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  "Okay." So Alex did it again, reciting the rhyme.

  "Now Sam has to do it."

  "Not if he doesn't want to."

  "He's boring."

  "No I'm not."

  "I know," said Alex, lifting up Sam. "I'll do it holding Sam, then we'll have done it together. All right, Sam?"

  Sam nodded. Amy complained that it didn't count, but they did it anyway, reciting the rhyme together. Maggie hadn't done it properly, so she was put to the task again. "Did you know that Jack's another name for the Devil?" said Alex. "This game was supposed to be an old pagan cure for something or other."

  "Eczema," said Maggie. "And Jack isn't the devil in this case; it's a herb."

  "Really? That's handy, because Amy's got a touch of. . ." He looked at his wife strangely.

  "What does pagan mean?" Amy wanted to know.

  "Sort of... wild," said Alex.

  "No it doesn't, Amy. It means the people before Christianity. They had lots of different gods."

  Alex considered for a moment. Then, still holding Sam, he said, "Bet you can't do it backwards!"

  "Backwards?" said Amy.

  Alex stood with his back to the flaming candle and said:

  Candlestick the over jump Jack

  Quick be Jack nimble be Jack

  He jumped backwards. He landed awkwardly, his leg buckling under him. Sam landed on his chest.

  "Careful!" Maggie shouted.

  Sam thought it was a giggle, but Alex had sprained his ankle. He picked himself up.

  Amy noticed the candle had gone out. "You said that's bad luck, Mummy. You said it's bad luck if the candle goes out."

  "It's always bad luck/' said Alex, hobbling back up the path, "to twist your ankle."

  "Bad luck stupid shit!" cackled Sam. He picked up the candle and threw it at his father. "Stupid shit backwards!"

  Alex unfolded himself and looked at Maggie in astonishment.

  "I don't know!" she protested. "He must have picked it up from the kids at the childminder's."

  That evening, with the children in bed, they sat by the fire. Alex, his foot up on a stool and a bag of ice cubes draped over his ankle, was watching a game show on the television. Maggie had her head in a magazine.

  "You know that journal we found?"

  "Ummm?" Maggie murmured. She didn't look up.

  "I was looking for it earlier. I couldn't find it."

  "It's around somewhere."

  "I was telling a colleague at work about it. He's interested. I said I'd let him have a look at it."

  She turned a page.

  "So where is it?"

  "Where's what?"

  "The journal. The diary."

  She glanced up. "Where have you looked?"

  "I've looked all over."

  "Last time I saw it it was on the mantelpiece."

  "The mantelpiece?" said Alex.

  "Yes. The mantelpiece."

  "Well it's not there now. So where is it?"

  "I don't think it's a good idea to lend it out."

  "Oh, you don't?" Alex was getting annoyed. "Can I ask why not?"

  "We won't get it back."

  "Don't be ridiculous. It's only Geoff at the museum; he wants to see it."

  "It's fragile and it's valuable," she flashed angrily, "and it belongs to this family."

  Alex was rather taken aback by this show of defiance. "All right. All right. It's no big deal." He pretended to become re-engrossed in the TV game show. After a while he snapped the television off and stood up.

  "What are you up to?"

  "What?"

  "You're up to something, Maggie. What is it?"

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "All right. Have it your own way. Meanwhile let me say this: something's got to be done about Sam."

  "Something?"

  "He's out of control. Completely out of control."

  Maggie took the remark as it was intended: a criticism of her capacity as a mother. She pursed her mouth. Though she was boiling, she said nothing.

  Alex went to bed, hobbling up the stairs with his twisted ankle. Maggie followed an hour later. It was a cold bed. Two backs turned make a deep, dark valley of ill will, down the middle, where sleep is hard to find.

  EIGHT

  Alex had Sam booked in to see a child psychiatrist within the week. He made private arrangements, an expensive move calculated to infuriate Maggie. Mr. De Sang—he didn't like to be called doctor, although he possessed all the credentials—insisted on an initial meeting with the parents together, followed by individual meetings, followed at last by meeting with Sam.

  Maggie had put up massive resistance, but Alex was determined. It had been their single biggest dispute in seven years of marriage. Maggie said it would only happen over her dead body, Alex declared that could be arranged. Alex said he'd drag her there kicking and screaming if necessary and Maggie claimed that would be the only way. Alex alluded to a history of mental illness in Maggie's family (a minor nervous complaint), and Maggie reminded him of disorders in his own (a single case of epilepsy).

  "If you really want to screw him up," bawled Maggie, "why not just throw him into a pit of snakes?"

  "Seems like you've already accomplished that much."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Work it out for yourself."

  The truth was Alex didn't know what he meant. It was just something to be said in the momentum of fierce argument. It was a wild shot, but it silenced Maggie for a minute.

  She recovered to say, "So Sam's got to be dragged off to a qualified child abuser just because you're for some reason furious with me?"

