WIDOW’S WEEDS
Christopher Priest
The elderly Volvo lurched along the frozen ruts of the unmade lane. The driver hunched tensely over the wheel, struggling to keep the car away from the deep ditches on either side. There was no standing snow, but a thick hoar frost clung to every surface. Dark clouds moved overhead. The heater whined at full strength.
The passenger in the front seat was sitting in a more relaxed way, leaning back with a laptop on his knees. He was scanning his emails, which he had picked up earlier in the day before leaving the hotel in Brighton.
The car was towing a trailer, painted with bright colours and depicting playing cards, an opera hat and cane, a magic wand, some dice and many stars. Painted in flamboyant letters on both sides, as well as the rear, were the words Oliviera – The Master of Magic.
The driver halted the car outside two high wrought-iron gates. The trailer skidded as he braked, swinging around at an angle behind the car. The passenger, the master of magic Oliviera, whose real name was Dennis O’Leary, closed the lid of the laptop and put it carefully into his overnight bag.
“You sure this is the place, Rick?” he said, looking doubtfully through the windscreen, which was smeared with frozen droplets of mud.
“I entered the postcode in the satnav. Can’t fail.”
“Oh, yeah.” O’Leary wound down the window on his side and craned out to see beyond the gates. The cold air gripped him about the face. There was a glimpse of a steep slate roof, part of an upstairs window reflecting the sky.
“Last chance,” Rick, the driver, said. “Are you really going to go through with this?”
“Ten thousand pounds will last us until summer. That’s the guaranteed minimum.”
“Rather you than me.”
“Yes, but you haven’t seen her photograph,” O’Leary said, who had.
He climbed out, opened the rear door. He put his overnight valise on his shoulder, then pulled out a larger case. He set the case on the ground next to the car, slammed the door, and walked across to the gates. Peering through, he could see a display board just beyond, mounted beside the driveway. It was supported on two stout timber legs, had a border of astronomical signs, and was fronted with a sheet of clean glass.
At the top, in clear cursive lettering, were the words: The Atchievements of Mme Louisa de Morganet. Beneath were several more lines, but a gust of cold wind sent down a shower of frost particles from the tree above, and he backed off. O’Leary returned to the car to collect the case.
“What do you suppose an ‘atchievement’ is?” he said. “With an extra ‘t’?”
Rick was leaning across towards him, from the driver’s seat.
“A spelling mistake? Look, close the bloody door. You’re making the car cold.”
O’Leary slammed it, but the window was still open. He leaned down beside it.
“The pub is about a mile further on,” he said. “The Shepherd and Dog. Keep the expenses down, okay? You might yet be right about this being a scam.”
“You’re seeing sense at last.”
“Come on, Rick. You stand to gain too.”
The two men gripped hands through the window, but they were too familiar with each other to make it seem forced. O’Leary backed off and stood away as the car and its trailer resumed the erratic course down the icily furrowed lane.
O’Leary carried his luggage to the gate and went through. The drive curved between the trees. On each side were lawns, under the frost for now, but they and the flowerbeds around them were neatly maintained. He paused by the display board to read it properly. Beneath the large heading was the following:
Mme de Morganet is well qualified in, and a skilled tutor of, the following atchievements. Please enquire for more information, and the rates that apply.
Musicianship (including Composition), Foreign Languages (including Translation and Interpretation), Literary Endeavour, Oil Painting, Saddlery and Equestrianism, Astronomy, Aquatic Sports, All Domestic Accomplishments (including Kitchen Skills, Crochet, Needlepoint, Embroidery, Knitting, Sewing), Oratory, Marksmanship, Actuarial Calculations, Tax Returns, Law of Probate, Law of Property, Law of Torts...
Finally certain that he had come to the right place, O’Leary continued along the drive, chilled by the wind. The house was a large one, probably Victorian, but in good condition and with up-to-date features. The windows had been tastefully double-glazed, and on the far corner there was an outlet for a central heating boiler. White condensation was whisked away by the wind. He pressed the bell button beside the door.
There was a long wait, longer than he expected, while the chill wind blustered around him, sweeping down from the overhanging hills. The house was situated at the foot of the South Downs, but in this weather the hills gave no shelter at all. Flurries of fine snow were seeding the wind, stinging his cheeks. Uncertainties ran briefly through him: the right address but maybe the wrong day; perhaps he should have phoned ahead...? Finally the door eased open, giving a glimpse of a hallway, a flight of stairs. Warm air flowed out at him.
A woman was there, wearing a thick pullover and jeans and a tweed cap.
“Mr O’Leary, I believe? Otherwise known as Oliviera, the magician?”
“I am,” said O’Leary.
“You are most welcome, Mr O’Leary. Madame is expecting you, and has asked me to show you into the drawing room. She will join you as soon as possible.”
While she said this she held the door open wide, and O’Leary stepped in. She closed the door swiftly behind him, sealing the house against the wind. A feeling of comfort and welcome swirled invisibly around him. The woman took his coat and his overnight bag, but O’Leary kept hold of his case of magic materials. He never let it out of his sight.
He said yes, he would enjoy a cup of tea, and went through into the drawing room.
As the double doors closed behind him he realized he was in a mausoleum of the past. The enormous room was filled to cramming point with objets d’art: busts, sculptures, stuffed birds of prey in domed glass cases, huge screens and lanterns, four immense bookcases, piles of unsorted books on every level surface, a hand-wound trumpet phonograph, a tall birdcage holding several brightly coloured parakeets, two pianos, one of them a concert grand, a harpsichord and several wind and string instruments, two or three music stands, a variety of thick-piled carpets with oriental designs. Swords, lances, shields and ancient firearms were mounted on every wall. In the spaces between were the trophy heads of wild animals: a cheetah, an antelope, an antlered deer. Bric-a-brac had been placed on every remaining surface. The air was suffused with a rich, clean smelclass="underline" furniture polish, good wood, leather, paper, varnish.
He saw two large armchairs and a settee placed around a hearth. The fireplace was dominated by an enlarged black-and-white photograph of a man in old-fashioned clothes. O’Leary wound his way through the elegant clutter of the room, sat down in one of the chairs, and awaited the arrival of Madame de Morganet.
The house, the circumstances, were not entirely what Dennis O’Leary was expecting, although there had been a clue in the address. This was a select area of Sussex, the strip of land between the South Downs and the Weald, wooded and fertile, with several large houses. An undefined sense of financial well-being had always been detectable in his exchanges with Madame de Morganet, but the opulence of her home was still a surprise.
A middle-aged unmarried man, O’Leary was often lonely when not touring, but loneliness was not a habit he wanted to keep. His career had become a sequence of mild successes – he was a good-enough illusionist and his skill brought pleasure to his audiences and a more or less steady income. He still depended on bookings at clubs and business functions, because he had not done well on television. Two or three of his tricks were unique to him, so he guarded their secrets with care. They were his most valuable properties, but he could not live on secrets.