Iris Harper has lived in Pendleford for decades, the local witch is mistrusted by the townsfolk, but that doesn’t stop some coming to her begging for potions, spells and quick-fixes. As time has marched on suddenly Iris is aware that her days are beginning to fade. Her sumptuous garden is turning against her, the sweet scent of rot potent and now a young girl has come begging for a solution at her door.

Yet, the problem she brings causes Iris to remember a man from long ago – the man she loved, the man she could never trust…

Praise for SARAH PAINTER’s Pendleford series

‘Sarah Painter is a talented new writer, and her debut is a charming, romantic and intriguing story, with a little touch of magic. It had me enchanted.’ – Clodagh Murphy on The Language of Spells

‘I would recommend this book as it is a real mix: it’s a love story and a thriller with a dash of magic thrown in for good measure.’ – Laura’s Book Review on The Secrets of Ghosts

‘The plot had great twists and turns and when I thought I had the story figured out, the story would go in a different direction and surprise me. I didn’t want to put it down and the further I got into the book, the harder it was to stop reading … A wonderful debut novel and I’m looking forward to reading the next one.’ – Novel Kicks on The Language of Spells

‘I thoroughly enjoyed The Secrets of Ghosts. It was just as magical and just as enjoyable as The Language of Spells and I am soooooo glad Sarah Painter decided to go back to Pendleford. … I really do love magical fiction and I think Sarah Painter is one of the best at giving you a realistic look at magic and all that comes with it.’ – Chick Lit Reviews on The Secrets of Ghosts

‘I really loved this book – and it is not often I say this, really. An amazing debut, I was sucked in so much I could hardly put it down and finished it in about a day I think. I also couldn’t stop talking about it! That is its charm and the skill of the writer, you can’t quite put your finger on what it is … I hope to read more in the future by this author.’ – Beloved Eleanor on The Language of Spells

‘This really was a fantastic debut novel … The language was also simple but elegant and meant that the story flowed seamlessly. I honestly could not put it down.’ – Laura’s Little Book Blog on The Language of Spells

‘Utterly enchanting.’ – The Madwoman in the Attic on The Secrets of Ghosts

Also by Sarah Painter

The Language of Spells

The Secrets of Ghosts

The Garden of Magic

Sarah Painter

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright © Sarah Painter 2015

Sarah Painter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © August 2015 ISBN: 9781474044882

Version date: 2018-10-30

Before writing books, SARAH PAINTER worked as a freelance journalist and editor, while juggling amateur child-wrangling (aka motherhood) with her demanding Internet-appreciation schedule (aka procrastination).

Born in Wales to a Scot and an Englishman (very nearly a ‘three men walked into a bar’ joke), she now lives in Scotland with her husband, two children and a grey tabby called Zelda Kitzgerald. She loves the work of Joss Whedon, reading in bed, salt and vinegar crisps, and is the proud owner of a writing shed.

Sarah podcasts at www.worriedwriter.com and writes about craft, books and writing at www.sarah-painter.com.

Thank you to Victoria and Sally at HQ Digital for their editorial wizardry and to Agent Fabulous (AKA Sallyanne Sweeney) for her continued support and advice. This story wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for all the lovely reader messages asking for more from Iris Harper. I really enjoyed revisiting Pendleford and I hope you do, too! Finally, a massive thank you to my friends and family for putting up with my writerly nonsense.

For my readers, with love and gratitude.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Praise

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Iris Harper was feeling old. She was eighty-two so this wasn’t entirely unexpected, but it was still irritating. Iris had always thought that ‘where there was a will there was a way’ and her will was formidable. She prided herself on her command of her body and felt personally affronted that it was letting her down after years of excellent service.

There was somebody knocking on her back door and it had taken an inordinate amount of time for Iris to get up from the easy chair in her bedroom and down the stairs. Yet another gift of advanced age; she now moved like an old woman.

Iris was surprised to find the man still waiting by the time she got to the door. Her regulars often just let themselves in after a cursory rap on the wood. It was Martin Angel from Bradford Farm, though, and he’d been raised right by real country folk. The kind who knew that you always paid your witch, no matter how much she politely declined; the kind who knew that you could walk into your neighbour’s house and call out ‘hullo, there’ by way of greeting, but that you’d better stay on the step if you were courting a girl, visiting nobility or wanted a favour from Iris Harper.

‘Mr Angel,’ Iris said, trying to stand a little straighter. ‘Are the lambs all right?’

He ducked his head in a nod. After a moment’s hesitation, he said: ‘It’s me. I’ve got a problem, Mrs Harper.’

Iris was not now and never had been married, but Mr Angel was a traditional sort of man and would no more have been able to call her ‘Ms’ than use her first name. After all, they’d only known each other for fifty years.