  To Alex's credit, he'd considered that possibility. He'd analyzed his own motives for wanting Sam examined. He was genuinely uneasy about Sam's relentlessly disruptive behaviour. Amy was growing up as straight as a pine tree, while Sam, psychologically speaking, was like something from a hall of mirrors. He'd enjoyed none of the closeness with the boy he'd adored in bringing up his daughter. Maggie had found a way of handling him, sure enough, but all he ever got from the child was a gaudy procession of lies, tantrums, breakages, blue fits, and foul language. He loved Sam, but found the boy a minute-by-minute horror show.

  To Alex's debit, he failed to understand his proposal for dealing with Sam masked a deeper unease. His self-analysis wasn't thorough enough to make him realize he was trying to get a grip on a family he sensed was nudging away from his sphere of protection. It frightened him at too plunging a level to admit this might be happening. He sensed malign things incubating in the umbrageous waters of the family relationships, but the knowledge of it only ever spoke to him in his dreams. He was a rational man. He grabbed at rational, surface solutions. He thought all that was needed was a strong hand on the tiller.

  De Sang wore suede boots, a feature Maggie had always held to be a floggable offence. He also wore a drab suit, his jacket supplementing a large cardigan buttoned underneath. He was a tall, thin man with a fleecy white head of hair. Though he had a chair behind his desk, he didn't seem to like to sit on it: throughout his interviews with Maggie and Alex he sat variously on the arm of his chair, on the edge of his desk, on his windowsill, and indeed anywhere but his chair. In a day's work he covered miles of ground without leaving his office.

  When agreeing to take on Sam he managed to convey the impression he was doing all concerned a favour. "Meanwhile what Sam needs above all else," he said, parking his butt on the warm radiator and folding his arms, "is stability."

  "He's got stability," said Maggie.

  De Sang looked at her a long time before answering. "Children Sam's age are moving through a precise stage of development. They have a habit of responding acutely to the emotional environment in which they're located. If Mother is pleased, they know it without anything being said by Mother. If Father is angry, they know it even before Father has outwardly shown his anger."

  Alex nodded sagely, interested. Maggie looked away, guessing where all this was
leading.

  "This empathy of early childhood begins to thin out as kids become more verbal—as they learn to speak better. It's a survival faculty we mostly lose. But Sam here, he's still in that empathy mode, reflecting some of the emotions generated around him."

  Alex agreed. "Makes sense. I mean—"

  "You can tell all that from one meeting?" Maggie interrupted rudely.

  "I can recognize a pattern when I see one," said De Sang. "We all like to think of ourselves and our relationships as unique—and in some ways they are. But underneath ... If there is tension in the house, Sam will find a way to reflect it back. If there's a mood of opposition, or contradiction—"

  "But what's been said about tension or opposition?" She looked at Alex.

  "Mrs. Sanders. You're paying me to be blunt."

  "It's all right," said Alex, getting up to leave. "I appreciate the directness. It's already making sense."

  He shook De Sang by the hand.

  Maggie was livid.

  "What the hell did you tell him about us?"

  "I didn't tell him anything."

  "Bullshit. You practically did his job for him. Now he doesn't even have to earn his fee. Stability! Stability? Couldn't you even let him look at Sam first, before blaming everything on our disagreements?"

  "The idea is to help the man sort it out, not to mystify him!"

  "Rubbish! You had your tongue so far up his arse I couldn't even see your feet waggling."

  Alex stared at her. She'd never previously directed language like this at him.

  "All I said was that there are certain tensions in the household. That's all I said."

  "Did he ask you if we're fucking?"

  "Sam is listening to every sweet word you have to say."

  "Did he ask you? Did he?"

  "What's that got to do with it?"

  "That means he did! Yes! I'm right! And you told him. Jesus Christ!"

  Sam looked up wide-eyed at his mother. "Baby Jesus."

  "All right! What do you suggest we do with the child? I'm sure you've got some terrific ideas. What does your book say? Rub him down with mustard and garlic? Or thrash it out of him with a hazel switch? When are you going to be a proper mother to our children?"

  Now it was Maggie's turn to stare at him for raising his voice. Alex stormed off to work, leaving her to take Sam home.

  But before she did, she stopped by the Gilded Arcade, to look in on the man she thought of as Mr. Omega. She peered through the window and thought he must have finished reading his book; at any rate he had his back turned and was weighing out measures of herbs in small plastic bags. He didn't look up when the bell tinkled. Sam pointed up at the tiny bell, waiting for it to ring again as the door closed.

  "Rue, vervain," said Maggie, "St. John's wort, dill..."

  "Hindreth witches of their will." He didn't look up from his task, but she could tell he was smiling. "You've learned something."

  "Only we say hinder. We don't go in for 'Hindreth'."

  "Brought that book in for me to see?"

  "No."

  "Right. Sell her old stock, won't we, Sam?" He winked at the child. Sam buried himself in Maggie's long skirt.

  "How did you know his name?"

  "You let it slip. Last time you were in." She suddenly remembered telling him, and she felt stupid.

  "If you're going to ask me all these questions," he said a few minutes later, "you'd better sit down. I'll make you some coffee. Or herb tea if you prefer, but personally I can't stand the stuff." He dragged a chair beside the counter and she sat. He gave Sam a doll on strings to play with.

