Unraveled Visions (A Shaman Mystery) (12 page)

“Oh,” I yelped. “Sorry!”

“Don’t worry about it. Unisex changing room.” He gave me a grin. “First day?”

“Yeah. Sabbie. Hi. No idea what I’m doing. Almost got the sack already.”

“Everyone gets the sack every day in here. I’m Jimmy, by the way.”

“You’re from Bridgwater, aren’t you?” I took in his pale face, a rash of spots over the forehead and chin. His West Country burr was pleasantly high; it hadn’t yet dipped to the lower octave range of older inhabitants.

“North Petherton, but yeah. Born, bred, and buttered in these parts.”

“Whatever makes you want to work for this outfit?”

“Same as you, I suppose.”

I strongly doubted that. I thought something up quick. “Sort of … want to gain a trade then move on?”

“Got it in one. Went through the catering diploma at college but that don’t mean squat unless you’ve got experience. These were the first lot to offer me something.”

“Great.” I nodded like a back window dog. He must be gaining proficiency in taking blows, at least. “So … what are you here? Sort of sous chef ?”

“Mostly it’s just me. Stan cooks when he’s got enough serving staff, but we’re thin on the ground at the moment.” He dropped his voice a little. “Mr. Papazov doesn’t do much actual work. Better at breathing down necks if the truth be told.”

And breaking them
, I thought.

“You’ve been here a while, then?”

“Yeah, too long.”

“Did you know Kizzy Brouviche?”

“Of course. Her sister still works here, but Kizzy’s moved on.”

“Where d’you think she moved on to?”

“She didn’t say. Didn’t think to tell
me
, at least.”

“You didn’t get to know her well, then?”

Jimmy’s face darkened, as if a cloud had come over it. His spots seemed to glow as his skin blushed. He finished getting his kit on and squeezed past me, disappearing into the kitchen seconds before Mirela rushed into the little room. There were pink spots on her cheeks and her eyes were wet with the cold air outside. “Name of Virgin! Too much sleepy. Stan will kill.” She threw off her coat and zipped herself into an overall. She lifted the locally famous Papa scooter helmet off a peg and passed it to me. It was painted with three thick bands of colour. “Flag of our country,” she said. “White, green, red.”

I dragged on one of the ubiquitous yellow jackets that hung next to the helmets and followed her out into the kitchen. Mirela veered towards Jimmy, who was chopping onions sharp and swift. I saw her touch his cheek with a slender finger.

“You cry that things?” She pointed to the onions. Her voice was lower, a little gruffer than normal, and Jimmy’s heart was practically struggling out through his ribs. His legs buckled as he bounced away from the chopping board. Above the half-raised zip of Mirela’s overall a line of flesh frothed from a red bra. I couldn’t quite reconcile her flirting with her earlier talk of retaining purity.

I slid over to Petar, gearing myself up for warfare.

“I’d like my bike back,” I said, feebly adding, “please.”

Petar lifted his shoulders like they were cleavers. “I don’t know you. I never see you.”

“The yellow mountain bike you nicked from me? The one I chained to your front garden railings? The one you used a bolt cutter to steal?”

His eyelids slid over his eyes. The action was languid, unconcerned. “I don’t like you. Go away.”

But it was Petar that moved away, slowly, as if he always moved as little as possible. I stared after him, unable to think of a back-up plan.

“First orders,” yelled Stan. “Have you got that soup on yet, mate?”

“Yes, chef,” Jimmy yelled back. It was more of a squeak. He was trembling twice over, from pressure and from passion.

Stan was grinning at me. “Okay, Sabbie
Daar
. Let’s see how well you know the roads. Two out-of-town orders, both for good, regular customers.” He made a swipe at his hair. “And one is a big deal, ten portions, so don’t get them muddled. Check the addresses on your map now and get going soon as the food is ready.”

I strapped on the crash helmet and wondered how long I’d cope with looking like an over-patriotic representation of the flag of Bulgaria, a country I’d known nothing about a week ago. But I was learning fast. In fact, I was beginning to think this might be quite an interesting job.

eleven

Pop-popping along at the
top restriction of thirty miles an hour, I finally reached the village of Westonzoyland, the location of my first order. I pulled up outside a low-built detached house with pink rendering. I didn’t even have to ring the bell. There was a chap on the drive, waxing a very new Toyota Land Cruiser. It was hard to tell which bits he’d waxed and which he hadn’t; it was inky black from nose to tail. He hailed me, putting down his buffer. “Ah, lunch.”

