'Names?' Angela brought out her little notebook to jot down details of the fascinating threesome.
Wanda held up the thorn apple
(Datura stramonium, Solanaceae:
highly poisonous. Otherwise known as devil's apple or devil's trumpet and inclined to kill, quite literally, rather than cure a hangover). 'Boosebuck
’
she said very firmly.
Angela wrote it down.
Wanda held up the hemlock
(Conium maculatum, Umbelli
ferae:
a plant of evil omen, having the reputation in ancient times of being the official executioner of kings and philosophers. The only likelihood of its being useful in a weight-reducing diet, frankly, would be
after
being taken -
well,
after
...).
Wanda said, 'Thinlock.'
Angela wrote it down.
Wanda held up the henbane
(Hyoscyamus niger, Solanaceae:
reputedly the source of the 'soporiphic sponge' so beloved of Roman soldiers with time and spears on their hands and cru-cifees to deal with. Unlikely to be sexy unless shuffling off the mortal was your erotic bag). Wanda, looking anywhere but in her victim's eyes, said, 'Sweetbane.'
'Bane usually means poison, doesn't it?' asked Angela.
'Not in this case,' said Wanda very firmly once more.
'You should know,' said Angela, and wrote it down. 'How clever you are.'
Wanda rolled her eyes. She had never had anything to do with murder, beyond a review that said 'If Macbeth doth murder sleep, this Lady Macbeth murders everything else
...'
Nevertheless, she felt resolute. Her very lifestyle was being threatened. And she was sure it would be over very, very quickly.
'I'll remember those,' said Angela. 'How do you decoct them?' Wanda told her.
She wrote it down. 'Will you help me look for them?' Wanda nodded.
Angela thought, At last she has accepted me.
Wanda said kindly, 'But it is a little late in the season. Why not have mine?' And she handed her the swathes of plants from her basket. Angela was touched. And said so.
Then Wanda the Craft looked up at the milky early November sun. Ts that the time?' she said quickly.
‘I
must run.' She put a finger to her lips. 'Tell no one, or they lose their strength.'
'Thank you
’
said Angela. 'Oh,
thank you
Lucy Elliott sat on the end of her bed and fiddled with the zip of her black leather trousers. They were empty black leather trousers because she had not worn them since she was single. Then she could sit at a piano in them all night and not have trouble breathing
once.
In attempting to fit into them just now, she had broken the zip
twice
...
Her fiddling hands went hazy and swam before her eyes. The new au pair had black leather
shorts
...
In winter.
Shorts.
Came from Finland, so she probably never felt the cold. Wouldn't feel it here either if Craig's eyes were anything to go by. He may have taken his sights off the Fytton woman, but they were now somewhere far worse. Under his own roof. He didn't even go up to town any more. Oh, why had he suddenly taken it into his head to take charge of their domestic arrangements, when he had never, ever been remotely interested before? One day he just said, 'I'm going up to town tomorrow and I'm bringing back a new girl.'
And he did. And what a girl. She would like to meet whoever gave him the idea of meddling in domestic affairs and strangle them.
She, Lucy, had to do something. She had to
...
Giving the girl a little drop of anthrax came to mind. Or sending her back to the birchy bogs, or whatever they had. But Craig wouldn't hear of her going - of course. Craig said - and he could be interpreted as being the caring husband - Craig said that she was too good, coped too well, and how clever he was to find her. He did not mention that it was the Fytton woman's suggestion that he should take charge, or that the new au pair was a discard from a north London writer whose wise wife had taken one look at her and said she could cope on her own after all.
'Lucy
’
he informed her, 'my darling Lucy, you need the break.'
That was also the trouble. Apart from the leather shorts and the big everything she
was
efficient. Even the children liked her. Is there anything more depressing, thought Lucy Elliott, than a beautiful, leggy young woman who is well meaning and efficient and living in your house? She looked at the broken zip again. There was only one thing for it.
The Rudges' man from Bristol was working away in their garden and smarting from the telephone message that had summoned him down. Unlike their usual cool selves, the Rudges had left a message that was terse to the point of rudeness. Why had he not come down during the week and cleared away the leaves?
He had. He left a message on their answerphone accordingly.
They replied on his. 'Oh, now, come, come. I put it to you But he had. He really had. The lawn had been cleared and spotless. It wasn't his fault that there was something in the ruddy countryside called
autumn
...
They left another message, in which they were - metaphorically - wringing their hands in despair. The amount of
leaves
you had to deal with in the country was beyond belief. They had, they said, decided that the only thing to do was to get him to fell the last of the trees. Two copper beeches that hung over their land, a silver birch (which was really annoying, leaving piles of dead matter that looked just like cornflakes), an ash and a couple of old May trees that did not really shed too badly but might as well go anyway. Besides, when the swimming pool went in, the last thing they wanted was leaves in the filter system.
Sammy watched the man working from the top of the hill. The Rudges had marked a white cross on the condemned trees, appropriate symbols of their passing. Every slice and cut felt as if it were slicing and cutting into him. One of the May trees had been pollarded to buggery, preparatory to being cut right down. And then it was lunchtime and the man turned off the machine and strolled away towards the Black Smock.