Fifty years. And I can feel every single one of them, Iris thought. She switched the kettle on and put tea into the pot. Then she filled a glass of water and popped a couple of capsules from their foil beds and swallowed them gratefully. Another side effect of age was that, although Martin Angel was a fifty-year-old widower, a large part of her still saw him as the little boy who used to pick strawberries in her garden while she helped his mother with her woman’s troubles.

‘Would you do the honours today?’ Iris said, sitting down in her usual place.

Martin busied himself with pouring water into the teapot and carrying it to the table. He’d drunk enough cups of the stuff in Iris’s kitchen to find his way around without having to ask and Iris allowed herself to close her eyes for a moment. Her back was more sore than usual, but with the knowledge that opiates would soon be dulling the pain, it was easier to push the feeling away. When she felt more in control, she opened her eyes and regarded Martin. Behind the sun-brown complexion there was a greyness. A tightness around the eyes that seemed to be permanently squinting, from years of driving a tractor in the midday sun.

‘I didn’t know you took those,’ he said, nodding at the packet of painkillers. ‘Thought you’d be using one of your herbal potions.’

‘What do you think these are made from?’ She smiled a little, to take the sting out. ‘Besides, you didn’t come here to talk about tablets. What can I do for you?’

Martin looked down at his mug. They always did. That was what the tea was for, it was a place to look when you couldn’t find the words.

The silence stretched out and Iris let it. Somewhere, far in the back of her mind, she thought about what she had to do that day and whether it would all be possible with her back playing silly buggers. There were plenty of people she could ask for help, of course, but she didn’t like to do so. There was the look of the thing, for one… What kind of hedgewitch needed, well, anything?

‘It’s my Jean,’ Martin said, finally, the words crawling out of his mouth.

Jean was Martin’s wife and she had passed two years ago. Breast cancer. They had been childhood sweethearts and had a good marriage of thirty years.

‘I just miss her,’ he said. ‘So very much.’ He looked at Iris, then, and the pain radiated from him like a physical presence. ‘I thought it would be easier, now, but it just keeps coming.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Iris said.

‘Can you help me? Please?’

Iris was shaking her head before the sentence was out. ‘I can’t. If I took away your grief I’d be taking away your Jean and you don’t want that. Not really.’

Martin’s face hardened. ‘Maybe I do. Maybe that would be better.’

Iris sighed a little inside. This was the problem with her gift. She had learned to be a good hedgewitch, who could make decent herbal remedies and dispense advice and be a help rather than a hindrance at a difficult birth, human or otherwise, but her real power lay in giving people what they needed. And that was so rarely what they thought they wanted. ‘Martin Angel,’ she said. ‘I know you don’t mean that.’

The hardness disappeared as quickly as it had come. His mouth opened to apologise, but his eyes were full and Iris knew that if he tried to speak, he would choke.

‘There’s something I can give you.’ She moved to stand, forgetting her back for a moment until it complained. She thought she’d stopped herself from wincing before it showed, but Martin was frowning.

‘You’re hurt?’

‘Just old,’ Iris said.

Martin, thankfully, did not say anything jolly silly like ‘You’re not old’. Instead he rose from the table and said, ‘What can I do?’

Iris stretched, testing herself. It wasn’t so bad now that she was upright. ‘You can pull some weeds in the vegetable patch for me while I mix you up a little remedy. Something that will help.

Martin’s face cleared. It would do him good to feel useful, Iris decided. A connection to the community and a little kindness for someone else could be a wonderful balm. And, besides, she was in no state to pull weeds and the old charms didn’t seem to be keeping them at bay the way they used to.

Ignoring that depressing thought, Iris shooed Martin into the garden and fetched a little blue bottle labelled Valerian from her dresser. She kept a few odds and ends to hand, although her work room was in the garden, stocked to the rafters with supplies and equipment, gathered over a lifetime practising the craft. She knew that there were several jobs that needed her attention, such as the old library drawers she used to store her remedies. Many of them were erroneously labelled, the drawer marked coltsfoot filled with wood anenome and so on, but she hadn’t got around to renaming them. She ought to do that before her successor took over. That thought led to a list of things to worry about, so Iris pushed it away and concentrated on making some steeped chamomile tea. She boiled the tea on the stove to reduce it and then cooled it in the fridge, before using it to top up the bottle of valerian.

When Martin stepped back in from the garden, there was an expression of peace already on his face. He knew Iris gave people what they needed and, because he trusted her, that whatever she gave him would work. Iris knew that it was a circular argument, but it didn’t make it any less true. She’d made the tea with firm intention, just to be on the safe side. The belt and braces approach to magic.

Iris sent him away with the blue bottle and instructions to take three drops in his cocoa before bed, every night for a week. The man was exhausted and what he truly needed was some dream-free sleep. Iris knew no better sleep aid than one mixed from Valerian and chamomile. Especially if it was taken with some whisky as a hot toddy.