“Mr. Grace? I have your snezhanka salad and patatnik plus bean soup?” I’d been looking forward to saying that the whole journey.

“Thank you.” He had mousy hair which was greying at the temples. As he smiled, crows’ feet either side his brown eyes smiled too. “Except it’s Dr. Grace.”

“Oh, sorry.” I checked my order form. “There’s nine pounds sixty-eight to pay.”

“Come in a sec.” He pulled the door wide and disappeared into the house. I stood in the thick pile of the hall carpet and looked around. There was a cello on a stand in the corner of the hall and a mountain landscape in oils on a pale wall.

While I waited, I took a look at the next address—a house called the Hatchings in the nearby village of Zotheroy. Something about that address made my spine buzz, even though I knew I’d never been there. Why did it feel familiar? The name on the order—Mitchell—meant nothing to me.

Finally, Dr. Grace returned with the exact money. “Don’t think I’ve seen you before,” he said. “New to Papazov’s?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Enjoying the challenge?”

“Actually, you’re my very first order.”

“Gracious!” he laughed. “Glad I had the right money!”

“Yeah, thanks, it does make things easier. I don’t suppose you can tell me the best way to Zotheroy, could you? There seemed to be a choice of back roads.”

He came out with me and stood by my scooter. “Go back to the main road and keep going until you get to the crossroads with the A361. You’ll see a narrow unmarked road that comes off there. Head along it towards King’s Sedgemoor Drain. The village is signposted at the next junction.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you know the surrounds!” I said, without meaning to, but his cultured voice suggested he was not a West Country local.

“Oh, I’ve been here a while. And you?”

“Couple of years. I’m from Bristol originally.”

“What on earth dragged you down to soggy Somerset?”

I made a face. “Er … boys and business.”

“Hope both have been a success.”

“Not as such. I’m bad at relationships and I wouldn’t be working for Papa if I was good at business, would I?”

We both laughed. “Well,” said Dr. Grace, “you should find the next call fine so long as you pick up that first turnoff.”

“Thanks.”

It felt like a friendly start to the deliveries and I waved behind me as I sped off …
sped
being a maximum acceleration of nought to thirty miles per hour in not even sixty seconds.

Thanks to Dr. Grace’s advice, I was soon on the road to Zotheroy, keeping my eye open for the Hatchings. As I did so, that buzzy feeling I’d had earlier began to fall into place. Dennon’s cute grin flashed into my mind … the birth certificate lying on the coffee table. The Hatchings in Zotheroy. My mother’s address before I was born. Crazy. I couldn’t wait to take a look.

I spotted the house sign and negotiated a windy, gravelled lane that ended in a herringboned driveway. A massive turning circle was landscaped with a sculptural array of shrubs and bushes. The red brick house loomed up, its white-framed windows set geometrically square and its chimneys standing high and proud. This was some place of origin.

A woman came out of the house while I was pulling the paper sacks of foil containers from the top box. “This is all very late. We have guests and we were expecting to eat almost fifteen minutes ago.”

“I’m sorry. Uh, you’re quite hard to find.”

She peered. “New, are you?”

“Yes, just started.” I made a fuss of the order form. “Can I confirm that your name is Mitchell?

“Mrs. Mitchell, that’s correct. I paid by card, of course.”

“Can I help you in with this? There’s too much for one to carry.” Truthfully, I was longing for a glimpse of the interior, even if the place and people had changed over the years.

“If you would.” She marched along the driveway, actually carrying nothing. I followed behind Mrs. Mitchell, holding the carriers low in case the handles broke from the weight of two courses for ten people. I tried to keep her in sight as she passed the pillared front door—obviously I was destined for the tradesperson’s entrance—and turned a corner.

