A Witch in Love (16 page)

‘YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESS!’ Em shrieked beside me, waving her arms in the air like crazy.

‘I didn’t know you liked football,’ I said as she sat back down. She shrugged and gave me a sidelong smile.

‘Sweaty, mud-covered, panting men wearing shorts – what’s not to like?’

‘I see your point. There’s definitely an impressive amount of eye candy down there.’ The sheer amount of rain-drenched, mud-streaked male skin on display made the game magnetic whether or not you cared about the result. I saw Seth pounding down the field, his hair slicked close to his skull, and watched as he tackled a defender for the ball, weaving in and out of West Riding players to take it back up the pitch. Then, with a brutality that made me flinch, another player cut in to tackle Seth and he tripped and pitched headlong into the mud with a wet smack that was audible even up in the stands.

‘Yowch!’ Even Em looked taken aback, but Seth was up and running again in an instant. He flashed a quick smile up towards the crowd, searching for me, and gave me a little wave before plunging back into the action.

‘Anyone in particular catch your eye, then?’ I said curiously to Em. She’d never shown any interest in the boys at school – in fact I’d sometimes wondered if her inclinations lay elsewhere.

‘What, seriously, you mean?’ She glanced over at me to see if I was joking and then shook her head firmly. ‘No, no way.’

‘Why not? Seth’s friend Matt, say.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘The tall guy in goal.’ I pointed at Matt, his sun-streaked hair turned dark gold with sweat and rain. ‘You know, he’s the one who’s always bunking off to go surfing. He’s lovely.’

‘Huh.’ Em snorted derisively.

‘You don’t even know him,’ I said mildly.

‘I don’t need to. He’s just an—’

She stopped and I looked at her, half cross and half amused.

‘Just what? Just an outwith, that’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?’

‘Well …’ She had the grace to look a bit embarrassed but I could see she wasn’t really repentant. ‘He is.’

‘So’s Seth. So’s my dad. What are you trying to say?’

‘Nothing. I’m not trying to say anything. I just don’t think it ever works out.’

‘How would you know?’ I was getting cross now and the words came out more hotly than I’d intended. ‘I’m half-outwith, you know.’

‘No you’re not.’ Em shook her head dismissively.

‘What – are you saying my dad’s not my dad?’ I was furious now, my voice rising above the roar of the crowd.

‘Keep your voice down – and your knickers on. No, I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying if you’ve got magic, that’s it. If you haven’t, you’re an outwith. There’s no such thing as half-outwith. If it comes to that,
I’m
half-outwith.’

‘
What?
’

‘My dad, he was just some random outwith, you know.’

‘Some
random
outwith?’ Her dismissive tone made me reel back. I wasn’t sure if I was shocked, or disgusted, or pitying. ‘And you’ve never wanted to meet him – to know him?’

‘Not really.’

‘What about Sienna?’

‘No, her dad was one of us, but he died. I think that’s what made my mum turn … outwards. She wanted a relationship without … without complications. Getting knocked up wasn’t part of the plan, as far as I know. I don’t think she let him hang around long enough to find out.’

‘So he was just … just stud services?’

‘More or less.’ Emmaline looked slightly defensive, but she wasn’t backing down. ‘Look, it would never have worked. She didn’t have anything in common with him – neither would I, if I ever met him. It just doesn’t
work
.’

‘Oil and water,’ I said under my breath, my words swallowed by the roar of the spectators.

‘What did you say?’

‘Doesn’t matter. But Em, how can you be so sure it’d never have worked – that you’d have nothing in common with your dad? You never gave him a chance.’

‘Look.’ Em’s face was hard. ‘You may not like it, and I’m sorry if this pisses you off, but it’s true. It doesn’t
work
.’

‘What about me, what about
my
dad?’

‘Yeah, and look how well that turned out with your mum,’ Emmaline snapped back.

I don’t know what reaction showed in my face – it felt like a stiff mask of cold. But Em looked stricken. ‘Anna, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘Why not?’ My voice sounded hard in my own ears. ‘It’s true.’

I turned back to the match and we sat side by side in silence, watching the boys running up and down in a weird, futile dance that suddenly made no sense to me at all.

‘Go, Seth!’ someone screamed behind me and I leant forward and saw that Seth had the ball and was tearing down the pitch towards the goal. A huge defender blocked his path but he feinted left, swerved right to avoid a second, and then paused for a microsecond, weighing up the closing gap between the sidelines and the defenders thundering towards him. He could go for it – but it would be a slim chance and there was another Winter player, Ahmid, waiting to his right.

‘Shoot!’ the crowd screamed, but the defenders were closing in. Seth passed to Ahmid and Ahmid took the shot and levelled the score to screams of adulation from the crowd. Seth clapped Ahmid on the back – and if he was frustrated at losing the shot you wouldn’t have known it.

There were only a few minutes left now and the game was sliding towards a draw in a sea of mud. Five minutes, by my watch. Four. Three. And then there was a scuffle on the pitch, players down, grappling with each other in the mud. The shrill whistle blasted out and the ref called a penalty against West Riding.

The Winter team conferred for a minute and then Seth stepped forwards to take the penalty.

The crowd held its collective breath as Seth walked out in front of the goal and bowed his wet, seal-slick head. Then he ran his hands through his hair in the characteristic gesture I loved and ran towards the ball, as if he were a matador charging down a bull. His foot connected with a smack that echoed round the silent pitch and then the crowd erupted with screams of joy as the ball slammed into the corner of the net and the ref’s whistle blew.

