Rosemary and the Book of the Dead Read online

  Mum was continually getting stuck in traffic on the M6 rushing to get home, or her scenes “over ran”, or Donna Watlington was late going on set. The excuses were endless, and while I felt for my mum, as she was clearly distressed at having been late several times, I also felt annoyed and embarrassed that Lois and I had to sit on the floor in the office, doing boring old word searches while Mrs Sykes kept eyeing us impatiently over her glasses.

  “Darlings, I’m so sorry about this week,” Mum had cried as she negotiated the Fiveways roundabout and nearly crashed into a white van. “Whoops!”

  “Why is that man waving at us, Mummy? Do you know him?” Lois had asked curiously, winding her window down so she could shout “hello”.

  “Wind the window back up, Lois. He’s not waving; he’s, erm, he’s doing a rude sign at us!” Mum had shouted, getting her gears in a muddle, so the car made a crunching sound. “Lois, no! Stop it, please!”

  But it was too late, Lois was already blowing raspberries and making faces at him.

  I had looked the other way, just desperate to get home so we could try to fix this nightmare of no one picking us up from school in time.

  When we’d finally got through the front door, things weren’t really any better. There was a rather large pool of sticky wee in the kitchen by the rocking chair. Bob had clearly had one of his fits while we were all out, and guess who trod straight in it? Yes, Lois.

  “Eurghhhh, Mum!” she had shouted, tears already forming. “I’ve stepped in Bob’s fit. It’s all over my socks!”

  I could hear Mum was on her mobile sounding stressed. “Yes, er, okay, well, that’s going to cause me a few childcare problems as it’s their inset day, so my girls aren’t at school.”

  “Lois, shut up!” I’d shushed her. “Mum’s on the phone. Don’t mess up this job for her.”

  Lois’ face had crumpled, and that was it. She always was soooo good at turning on the waterworks. I had to cuddle her for a whole minute until she calmed down, by which time Mum had finished her call and was looking worried.

  “Rosie said I’m messing up your job,” Lois cried, throwing herself at Mum. “She’s being mean to me, I’ve stepped in Bob’s fit, and my socks are stinky.”

  “For goodness’ sake, Lois, don’t be so silly. You haven’t messed up anything, except possibly the carpet by traipsing round with wee-soaked socks. Take them off immediately, please.”

  Lois bent down to remove the offending items, which had been white at the start of the day and were now black, grey, and yellow, tinged with cat urine.

  “But listen, girls, I’m in a bit of a pickle. I’ve now got to work on Monday as Donna’s got a hospital appointment on Tuesday, so they’ve had to move the scenes around. I’m going to have to see if Dad can stay at home that day or something.”

  “Don’t worry, Mum.” I squeezed her arm. “I’m sure we’ll work it out.”

  “I’m afraid Donna seems to get the schedule moved around rather a lot for different things,” Mum added grimly.

  Suddenly, I remembered. Donna had been in the play with Mum last year, I was sure of it.

  “Isn’t she the same Donna who was in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf with you last year, Mum?” I’d asked.

  Mum had nodded her head. “She got very lucky straight after that and got a regular role in Brightside, so she’s suddenly become one of their leading ladies.”

  “Well, it’s nice for you to have a friend there at your new work, Mummy,” Lois had added sweetly, as if the entire crying over treading in Bob’s wee had never happened.

  “Mmm, isn’t it?” Mum had replied, but I’d noticed she didn’t look pleased at all, in fact, quite the opposite.

  * * *

  I had started to realise that weekend how Mum being in a soap opera wasn’t as exciting as we had all first thought.

  She was absolutely exhausted all the time with the constant travelling, a bit snappy, and she suddenly seemed to be worried about whether the house had been hoovered or washing done, when ordinarily she never seemed to bother too much about this kind of stuff.

  I’d wondered to myself whether it was really worth earning “good money”, as Dad had put it, when she was too tired to spend it. However, Monday morning soon arrived, and Lois and I had waved her goodbye at 7 a.m., wondering how strange our inset day was going to be at home with Dad, who had a host of “Zoom” meetings booked in.