As Iris moved around the kitchen, fixing herself some soup for lunch, she wondered whether Martin had been right. Was the joy of his marriage enough to make up for the pain he now felt? The pain he would have to bear, if his parents were anything to go by, for another forty years of life. Was it truly better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?

Iris had been in love once, but it was so long ago that it felt as if it had happened to a different person. She had been just a girl at the time, so in a way that was true. Her gift for giving people what they needed had saved her from a very bad marriage but, at the time, it hadn’t felt entirely as if she’d been saved. It was too long ago; she couldn’t recall the feelings of love, only remember that she’d had them. A dried-out memory, like a flower pressed between the pages of a book.

***

Across town, Bex Adams was crouching next to the peach toilet bowl in her employer’s en-suite attempting to coax a nervous pee-er. ‘Come on, sweetheart, do your wee. It’s okay.’ This was not how my life was supposed turn out. She squashed the disloyal thought, feeling guilty. She was lucky to have this job. Lucky to have any job.

Mrs Farrier’s middle child, the three-year-old blonde moppet, Carly, shook her head. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she was shaking with the effort of holding herself suspended over the toilet seat.

‘It’s okay, just relax. Relax, sweetie.’ Bex could hear the strain in her own voice and wasn’t in the slightest bit surprised when Carly cracked open one eye and shook her head furiously.

‘How about a deal? If you do a wee on the loo, we can play Incy Wincy Spider.’

Carly was shaking her head before the sentence was out of Bex’s mouth. Carly was nobody’s fool. She tried again: ‘We can play the game and have ice cream.’

Nothing.

‘In a cone.’

More head shaking.

Bex pulled out all the stops. ‘With toffee sauce.’ Carly still wasn’t peeing, but she wasn’t shaking her head, either. A frown of concentration appeared across her soft baby features. Finally, she opened both eyes and looked at Bex with such an expression of anguish that it stabbed Bex straight through the heart. God only knew how she would manage if she ever had kids of her own.

‘I can’t,’ Carly whispered. ‘Need my nappy.’

Looking at the tense little girl, Bex had a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘Okay, forget about the wee. Just sit for a moment. Have a rest.’

She shuffled forward and wrapped her arms around Carly, giving her a cuddle. ‘Good try, honey. Well done. You’re such a big, brave girl.’ She felt Carly’s exhausted arms relax and the child’s body settling, very lightly, on the seat. She kissed the top of her head and held the position for a moment, her knees sore on the hard tile of the bathroom floor. ‘I know,’ Bex said, as if the idea had just occurred to her. ‘Let’s play blowing bubbles.’ She pulled back slightly and made sure Carly was watching. Then she mimed unscrewing the lid on a bottle of bubble mixture, dipping the wand and holding it out.

Carly’s eyes widened in understanding and she grinned. Bex blew through the imaginary wand and mimed watching the bubbles float around the bathroom.

‘My turn!’ Carly said.

‘Okay.’ Bex repeated the mime and, as Carly blew with all her might into the imaginary wand, her cheeks puffing out with the effort, Bex heard the welcome sound of liquid hitting the water in the bowl.

A crash from downstairs launched Bex from the bathroom. Her legs had cramped from being crouched on the floor for so long, so she half hobbled down the stairs calling to her older charge, Tarquin. ‘Are you okay?’

Silence.

No screams of pain. That was good. She rounded the corner from the living room to the family-size kitchen diner. Her ironing basket, which had previously been piled neatly with freshly pressed clothes, was upside down on top of the island. The clothes were heaped on the tiled floor, a pair of Mr Farrier’s navy chinos was draped over the extractor fan and a bed sheet was stretched between the stools from the breakfast bar. Bex frowned at the mess, looking for the cause of the noise. It had been a crashing, a breaking –

The phone rang shrilly and she snatched it up. ‘Yes?’

‘Rebecca.’ The cold tones of Mrs Farrier stopped Bex in her tracks. ‘I just wanted to check that you had remembered to get extra chicken for tonight.’

Bex wanted to say ‘Of course I bloody have’, as she hadn’t – not once – forgotten an instruction from Mrs Farrier or, as far as she was aware, let her down in any way, shape or form. It didn’t stop Mrs Farrier from treating her like an incompetent skivvy, however. Instead she followed her own personal mantra of ‘kill them with kindness’ and made her voice especially warm and bright: ‘It’s all in hand.’

‘Good.’ The tone was incrementally warmer and Bex chalked it up as a success. She was bloody likeable. She would wear down Mrs Farrier, break through that chilly exterior. Eventually.

