The Haunted Tea Set & Other Stories, page 4
“Yes, that’s all for now. Please do come by again next week, I’ve another little job for you.”
He murmured something and left. As I watched him walking up the immaculate drive he stopped and looked back at me through the window. I couldn’t read his expression. After a moment he turned away and carried on walking.
“Well!” Brenda said suddenly. “I think it’s about time I took Ellen her beautiful gift. Won’t you come and meet her? I’m sure she’ll want to thank you herself.” She picked up the heavy yellow bowl with ease.
I’d forgotten her daughter was in the house with us. I felt a little awkward, but decided that declining would be more awkward, so I followed her out of the kitchen. We passed the stairs and stopped in front of a bolted door.
“Would you mind?” Brenda passed the bowl to me as she slid the bolt and flicked a light switch. “Watch your step!”
I saw a narrow, beige-carpeted staircase leading down to another door. Perhaps Ellen had her own apartment in the basement. She must be in her thirties at least, so I imagined she would want a little independence. Though when we reached the door Brenda didn’t knock, just drew a set of keys from the pocket of her slacks and let herself in. The door was exceptionally solid, like a panic room.
“Ellen dear, we have a visitor. Nice Mr Carter from the antique shop,” Brenda called out as we stepped into a dim, warm room. “He has a lovely surprise for you!” She winked at me, and to my dismay closed the door behind us so that we were standing in almost complete darkness. The room had a strange metallic smell, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickling.
“Oh silly me! I forgot the light,” Brenda said and patted the wall beside the door frame once or twice. I heard a click, and saw a purple strip of black light flicker above us. The canary glass glowed violently in my hands. I wanted to drop the ghastly thing and run back up the stairs into the cool light and the fresh air.
“Why don’t you pop it down on the floor there?” Brenda said, and I walked a few paces forward like an automaton and set the bowl down with relief. My hands were slick with sweat. I returned to Brenda’s side by the door and was about to discreetly try the handle when she called out in her sprightly voice, face indigo under the ultraviolet light.
“Ellen! Don’t be shy. Come and get your treat.”
Everything was still for a moment, then I heard a shuffling, scraping sound coming from a corner of the room and saw a chunk of shadow detach itself from the wall and lurch toward the glass, a green flare in the middle of the room. The shape was huge, bulky, and seemed to be moving with difficulty, dragging itself. As it approached I first saw its eyes picked out by the black light, wild and shining, and then its slab-like, purple-white teeth.
Frozen with horror, I watched it squat beside the fruit bowl, and use one of its massive limbs - ending in fingers or talons, I couldn’t tell - to scoop up the crystal. The thing opened its jaws wide and crunched down on the glass like rock candy. The sound of squeaking, splintering glass was awful, and shards fell to the floor as the creature opened wide for another bite.
Slowly, I became aware that Brenda was talking to me.
“It’s her favourite. I guess the uranium just tastes good! They don’t know how she survived the explosion up at the plant, but here she is today. And she’s still my sweet girl, however she looks.”
I realised she was waiting for a response. “Y-yes.” Was all I could manage. I wished I could look away, could cover my ears to escape the terrible crunching sound.
“They kept her in a top secret facility at first, but then they let me bring her home. It was a job to fit this place up you know, and the compensation checks don’t stretch too far, and neither does my pension. But I thank my stars there are so many good folks in this town ready to help us out.” She smiled and placed a hand on my arm. “Just like you, Mr Carter. I know you’ll set aside any more canary glass for us, won’t you? Now you’ve seen how much Ellen enjoys it.”
The thing – Ellen! – let out a kind of yawning scream like twisting metal and stood up again, looking straight at us, her eyes round pits of pale blue light.
“Yes! Yes!” I cried. “You can have all of it, no charge.”
Brenda clapped her hands. “Wonderful! Oh thank you so much, that’s so generous. Aren’t we lucky, Ellen? To have such kind neighbours.”
Ellen reached one of her long, long arms towards me. I tore open the door and bolted up the stairs, her rumbling screech echoing behind me.
