Shaman of Stonewylde (34 page)

‘Aye, and they better not upset our Sylvie neither. Is she safe with ’em? Where’s Yul when you need him? He should be here now supporting his goodwife!’

‘Aye, sister! Nowhere in sight, and Clip’s away too! Should we go in there and lend a hand, d’you reckon?’

‘You’ll do no such thing!’ roared Martin.

‘What about Miranda?’ suggested Marigold.

‘Aye, I’ll see the lie o’ the land when I take that coffee in. And what about Dawn and Hazel? Mind you, they were once Hallfolk and maybe—’

‘Aye, Cherry, and now they’re Stonewylde folk through and through.’

‘True, my dear. Ugh, I never did like that Holly – nasty little madam!’

In the study, the atmosphere was tense but reasonably civilised. Harold had retreated to silence, the arrogance of the two visitors relegating him to pot-boy all over again, just as Martin had suggested. He perched miserably on the furthest corner of the sofa with his hands between his knees to stop them trembling. Sylvie had regained some of her composure and, although still dusty, now sat with her legs elegantly crossed and her hair smoothed, trying to maintain her dignity. She stared at Holly in fascination; it was nearly fourteen years since they’d seen each other, yet she’d have immediately recognised Holly in a crowd.

The feline face hadn’t changed other than to become sharper and more brittle, losing the fluidity of youth. Holly’s skin bore witness to her smoking habit; despite her immaculate cosmetics, it looked dried out and creased into tiny lines around the mouth and eyes. Her fine blonde hair fell in a beautifully cut bob and shone with expensive products. She was still small and lithe, thin but well-muscled, as if she worked out every day and ate very little. Holly looked like an expensive but jaded doll and her brown eyes were reptilian in their coldness. Naturally, she was dressed in the most fashionable and chic of outfits, which made Sylvie’s faded linen dress and old leather sandals seem even more rustic by contrast.

Fennel was tall, slim and very much the dandy. He had a slight look of his sister Rainbow about him, but was nowhere near as beautiful. His hair was artfully long and distressed, and his rather weak chin and jaw sported blond stubble. He too was immaculately dressed and moved gracefully in his casually crumpled clothes.

‘So . . . why did Fennel become Finn?’ asked Sylvie.

The pair of them sat opposite her on the other sofa and Fennel shrugged eloquently.

‘Finn is cool, Fennel not so much. Somewhere along the line Fen became Finn. Simple.’

‘And you’re a photographer rather than an artist? I remember you always liked art.’

He laughed a little falsely at that.

‘I leave the painting to my sister, who does it rather better than me. Photography is a far more exciting medium.’

‘So where’s Yul?’ asked Holly abruptly.

Sylvie was annoyed that she couldn’t answer this with any conviction, but she waved her hand airily.

‘Oh, out and about on the estate.’

There was a knock on the door and Cherry came in bearing a large tray with the coffee. She glared at the two visitors and crashed the tray down on the low coffee table.

‘Shall I pour for you, Sylvie?’ she puffed, her cheeks scarlet with resentment and everything about her bristling hostility.

‘No, that’s fine thank you, Cherry,’ Sylvie smiled. ‘But if anyone can locate Yul, wherever he is on the estate, that would be wonderful. Thanks.’

Cherry stomped from the room and Harold twitched in his corner and stood up abruptly.

‘I’ll see if I can find him, Sylvie!’ he gabbled and almost ran from the room.

Sylvie leaned forward and poured the coffee with as much poise as she could muster, very aware of the two pairs of eyes watching her every move and taking in every detail. She felt so scruffy compared to the two of them, although even if forewarned, she’d never have achieved their pinnacle of sophistication and style.

‘So, Sylvie – you’re the mistress of Stonewylde, just as you’d planned all those years ago,’ said Holly, taking a cup of black coffee and refusing sugar. She sipped and grimaced, putting the cup back down on the tray with a delicate shudder.

‘Indeed!’ said Sylvie. ‘My coup paid off and Stonewylde gained a new dictator!’

They gaped at her and she couldn’t help but laugh.

‘Oh come on! I’m certainly not the mistress of Stonewylde – we run the place democratically with a Council of Elders nowadays.’

‘Magus would turn in his grave,’ said Fennel, which made Sylvie shiver. He drank his coffee quickly and looked at his watch. ‘Well, we’d better be getting on with the photoshoot. My time is valuable and I haven’t come all the way down here for nothing.’

‘You go on, darling,’ said Holly, dismissing him with a wave of the hand. ‘I’ll stay and chat to Sylvie. We’ve a lot of catching up to do.’