Mrs Farrier ran through the rest of the day’s tasks, as if they weren’t already written on the daily sheet attached to the fridge, and she hadn’t already gone through them verbally the night before. Bex took the opportunity to sidle past the clothing mountain and peer into the utility room. It was empty.

Bex stalked into the big larder cupboard, throwing open the door to surprise the pint-sized fugitive. It was empty. ‘You can run, but you cannot escape,’ she muttered.

‘Pardon?’

‘Sorry, Mrs Farrier. If that’s everything, I’d better –’

‘Don’t forget Mr Farrier’s cufflinks. He wants the gold ones for tonight.’

‘Right-o,’ Bex said. She had spotted a pair of Converse boots sticking out from behind the open kitchen door. ‘Have a good day!’

Bex ended the call and crept forward, planting hands on ankles and yelling ‘Tarquin!’ The boy’s legs convulsed as if electrocuted and the rest of him appeared, looking somewhat pinker than usual.

‘Gotcha.’

Bex had corralled the laundry back to the basket, given Tarquin a firm talking to, and removed most of the pen marks from the wall. There were still a couple of red lines, though, and Mrs Farrier was going to hit the roof. Bex knew it wouldn’t be Tarquin who bore the brunt. The kids were still sweet, the rebellions small and appropriately childlike, but it couldn’t last for ever. Tarc was twelve next birthday and already the same height as her. Things couldn’t go on with this lack of control. It wasn’t in anyone’s best interests, as Bex knew better than anyone. Her mum and dad had been too busy falling out of love to take a firm line with Bex when she had been Tarquin’s age, and look how that had turned out.

She knew she ought to speak to the Farriers about Tarc, but that would involve a sit-down meeting with both Mr and Mrs Farrier and Bex preferred to avoid Mr Farrier as much as possible. Especially after –

‘Ex?’ Carly was in the doorway, naked from the waist down. ‘Had an accident.’

Bex shoved her worries to one side. ‘No worries, kiddo. Let’s get you some new clothes.’

Later, Bex put the laundry away in the bedrooms and went to locate Mr Farrier’s cufflinks. He didn’t usually wear shirts which needed them, but she assumed they would live in the stone dish on top of the chest of drawers in the dressing room. That was where he kept his fancy gold watch and rings, and a silver money-clip that the children had given him last Father’s Day. It was engraved with ‘The heart of a father is the masterpiece of nature’, which, apparently, was from an opera or something. Bex was cheerfully ignorant of such things, but Mrs Farrier had explained at great length when instructing Bex to get the clip from the jeweller’s. Bex had to admit it had given her a little thrill; she had never met people who didn’t buy a ‘World’s Best Dad’ mug from the card shop and be done with it.

There was a pair of cufflinks in the dish, but they were tarnished silver, engraved with his initials. They really liked engraving things in the Farrier household. She checked on top of his bedside table and in the wardrobe. She didn’t want to start going through drawers, as that felt like a breach of privacy, but she checked in all the places she put laundry away. That was one of her jobs, after all, one she’d been doing for months.

The panic didn’t really set in until she had checked the wooden dish that sat on the console table in the hallway. Bex realised that she had been subconsciously counting on Mr Farrier having taken them off after his last fancy dinner and dropping them there on his way into the house. Now, she was stuck.

She checked the pockets of his suits, finding only an old receipt in one and a few coins, which she placed carefully on top of the dressing table. The panic was full now, making her heart race. What were the chances that Mrs Farrier would accept that the gold cufflinks had gone missing? Weighed against that, what were the chances she would blame Bex for the disappearance? She blamed her for everything else, after all.

She began on the children’s tea, slicing bread and cutting carrot sticks, while trying to push away the very worst thought; what if Mrs Farrier thought she had taken them? Her mobile rang and she answered quickly, grateful for the distraction.

‘I need a favour.’

‘Hi, Nicola,’ Bex said. I’m at work so I can’t talk for long.’ Bex had known Nicola since primary school and knew that, given free rein, she would ramble without pause for an hour or more.

‘I’m in Waitrose,’ Nicola said. ‘The nibbles here are amazing. They’ve got balsamic vinegar cashews. Have you tried them? I shouldn’t get them, I’ll just eat them all.’ A packet rustled. ‘Sod it, I’m getting them.’

Bex resumed chopping cucumber and waited for Nicola to get to the point. The background noise of the supermarket went suddenly muted. Bex could picture Nicola tucking the phone under her chin as she reached for a bag of cashews. Nicola prided herself on multi-tasking and she often called while shopping or driving or, once, while learning archery.

‘I’ve got some for you, too.’ Nicola was back. ‘Seriously, they look so good. My mouth is full-on watering.’

‘Nic, I’m working –’

‘Yeah, right. Sorry. I was wondering if you were going to the pub tonight?’

