

  Well, it worked, up to a point. The team rolled up their sleeves and went to work in a relaxed sort of way. One or two students came up to him with suggestions. Richard, the boy with the ponytail working on the Maggie dig, suggested they strike back from the marked triangle of daggers instead of away from the apex. Alex approved and offered advice.

  He was good to his word and bought everyone foaming beers at the Malt Shovel. He laughed along with his crew in all the right places, and spread a bit of gossip about some of the local museum staff. By pretending to be relaxed, he could almost become relaxed. He enjoyed it; he was sitting next to a very pretty student called Tania, and the beer was going down well. When everyone started to shuffle and look at their watches, he extended the lunch break by calling in another round.

  "Crush the leaf and the berry together. Then make an oil out o' that. Seven days."

  "How much?"

  "Much as you like."

  "And the dwale?"

  "Four or five berries crushed up, fresh, on the day."

  She'd brought Sam with her to see Liz. The boy crawled on the floor as Maggie's inquiries took on a new note of seriousness. There was an urgency in her voice discomforting to Old Liz. Maggie was impatient. She wanted it all too quickly.

  Maggie had all the information she needed from the diary, but what disturbed her, and why she sought some kind of sanction from Liz, was the ambivalence of the reports. Accounts of wonders were scrambled with dire warnings. Abuse Hecate and she will imperil your soul.

  Maggie had hoped for approval, encouragement, advice from Old Liz. She wasn't getting it. Liz answered her questions directly, but with a pursed mouth and a firm neutrality that did nothing to ameliorate Maggie's fears. She stuck to the bare facts, the cold ingredients. She steered away from all discussion of effect, and refused to be drawn into talking about the diary's promise of revelations and terrors in equal measure. This was a speculation in which Maggie was on her own, with only the diarist's obscure accounts to excite her hopes and inflame her fears.

  But it raise me up. Oh the wonder! And to have all questions answered. It raise me up and it breaks my heart. How terrible her wrath! Sleep, coma and death walk behind. Now there are toadstools in the woods, but A. cautioned me against, for they enfeeble the will for flying whereas I need all strength. I stuck to A's direction and stayed within her compass and I have A. to thank for saving me from ruin and demons. We must help one another, and I see a good side to her. I have A. to thank for the banishments, and here they are.

  The diary contained an exact formula for the flying ointment, the proportions of deadly nightshade described as dwale, the wolfsbane, cinquefoil, and soot, mixed in a carefully described oil base. Hogsfat was mentioned. There were precise specifications of when to collect the herbs. Finally there was a string of words and phrases described as "banishments."Beneath all of this was written: Never abuse her. Never never never.

  A light passed from Liz's eyes. They reset like hard, black beads, fixed on the younger woman. Maggie felt probed. If ever she'd been underestimating Old Liz, it stopped there.

  "I see as you's set on it, girl."

  There was a moment of heavy silence. Maggie picked up where she'd left off. "So, the wolfsbane as you've said. What's this about hogsfat?"

  "That's just for keeping warm, that's all that is." Liz suddenly stiffened and looked over at Sam. "Here! Call 'im out o' there

  That's no place for little boys!”

  Lifting her stick she jabbed it in Sam's direction. He'd managed to crawl over to the curtain closing off Liz's pantry. He was on his hands and knees, with his head behind the curtain, when Maggie lifted him out by his belt. Liz darted a hand down the side of her chair and pulled a humbug out of a grubby paper bag.

  "Here," she said to him, "bit o' suck." Sam trotted over to her to collect the sweet, but Liz grabbed his outstretched hand. She put her face close to his. "Keep your nose out o' them lady's petticoats. You hear me? No place for a little boy to be lookin'. Them's lady's petticoats. You hear me?" She let him go. Sam was terrified. He skittered to the safety of his mother's side.

  "Well, you shouldn't go nosing in other people's things," Maggie said.

  "Rooting, he was. Does a little boy good to be frit anyhow, and it'll keep him down when he's older. Wouldn't hurt you to be frit, either."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I've looked at you, girl. You want it too quick. You wants it all now. Well, you can't have it now. Listen here, I've thought maybe I'll give you a bit of this and that. We all need a little sister. There's not many more years left in me, I know that. And maybe I shoulda done more in this, but it's the little sister as comes to you, that's the way it was with me, that's the way it is. And I need a little sister to give this and that before I moves on. But I look at you, girl, and, well, I just don't know.