‘Hold on a second!’ said Sylvie. ‘I’m not sure that we’ll want to continue with this whole venture. You’ve tricked us into it, and—’

‘Oh no you don’t!’ said Holly sharply. ‘You were given a bona fide contract and Clip signed it. It’s legally binding and, whether you feel tricked or not, the deal will go ahead. I’d give in gracefully if I were you, Sylvie, because you won’t win this one.’

Starling could barely push open the rotted gate as the dried-out riot of dead plants had flopped across the path and blocked access. Brambles scratched her dirty feet and swollen ankles as she waddled up to the front door and lifted the latch, bracing herself for the stench. All was quiet as she entered save for the frantic buzz of bluebottles, and for a terrible moment she thought she’d find two corpses. But then she saw the faint rocking motion of Old Violet’s chair and breathed a gasp of relief.

‘ ’Tis only me come with some provisions!’ she called, using the wicker basket to push things aside on the table and make a space.

‘ ’Tis the starling hopped back into the old nest,’ muttered Violet from her chair. ‘Found your way back then, my girl?’

‘Aye, you know I won’t forget you, Auntie Violet,’ said Starling. ‘Where’s my ma then? Oh – she’s asleep!’

‘She’s always asleep,’ said Violet bitterly, glancing at the shrivelled up woman in the rocking chair next to her. ‘I’m on me own most o’ the time, it seems. You bought us some food then?’

‘Just a loaf and some milk, Auntie,’ said Starling blithely. ‘The
pair
o’ you don’t eat enough to keep a sparrow alive. Here, I’ll soak you some bread in the milk now.’

‘I ain’t a weanling!’ said Violet. ‘I could do with a nice rabbit stew. You got the makings for that? A tasty bit o’ soft rabbit – mmn.’

‘No, I ain’t got time to build up the range and cook a stew,’ said Starling. ‘Last time you said to bring bread and milk and not bother with other stuff as it only spoils.’

‘Pah!
You
can’t be bothered is more like it. Just ‘cos it won’t be filling
your
belly, you can’t be bothered to cook us something tasty. Come here, girl, and let me look at you.’

Reluctantly Starling sidled round the chairs and plumped herself down in her old throne with the log for a foot rest. The hearth was covered in ash since the grate had never been cleaned from the fire back in spring, and it bore evidence of the crones clearing their throats. Starling reflected briefly on all that she’d given up in her quest to find herself a man.

‘You still enjoying your new nest then, Starling?’

Vetchling had opened her eyes a crack and gazed at her daughter with dislike. She’d shrunk in on herself so much that she was almost part of the chair, like a battered, filthy old cushion lining the wooden frame.

‘Aye, he’s a good man,’ she sighed.

‘If he’s that good, why’ve you got a blackberry lip?’

‘ ’Twas my fault,’ said Starling. ‘He told me to shut up and I didn’t. I got to learn new ways now and it ain’t easy.’

Violet tutted in disgust and reached for her pipe, then discarded it when she remembered her pouch of dried herbs was almost empty.

‘I never let a man do that to me,’ she said. ‘You’re a fool if you let him beat you.’

Starling shrugged and patted the great mound of her stomach miserably.

‘I don’t mind that so much, though he is a bit handy with his belt. But he don’t let me eat enough neither. Always him and his old ma first and then I have what’s left, and only then
if
he says so. I need my food, a big girl like me.’

Violet chuckled at this.

‘Not so big no more. I can see you lost some o’ that fat and you’ve a sight more to go. So old Cledwyn’s got you held down tight, has he? He’ll be putting a bridle on you next! But you don’t have to stay there, mind. You can come back to us.’

‘But I love him, Auntie! He’s a hard man and a mite heavy-handed, but I want him. I got a big itch and he’s the only man to scratch it. He’d come and get me anyway if I moved back here – he already told me that. Said he’d drag me back by my hair and keep me tethered to the bedpost if I tried to leave him!’

She giggled excitedly at the thought of this, fiddling with her long greasy hair like a young girl preening.

‘So who’s to take care of us?’ whined Vetchling. ‘I need someone to look after me with my poorly chest.’

‘I’ll tell Martin to come and see to you,’ said Starling. ‘He won’t let you both rot.’

‘No, our Martin won’t,’ said Violet. ‘He’s a good boy, right enough, and he won’t let his old ma rot.’

‘Aye, you speak right, sister,’ wheezed Vetchling. ‘He always were a good boy – better than my nasty pair o’ brats.’

‘Well, thank you for that!’ said Starling indignantly. ‘Who’s the one who looked after you both all these years? Ungrateful old cow!’