There was only one real pub in Pendleford. The others were tourist traps or bistros with tiny bar areas. The Red Lion had music every Wednesday, provided by Bex’s best friend, Jon. ‘I don’t think so,’ Bex said. ‘I’m knackered.’

‘Oh, go on. I haven’t seen you in ages.’

‘I saw you Sunday,’ Bex said, mildly insulted that Nicola had forgotten.

‘I want to meet Jon.’

Bex gripped the handle of the vegetable knife. ‘Jon?’ Her stomach flipped at the sound of his name spoken aloud.

‘Yeah. I know he’s your friend, but you must have noticed the hotness.’

‘We’re just friends,’ Bex said automatically. She began dicing one of the carrot sticks.

‘I know,’ Nicola said, sounding impatient. ‘That’s why I’m asking you to introduce us.’

‘Sure,’ Bex forced out. And I’ll just stab myself with this vegetable knife while I’m about it. ‘No worries.’

Today just got better and better.

***

After Martin’s visit, Iris had taken a bath in the claw-footed tub, hoping to ease the dull ache in her back. Now, however, she was having difficulty getting back onto dry land. When she’d stood up, the room had swayed treacherously, and she felt light-headed. Her sense told her that she’d stood up too quickly, had lain in water that was perhaps a touch too hot for too long, but her animal instinct screamed ‘danger’. Weakness!

Iris steadied herself with both hands on the side of the tub and concentrated on breathing deeply until her vision cleared and her head stopped swimming. That was when the real problems started. Her back decided to spasm, running an electric pain across her pelvis and down her legs. Muscles clenched unhelpfully, trapping nerves and causing the excruciating feeling she was experiencing. In between panting breaths, Iris reminded herself that there was nothing seriously wrong. That, while it may feel as though her vertebrae had dislocated, she would be fine. Just as soon as she could get out of the damn tub.

For the first time in about an ice age, Iris wished that she didn’t live alone. A month or so after her eightieth birthday, she had been visited by a cheery man from the council who wondered whether she would like to join the meals on wheels scheme, or go to the seniors’ bingo on the special bus on a Friday morning. He had been new to the area and hadn’t heard of Iris. She imagined he had come in for some gentle leg-pulling when his colleagues realised he’d visited the witch and offered her leaflets. If Iris hadn’t been concentrating on not passing out from the pain in her back, she’d have snorted at the memory. He’d left a panic button thingy-ma-jig, though, which would’ve come in handy right about now. Iris had her pride, but she wasn’t an idiot. You had to play the cards you were dealt, after all.

The button, however, was downstairs on the hall table. She was supposed to wear it around her neck on the cord supplied, like one of those children’s purses, but she never had. Not that she’d have been wearing it in the bath, Iris reasoned. No, she had no reason to feel silly or humiliated as a result of this predicament.

Logical though this thought was, it didn’t help. It didn’t help her out of the bath, either. That took half an hour of minute movements, followed by an undignified, hunched-back crab-walk before she had a towel wrapped around her body and the cork tiles of the bathroom beneath her feet.

If only she had been a fairytale witch, Iris thought, as she edged her way across the landing. Then she could’ve waved her hands and removed her pain. She could have killed a lamb at full moon, eating its still-twitching heart to stay young. She could have captured small children with her gingerbread cottage and put them to work. If she’d been a storybook witch, she wouldn’t be creeping sideways, bent-double, to get the extra-strength painkillers in her bedside drawer.

Just as she had made it to the bedroom and into her dressing gown, she heard the unmistakable sound of someone knocking on the back door. She slipped the tablets into her pocket and began the slow, painful descent, for the second time that day. That was another problem with being a real witch as opposed to a made-up one. When someone came knocking you had to answer. Damn and blast the rules.

Chapter Two

Bex Adams had been raised to be independent, and then, as if to seal the deal, her parents had divorced just before her seventeenth birthday, and her mother had moved to London and into her boyfriend’s flat. Bex’s dad had bought a little two-bedroomed house on the new estate off the Bath Road, which Bex thought should’ve been more properly marketed as ‘one-and-half bedrooms, if all your furniture is made by pixies’. When friends complained about their parents turning their old bedrooms into craft rooms or gyms, Bex snorted. Her childhood bedroom had gone for ever and the replacement set-up was cramped and tinged with sadness. Her dad did his best to make her feel welcome and she knew she was lucky to have a home with family-rate cheap rent, but he was out all hours trying to find a life and the place felt unloved and temporary.

Bex both valued her independence and felt it was something of a burden. There were times when it would have been nice to lay her head on a comforting shoulder and have someone else sort things out for her. Like now. A comforting shoulder right about now would be perfect, but she knew from past experience that she wasn’t the leaning type.

