Chapter 35
35
ELENA
Using her satnav, Elena completed their journey by turning into a cul-de-sac, still wondering what Rory had meant about someone being to blame for his mum’s illness. It has been a long drive. Since leaving the service station, snow had turned to mushy sleet. The reduced visibility had slowed the traffic. She hadn’t been sure what to expect of Leith, having read the novel Trainspotting , a story of squalor in the locality. Clearly, a regeneration plan had taken place since the early nineties. She and Rory had scrolled through a gallery of photos together during their lunch stop, and before going home tomorrow, they planned to visit the vibrant centre, with cobbled streets and restaurants, the waterway and varied architecture.
Elena parked up outside a small, detached bungalow. Moss covered the grey tiled roof and a black spiked metal fence circumnavigated the tiny front garden, newly painted by the looks of it. Her chest tightened. It hit her. Elena was actually going to meet the woman who’d changed her life so irreparably, all those years ago.
‘Ready?’ asked Rory .
‘As I’ll ever be.’ Legs shaky, she got out of the car, checked that she’d locked the door several times, and then met Rory by the gate. He opened it and they walked up to the front door, past Morag’s garden that had an orderly wildness about it, with a beautiful array of winter leaf colours, gold to green, from shrubs and conifers, to ferns and ivy.
She flinched as the door opened. A smoky, rich, meaty, satisfying smell escaped outside. Elena gripped her handbag tightly and stared at the woman, hair grey now, and whoosh! The memories! Like those eyes as green as the ferns outside, as if Morag camped in the woods every night, and her irises had grown to reflect the surroundings. Like the long, striking nose that suited the strong jaw. The woman’s aura of kindness, of warmth – Elena had forgotten that. Morag was smaller than Elena remembered – but then Elena had shot up at high school. Morag wore an impossibly woolly jumper over a thick, plaid skirt and slippers that looked like boots.
‘Can I help you?’ The woman’s face concertinaed into friendly lines.
That accent. The lilt. Elena shivered. ‘My name is Elena Swan. I… We… You see…’ She gulped and took several breaths. ‘Sorry… it’s been a long time. We met, when I was a little girl… Your tent on the common… My mum critically ill… I know none of this makes sense, but you and I…’ She gulped again.
Morag stared back. ‘You’d better come in, lass. A strong cup of tea, that’s what you need.’
Elena stumbled into the woman’s house and followed her into a kitchen-cum-dining room on the right, at the back. It was tidy, apart from a tall ramshackle pile of cookbooks on a cabinet top. The smell of stew bubbling on the hob felt reassuring. Elena spotted no crystal balls, nor dreamcatchers, nor packs of cards or joss sticks. Pendulums weren’t swinging on the shelves and no mysterious fragrance from a scented candle filled the air. No magical music welcomed them in, either. The sun was setting but it left enough light to reveal the garden, with its rows of pots with bamboo canes in, along with a henhouse and a big tree in the far corner. A bird feeder hung from one of its branches, and a lone sparrow pecked vigorously at the holes at the bottom.
‘How about a wee slice of fruit cake?’ asked Morag, kindly. She held out her hand to shake Rory’s. ‘Morag Macbay.’
‘Rory Bunker,’ he said in a tight voice, hands remaining by his sides.
Morag passed him plates and forks and pointed to the dining room table that was covered in a colourful, mosaic-style tablecloth. Drawn to the huge bookcases on the walls, Elena headed over. She skimmed the titles… Lots of non-fiction ones about mountain hiking and British history. Also guides to identifying toadstools, wildflowers and birds. As for the fiction, Morag’s taste was as eclectic as Elena’s own… Dark crime, light romance, fantasy, classics too, and several gentle reads by Japanese authors about cats and coffee shops. Under any other circumstances, she’d have quizzed Morag about her favourite reads and asked for recommendations. She gave the fortune teller a sideways glance. In Elena’s experience, fellow booklovers were usually empathetic people, understanding, and open to life’s differences; they looked for hope and resonance in stories; they looked for expanding their knowledge, to growing. Perhaps Rory was right and it didn’t make sense that such a person would have agreed to Elena promising her life away.