Cool for a murderer, thought the watcher on the hill, as the Rudges' man downed tools as if nothing were ill in the world. Sammy felt pollarded to buggery himself. The heart in him died a little more. If Gwen Perry had still been down there she'd have had something to say. Especially about the copper beeches, which blazed like beacons when the season turned. She wouldn't have let them go without a fight.
And then he saw something else. He saw the Fytton woman passing the Rudges' wall. He saw her peer over it. He saw her stop and peer some more. He then saw her go running faster than Wellington boots might allow up to the church. And a few minutes later both she and Daphne Blunt -who was carrying a very large implement - came flying from the church, up the lane and through the Rudges' gate and with the very large implement begin beating the machine so that its ringing sound echoed throughout Staithe. But it did not, apparently, penetrate the doors and windows of Ye Olde Black Smock, where the man who owned the machine was eating his ploughman's. Sammy smiled as he saw Daphne Blunt beat at it and beat at it like a female thunder god. Whatever the machine had once been capable of, Sam thought, sighing happily, it was no more.
The vicar begged that he might be excused baptizing the Dorkin girl until after Christmas. Now, late in November, he had much to do, he told Mrs Dorothea Tichborne. Much to do.
'What in particular?' asked that lady.
'From St Andrew's Day.'
'Yes?'
'Advent, Mrs Tichborne. Advent.'
‘I
know that, vicar,' she said. 'But you must have a little time left over for the girl.'
The vicar closed his eyes. 'Very busy with planning the services,' he said faintly.
Mrs Tichborne closed her eyes. 'Not much planning, vicar. The services are straightforward, as in the Act for the Uniformity of Common Prayer.'
He ducked the issue of the New English version and just wished she would not put such linguistic emphasis on
the Act.
'Choosing the hymns,' he said, even more faintly.
Mrs Tichborne opened her eyes.
‘I
hope there will be nothing modern about Advent, vicar?'
'Well, I had intended to teach some of the younger ones some simple tunes on the guitar
...'
Mrs Tichborne closed those windows of the soul again. She tapped her chest so that her crucifix rattled and she warbled:
'Behold the Bridegroom cometh in the middle of the night, And blest is he whose loins are girt, whose lamp is bright
The vicar made a strange little noise. So did her husband, sitting silent at her side.
'Horologian,' she said with satisfaction. 'Eighth century. Translated by Moultrie. We will keep the traditions. Start with that, vicar - and go on through the Hymnal. A little Luther perhaps?'
The vicar made another strange noise.
Dr Tichborne leaned forward. 'Loins are girt,' he repeated. 'Lamp is bright.' His own eyes could not have been more lamp-like in the November gloom. He touched the vicar's arm. The vicar jumped.
The vicar said to his esteemed benefactress, 'After Epiphany perhaps?'
She nodded.
Old Dr Tichborne also nodded. He said, 'After Epiphany will do, Crispin.' And he too warbled in the young man's ear:
'What star is this, with beams so bright, More lovely than the noonday light?'
He gave the Reverend Crispin Archer a look of extraordinary yearning. 'Epiphany
...'
'Yes, thank you,' said the vicar, breathing a little more easy. 'After Epiphany. Some time after Epiphany will do for the Dorkin girl.'
'You have given her the prayer book to study?'
The vicar nodded. Truth was he had hurled it through the letter box of the Dorkin cott and run for dear life.
'Good. Then soon she will be another new-cleansed soul shining bright in the heavens,' said Dorothea Tichborne with satisfaction. 'Oh, to be there myself, one day
...'
'Don't let me keep you,' said her husband. But when she looked at him he was definitely looking at the vicar. Who immediately rose and left.
And once outside the Tichborne house, it was only the severity of the day that dissuaded the Reverend Crispin Archer from falling headlong into the burbling, freezing stream, with all its horrible, hell-like eels.
In her home the Dorkin girl sat with a prayer book in front of the telly, trying to make sense of the words of her coming baptism.
Dearly Beloved, forasmuch as all men are conceived and born in
sin...
She closed the book with a snap. Blokes only, she thought. And turned up the volume on
Blind Date.
And dreamed.
20
December
More frequently, the records obscure the work of wives. When the Grocers' Company paid a widow 18s 4d owed to her husband for miscellaneous work, including the provision of three garlands and nine dozen nosegays, we can infer that the making of garlands and nosegays was actually her own work.
sara mendelsohn and patricia crawford,
Women in Early Modern England
Bad beer is often made in families where there is no sparing of materials, for the want of management and economy. Attention should be paid to the utensils used, and all necessary preparations made the day before the brewing is commenced. When all cleaning and preparation is done, fill your copper and let the water be heated the day before, that it may be well cleansed.
Daphne held up the cleaned rush-light holder approvingly. It needs mending but generally it's in pretty good condition because it was wrapped in oiled sacking. Maybe your Maria Brydges made her beeswax candles for when there were guests, but they were far too expensive to buy for everyday use. Otherwise she made these. Or a servant did. I should think the local museum would be interested.'