Jon was finishing up his set. Bex knew this because he always played the same bluesy number last, his eyes closed as he put his heart into the music. He always looked so vulnerable in that moment. A sharp contrast to his usual, guarded expression. Bex knew that was what she’d fallen in love with. However clichéd it was to be attracted to a musician, she couldn’t help herself. The very first night she’d seen him play, she had watched his sure hands moving on the fret board and heard the catch in his voice as he sang, and she’d been hopelessly lost.

He finished the song and opened his eyes, looking around the room as if surfacing from a dream. Bex made her way to the bar to get him a post-set pint, stopping to chat with Mel who was working tonight. There was no point rushing back to her table, as Jon would be a while yet. It didn’t matter that the Red Lion wasn’t exactly a jumping gig venue; there would still be at least one fan who went up to talk to Jon, maybe to offer a telephone number or talk about guitars. That was one downside with the music crowd, Bex thought; they could talk about guitars for hours. Nicola was going to find that out if she went out with Jon. Bex squashed that painful thought and carried the drinks back.

Despite her excitement on the phone earlier, Nicola had arrived late and, apart from giving Bex the promised bag of cashews, hadn’t been the best company. Bex tried again to start a conversation, but Nicola didn’t react. She was too busy gazing raptly at Jon as he put his guitar away in its moulded case and unplugged his amp. The mic was a new one and had cost Jon two weeks’ wages. It came with an aluminium case, its own little bed of high-density foam. Any girlfriend of Jon had to realise super-quick that they weren’t going to have expensive gifts or meals out; every spare penny went on his musical equipment. Which was fair enough. That’s what happened when you had a passion, a calling. Bex admired his dedication.

‘Did you like the set?’ Bex said, trying again to make conversation.

Nicola turned to her, eyes shining. ‘It was amazing. Why didn’t you tell me he was so good?’

‘I’m pretty sure I did,’ Bex said.

‘I’m going to freshen up,’ Nicola said, fussing with her hair. ‘You sure he’ll come over here?’

‘I’m sure,’ Bex said. ‘I’ve got his beer.’

Nicola headed to the bathroom and Bex fiddled with her phone while she waited.

‘Bexter,’ Jon said, folding his long legs under the table and looking so pleased to see her that Bex could pretend, just for a moment, that her feelings were mirrored. He grabbed his pint gratefully and took a long pull. ‘You are an angel of mercy.’

‘It’s your round next,’ Bex replied.

He put his glass down, half empty already. ‘Who’s your friend? She looked like she was really into it.’

‘Nicola,’ Bex said, keeping her tone neutral. ‘She likes you.’

‘Well,’ Jon said, smirking a little. ‘She’s only human.’

Bex hit his arm.

‘Hey! Watch the money. If I can’t play, you’ll owe me big time.’

‘I thought you played for pints.’

‘And tips,’ Jon said, shaking his head. ‘Don’t forget the tips.’

Jon was smiling, his eyes crinkled with happiness. It was a perfect moment, spoiled all too quickly when Nicola knocked into their table. She’d obviously taken a little too much Dutch courage and fell into the spare seat messily. ‘You were great,’ she said, nodding vigorously. ‘Really, really good.’ She slouched across the table, displaying an impressive cleavage, which Jon looked at. Of course he did. It was hard to miss, but still.

Bex drained her pint and stood up. Nicola was talking a mile-a-minute to Jon about something – it was impossible to say what – and he was drooling into her bosom. Later for all that. She’d done her duty as a friend and introduced them; it didn’t mean she had to stay and watch the show. Her stomach twisted at the thought.

‘Where are you going?’ Jon dragged his gaze from Nicola’s chest.

‘Home,’ Bex said.

‘I’ll come with,’ Jon said, knocking back the remains of his beer and getting to his feet.

‘No need,’ Bex said, mortified that he might have thought she was hinting. ‘You stay.’

‘Nah,’ Jon was already shrugging on his leather jacket. ‘I’m done in.’

‘Are you sure?’ Nicola was gazing up at Jon with shiny eyes. ‘It’s not late. I’m sure there’s plenty of stuff we could do –’

Bex stopped her eyes from rolling with an act of will. Nicola was her friend. She shouldn’t be mean.

Jon picked up his guitar case. ‘I’m sure.’

Outside the spring weather was holding and the night was mild. The town was quiet, and Bex could hear the river, and a lonely nightingale calling, its chirrups and peeps echoing off the stone of the town bridge. It was easy to see the place as timeless, the ancient cottages with their tiny windows and lopsided walls, the cobbled streets and the countless feet that had polished them. A car appeared on the road and whooshed past and the spell was broken.

‘Why don’t we go to mine for a bit?’ Jon said, shifting his grip on his case. ‘If you’re not too tired?’

