A WOMAN OF EXCELLENT TASTE

Sorry. I don’t appear to be able to copy the next episode onto this site. The whole entitled A WOMAN OF EXCELLENT TASTE is on WritersCafe under my own name.

A WOMAN OF EXCELLENT TASTE

30. THE WITCH AND HER SPELL

It was early one Sunday morning and the Blocksleys were in bed but awake. Primrose was still asleep in the next room and the twins, being adult by then, had recently moved out, to live with relatives somewhere south of London. But the Blocksleys were slowly, remorselessly, growing apart, and it was all down to one particular problem.

“I think we married in haste,” muttered Ursula to Greendale, “I think we should have waited…”

“With you growing ever bigger with Primrose?” demanded her husband. “And it was you who agreed before we were married. It was you who wanted to carry my child before we had a chance to get wed in case the bloody war meant I’d never come back. And don’t forget, I nearly didn’t.”

“Maybe,” sighed Ursula.

“We both know what this is about,” said Greendale, more quietly, “We both know that it’s my inability to satisfy you because of that damned wound that I got… the doctors said I’d be all right, but I’m not. You can see that. I’ve not been able to … you know what …. ever since.”

“I don’t like it when you call it satisfying me,” grumbled Ursula, “you make it sound as if it’s my fault, that my demands are unreasonable when all I want is a normal married life with normal relations with a husband I find myself falling out with because there’s nothing normal left.”

“Because I can’t do it,” said Greendale bitterly, “if there was something I could do, one little thing, or even one ginormous thing, I’d do it. You can’t think I like being like this: what do they call it? Impotent? You know I’ve been to see Doctor Blegg and he said everything should be all right… he’s got the reports from the services hospital I was treated in, they said that the little wound had healed properly.”

“But everything’s not all right and I want another baby before I’m too old to have one,” Ursula told him. “Time’s ticking by, you know, I’m in my forties and might dry up with my menopause any moment now.”

“Well, I’m sorry. What more can I do?” he replied, a little petulantly.

“There’s one thing that I mentioned,” almost whispered Ursula.

“You mean the old woman they call a witch?” demanded Greendale, “you’ve got to be joking!”

“Old? I don’t think she’s a great deal older than me and there are lots of people who say she’s better than any doctor when it comes to herbs and cures.” Ursula sounded uncertain, but knew they had to try something, and even the old Entwhistle woman would be worth a try as a last resort. Beyond that … well, she knew she was fond of Greendale, but there had been a time when she had said she loved him, and she didn’t say that any more. It was all because of the physical thing.

“I don’t want you to think it’s just because I want a baby!” she blurted out, “I want to do it with you, too. I want to feel the warmth of you so close that we’re like one person! I like the feel of it, Greendale, or think I do, though so long has passed I might have forgotten!”

“We do some things together,” he protested, “I do try…”

“I know, I know, I know … but there’s one thing my body needs, one … oh, I can’t put it into words without sounding greedy and perverse, but I do really need it somewhere closer than in a distant memory.”

“Then I’ll go and see her, just to please you,” grunted Greendale.

“And I’ll come with you,” she said, determinedly, “this afternoon.”

“How do you know she’ll be there? Hadn’t we better book a time with her?” He felt as if already, moments after agreeing to see the old woman, he might be trying to wriggle out of a meeting with someone widely regarded as a witch. And probably he was, but he was terrified of talking to anyone about his problem. Talking to the doctor had been hard enough, and he’d been another man, older, true, but understanding. Talking to an old witchy woman would be impossible, surely.

“No. We’ll go this afternoon,” insisted Ursula. “I’ll take Primrose round my mother’s and we’ll walk there. It’s not far.”

“This is going to be embarrassing,” grunted Greendale as he climbed out of bed. “I’ll go and put the kettle on, then.”

That afternoon Ursula and Greendale set out for the Entwhistle woman’s cottage. Griselda was already a force to be reckoned with in Swanspottle, though she didn’t seem to think she was anything special. But she was constantly pursued by rumours, and rumour can be a mighty powerful force. In particular it was rumoured that she was in touch with magical forces, that she could perform deeds with spells and tinctures brewed up in her cauldron that would put scientists to shame.

She lived down a lonely lane that wound its way out of the village and out into the countryside. The cottages down there were small and mean, but she loved hers and as a means of discouraging unwanted visitors she crossed two besom brooms across its tiny porch as a kind of mystical gate. Most people knew what that kind of broom indicated and went away.

Ursula knocked the door whilst Greendale hung back, wanting to be anywhere but where he was. He might even have swapped positions with his former self when he’d been shot down piloting his Spitfire during the war, but dreams and fantasies rarely come true, and he remained on Griselda Entwhistle’s doorstep, shivering.

