old woman looked at the vial again. “My Aunt Cissy used to run with the gypsies back in the old country. She told me some tales. Like how the old gypsy women used to make up all sorts of spells and potions to try and keep their husband’s interested, stop them running off with the younger fillies. The glamour was supposed to be the best method, a few drops of blood from the old women themselves, mixed with a few drops of blood from a young girl. They’d say a few words over it, and then . . .”
“And then?” asked Rosie, eyes bulging.
“They used to drink it.”
“Eugh!” cried Rosie.
Wendy shivered at the thought.
Miss Pike seemed to take delight in their revulsion. With a smirk, she continued: “They’d drink it down and then, supposedly, their appearance would change. Instead of looking like an old hag, they’d become a beautiful girl in the bloom of youth. But-” She held up a bony finger. “The glamour would only last as long as it took to get what they wanted. Once they’d had their way with their man, the effect wore off.” She laughed through her nose. “Imagine the fella’s horror, spending a night of passion with a beautiful young girl, only to wake up next morning cuddled up to his missus - back to her old, wrinkled self!”
She stared at Wendy and Rosie for a moment, then threw her head back and let out a throaty, braying laugh.
“And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything!” she cackled. “It’s probably smelling salts!”
Rosie, realising they’d been had, threw a scowl to Wendy, who flushed pink with embarrassment for having believed such a tall tale.
When Miss Pike had stopped laughing, she shuffled over to the door and looked out at the small community of caravans--her empire--and sighed. “Anyway, ladies,” she said, “the reason I came out was to tell you that caravans seven and eight need cleaning before the end of your shift.”
“What?” cried Rosie.
“That’s right. So you two better get a move on.” Miss Pike looked once more at the vial of red liquid, then studied Wendy’s face, her watery eyes roving over that awful scar. “Hey, Wendy,” she said. “You need a man, don’t you? Maybe you should give it a try.”
Wendy felt the heat rise in her face, and the fingers of her left hand instinctively covered the scar.
“I didn’t think so,” Pike said, looking at Wendy with an air of pity. And with that, the old woman tossed the vial into the rubbish bin, hitting the side with an echoing clang.
When she’d gone, Rosie turned to Wendy. “That old witch!” she spat. “I wouldn’t let her speak to me like that, Mum!”
Wendy could only shrug. Her hands still trembled with suppressed rage.
“Hey,” said Rosie, “if we get these last caravans done quickly, do you fancy coming for a drink after?”
Wendy tensed inside at the mention of socialising. “No,” she said quickly. “But thanks anyway, sweetheart.”
Rosie stopped scrubbing the cooker top. “What’re you doing instead? Watching TV?”
“Rosie, please. I’m too old for clubbing.”
“Mum, you’re forty-seven, not seventy-four! You’re in serious danger of becoming an oldie before your time!”
Wendy recognised the concern in her daughter’s jibes, but there was a lot of truth in it. There was a time when she had partied with the best of them, but that Wendy had disappeared half a lifetime ago - right around the time Rosie came along. The same time that she got the scar . . .
Rosie shrugged and started packing up the cleaning bucket. “Oh well. Don’t say I didn’t ask. Let’s go and start on number seven.” She groaned. “My lucky number!”
Wendy followed Rosie to the doorway, lifting the bucket and mops down to her.
“Is that everything?” Rosie called up.
Wendy looked around the caravan, reviewing their work quickly. Then, quite unexpectedly, she found herself staring down into the rubbish bin, her eye drawn to the gleam of that tiny glass
“And then?” asked Rosie, eyes bulging.
“They used to drink it.”
“Eugh!” cried Rosie.
Wendy shivered at the thought.
Miss Pike seemed to take delight in their revulsion. With a smirk, she continued: “They’d drink it down and then, supposedly, their appearance would change. Instead of looking like an old hag, they’d become a beautiful girl in the bloom of youth. But-” She held up a bony finger. “The glamour would only last as long as it took to get what they wanted. Once they’d had their way with their man, the effect wore off.” She laughed through her nose. “Imagine the fella’s horror, spending a night of passion with a beautiful young girl, only to wake up next morning cuddled up to his missus - back to her old, wrinkled self!”
She stared at Wendy and Rosie for a moment, then threw her head back and let out a throaty, braying laugh.
“And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything!” she cackled. “It’s probably smelling salts!”
Rosie, realising they’d been had, threw a scowl to Wendy, who flushed pink with embarrassment for having believed such a tall tale.
When Miss Pike had stopped laughing, she shuffled over to the door and looked out at the small community of caravans--her empire--and sighed. “Anyway, ladies,” she said, “the reason I came out was to tell you that caravans seven and eight need cleaning before the end of your shift.”
“What?” cried Rosie.
“That’s right. So you two better get a move on.” Miss Pike looked once more at the vial of red liquid, then studied Wendy’s face, her watery eyes roving over that awful scar. “Hey, Wendy,” she said. “You need a man, don’t you? Maybe you should give it a try.”
Wendy felt the heat rise in her face, and the fingers of her left hand instinctively covered the scar.
“I didn’t think so,” Pike said, looking at Wendy with an air of pity. And with that, the old woman tossed the vial into the rubbish bin, hitting the side with an echoing clang.
When she’d gone, Rosie turned to Wendy. “That old witch!” she spat. “I wouldn’t let her speak to me like that, Mum!”
Wendy could only shrug. Her hands still trembled with suppressed rage.
“Hey,” said Rosie, “if we get these last caravans done quickly, do you fancy coming for a drink after?”
Wendy tensed inside at the mention of socialising. “No,” she said quickly. “But thanks anyway, sweetheart.”
Rosie stopped scrubbing the cooker top. “What’re you doing instead? Watching TV?”
“Rosie, please. I’m too old for clubbing.”
“Mum, you’re forty-seven, not seventy-four! You’re in serious danger of becoming an oldie before your time!”
Wendy recognised the concern in her daughter’s jibes, but there was a lot of truth in it. There was a time when she had partied with the best of them, but that Wendy had disappeared half a lifetime ago - right around the time Rosie came along. The same time that she got the scar . . .
Rosie shrugged and started packing up the cleaning bucket. “Oh well. Don’t say I didn’t ask. Let’s go and start on number seven.” She groaned. “My lucky number!”
Wendy followed Rosie to the doorway, lifting the bucket and mops down to her.
“Is that everything?” Rosie called up.
Wendy looked around the caravan, reviewing their work quickly. Then, quite unexpectedly, she found herself staring down into the rubbish bin, her eye drawn to the gleam of that tiny glass
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