‘Sure,’ Bex said, ignoring the leaping in her heart. That was part of the pain and pleasure of being Jon’s friend. He wanted to spend time with her. She knew he liked her. More than that, he cared for her, looked out for her. If only that were enough. It hadn’t been enough when they’d met last year and it wasn’t enough now, but she wasn’t sensible enough to stay away from him. No matter how much it hurt, she couldn’t give it up. Give him up.

‘I’ll carry that.’ Bex went to take the small amp and their fingers brushed. Her pulse kicked up from the contact and she felt her cheeks flush. Something had to change or she was going to drop down of a heart attack. This much stuttering and racing and jumping couldn’t be healthy. Bex couldn’t believe Jon hadn’t noticed yet, hadn’t seen her heart leaping out of her chest like in a cartoon.

Jon lived in a shared house on Priory Lane. It had a sagging roof and a failed damp course along the back wall, but it was timber-beamed and pretty. On the outside, at least. Inside, the charm had been somewhat overlaid with music equipment courtesy of Jon, rugby kit courtesy of his housemate, Ben, and bicycles courtesy of both of them. Bex squeezed past the clutter in the narrow hall and into the tiny living room. There was a stone hearth with a wood burner, the effect slightly ruined by a clothes horse draped in shorts and t-shirts and jogging bottoms, steaming gently.

They slipped into their well-oiled routine. Bex closed the curtains and fetched the DVD while Jon made tea; then they sat on the sagging sofa to laugh through Life of Brian for what was probably the fiftieth time.

It was late and, despite the nearness of Jon and the funniness of the film, Bex felt her eyelids get heavy. She told herself that she wasn’t going to fall asleep in Jon’s house; that she was going to get up and go home like a sensible adult. It was insane to keep staying over on Jon’s sofa, no matter how welcome he made her feel. She was being pathetic and she ought to get up and walk home. One more minute and that was exactly what she was going to do.

Bex woke up lying on the sofa, alone. The television was switched off and there was a thick yellow blanket slung across her body. She pulled it over her shoulders and went back to sleep.

In the morning, Bex woke early. A shaft of light pierced a gap in the curtains, shining onto the Life of Brian DVD case on the floor like a message from God. The house was completely quiet and her neck felt stiff and sore from the sofa cushions. She tiptoed past Jon’s bedroom and opened and closed the front door as quietly as she could.

Outside, the sun was just up and the air was cool. It was pleasantly refreshing and Bex felt all the promise of a new day. There were advantages to waking up with a crick in her neck from Jon’s sofa; she was up early enough to swing home and wash her face and change her clothes before work.

On the way to the Farriers’ she gave herself the well-worn talk; this had to stop. She had to move on. She had to see less of Jon. She had to stop going to watch him play. She definitely had to stop watching films with him and falling asleep on his sofa. In short, she had to stop torturing herself with his friendship.

Bex speeded up her steps to add verve to the pep talk. She sailed through the quiet morning streets of Pendleford, and arrived at the Farriers’ slightly out of breath, but filled with renewed purpose. As always, she was five minutes early for her shift at the house. Bex prided herself on being good at her job and part of her personal criteria for that was being early for work every single morning. She didn’t want her employers to ever worry that she was going to be late; didn’t want to add stress to their busy morning routine.

Bex picked up several pairs of shoes that had spread across the hall floor during the night and put them back neatly on the rack. She called out a cheery ‘hello’, channelling Mary Poppins for all she was worth.

Mrs Farrier was usually in the hall by this time, waiting to rush out of the front door the moment Bex appeared. This morning, Bex found her in the kitchen, holding a mug in one hand and her BlackBerry in the other. Bex’s first thought was that she must be unwell, but Mrs Farrier was in her dark work suit, her glossy hair neatly blow-dried and a briefcase resting on the central island.

‘We need to talk,’ Mrs Farrier said. She sounded serious, but Mrs Farrier always sounded serious.

‘Okay.’ Bex hooked her tapestry rucksack on the rack behind the door, next to the pinboard that held, amongst other things, the Farrier children’s busy schedule. Today was piano lesson for Carly and fencing for Tarquin. Never a fun day as Carly invariably spent her lesson in tears and Tarquin had to be dragged both into – and away from – his.

Mrs Farrier hadn’t started speaking, which was very odd; she was usually in such a hurry, shouting clipped instructions and questions she rarely gave Bex time to answer. Bex turned away from the schedule and loaded a capsule into the Krups coffee machine. Caffeine – that was the ticket. The ominous silence continued. Perhaps Tarquin had complained about her again. He had got into a habit of blaming as many different people as possible for anything he thought he could get away with, but Mrs Farrier, to her credit, generally saw right through him. ‘Would you like an espresso?’ Bex asked, getting cups down from the dishwasher.

The silence continued and Bex looked across to see if Mrs Farrier had heard her question. She was frowning slightly.

‘My husband’s cufflinks are missing.’