And her door opened.

Griselda has always been one of those women of indeterminate age. She was probably born looking fortyish and by the time she passed through her teens she arrived at a physical appearance that might have been anything between twenty-five and a half and a hundred and something.

“I’ve been expecting you,” she said, with what Greendale saw as an evil leer but which was in actual fact her very best and most welcoming smile.

“This is a mistake,” he stammered, grabbing Ursula by an elbow and pulling her away.

“Stop it!” hissed Ursula, who saw the old woman’s smile for what it really was, and “my husband needs your help,” she said to Griselda.

“A man needs to be a man,” observed Griselda, speaking directly to a reluctant Greendale. “A man needs to be able to procreate. A man needs strength in his armoury. A man needs life in his tiddlers!”

What is this woman waffling about? thought Greendale, perplexed.

“That’s exactly right,” smiled Ursula. “And we’ve come to see if you can help us before our marriage falls to pieces and we end up fighting for the custody of little Primrose,” she added fiercely.

“Such a sweet child,” sighed Griselda, “so innocent and young, and a shame if she becomes a battlefield! But you’ve left it rather a long time, young man! Let me see, it must be ten years since you were shot down, ten long years of wanting old Griselda’s magic in his life.”

“I saw the doctor…” stammered Greendale.

“Ah, Doctor Blegg. Such a fine gentleman and so good with measles. He did warn me you might call. Says you might benefit from a few spoonfuls of my penile tonic…”

“Your … what?” stammered Greendale.

“Come in, come in, come in,” invited Griselda. “I have just the job for you, and, mark you, it works like magic though there’s no magic involved. Just the right mixture of herbs and minerals in the right proportions. No silly ingredients like slugs’ testicles or catfish gizzards… just pure, simple ingredients that I gather from the hedgerows and back gardens. Nothing complex. Here, take a sip…”

And seeming from nowhere she produced a small bottle and wafted it under his nose. “Smell this,” she encouraged him, “Just get your nose round this! Isn’t it heavenly? Here, take a spoonful, just for the fun of it…

And he couldn’t help it. A spoon that also mysteriously appeared from nowhere, and somehow filled with part of the contents of the bottle, found its way into his mouth and within moments his face was flushed, his eyes sparkling and his trousers bulging.

“My goodness me!” he spluttered, and fainted.

“What a size,” gasped Ursula, “oh darling Greendale, love of my life, wake up and take me home!”

And he did manage to open his eyes and slowly climb to his feet.

“What happened?” he asked, blinking.

“Everything!” laughed Ursula, “now hadn’t we better thank the nice lady and ask her what we owe her … and get back home while it’s working!”

“Oh, that’s all right,” cackled Griselda, “think nothing of it! Just take it as a gift from one who might have been saved from eternity had you not shot my enemy out of the skies in 1943!”

And she pressed the bottle and mysterious spoon into his hands, and shooed the two of them out.

“You’ve got ten years of hanky panky to catch up on,” she said, “so be off with you…”

© Peter Rogerson 08.08.18

A WOMAN OF EXCELLENT TASTE

29. SWEETIE DAY AND ONE LITTLE SPERM

Ursula knew there would be problems one day in February 1953 when sweets finally ceased to be rationed and even children could visit her shop with their pocket money and freely buy them, so long as she had stocks sufficient for the day.

It had been a long drag since the second world war had ended, a drag during which sugar had been rationed by the Government to ensure fair distribution, and was a pretty fair example of the long shadow still being cast by that conflict. But all these years later some things were still hard to come by and there were still bomb sites in some of the cities.

Her one concern, though, was for the health of her daughter. She’d read as many books on bringing up children as she could find in the mobile library that called at Swanspottle once a week and believed she knew a thing or two, especially when it came to health. And there was a question mark in some of them about sugary treats.

She was on her own during the day. Greendale was at work. The solicitors firm of Dustcrotch, Dustcrotch and Featherington had taken him back once his recovery from sky-diving into a haystack on the end of a parachute was as complete as it ever would be, and for that he was grateful, as he was to his parents for forgiving him for what they called marrying beneath his station. So he quite happily drove to work in Brumpton every day and, yes, he did have a car, which marked him as being one up on most men of the post-war years when the ownership of any kind of motor vehicle was considered a luxury. His one problem, and this was considerably personal, had to do with the more minor of his original injuries, the one that to most intents and purposes had healed almost straight away.

Try as he might he found himself unable to provide Ursula with the wherewithal from which she could conceive a second child, and she really wanted a brother or a sister for Primrose … it didn’t matter which. At first he’d been more worried about his mobility and the possibility of spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair had been more horrifying than and reduction in his sexual potency, which from a weakened position seemed of secondary importance. But his bones had slowly mended (with the help of cleverly positioned screws and rods) but he was still unable to do what Ursula wanted him to do even though he tried and she sympathised. Maybe anxiety made it worse for him, but he couldn’t get that one vital part of his body to even stir from its rest. It was another part of the long shadow cast by that bloody war and he found himself having to increasingly fight off despression.