The crowd’s celebrations were finally dying down, and I was shouldering my bag and ignoring Emmaline, when I felt a slippery, muscular arm snake round my neck and a hot, wet cheek press against mine.

‘Do I get a kiss for the winning goal?’

‘Seth!’ I swung round and flung my arms around him, mud and all. ‘Well done.’

‘Photo finish, eh?’

‘You did really well.’

‘Well, I’m off for a shower. Are you coming to the pub to celebrate?’

I hesitated. Oil and water. Caradoc Truelove. Questions, answers, possibilities battering at my brain.

‘Would you … Would you mind if I didn’t? I’m just … I’m really tired. You won’t miss me with all the team there.’

‘Of course I’ll miss you.’ He kissed my cheek. ‘But don’t be silly – you go on home. Have a good night’s sleep. Shall I see you tomorrow instead?’

‘Actually … maybe not.’

‘Not? What d’you mean?’

‘I think … I think I might be going to London.’

Truelove Books
returned far too many hits and
Caradoc Truelove
in quotes returned none, so I tried
Truelove Books
Soho
and
Truelove Books London
. There was nothing on the first two or three pages that looked remotely like a shop – almost all Amazon listings for authors called Something Truelove. None of them were Caradoc.

OK, yell.com maybe. There were no results for
Truelove Books
but when I widened the search,
Truelove & Fox
popped up on screen. Their listing described them as
Sellers and Dealers of Antiquarian Books and Curiosities
. I clicked to show it on a map. Not Soho, but Cecil Court – a little alley off Charing Cross Road. Close enough. Could this be it? Well, it was possible that he’d taken on a partner, I supposed. The other possibility, it suddenly occurred to me, was that he’d retired, or died.

I thought about ringing – for about two seconds. What could I say? ‘Er, hello, could I speak to someone who might have known my possibly crazy, possibly deceased mother slightly more than eighteen years ago, possibly under her maiden name which I don’t know? Oh, and did I mention the witchcraft?’

No. There was only one way to do this.

I wrote down the address of the bookshop and the times of the London trains tomorrow, and was just about to close down the computer when my email pinged. It was Em.

Hey. Sorry I was a bitch. I guess we both struck a nerve with each other – but that doesn’t excuse me being a heinous tit.

I heard what you said to Seth. London, I mean. I’ll understand if not, but if you want me to come, just say.

Em. x

I sat and stared at the screen for a long time. Then I pressed reply and wrote:

Hey. Me too. Etc.

Winter station, 10.05 tomorrow. No worries if you can’t make it.

See you there. Or not.

A x

‘We’re going the wrong way,’ Em said again. ‘Surely it should be off the top end of Charing Cross Road – we’re practically at the National Gallery.’

‘It’s this way; I’m telling you.’ I looked down again at the A–Z and up at Charing Cross Road. But I had to admit, it didn’t look promising. Then a small gap opened up between the towering buildings to our left and a little alleyway appeared between. It was full of narrow, Victorian shops, each stuffed full of books and maps. As we passed I examined the names painted on the discreet, understated signs and etched on the glass doors.
Goldsboro Books
 … 
David Drummond
 … 
Marchpane’s
 … I wanted to stop at all of them, rummage through musty stacks and ruffle crisp new hardbacks. But Emmaline was pointing to the farthest corner, where the littlest shop of all displayed a modest grey sign which proclaimed, in white letters,
Truelove & Fox
.

Suddenly my courage failed. If Em hadn’t been there I would have turned back, fled to the Underground. But she saw me waver.

‘Come on.’ Her voice was low. ‘Do you want to be always wondering?’

No. No, I wanted to know.

I pushed on the door and jumped as a small brass bell rang out in the silent, empty shop.

‘Hello?’ Emmaline called. There was no one behind the counter so we turned to look around. Dusty shelves rose up on every side, full from floor to ceiling with crumbling leather-bound books with gilt spines and marbled endpapers. Emmaline began walking along the shelves, her head tilted to one side to read the spines. I was more interested in the small glass case on the counter which displayed a small, heavy volume with a gilt lock.

‘The
Grimoire of Honorius
,’ I read from the ticket. ‘Seventeenth-century kid-bound edition.’

‘There’s a lot of occult stuff here,’ Emmaline said, ‘but it’s all well-known public stuff, if you know what I mean. I wonder—’

‘Can I help you, ladies?’

We both jumped and turned to see that a man had come in silently from behind the counter and was surveying us over rimless glasses. He was tall and blond, with a neat goatee and a discreet gold stud in one ear. If he knew my mother eighteen years ago it must have been at primary school – there was no way this man was Caradoc Truelove.

I coughed and wished I’d rehearsed this with Emmaline on the train instead of deciding to wing it.

‘Ah, yes. Er, can you tell me, we were looking for a Caradoc Truelove, who owned Truelove Books in Soho some years ago.’

‘Yes?’ said the man unhelpfully. Damn.

‘Well, we just wondered; Truelove & Fox – is there any connection?’

‘Yes.’ His face was blank and unreadable.

‘So, Mr Truelove – is he … ?’ Arse. This was harder than I’d thought. I couldn’t just blurt out, ‘
Is he dead?
’

I ground to a halt.

‘Is he available?’ Em put in, taking pity on my floundering. ‘We were hoping to meet him. We think he knew my friend’s mother.’

‘Really?’ Goatee-man looked slightly more interested. ‘And who might you be?’

‘My name is Anna Winterson. My mother was Isla Winterson. She died when I was a small child but I think Mr Truelove knew her before that.’

‘I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of that name,’ Goatee-man said firmly.