jollying them along with discussions about mixer taps and pendant lights when they’d had nothing else to say to each other. All the while the Magistrate’s House had lingered in Gina’s mind, the one that got away. The might-have-been house.
And now it was someone else’s.
Chapter Five
ITEM : a green Victorian witch-ball on a long brass chain, for hanging in a hallway to lure and trap any lurking evil spirits
Langley St Michael, March 2010
Gina looks down at the witch-ball she’s holding and sees her own face reflected back at her, green, like Glinda the good witch.
The witch-ball had been given to her by a nice old lady she’d advised about re-roofing an old farm cottage out near Rosehill. The hollyhocks and foxgloves in the garden had reminded Gina of a gingerbread house and, she’d found out over several cups of tea, the cottage had been in Mrs Hubert’s family since the land around it was all farmed, something she could remember herself. She’d helped with the harvest as a little girl.
‘Apples and pears, right up to St Mary’s Church on the hill! And the dray horses grazing where that hospital is now!’ she’d said, as if she could still see their feathery hooves out of the corner of her pale eye.
Ever since then, Gina has seen St Mary’s Road into Longhampton through a different filter. She likes the way houses capture their moment in history, imprinting crinolines and flat caps to the landscape while time and change wash around them, like the tide. Then, when they’re fragile and at risk of being lost, Gina can save them and the tissue layer of the past over the present day, iron boot scrapers keeping the rasp of muddy button boots alive next to Internet cable covers.
But no sooner had Mrs Hubert got her roof finished than she’d had a fall, the children had appeared from Bristol to sweep her off to residential care and the house was sold. The skinny lass who’d picked pears in the perry orchards that lay underneath Meadows Shopping Mall was now sitting in the converted drawing room of the house once owned by Longhampton’s jam magnates. Gina wonders whether Mrs Hubert can see the former residents floating in surprise through the new stud walls, indignant at the descendants of farmers and housemaids inhabiting their family home.
The witch-ball is from the cottage, of course. Long before the fall, before Mrs Hubert’s house was cleared for auction, the old lady had hidden it in the back of Gina’s car, and wouldn’t listen when Gina tried to give it back. Accepting gifts was absolutely, totally against all council rules. She’d offered to buy it, anxious not to hurt her feelings, but Mrs Hubert had refused outright. ‘It’s terrible bad luck, dear!’ she said. ‘You can only give them away, look.’ The hands had folded over hers. Bird-like, so translucent that the blue veins and the spreading coffee-brown liver spots merged, but strong. ‘And none of us need go looking for more bad luck, do we?’ she’d added, with a squeeze that made Gina wonder how much of her mind Mrs Hubert could read.
And so she’d guiltily driven home to Dryden Road with a genuine Victorian witch-ball in the boot. It was the most perfect witch-ball Gina had ever seen: about the size of a Galia melon, a rich festive green with a burnished brass loop at the top, like a giant Christmas tree bauble, so it could be hung by the door, ready to lure a malevolent spirit then trap it in the strands of filigree glass inside.
Gina looks at the witch-ball now, in her lap. She really wanted to hang it in the hallway, above the encaustic tiles she’s been regrouting, but Stuart doesn’t want it in the house; he thinks it’s superstitious nonsense. After the experience Gina’s had of dry facts, of single-minded chemical truths, she wants to make a bit more room in her world for superstition, but Stuart’s adamant, and his flat refusal to see the beauty in it pinches out another guttering
And now it was someone else’s.
Chapter Five
ITEM : a green Victorian witch-ball on a long brass chain, for hanging in a hallway to lure and trap any lurking evil spirits
Langley St Michael, March 2010
Gina looks down at the witch-ball she’s holding and sees her own face reflected back at her, green, like Glinda the good witch.
The witch-ball had been given to her by a nice old lady she’d advised about re-roofing an old farm cottage out near Rosehill. The hollyhocks and foxgloves in the garden had reminded Gina of a gingerbread house and, she’d found out over several cups of tea, the cottage had been in Mrs Hubert’s family since the land around it was all farmed, something she could remember herself. She’d helped with the harvest as a little girl.
‘Apples and pears, right up to St Mary’s Church on the hill! And the dray horses grazing where that hospital is now!’ she’d said, as if she could still see their feathery hooves out of the corner of her pale eye.
Ever since then, Gina has seen St Mary’s Road into Longhampton through a different filter. She likes the way houses capture their moment in history, imprinting crinolines and flat caps to the landscape while time and change wash around them, like the tide. Then, when they’re fragile and at risk of being lost, Gina can save them and the tissue layer of the past over the present day, iron boot scrapers keeping the rasp of muddy button boots alive next to Internet cable covers.
But no sooner had Mrs Hubert got her roof finished than she’d had a fall, the children had appeared from Bristol to sweep her off to residential care and the house was sold. The skinny lass who’d picked pears in the perry orchards that lay underneath Meadows Shopping Mall was now sitting in the converted drawing room of the house once owned by Longhampton’s jam magnates. Gina wonders whether Mrs Hubert can see the former residents floating in surprise through the new stud walls, indignant at the descendants of farmers and housemaids inhabiting their family home.
The witch-ball is from the cottage, of course. Long before the fall, before Mrs Hubert’s house was cleared for auction, the old lady had hidden it in the back of Gina’s car, and wouldn’t listen when Gina tried to give it back. Accepting gifts was absolutely, totally against all council rules. She’d offered to buy it, anxious not to hurt her feelings, but Mrs Hubert had refused outright. ‘It’s terrible bad luck, dear!’ she said. ‘You can only give them away, look.’ The hands had folded over hers. Bird-like, so translucent that the blue veins and the spreading coffee-brown liver spots merged, but strong. ‘And none of us need go looking for more bad luck, do we?’ she’d added, with a squeeze that made Gina wonder how much of her mind Mrs Hubert could read.
And so she’d guiltily driven home to Dryden Road with a genuine Victorian witch-ball in the boot. It was the most perfect witch-ball Gina had ever seen: about the size of a Galia melon, a rich festive green with a burnished brass loop at the top, like a giant Christmas tree bauble, so it could be hung by the door, ready to lure a malevolent spirit then trap it in the strands of filigree glass inside.
Gina looks at the witch-ball now, in her lap. She really wanted to hang it in the hallway, above the encaustic tiles she’s been regrouting, but Stuart doesn’t want it in the house; he thinks it’s superstitious nonsense. After the experience Gina’s had of dry facts, of single-minded chemical truths, she wants to make a bit more room in her world for superstition, but Stuart’s adamant, and his flat refusal to see the beauty in it pinches out another guttering
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