When Gloria and Philip took us on our Sunday walks, they always promised we’d have the picnic when we reached the top of whatever hill they’d chosen to torture us with. We’d toil up, watching the summit get closer as Dennon larked about and Charlene threw sticks for the dog. I’d be thinking,
not far now, not far now
, but when we reached the top there would always be another hill tucked behind it, and as the grownups urged us on, realization would dawn; farther and farther horizons would loom as our stomachs growled, long before we’d actually reach the top.

Well, the Hatchings was like that. We walked past rows and rows of windows and turned another corner. I shook my head in disbelief. These were
wings.
My mother couldn’t have lived here unless she’d been a maid with a bed in the attic. Then, with a rush of relief, it came to me. It was all an error. This place had nothing to do with me at all. My mother probably came from one of the little workers’ cottages I’d seen in the village.

Finally, we reached the kitchen and I made a pretence of helping her unload the food. “This is a fine old house,” I said. “Does it have much history?”

“It’s late Jacobean,” said Mrs. Mitchell. “My mother opens it up occasionally, if you’re interested.”

I took her in. She was not as tall as I’d first thought. She just looked tall, stood tall. Her hair was ash blond, highlighted cleverly to prevent it looking coloured, but seeing a hairdresser every week can leave hair lifeless and hers did not shine; there was no gloss to it. Rather, it had the shimmer of gossamer. She’d backcombed it into a French pleat that stood high on her head, adding to the illusion of being able to look down over vast cities without climbing hills or towers. I wanted to place her in her fifties, but it could be her attitude that was middle-aged. Her face was a little puffy under the eyes, but mascara and lippy were doing a good job of detracting attention from that fact, while too much sun bed was achieving the reverse.

“Your mother?”

“My mother, yes.” She finally turned back to me. “Lady Savile-Dare.”

“Dare?” I echoed, unable to think further than this single word.

“Savile-Dare. We have costumed tours in the summer. And a candlelight concert in December.” She pulled open an inner door and called, “Lettice! Lettice!”

A girl of twelve or so appeared in the doorway. She was wearing jodhpurs and had a smear of mud on her nose.

“Good lord, Lettice,” said Mrs. Mitchell. “You look appalling. Why haven’t you bathed? I was hoping you’d help me with lunch.” She shook her head, dismissive of all the stresses of her life. “Well, anyway, can you fetch a leaflet for this girl? Then run and
get changed.”

“I can help you with it,” I said, “seeing I was so late. I—I didn’t know I was coming here. Not till I looked at the map.”

Stupid words were falling from my mouth without bidding, but she didn’t respond. She wasn’t even listening, which was just as well. I fished a dog-eared business card out of my jeans pocket and laid it on the scrubbed kitchen table, but Mrs. Mitchell was not going to examine the card of a hawker who had gained unauthorized admission. Impossibly, she rose in height. Her mouth was drawing inwards, as if she was thinking of sipping a margarita. “That won’t be necessary, thank you. And it does look as if my daughter was unable to put her hand on the events leaflets, so that will be all, if you don’t mind.”

I stood my ground, the keen wind of my breath in my ears. “You can warm up the soup in a microwave quite quickly,” I said, mostly because I wanted to be the last person to speak. Then I slipped out through the back door and refreshed my memory on how to find my scooter.

_____

It was cold work, delivering takeaway in late November. I felt shivery to the bone by the time I got home. It was quarter past five and already very dark. Despite being allowed some soup and salad at lunch time, I had a Grand Canyon emptiness in my stomach and there wasn’t much in the fridge, apart from half a carton of milk, already on the turn. I went into the back yard with a flashlight, tucked the hens up for the night and rummaged around the storage shed. This might once have been a coal house, but it’s a lovely cool place to overwinter veggies. There were some old potatoes in a sack and a big tub filled with sand where the carrots were buried. Last summer, a long string of onions hung against the wall; there were only five left. I cut a small one down. Four. I grabbed a spade and tramped down the garden to where the leeks grew.

I washed and chopped my leek, onion, carrot, and spud, and fried them up in a pan, adding some dried thyme, salt, and black pepper. As soon as the veggies looked soft, I threw in a cup of water. I waited until it was bubbling, checked the flame was low and poured myself a glass of wine I couldn’t afford but badly needed.