Now, whenever I find a piece of canary glass I buy it, box it up, and drive out at dawn to leave it on the Wallace’s doorstep. Then I drive away as fast as I can. I hope to god that’s enough.
I saw the plumber at the supermarket the other day, in the cereal aisle. Our eyes met, and I wondered if mine look just as haunted. Does he have the nightmares too?
We passed each other, and said nothing.
Unfinished Business
I wish I’d said I love you.
At your funeral I told everyone about our sessions at Quinn’s. Hours spent dissecting our favourite albums, rambling about politics, puzzling over our crushes. They laughed, remembering your mad theories and your strong views about Metallica and your great soft heart.
Somewhere in that river of words I wish I had told you, just once, what being your friend meant to me. I wish I could say it now. Say something at least. It’s too dark to see your face but I know it’s you.
I’m sorry. I love you. I’m so afraid.
The Spinning Circle
All that the men could see from the village was an orange glow under the fringe of blue pines. They could hear nothing but peaked laughter and snatches of song, which spiralled like smoke under the frozen stars. That was the point. That was why the women carried their baskets of fleece, long wooden distaffs, knitting needles, and spinning wheels (those that had them) out to the shack one night each week through the winter.
It was hardly a shack, in truth. A tent of logs with walls of woven hazel branches, covered with dried dung and straw. A bare earth floor, a few rough benches, and the fire in the centre. The doorway was left open, facing the village. So they could keep an eye on the men, they said, and the men said the same.
Inside the ring of light the women blazed brightly. They sat wrapped in cloaks and caps and blankets on their stools and benches. A jug of ale was passed around. Their hands flew along their yarn and over their spindles at a steady pace, and their voices danced. Now one speaker, now many, crossing and looping over each other. Now sliding into song or resting in silence.
It was Jennet Andrews’ first time spinning with the other women. She was 14 and didn’t yet have the knack of keeping her rhythm while the conversation flowed around her. She would get pulled into the current and drop her pace, pinching and pulling the yarn. But the older women loved her bright eyes and her quick, fumbling fingers.
“So Jennet, have you a sweetheart?” old Mrs Danlin asked with a wink.
There was a rattle of laughter like leaves and Jennett flushed.
“I do, as I think you already know.”
“You do? Well tell us all about him Jen and we shall tell you what we shall tell you.”
Jennet teased at her fleece and smiled to herself. “He’s two years older. Tall and straight as a birch. His hair is dark and his eyes are green. He’s very handsome.”
A couple of the women threw glances at each other, for they knew full well she was talking about Will Tawler, a gangly, spotted young man apprenticed to the blacksmith. But they took care Jennet didn’t see.
“We danced together at Michaelmas and he’s been courting me since. He brings me flowers sometimes, and a necklace of shells that the peddlar brought all the way from the sea!” Her eyes sparkled.
Mrs Danlin smiled, her wrinkled face arranging itself into soft pouches.
“And is he constant? And kind?”
Jennet tugged her yarn a little faster.
“He’s always thinking of me. Always. He wants to know all about my day, even the littlest things. Where I’ve been, who I’ve spoken with. Sometimes he’ll come and visit when we’re apart too long, when I’m milking, or sweeping. He says he cannot stand to be away from me, and when we are wed he shall be always twined together.”
“And is his temper hot or cold, my dear?”
“Oh hot I should say! He can be fierce as a boar. Once I saw him snap a broom in two! He feels everything so deeply.”
Jennet examined a snarl in her yarn and didn’t see Mrs Danlin’s sidelong glance to the woman who sat beside her. The woman’s eyes glittered under the brim of a broad felt hat. She’d paused her knitting and sat smoking a long clay pipe, a thoughtful expression on her face, which was carved with deep lines and brown as an acorn.
“Well Jennet,” Mrs Danlin continued. “You’d better tell your sweetheart to give you some turning room. Believe me, that sort of grasping love can turn sour awfully fast.”
“You don’t want your young man to go the way of Kit Carney,” the old woman beside Mrs Danlin added in a low voice grizzled as bark, and put her pipe back in. There was a murmur from the circle.