The cufflinks. She hadn’t been able to find them and then Tarquin had stood his ground over screen time and she’d completely forgotten that she was supposed to locate them. Arse.

‘Yes, I know,’ Bex said. ‘Sorry. I did look for them, but then Tarquin was messing with the laundry and –’

‘This is very awkward,’ Mrs Farrier said, and Bex realised, with a sudden chill, that she really did look uncomfortable. ‘Alistair, uh, Mr Farrier, is sure that he left them on top of the chest in his dressing room.’

Bex shook her head. ‘I looked, but they weren’t there. I checked on the floor and underneath, in case they’d been brushed off –’

‘He’s sure,’ Mrs Farrier said. ‘Which puts us in a difficult position. You know how happy we’ve been to have you helping us and we appreciate everything you’ve done, but –’ The sentence remained unfinished and Mrs Farrier gazed fixedly at a spot somewhere behind Bex’s head.

The chill that Bex had felt run down her spine became a bath of ice water, dumped unceremoniously over her head. ‘You’re firing me?’

‘We’ll give you a week’s pay, but in the circumstances I’d appreciate it if you didn’t embarrass us by asking for a reference.’

‘But I haven’t done anything wrong.’ Bex was mortified when her voice cracked a little.

‘Theft is a serious business, Bex,’ Mrs Farrier said, finally looking into her face. ‘You should count yourself lucky that we’re not calling the police.’

‘I didn’t take his cufflinks,’ Bex managed through a thick throat. The word ‘theft’ seemed to reverberate through the air, setting off tremors through Bex’s entire being. ‘I would never –’ She didn’t finish the sentence. She couldn’t use that phrase in all conscience.

‘Mr Farrier wanted to call them, actually,’ Mrs Farrier continued, ‘but I said that I was sure his cufflinks would be back in the house by the time he got home from work this evening and there would be no need.’ She gave Bex a significant look.

‘Ex!’ A small shout was a short warning before a shape barrelled into the back of Bex’s legs, wrapping arms around her and almost bringing them both down onto the tile.

‘Hello, sweetheart,’ Bex said, trying not to look as if her world had just caved in.

‘I did a wee in the loo!’

Bex didn’t know if Carly was talking about yesterday’s triumph or a new event, but she said, ‘Well done!’ in a voice that sounded false even to herself.

‘Why is your face funny?’ Carly said, squinting up at her.

‘I have to go to work.’ Mrs Farrier picked up her keys and her case. She pulled a face that was sad and uncomfortable and impatient all at once.

‘Have you told her?’ Bex indicated the top of Carly’s head with a downward jerk of her chin.

‘Not yet,’ Mrs Farrier said, heading for the hallway. ‘We’ll probably do it on the weekend.’

Bex detached Carly from her front and followed, interpreting Mrs Farrier’s words as she moved. No room for messy scenes. No goodbye and no warning.

Mrs Farrier was already opening the front door. She clearly couldn’t wait to get out.

‘This discussion is not finished,’ Bex said, surprising herself.

Mrs Farrier paused, evidently a little surprised, too. ‘I’m going to be late.’ She bent down and kissed her daughter goodbye. ‘Be a good girl for Bex.’

Once the children were at school and nursery, Bex had a few hours of relative freedom. She was meant to spend these tidying, sorting laundry and cooking nutritious after-school snacks, but instead she put on her coat and walked out of the town centre towards End House.

Bex knew about Iris Harper – everybody in town did – but had always dismissed the rumours as silly superstition. The way Bex saw it, either the creepy old woman had special powers, which made her, according to every fairy tale Bex had ever read, highly dangerous. Or she didn’t, which made her your usual meddlesome old woman with a side-order of battiness thrown in.

As Bex picked her way across Iris Harper’s overgrown garden she didn’t let herself dwell on what she was doing; knew that she would lose her nerve if she looked at it head on. All Bex knew was that she was desperate. Her mistake had caused so much damage; it had broken up a relationship, lost her friends, and almost ruined her chances of getting work. She’d come clean with the childcare agency and the woman who interviewed her had agreed to bend the rules and take her on, to give her a second chance. If the Farriers called the police or refused her a reference, that chance would be well and truly blown.

Nestled amongst the wild flowers and bushes of rosemary and lavender were ripe red peppers and fat purple aubergines, both of which were utterly impossible outside of a greenhouse at this time of the year. Bex had always been a practical and focused kind of person, not easily derailed. Dutifully, she ignored the impossible vegetables and concentrated on the job in hand; to find the wicked old witch who lived in the broken-down cottage and obtain a magical potion that would sort out her life. She snorted out loud at the unlikely nature of this scenario and then almost fell over with surprise when a voice, very close to her ear, said, ‘And who might you be, traipsing through my garden without so much as a good morning?’

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