  "No, I just don't know." Liz shook her head. "You've got summat settled on your shoulder. And I wants to say, here! Knock it off! But it won't be knocked off easily. It's of your own making, and it might suck you dry afore you're through with it. So maybe you are the little sister
, come as you 'ave to me, but I don't know."

  Maggie was unable to answer any of this. Instead she offered Liz a determined look. "So this hogsfat, it's not necessary?"

  Liz shook her head again, perhaps in exasperation. "You wants something as'll keep you warm if you're in your birthday suit."

  "But what if you're indoors?"

  "How you going to fly if you're indoors?" Liz chuckled. "How you going to do that?"

  "But you don't really fly," said Maggie. "Not really. I know that much."

  "Psssshhhhttt!!" said Liz.

  Despite a late start, the afternoon went well. Nothing new was unearthed, but the mood of the dig had lightened. The day was unseasonably warm and the scent of disturbed soil streamed with history and broken clay. Alex was much happier now that he was able to share a joke or two with his team. He winked at Tania, and he made free with the smokes.

  "Watch out for your fingers. Have a bowl of water to wash your hands clean. When you fly you get a tingling in your fingers, and they go into the mouth, and then you're in a mess. You take care and have that water by you."

  "I'll remember," said Maggie.

  "Rub it all over."

  "Sky clad."

  "Psshhtt! I never calls it that. Daft talk. Rub it all over."

  Liz made a massaging motion at her temples and on her throat and wrists. "Here. And put some in your money box."

  "How much time?"

  "Oh. You want a full night."

  "As much as that?"

  "And a day to get over it. Oh yes."

  "Oh," said Maggie. That was the kind of time she didn't have.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Find it! Find it! She had to find it!

  She went back to the wedding-dress box and broke two fingernails trying to heave it clear of the bottom of the wardrobe. It wouldn't come free. She grabbed at the old shoes littering the foot of the wardrobe, slinging them angrily across her shoulder. Crack! They hit the far wall.

  She stopped for breath, sucking at a broken fingernail. Then she reached inside the wardrobe and tore frantically at the cardboard until the lid ripped in half. She stripped out the soft tissue lining paper, flinging it aside before dragging out the wedding dress. She balled the dress and hurled it across the room, where it landed, draped like a weeping bride across the closed trunk. Then she tore the rest of the empty cardboard box to shreds.

  She waited for a moment, listening, breathing heavily.

  Scrambling across to the trunk, she flung open the lid, scattering books, toys, and the dress before proceeding to empty it of its contents. Files, photographs, and documents were scooped onto the floor.

  Maggie wanted to cry with frustration, but she was in too much of a rage for tears. And she couldn't find the diary.

  She thumped heavily down the stairs and marched into the lounge.

  "What the hell have you done with it?"

  Amy looked up. Sam looked up. Even Dot, sprawled before the fire, looked up. Alex, to whom Maggie's fury was addressed, did not look up. He didn't even let his newspaper dip.

  "I said what have you done with it?"

  "Done with what?"

  Maggie lashed the newspaper out of his hands. "You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. I want to know where you've put it!"

  Alex had been waiting for Maggie to make the discovery. It had only been a matter of time. He'd gone into the spare room, removed the box from the bottom of the wardrobe, and emptied its contents. He'd replaced only the wedding dress, so that a cursory glance might not betray the deed.

  He neatly reassembled his newspaper, smoothing out the creases before answering. "I don't want it in the house."

  "I don't care what you want or don't want, I asked you what you'd done with it." Maggie stood over him. The children watched.

  "And I've told you, I don't want it in the house. It's not healthy for the kids. I've destroyed it. Don't bring anything else like it into the house, or I'll destroy that too."

  "The diary? What about my diary?"

  "I've told you. I burned the whole bloody lot. That's an end to the matter. Now stop shouting and give us all a break."

  "Give you a break? After what you've done I wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire!" Maggie stormed upstairs. Moments later she clattered down the stairs again and went out. Alex heard the car drive off. He saw his children staring at him, and he hid his burning cheeks behind his newspaper.

  Maggie drove blindly. It was a misty night, and she drove with her lights full up, ignoring the flashing headlamps of oncoming traffic. Her own rage at finding the diary removed had taken her by surprise. She'd panicked, actually panicked on discovering it had gone; then she'd lost control of herself when Alex said he'd destroyed it.