“Who’s Kit Carney?” Jennet asked, and a hush settled on the group. For a moment they listened to the fire crackle. Mrs Danlin drew a deep breath.
“A long, long time ago all the women in the village were met here just as we are tonight. But it wasn’t a clear night like this one. A cold mist hung over the ground and wreathed around the trees like the breath of some slumbering dragon, and the moon was wound in sheets of cloud. The women huddled close to the fire, but they felt the chill down in their bones all the same.
One of the women there that night, the youngest, had recently been courted by Kit Carney. He was a local lad with good prospects, a fine crop of golden curls, and a temper black as pitch. He’d chased the girl, and pinched her, and bullied her into taking a turn with him. Her parents were pleased with the match, and it was true that sometimes he could be sweet and charming. But she wasn’t sure. She didn’t seem to feel what everyone said she must feel. She wondered if something was wrong with her, not to want such a fine young man for her husband.
One day they were out walking and he found a beetle struggling on its shiny black back. She watched as he picked it up and pulled its legs off one by one. That’s when she knew she couldn’t marry him.
She decided she’d spent long enough not trusting herself, so she told him there and then that she couldn’t be his wife. First he laughed and tried to kiss her. But when she pushed him away he flew into a rage and grabbed her hard around her wrist, digging his fingers into her flesh.
Agnes, for that was her name, managed to twist out of his grasp. She ran as fast as her feet could carry her back to the village, with Kit Carney close at her heels. She swung herself over the gate where he scrambled, and tripped over the stepping stones where he slithered and slipped, and so she managed to get back to the village before him. She ran straight to her best friend’s house.
Her friend was an orphan girl a little older than Agnes, who we’ll call Bet. She lived alone, after her aunt passed two summers before. This day she was sorting the last of the hard autumn blackberries, and dropped the basket as her friend came flying into her arms and poured out her whole story.
They had a fierce love for each other you see.
Bet barred the door and took her friend’s face in her hands and said “Don’t you worry my darling, my dear, he won’t hurt you. I’ll not let you become a beetle for an angry boy to play with.”
Then came a pounding at the door so loud the rafters shook and a little rain of dust fell on them both. Kit Carney bellowed: “I knew she’d run to you, you wretched sow. Let her come out and face me and tell me herself why she won’t be my bride.”
Bet shouted back just as loud: “You know why, Kit Carney. She’ll not come out, she’ll not come to you again.” She looked at Agnes, trembling but holding her head high, and took her hand in her own, strong and berry-stained. “And here’s your fair warning: if you try and come to her you’ll pay more than you can afford, do you hear me?”
He roared and shouldered the door again, stamping like a bull. Bet led Agnes away. “Come on, you best help me with these brambles seeing as you’re the cause they were spilled.”
Agnes smiled and wiped away her tears. She’d known that any husband would fall short to her love for Bet. Now it felt clear as day, bright as the sun. Bet was an oak and Kit Carney just a gall wasp. She threw her arms around her and pressed her face into Bet’s smoky hair. “Thank you,” she whispered, and Bet held her tight.
This all happened on the day of the night of the spinning circle. Kit Carney shouted himself hoarse then stamped away, cursing. At dusk the two girls crept out of the house and down the path to the spinning shack at the edge of the woods. Agnes told the other women the story as Bet pulled out her pipe and tobacco.
Pale-eyed Mrs Priddy had nursed Kit as a babe when his mother died in the bearing of him, and said he was a good child underneath. She was sure he’d see the error of his ways treating Agnes so roughly, surely it was just because he loved her so. Agnes should give him another chance. To which Bet replied sharply that this was his chance. She’d told him clear to keep away from Agnes. If he abided by her words, well, that would be an end to it. If not, he’d had his warning. The other women murmured their agreement and Mrs Priddy said: “Do as you will, I’ll have no part of it,” and picked up her stool and her distaff.
As she walked off Bet called after her: “Tell him to keep clear, Priddy, and all will be well.” She blew a perfect blue smoke ring to send her on her way.