She heaved herself up from the chair and took the little churn of milk and the loaf out from her basket. She located their filthy bowls on the floor beside their chairs and, as there was no water to rinse them out, she simply tore up some chunks of bread into each encrusted bowl and covered them with milk. Their spoons were wiped hastily on her skirt and she stomped over with the brimming bowls.

‘There you are, nice dish o’ milk sops each, just what you asked for. I’m off now and I don’t rightly know when I’ll be back. Cledwyn don’t like me being out for too long.’

‘He ain’t there in the daytime,’ mumbled Violet through a
mouthful
of soft, slimy bread. ‘He’s at work in the Tannery all day.’

‘Aye, but his ma watches me like a barn cat. She got me down on me hands and knees scrubbing the floors and weeding the vegetable beds,’ said Starling. ‘And if she says I ain’t worked hard enough, I get it from Cled when he comes home – and I don’t get no supper neither! So it’s hard for me coming here and I reckon I done my bit, right enough. Our Martin can take care o’ you both now.’

Without a backward glance she snatched up her basket and hurried out of the filthy cottage, leaving the door standing open.

‘Stupid girl’s left us in a draught!’ rasped Vetchling. ‘Get up and close the door, sister.’

‘I can’t!’ said Violet. ‘I can barely stand no more – ’tis my poor old back. You shut the door, Vetch.’

‘In a minute, when I got my breath. She’s given me too much o’ these slops – I can’t eat all this! I’ll just put it down here on the floor for later . . .’

They both dozed off in the warm morning, the flies buzzing around them.

The Aitch crew had taken over the Barn as their headquarters whilst shooting in the Village. The make-up artists and hair stylists had spread out the tools of their trades all along the trestle tables, with extension leads trailing from wall sockets for the hair-dryers, hair-straighteners and curling tongs. Covered racks of the brand new collection of clothes had been brought down in the large van and wheeled inside the Barn. Fortunately, there was plenty of room, so the scene wasn’t quite as chaotic as it could have been.

Despite the bright sunlight, the photographic assistants were juggling large white umbrellas and light panels out onto the Green, and Chelsi and Benjy were in top gear marshalling and bullying, liaising between the different factions. Finn, as everyone knew him, was outside on the Green choosing his exact locations. This was the autumn-winter range, but the vegetation
clearly
showed it to be the height of a very dry summer, so he had to be careful. Inside the Barn the models were in various stages of dress and undress, and all heavily made up to look very natural.

As the youngest on the photo-shoot, Faun and Rufus struggled with the logistics of getting changed and seeing others do so. The scarecrow-thin models had been pulling outfits on and off up at the Hall all morning without a second thought, but Faun and Rufus both found this impossible and battled with modesty. Rufus had turned out to be the darling of the event and everyone made a huge fuss of him. They all found his freckles “adorable” and the silky red hair that fell into his beautiful dark eyes was much admired. Being so gangly himself, he was the perfect foil for the tall, skinny professional girls, and his shyness meant that he just stood still and smiled without fidgeting or trying to pose. Finn found him delightful to work with and talked of getting him on other shoots in the future.

Faun was finding it all rather heavy going. She was bitterly disappointed to find herself used as an extra, rather than starring as the main model of Stonewylde with the Outsiders as her attendants. She was reasonably tall with a slim but curvaceous figure; next to the models she looked fat and dumpy. She had a heated argument with the hair stylist who refused to curl her hair into ringlets; this wasn’t the natural look they were aiming for at all. Rowan had been obliged to return to the Nursery to deal with a crisis involving one of the children, and Faun had to fend for herself. She had the horrible feeling they were all laughing at her. Kestrel and Lapwing, the other boys chosen as extras, were having a good time, although Kestrel was still upset by Rainbow’s absence. His only consolation was in learning that Finn was her brother, and that she’d apparently mentioned Kestrel to him. The lad felt flattered and found Finn to be very friendly. Skipper and Betony, the other Stonewylde girls chosen, spent most of the time giggling together.

The folk in the Village were wary of the Outsiders who’d invaded their territory, and distrustful of all the equipment.
Finn
behaved as if the entire Village had been put there for the sole purpose of providing a backdrop for his art, and Chelsi and Benjy were constantly engaged in smoothing ruffled feathers. Swift had tagged along to the group when they’d been up in the Hall and had made himself the indispensable go-between. Harold still smarted at Holly and Fennel’s attitude towards him and found the situation difficult; Swift, being unaware of the old Hallfolk/Villager distinctions and blessed with silvery-blond hair anyway, was in his element. Finn kept referring to him as a poppet, and Chelsi and Benjy were happy to have someone so quick-thinking around to assist.