  "Coffee will be fine. What does it mean when certain herbs are referred to as 'hot' or 'cold'?"

  "It refers to the energy of the plant. If its effects are stimulating and aggressive, or electric, then they're said to be hot. If they're relaxing, passive, and magnetic, then cold. I prefer it as a gender classification, male and female, but then I suppose I'm an old chauvinist." He sat down and swept a hand through his thinning hair.

  "I suppose you are." She looked across her coffee cup at him and their eyes settled on each other a moment too long. Maggie looked away. "What if a plant was said to be of Diana?"

  "Oh, you're getting a bit fey there. All these herbs are supposed to have associated deities. The old gods. I can't be bothered with all that stuff."

  "Does it matter when a plant is picked?"

  "Does it matter how long you cook a lasagne? Or a panful of carrots? Of course it matters!"

  "I still don't see why."

  "She doesn't see why, Sam. Look, if you want to be scientific about it, did you know the weight of a plant increases during the waxing of a moon? Fact. Photosynthesis. So some new matter must be created. Then the weight returns to normal as the moon wanes. Fact."

  There was something invitingly humorous and ironic about the way he levitated his eyebrows each time on the word fact. As though he was seducing her into a conspiracy to which he only jokingly subscribed. Certainly he wasn't the most physically attractive man in the world, but he exuded a deep sense of calm and self-possession; it tempted one to want to stay and bathe in it for a while.

  Maggie had a deeply intuitive nature and great powers of empathy when they were allowed exercise. It depended on context or on precise individuals, on the combination of active agents, like sugar and yeast. Here was such an interaction. The bond was immediate. She saw through to him. She saw a level of sadness beneath all of his ironies. It excited her instincts. Questions fizzed.

  "What's manzanilla?"

  "Camomile."

  "What's devil's milk?"

  "Celandine."

  "And old gal?"

  "Old gal is elder."

  "And old man's mustard?"

  "Yarrow. Where are you getting all these names from?"

  "You seem to know them all. Can you sell me some laurel, mugwort, and cinquefoil?"

  "Going listening, are we? I really wouldn't mind getting a look at that book of yours."

  Maggie giggled. "Got any suggestions for a love potion? Or at least I'll settle for a peace potion. Something to restore a bit of harmony to a fractious household."

  "Not getting along with the old man, eh?" He jumped out of his chair and started to reach down jars from the shelf behind him. "Let's see what we can do."

  Maggie too got to her feet, bombarding him with questions as he shook herbs into the brass pan of his weighing scales. She leaned comfortably against the counter. Both were too preoccupied to notice the door open. Sam, playing with his doll on the shop floor, did notice. His eyes shot up to the bell as he waited for it to tinkle; but this time it failed to ring. An old woman stood in the open doorway.

  Sam looked at his mother and the shopkeeper, but they had their backs turned. He looked again at the silent bell, and then at the woman standing over him. She wore a long grey coat, black woollen stockings, and heavy black shoes. A dark hat was pulled over her head, shadowing her face. Wisps of hair the colour of smoke poked out from under the brim. She stared hard at the two people engrossed at the counter, her face set in an expression of impatience. Then she noticed Sam.

  The old woman bent down toward him. Her movement was slow, snakelike. She put her face close enough to his that he recoiled from her pungent breath. Sam looked over to his mother. He wanted to call her, but the space across the floor of the shop seemed to expand outwards until she was a great distance away, too far to hear him. The woman took the doll from him and put it inside her coat. She straightened her back, turned and walked out of the shop, closing the door behind her. Sam raised his eyes to the bell again. It was silent.

  Maggie suddenly looked up from the counter, where they were still measuring out herbs.

  "What is it?" the shopkeeper wanted to know.

  "I don't know." She looked at Sam and snatched him up from the floor.

  "Something wrong?"

  "Nothing. Only ... just a strange feeling. Forget it."

  He dispensed the
herbs in little plastic sachets. "As for your old man, blend the oil I told you about. Then rent a porn film from the video shop."

  "Should I drop the oil in his food?"

  "Not unless you want to poison him. You're meant to wear it. It smells good." Maggie paid for what she'd bought. "Can I have my dolly back?" the shopkeeper asked Sam.

  Sam buried his head in his mother's clothes. "Come on, Sam. Where's the dolly? Give it back to Mr. Omega."

  "The lady took it."

  Maggie apologized. "He makes up porky pies, I'm afraid."

  "The lady took it!" Sam almost screamed.

  "Don't worry about it. It must be around here somewhere. My name's not Mr. Omega, by the way. It's Ash. Let me know how you get on." He opened the door for her, and this time Sam heard the bell tinkle over their heads, and then again as Ash closed it after them.

  NI N E

  Alex came home in buoyant mood. He picked up the kids and swung them round and chattered about his work. He made lip-fart noises with Sam until Maggie told him he ought to know better. His nostrils twitched once or twice, but whether in savour of the spicy goulash simmering on the stove, or of Maggie's newly acquired and liberally applied oil, it was impossible to tell since he made no comment.