‘You’re a fellow bookworm?’ asked Morag as she brought over a tray and put it down, handing out the cups and putting the milk jug and sugar bowl on the tablecloth.
‘Novels. Love them,’ she said .
‘Elena reads a lot on her Kindle,’ said Rory in an overly polite voice.
‘Ach, I like the smell of a book, me,’ said Morag, ‘and the feel of it between my hands. My nephews love their eReaders, but they also love skimming through my children’s books.’ She pointed to a bookcase at the far end of the room, underneath a painting of an old-fashioned funfair. ‘I’ve still got my favourites from my childhood and have kept the collection up to date for them. Both of their parents work hard, so I’m spoilt with the amount of time I get to look after them. One set of grandparents lives in Portugal, the other two are divorced and don’t live locally any more.’ She gestured for Elena and Rory to sit down and Morag pulled out a chair for herself. ‘Right. Take a mouthful of tea, lass, enjoy some cake, and then tell me – what’s all of this about? I’ll do anything I can to help.’
Elena didn’t normally have sugar in tea, but she put in two teaspoons. The heat and sweetness ran through her veins. She could do this.
‘When I was ten, my mum was in a bad accident. It didn’t look as if she was going to pull through. We lived in Bridgwich, near the common.’
Morag raised an eyebrow. ‘Ach, I know it well. Or used to. What a crime, it was, when property developers got their hands on that lush, green space.’
‘You were part of Jimmy Fletcher’s touring fair,’ said Elena. The bubble of stew soothed her, as comforting as its smell. ‘We visited him recently.’
‘Indeed I was. How is my old pal? A decent sort was Jimmy. Made the worst coffee I’ve ever drunk, but his heart was in the right place – not in his pants or wallet, like so many men I met on the road.’
‘He’s good,’ said Rory stiffly .
‘It was the last night of the fair. You were camping in the woods,’ continued Elena.
Morag bellowed with laughter. ‘I was a one back then. Had my principles and rarely wasted money on a hotel. I grew up without heating so always coped with the cold. “Layer up,” my dad used to boom. Bearing any chill became a way of life, almost like a badge of honour. Ironic that pneumonia got my dad in the end. But when you tip into your seventies, like me now, your bones start to twinge, so I’ve had radiators installed and wouldn’t sleep outside again, not for a million pounds.’ Morag took a slurp of tea and studied Elena’s face. ‘Your hair was a different colour back then, but you’ve still got those freckles.’
‘You remember her?’ asked Rory, with the same robotic tone.
‘As a young woman I longed for freckles and painted them on, when everyone else was covering theirs up. But yes. You were lost and appeared outside my tent, a black cat by your side. I took you home. A sorry sight you were, eyes swollen from crying, and your babysitter… Pleasant woman, big necklace… Mentioned you had a temperature.’
‘Do you recall the promise we made?’ asked Elena, voice trembling. The world stopped for a moment and went into slow motion. Rory ran a hand through his curly hair, fiddling with his silver necklace, whereas Morag sat stock still, calm and attentive. A knack she’d probably learned from years of reading cards to customers who no doubt told her about any flawed part of their lives and expected her to unravel it. So much was hinging on what Morag said next. Outside, sleet started up again and flicked against the kitchen window, the last shafts of winter sun admitting defeat and withdrawing.
Elena’s heart thumped.
‘What sort of promise?’ asked Morag, her brow furrowed.
Garbling, Elena spoke about the deal, a life for a life, how Elena would die at thirty – next weekend – and how she’d pass on to ‘the next stage of our world’. She talked about Mum’s miracle recovery, at midnight, and mentioned the crystal ball.