  A few hours later, after we’d had crisps, biscuits, and watched too much YouTube, we decided to FaceTime Mum.

  The two of us were really excited about seeing her at work but hadn’t bargained for the sight of a heavily made-up older lady peering at us from beneath her downward dog yoga position, just to Mum’s right.

  “Oh hi, girls!” Mum had giggled nervously and seemed to be sucking in her cheekbones and barely opening her mouth as she spoke. “Sorry, Harriet, my two are on an inset day,” she’d added apologetically to the bottom housed in tan tights, which was almost on a parallel with Mum’s face.

  She hadn’t sounded like our mum at all. Her usual purple colour kept crackling with flashes of white and yellow and looked like it might burst into flames.

  Harriet had remained in her yoga pose, her face bright red with exertion, sweat trickling down from the small of her back. “Oh, darlings, don’t mind me, just doing my daily stretch before we start another day at the sausage factory.”

  Lois and I had exchanged a look of confusion.

  “So, everything all right at home, girls?” Mum had finally asked, glancing at Harriet, who was hoicking herself up from her downward dog.

  “Do you know this programme used to be called Brightside Bungalows?” Harriet interrupted as she started to peel her tights off.

  We’d shaken our heads, wide-eyed with surprise as she’d started to disrobe in front of us.

  “All set in a street of bungalows, isn’t it? Well, do you know why they had to drop the Bungalow bit from the title?”

  Lois and I had shaken our heads again in unison.

  I’d noticed Mum was silent, probably wondering if Harriet was also going to remove her knickers and bra (thankfully she didn’t).

  “I’ll tell you why, shall I?”

  I think we had realised that Harriet was going to tell us whether we liked it or not.

  “Because bungalows don’t have anything going on upstairs, do they?”

  “They don’t have an upstairs at all,” Lois had added proudly.

  “Exactly,” continued Harriet, pulling a robe around her. “And nor do most of this bloody cast either. Nothing going on upstairs, thick as pigs’ muck. So, they had to drop the Bungalows from the title and just leave the Brightside bit.”

  There had been silence as we’d collectively watched Harriet’s skinny frame disappear from the screen and heard the door of the dressing room slam.

  Finally, Lois spoke. “I don’t think that lady likes this job very much.”

  “Well, she’s been here twenty-five years,” Mum had murmured.

  “Why would she still be doing it if she hates it as much as she seems to?” I’d asked, confused.

  Mum had shrugged and looked as baffled as we were. “The money?” she’d said tentatively, as if thinking that could be the only thing that would keep her there.

  “She must get paid a whole bunch of money then!” Lois whistled under her breath. “At least a hundred pounds.” She’d paused, then changed the subject. “Who else do you share your dressing room with, Mummy?”

  Just at that moment, we’d heard the briefest knock, and in had walked Donna.

  Mum looked like she’d been stung by a wasp. She’d stuttered and fawned about Donna, and I noticed little yellow sparks were spiking out of her body, as if she were jumping with nerves.

  Donna, on the other hand, had looked like the cat who’d got the cream. I didn’t like the fiery red glow that surrounded her body.

  “Rae,” she’d drooled, tossing her luscious dark hair off her shoulder and glancing at us
disapprovingly through the screen. “Your children, I presume?” (Imagine instead of “children” she had been saying the word “rats”.)

  “Yes, let me introduce you.” Mum’s voice had been all breathless and soft, as if she was afraid to speak at normal volume. “This is my eldest, Rosemary, and this is Lois.”

  I had given a small smile, and Lois had just stared and wiped her nose with Bea, something she liked to do if she was assessing someone.

  Luckily Mum hadn’t noticed. “This, girls, is Donna.”

  “Donna Marie,” Donna had corrected.

  “Oh, yes, sorry. Forgive me.” Mum had touched her forehead with her hand, embarrassed.

  “How quaint,” Donna had continued.

  I had no idea what she’d meant by that.

  “Got to get changed now, ladies. I think you need to go to make-up, Rae. There’s only so much they can do in an hour …”

  Mum had looked so wounded, and I’d felt furious with Donna, suggesting that our mum needed more time in make-up.