  At times she'd thought this compulsion—to experiment, to probe, to push at the envelope—was motivated by a rebellion against Alex's heavy-handed control. But now she knew it was much more than that. She'd felt invaded, violated by the idea of Alex laying his hands on her secret store. The diary was hers, and hers alone. She wanted it back, wanted to feel its leather covers in her hand.

  She drove with a growing sense of direction. And as she drove, she had to face something about herself for the very first time. This business with the diary. These experiments. Up until that moment she'd considered the enterprise to be a kind of flirtatiousness. Something to be dropped when a more interesting attraction came along. She'd been fooling herself, she now appreciated, for some time. It was real. It was serious. She was serious. For the first time in her life she felt utterly serious about something.

  She didn't want to take her rage to the woods. It would pollute the place; it would rob it of its hitherto blameless associations. Instead she drove north, twenty-five miles, to Wigstone Heath where she'd walked with Ash and the children.

  The fire in her head was still raging when she parked the car and got out. The moon was pale, obscured by fine mist hanging before her like delicate webbing. There was barely enough light to make out the path in front of her, but she had to walk. She passed the dark, hunched shapes of stunted bushes and the smooth-shouldered outcrops of rock, threading a route toward the Dancing Ladies.

  She wandered off the path, reclaiming it again later. Her feet became sodden with the moisture from the grass, and as she put distance between herself and the car, so her anger began to blend with remorse. What Alex had done was unforgivable; but her words to him, for their children to hear, were possibly even worse. She could imagine Sam repeating them to De Sang, or Amy using them at school. Words like sharp knives, given to small children to play with unsupervised. The words whispered back at her, razors inside her head, and what hurt her even more deeply was that at the moment she'd spoken those words to Alex, she'd meant every syllable.

  She reached the Ladies, the dark stones leaning at angles, cold, damp, impassive as gravestones. Maggie leaned her back against one of the upright boulders and wept.

  Alex, tight-lipped, a choking stone in his throat, put the children to bed. They knew that this evening was not a night to argue. Sam asked to sleep in Amy’s room and she agreed without a murmur. They undressed and got into bed.

  "Can we have a story?" Amy asked, so tentatively that Alex thought his heart would break. He read them a tale from an anthology of fairy stories, but mechanically, and without his usual fun and playfulness with the characters' voices. It was unsatisfactory, but he completed the story. He closed the book and looked at his two children. Far from being asleep, they stared at him wide-eyed.

  They seemed distant from him, like someone else's children, or, worse, like offspring of another species, a life-form very similar to humans but not the same. Alex suddenly felt a terror for them and for the long lives stretching before them. "Go to sleep now," he said, switching off the light.

  "Can we have the light on?" said Amy.

  Alex conceded, switched the light back on, and closed the bedroom door behind him. He went downstairs and poured himself a large whisky. All he wanted wa
s to protect his family. He worked hard for them; he wanted to love his wife and children and to be loved by them in turn. This was hardly, he was certain, a complicated set of aims.

  He knew he'd provoked Maggie beyond measure, but he'd been astonished by her vehemence. She'd been angry with him before, sure enough, but Maggie's recent behaviour had been surprising in many ways. He wondered who exactly had been teaching her these new tricks.

  Tricks like choice phrases. Like a taste for midnight strolls from which she returned with clothes dishevelled and grass in her hair. Like afternoons spent in mysterious places which made her forget her responsibilities toward her children. And suddenly discovered tricks in bed. Most of all the tricks in bed.

  Alex poured himself another hefty Scotch, and stared into the fire.

  Maggie sat at the foot of one of the standing stones. Her head felt clearer. Sometimes weeping worked like a release of sexual tension, giving vent to energies which might otherwise go spiralling destructively inside. Or sex, looked at in a certain way, could seem like crying. And it seemed to her that the stones had wept in sympathy—not with tears, of course, but with the formations of moisture deposited on them by the mist. The clouds had parted slightly to give the moon a keener light, sparkling on the droplets collected on the stones. Nine ladies weeping.

  A preternatural circle. Stones hominoid in shape. Certainly feminine. Dancing ladies. What were the names of the nine muses? She knew she could hang her unhappiness on them, or any other feeling for which she needed to find resolution. They would take it, dance with it, convert it, give it back. Was that their true purpose? To make a pool? A well you added to, or took something from?