But back to that particular day in February.

It was a school day and half a dozen local children, their pockets bulging with pennies which in those days had been rather large and heavy for small pockets, flooded in. Then they all bought far too many sweets than would be considered healthy in later years, and vanished with their white paper bags in the direction of Swanspottle Primary School. Primrose had gone with them, happily accompanying a group of friends with loud voices.

Ursula was still sighing her relief that what she called sweetie day in her mind was over and done with when the shop bell rang and Jane came in, with Susan’s hand clutched in her own.

“Not at school?” asked Ursula of the little girl, who still had a few problems with her speech.

Jane shook her head. “She’s had a bad turn,” she said, speaking for her, “it’s a shame really because she really likes school, don’t you Susan?”

The little girl nodded but remained mute.

“They’re so good to her,” continued Jane, “even though she’s the only child in the class with her set of problems. I think they can see beyond the fact that maths and English won’t do her much good, and the teachers as well as most of her friends like her for herself.”

“So they should,” nodded Ursula, “she’s got the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen!”

“But she had a funny turn in the night,” continued Jane, frowning, “she scared me good and proper, and almost turned blue on me! But whatever it was went away before I had time to run to the phone box and call the doctor, but I’m taking her along today anyway, just to be certain.”

“It’s happened before, hasn’t it?” asked Ursula.

“Once or twice, and every time it scares me. Doctor Blegg is worried, says she has heart problems and that it goes along with a rare condition that she’s got. You know that she’s not as big as your Primrose? And that they’ve kept her down at school?”

“Yes, I know,” sighed Ursula, “Susan, as it’s a special day, would you like a sweetie?”

“Lizbeth,” said a smiling Susan, “Wooden teeth.”

“What’s that?” asked Ursula, alarmed that something may have happened in the village that she had no knowledge of, and she was the shop-keeper after all, the shop being the focal point of all gossip.

“Tell her, Susan,” urged Jane, “it was something she learned at school, and the thing is she remembered it!”

“Lizbeth…” began Susan, “Queen…”

“Oh, you mean the new queen?” asked Ursula, “with a coronation later on in the year?”

Jane shook her head. “No, not that one,” she laughed, “but the first Queen Elizabeth of hundreds of years ago. What did Queen Elizabeth have, Susan? Tell Auntie Ursula…”

“Lots of sugar and wooden teeth,” explained Susan quite clearly, and she giggled.

“She was told that back in Elizabethan days the rich people had loads of sugary sweets, being the only ones who could afford them, and the Queen’s teeth went bad because she ate loads. Susan was told that she had wooden teeth fitted. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but it’s stuck in Susan’s mind.”

“So do you want some sweeties, Susan?” asked Ursula.

But the girl shook her head. “Wooden teeth,” she said.

“You see, she’s got her eye set on her future,” laughed Jane, “and she won’t take any sweets off anyone because she doesn’t want to have a set of oak or mahogany gnashers made for her!”

“That makes her the most sensible child in Swanspottle,” smiled Ursula, “how about some chocolate? Does that count as sweets?”

“Like chocolate,” nodded Susan, and Ursula handed Jane a bar of chocolate to break into small squares and give the child.

“Talking of having an eye on the future, that’s what brought me here,” said Jane, “You’ll never guess who I’ve heard from, out of the blue?”

Ursula frowned and thought, then “Not…?” she asked, indicating Susan.

Jane nodded. “The very man. Her father. He wrote to me. It’s really quite a nice letter and he put some money in it for Susan. He wants to see her.”

“Charles Snootnose acknowledging his responsibilities? That’s a new one on me!” exclaimed Ursula.

“In his letter he says he’s been a fool,” went on Jane, “he’s really very apologetic, and when he lived in the Manor I never heard him apologise to anyone, not once!”

“What’s he so sorry about?” asked Ursula, tidying the sweet display up.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” sighed Jane, “anyway, he asks me, asks mind you, not tells that he’ll come to see us this weekend if I agree. He wants to get to know his little girl. I mean, Ursula, his! As if he’s brought her up, bought her toys, fed her… as if one little sperm gives him life-long ownership!”

“Are you going to say yes or no?” asked Ursula.

“Probably yes,” sighed Jane, “I dared say one day in a lifetime is fair exchange for that one little sperm…”

“I know exactly what you mean,” sighed the shop keeper, “But I only wish my man could find even one little sperm, even so…”

© Peter Rogerson 07.08.18