  “I’ll call you in a bit, girls,” Mum had whispered. And then she was gone.

  I’d had an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. Mum hadn’t seemed herself at work. She’d been surrounded by two women who were clearly unhappy, and their dissatisfaction seemed to be dulling Mum’s usual excitement for the job she longed to be doing.

  An hour or so later, after Dad had hurriedly made us sandwiches and then hot-footed it back to his tiny office, Lois had decided she wanted to try making oaty biscuits.

  We’d scrambled around in Mum’s recipe books for the scrap of paper that Lois had been convinced the instructions was written on.

  Dad was no help whatsoever. Every time we’d lingered in his office doorway to ask him a question, he’d raised his palm up as if to say, “not right now”.

  So obviously, we did what any self-sufficient kids would do: we’d taken matters into our own hands.

  Finding the ingredients and making the mixture was easy — though melting the butter in the saucepan had nearly caused chaos as we’d left a tea towel next to the hob that almost caught fire. We’d even very carefully patted the oat mounds into circles and put them in the oven AND tidied up the kitchen.

  I’d felt certain that Mum and Dad would have no fears about leaving us home alone, should the necessity ever arise — in an emergency situation, of course.

  I guess it had all started to go wrong when we’d got so engrossed in a Mario Kart game that we’d forgotten about the biscuits.

  “Can you smell something funny?” I’d asked Lois as she prepared herself for game three.

  “Nope,” she’d replied.

  The smell had got stronger until something prompted me to go and ask Dad what it was. As soon as we’d left the lounge, we’d seen smoke coming from the kitchen.

  “Oh my god! Lois!” I’d shouted.

  “Dad!!” we’d both screamed at the top of our voices, while trying to waft a tea towel to dispel the smoke in the kitchen.

  Dad, it turned out, had been upstairs in the loft, of all places, trying to find an old file, and on hearing our shouts had dashed down the stairs, missed the last two and landed on his bum with a thump.

  To say he was not best pleased had been an understatement.

  “For crying out loud, you two, why didn’t you tell me you were making biscuits!” he’d shouted, pulling out a tray of blackened rocks from the oven.

  Lois had disintegrated into tears. “I was really looking forward to eating those.”

  At that moment, Mum had chosen to FaceTime us again, and Dad’s computer was buzzing with yet another Zoom meeting about to start.

  Mum’s face had dropped when she’d seen the smoke in the kitchen and Lois’ tear-stained face.

  “Don’t worry, Mum,” I’d said as soothingly as I could muster. “It will all be fine by the time you get home.”

  “One day I ask Dad to look after you, and it’s a disaster. The kitchen could have burnt down! We cannot go on like this,” Mum had replied.

  It had been distressing hearing Mum so upset. It was only some burnt oaty biscuits, but I guess sometimes grown-ups overreact to things. I’d been about to offer her more words of reassurance when we heard a knock at her door and a voice asking her to go on set.

  She’d sighed heavily and raised her hand to her forehead. “I’ve got to go, girls. Please, no more disasters.”

  And it was then that I noticed a yellow mist had wrapped itself around her arm.

  I had to look twice, for as she’d lowered her hand the mist faded, and I swear to you there was a hole the size of a ten-pence piece about midway up her forearm.

  A hole that I could see right through.

  4

  Paloma and the Pop Sock

  The events of that day, with Mum’s stress levels going through the roof and Dad’s embarrassment at the jungle backdrops behind him that he couldn’t remove during his Zoom meetings, were what prompted my parents to advertise for a childminder.

  So, you can imagine that it was with a heavy heart I made my way up to bed that night, knowing whatever Lois and I wanted was never going to happen.

  We were going to be stuck with some bossy childminder who my parents would choose. Our post-school hours would be full of dread, rather than fun walks home with our mum, pointing out herbs and their uses, and making up silly songs.

  Before I slid into bed, I crept into Lois’ room and gazed at her sleeping form.

  Suddenly, she opened one eye, which startled me. “What are you staring at?”

  At least I think that’s what she said. She was talking through her doe (dummy), which, yes, I’m afraid she STILL insists on at bedtime, even though she’s six.