The women span by the light of the fire as usual. They laughed and told stories, and swapped charms and remedies, but they kept their voices low and their ears pricked, especially Agnes. It was Nell Brannock who saw him first, just a tall shadow by the hedgerow in the mist.
“Show yourself Kit Carney! I see you skulking there,” she said and stood up, hands on her hips. All the women turned to follow her gaze. Without a sound the shadow parted from the hedge and stepped out of the mist towards the little shelter until Kit’s face was plain to see.
Agnes reached for Bet’s arm to steady herself. Bet touched her hand and then slowly got to her feet. “This is no place for a man. Least of all you,” she said, and her words cut through the muffling fog. “Turn around and go home, Kit Carney, and there need be no more trouble.”
He laughed, a harsh bark. Two more women stood up.
“No trouble? You’re the trouble, you wenches. I’m here to fetch back my bride. All was well with us until you all started whispering poison in her ear. Especially you Bet Farlowe, you’re... unnatural.”
The other women were all standing now, forming a wall in front of Agnes, and holding their distaffs before them. Bet picked up her own, a solid pole of strong oak, and said slowly: “Well if you’re here for Agnes I suppose you’d best come and take her.”
Mrs Danlin paused and looked around at the faces of the women. Some watched with gleaming eyes. Some span quietly, eyes to the earth and lost in their thoughts. Jennet’s mouth was hanging open, her spindle idle in her lap. Mrs Danlin let out a sigh.
“I’ll leave the details in the past where they belong. All you need to know is that Kit Carney never bothered Agnes again. He never bothered anyone again.”
A couple of the women laughed low and whispered to each other. Cloaks were rearranged, legs stretched, and the jug of ale passed around. A new conversation began about Mrs Rackett’s black hen. Jennet picked up her spindle and gazed into the fire, hands moving as if in a dream.
“Did that really happen?” she asked, finally.
“Of course,” Mrs Danlin said. “Though it was a long time ago now. But not so long ago that it couldn’t happen again. You make sure your young man treats you kind, and when you tell him ‘no’, he hears ‘no’.”
Jennet nodded, and turned away, towards a conversation about the colour of eggs. Mrs Danlin gazed out into the night. It was probably for the best that Jennet didn’t see Will Tawler hastily retreating along the path by the hedge. Nor the pale form which had been standing behind him, flickering like a candle. A young man – a boy really – with golden curls. His face white as milk, eyes grey as rain.
Without taking her eyes from his, Mrs Danlin reached for the woman beside her and they sat looking together into the dark, hands clasped under the warm woollen folds of her cloak. The other woman drew the pipe from between her teeth and blew a ring of blue smoke, framing the dead boy perfectly for a moment before both dissolved in the cold night air.
Author’s note
This story was inspired by an extraordinary account of a women’s spinning meet that I read in At Day’s Close: Night In Times Past, by A. Roger Ekirch:
“In 1759, upon visiting a Spinnstuben, the journeyman Conrad Hugel suffered a severe beating at the hands of women armed with distaffs. For three weeks, he lay close to death. Claiming the punishment was their ‘good right’ because of Hugel’s indecent flirtations, the women later declared that ‘they should have injured him even more’.”
Pearl
This is where I landed when Jack broke us. The apartment is small, it’s nothing special, but it was the only place I could let myself unravel. Touching up my brave face all day long was exhausting. Some days I came home and just fell apart; I’d kick off my shoes and lay on the floor for ten, twenty minutes, staring at the cracks in the ceiling and listening to the building. My neighbours coming and going, the soft thunder of the elevator, a door slamming somewhere. I’d pretend I didn’t exist. I’d try not to think about Jack.
One day I got to my door and realised I’d left my keys at work. I sank down and started sobbing right there in the hall. The elevator doors dinged and I heard the rustle of grocery bags, and I knew it was Pearl. She said “Oh honey, what’s wrong?” And I lifted my face, my real face, pink and wet, blurry red eyes bruised with mascara.