‘A life for a life?’ Morag’s teacup clattered, and she put it back on the saucer. ‘Of course. It’s coming back. I thought about you for days afterwards.’
Elena stiffened. A deal had been struck. Her biggest fear would come true. She would die in five days. She looked at Rory, sitting there, knuckles white as his fists lay on top of the table.
‘You said you’d do anything to save your mum’s life – suggested you swap yours for hers. Oh my days, what a selfless heart you had. I’m so glad it all worked out and she survived.’
‘Worked out?’ spluttered Rory. ‘Maybe for her mum! But that promise has stained Elena’s life, as year in, year out, she’s counted down to her thirtieth birthday.’
‘Rory,’ said Elena, and she glared.
‘Wait a minute… You believe that deal was actually made? Are you serious?’ said Morag, and her eyes widened. ‘Not that I read your cards that night, but even if I had, my card reading is more about reflecting on your life, making sense of it, and less about predicting the future. As for making some pact, that’s not anything I would ever agree to.’
‘But you said, “A life for a life, it is.” You picked up your crystal ball and ran your hand over it. Then everything went blurry and before I knew it, I was home.’ Elena could hardly breathe. ‘You warned me about “dark forces” too, but still agreed to the deal.’
Morag frowned. ‘I remember you saying, “A life for a life,” but I ignored you, Elena. And I had no crystal ball. Cartomancy is my thing. Always has been. You did have a temperature that night, so perhaps…’
‘Just a twenty-four-hour bug. This wasn’t some hallucination,’ she said in a clipped voice. ‘Nothing else explained Mum’s recovery that happened as the clock struck midnight. Even the doctors were baffled. Everyone called it a miracle. There was other stuff too. When you took me home, you told my babysitter to go to the dentist. Turned out she had the very early stages of oral cancer.’
Morag thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I spotted a white patch on her lip when she was talking. My brother-in-law had the same a couple of years earlier, and ended up having chemotherapy. My warning to her was nothing to do with fortune-telling. I hope she got through it.’
‘But… but my friend Lucy… You told her gran you could see money. A few days later, she won big on the lottery.’
‘Sometimes I get… a sixth sense about things. Images come into my head. But I would never, ever predict something tragic, or make a deal that would hurt someone, even if it was to help another person. If I saw or sensed anything negative, I would never share it. As for agreeing to some pact, a scary one at that, with a little girl? What sort of monster do you take me for?’
The tips of Rory’s ears turned red.
Morag got up and paced the room… ‘But your words… “A life for a life… As the clock struck midnight”… I didn’t think of it at the time, but now…’
‘Those phrases have always stuck in my head.’ Elena looked at Rory. ‘I’m so confused.’
‘What was I wearing that night?’ asked Morag.
Elena shrugged. ‘A purple shawl. It was really fancy. But that didn’t stop you picking up muddy Bumper, to give him a hug.’
‘The black cat?’
‘Yes. Why?’
Morag went over to Elena and pulled her to her feet. Put her hands on Elena’s elbows. ‘I don’t deal in gobbledy-gook, whatever people might think about card readers. The insights I give people make sense to me – and most of the time to the customer too. I give them the cards’ perception of their life. It often provides a way for them to look at their problems or ambitions in a different way.’ She brushed a strand of hair out of Elena’s face. ‘It’s obvious you’ve had such a hard time with this, lass. But almost everything in life has a reason, has an explanation. It’s simply a matter of looking at this differently. As is the case, I believe, for this episode from your past.’ Morag went to the bookcase at the end of the room. Grunting, she crouched down and ran a finger over the books. Eventually, she stopped at one. She tugged the children’s book out and held it up to Elena and Rory.
‘A favourite classic. My nephews love it.’