  “I said, what are you staring at, Rosie?” Lois repeated.

  “Nothing. I’m just thinking about this childminder Mum and Dad have advertised for. I don’t want a stranger picking us up from school.”

  “Don’t worry, Rosie,” Lois replied sleepily, snuggling into Bea. “Paloma said it would be someone nice.”

  “Paloma?” I questioned, shocked. Paloma was the pesky raven who seemed to have formed an unlikely mutual appreciation society with my little sister. “I suppose you’ll be telling me next that Paloma talks to you all the time!”

  “Well, yes, she does.” Lois grinned knowingly at me.

  “What?” I asked. “How does Paloma know we need a childminder?” I didn’t wait for her to reply. “We could end up with some right nightmare person stopping us from having any freedom whatsoever.”

  Lois rolled over, leaving me with a view of her back. “Paloma knows everything, and she said it will be fine, chill pill.” And with that, she snuggled down into the duvet.

  I guess that was her way of signalling that the conversation was over.

  How on earth could Paloma be back? We hadn’t had sight or sound of her since we were in the wormhole looking for Phyllis. Why had she turned up now?

  I felt a frisson of excitement, as well as anxiety. Paloma had been Aradia’s bird, the woman who was the gatekeeper to the portal, which sadly no longer existed in our house. Aradia had been sacked, because she had been found to be helping the enemy, Mal Vine.

  Was Paloma still with Aradia? Could she be spying on us and then relaying information back to Aradia, who would then tell Mal Vine?

  My mind was full of questions as I settled down to sleep and finally, when I succumbed to the darkness, my dreams were unsettled.

  I dreamt that Phyllis and Frances were arguing about a broomstick. Phyllis wanted to paint it yellow in honour of the Beatles song “Yellow Submarine”, and Frances kept saying in her soft Scottish burr, “No, no, hen, we’ll be spotted if it’s yellow. You don’t want Mal to find us again, do you?”

  Then both witches were silenced as a booming voice echoed around. Its chilling words were etched in my mind.

  “I will unleash the forces of the book. I will seek vengeance for all you took. This is my time. Witches of the night, prepare to f
ight.” This was followed by laughter.

  Without even seeing his face, I KNEW it was the voice of Mal Vine.

  I woke, sweat dripping down my forehead, totally unsettled by my nightmare that had felt so real, in spite of me telling myself it was just a dream.

  I glanced at the clock: 3.33 a.m. It was going to be impossible to go back to sleep now.

  What did it mean? What book was he referring to? I had been thinking about our absent house guests and Mal Vine before I went to bed, prompted by Lois talking about Paloma. Surely it was just an anxiety dream?

  I got out of bed and went to my window and looked out on our garden. I could see Maggie, one of our cats, sitting on top of the fence, gazing into the night, as cats do.

  Suddenly, she was swept up from her position by something that literally flashed across the garden. The energy that it created left behind some white smoke and bright yellow sparks.

  I scanned the sky for a sign. There was nothing. Nothing at all.

  I stood by the window for what felt like an age, hoping I’d see something, another flash of whatever it had been. But the night was still. Apart from a gentle breeze that caused the wind chimes to make the odd sound, there was no sign of life. Not even a glimpse of our Maggie.

  I crept downstairs and let myself into the kitchen, where we kept the cats at night, in case Bob had one of his epileptic fits.

  It was quiet. I could just make out the sleeping Bob on the rocking chair, but no sign of Maggie.

  Suddenly I jumped, as the cat flap flipped open, and Maggie eased her enormous furry body through it. She walked nonchalantly past me toward her food bowl, then started coughing and spluttering.

  Typical! She was obviously about to bring up a fur ball.

  I readied myself with a dishcloth to clear it up and followed her around the kitchen until she had finished bringing up a rather squelchy combination of fur, grass, and semi-digested biscuits. I grimaced and gathered the offending mess, ready to throw it into the bin, when I suddenly gasped. For there, in my hand, covered in goo, was the unmistakable nylon mass of a flesh-coloured pop sock.