I was still trying to get my head round the Hatchings. Was it a massive, stupid coincidence? When I’d seen the address on the birth certificate, I’d assumed it was a children’s home, not a stately residence. Lady Savile-Dare. What a name. “Sod you,” I said under my breath. I wasn’t sure who I was talking to, but the shimmering presence of the River Lady came into my mind.
Even the most skillful shaman cannot give advice over issues they refuse to explore themselves.
I wouldn’t put it past the spirit world to bring Mirela to my door solely so I’d take that job and find the Savile-Dares. The spirit world can get very involved once you start with it.

Like before. It was eight years ago that I’d had my motorbike accident. I’d bashed my head and fallen into a deep coma, where I’d met the spirit form of a Cunning Man: Bren Howell. Later, I met him in the flesh. He and his wife Rhiannon had been the first step on my path to discovering the inner worlds, and the three of us agreed that my bike accident had helped me understand that.

Life is full of strange turns of chance that shape the things we know and do. If Gloria hadn’t sent me the birth certificate, I wouldn’t have bothered following Mrs. Mitchell into the kitchen of the Hatchings. And if I hadn’t seen Gary Abbott chasing through the squibbing crowds, I’d’ve never met Kizzy.

I longed to unload this to someone. The sort of someone that you can talk to by rolling over in bed when you wake up. The someone who asks how was your day, honey, when you get home at night. But that bloke didn’t exist in my life at the moment. I loved my work and my little garden, and the hens helped some, but I did miss living with other people. Sometimes, I longed to hear chatter from downstairs when I woke. It would almost be a joy to queue up outside the bathroom or hurl insults at a social worker one more time.

Or roll over and find someone snoring into the other pillow.

I’d sworn I would never investigate my birth certificate, yet within weeks I was in the kitchen of my mother’s old house. At least, it was possible the Hatchings was my mother’s old house, and that the people in it were my relations.

Once I’ve met someone, I can recall their features, their name, and most of what they’ve told me. I have to be careful not to get cross with people who are less good at that stuff—who haven’t clocked my name (
my
name!) on third introduction—and I’m surprised when people confess they can’t remember back to before they were five or six. I wonder what has happened to the memories they should be having. So many first things happen early on; first time on Santa’s knee, first day at nursery, first ice cream.

I can summon all that to mind, if I wish, but I prefer not to. It’s like a casket I keep firmly shut. The memories are hidden away, as if they’d been folded in tissue against fading.

Quite a few of my very early memories are good ones, and I have evolved a theory that even then I knew I should store the nice stuff up carefully and discard the bad.

There were times when my mother was up to being a good mum. They can’t have been frequent, but obviously they were numerous enough to keep our heads below the parapet of the Social Services’ gun-sights, for no one tried to take me away from a woman who was mostly out of her head. But when life smiled on Izzie Dare, she’d assume we’d behave like sisters. She’d scream at me,
We are not staying in!
(as if it had been my decision to do so), zip up my pink anorak, and we’d be riding a bus, with her whispering,
What shall we do when we get into town, Sabrina?

What we mostly did, I fancy, was sit in a coffee house or window shop our way around the department stores, but we were doing it together. We were
out
, that was the thing. I can remember ploughing through a knickerbocker glory with a long spoon, swooning over the sweet coolness, and watching the laser displays on pub walls as I fell to sleep on her lap. After I’d started school, she’d have little hesitation in pulling me out of class, setting a trend that continued until my last hour as a pupil. On hot summer days, we’d bus it to the seaside—Weston-super-Mare, I presume—somewhere anyway with a pier full of slot machines that would take up all my two-p pieces while Izzie at first made faces with the best of the men, then disappeared behind the rides with them. I never searched for her—not while I still had money for candy floss or trying to winch up a squashy teddy from the pile of cheap watches.

Shortly before she left me, she took me to the first Bonfire Night I can recall. I am very clear about this memory. I know I was in Miss Goodwin’s class, as I went up from Reception to Year One five months before my mother died, so it
had
to be that November the fifth. I clung to her as we watched the fireworks rain down because, although my head was filled with starry wonders, I was terrified that the explosions could hurt her. I don’t think I ever worried that things might hurt me. It was in my heart from the first that my mother was the vulnerable one.