Elena’s mouth fell open. Memories came back of her reading that book, cover to cover, night after night. ‘That used to be a favourite of mine too,’ she stuttered. ‘It must have been one of the tatty books that Mum threw out when I was twelve – she’d had a clear-out, thinking I’d be happy for the new shelf space. I’d completely forgotten about it.’ Elena reached out a hand. Morag passed her the book and sat down again. Elena stared at the cover – a fortune teller, in a purple shawl, holding a black cat, a crystal ball at her feet.
‘The book’s called As the Clock Struck Midnight ,’ said Rory, in a hushed tone.
‘I remember the story now,’ said Elena, in a choked-up voice. ‘The fortune teller had the power to let people swap lives for a day, from midnight. “A life for a life” was her catchphrase. People would choose someone who, in their opinion, led a fantastic life, full of riches or travel. But the exchange always made them realise that, actually, their own life wasn’t so bad. But…’ She lo oked up at Morag. ‘My memory of us making that deal… it’s so very real.’
‘You had a fever. You were traumatised about your mum, lassie. Then there was a black cat there and I was wearing a purple shawl. It does add up, Elena. I can see why you, a young child at the time, might have woken up the next day, confused – especially with the coincidence of your mum recovering at midnight. If you flick through the pages, you’ll see the fortune teller gets paid by potential life-swappers with a bar of her favourite dark chocolate. She makes a joke about dark forces that runs throughout the story.’
Elena’s brain froze. It was too much to take in. Was this some joke? Was Morag protecting herself or getting confused?
‘When I once had flu, I woke up convinced that, during the night, I’d been flying on a broomstick,’ mumbled Rory.
‘But this can’t be true,’ Elena said. Tears ran down her face. ‘All these years I’ve worried about it. That so-called promise has stopped me doing so many things. It cast a shadow over my life for months at school, until I learned to box it up in my mind, the lid only popping open now and again. I’m so fucking stupid.’
‘Don’t,’ said Rory sternly. ‘You were ten, for goodness’ sake. Children believe all sorts – that Father Christmas is real, that fairies collect teeth.’
But Elena had grown out of believing those two particular myths.
As if reading her mind, Morag asked, ‘Any clue as to why you haven’t shaken off this belief as an adult, lass, as you matured and would have realised, through logic, that it was ridiculous? You strike me as an otherwise sensible young woman, which is probably why this has been so distressing for you.’
Elena studied the book’s cover. ‘Because of a voice in my head… Whenever I dared question that night, it piped up: “Yes, bu t what if it’s true?” That doubt held so much power, driven by the evidence of Mum’s recovery, Gayle’s dental appointment and Lucy’s gran’s lottery win.’ The doubt that plagued her even now. So, Morag hadn’t made the promise with her. What if the universe had? No one could deny that her mum should have died twenty years ago. Had the fortune teller been a red herring? There were no leads left to explore. Now all Elena could do was wait until the twenty-first. She lifted her head and caught Rory giving her a curious look. Fighting off more tears, she stared without blinking for a few seconds. ‘One more thing, Morag. You gave me a playing card. The king of hearts. Why?’
‘It represents someone who’d be important to you one day. That night, my cards were underneath my shawl, in a trouser pocket, and they fell out when I put the cat down. That card was the only one that lay face up, on the damp grass. I just got a strong feeling.’
Morag made them another cup of tea and insisted they each have a bowl of the stew. Elena’s pulse slowed as she digested Morag’s words, along with the food.
‘What about the three near misses I’ve had in recent weeks?’ she said, the stew restoring her logic. Elena told Morag about the firework, the swimming pool and coffee spill.
‘Mere coincidences,’ said Morag.
Really? All three? Mum getting better bang on midnight – was that really nothing but a coincidence as well?
Nah.
If anything was a coincidence, it was that book cover.
Since that night in the woods, Elena had held the fortune teller up as some powerful oracle. This meeting proved she was just flesh and blood, like everyone else. A lovely woman, by all appearances, a fellow booklover too. But it was clear confused Morag knew no more than Elena. The internet was loaded with quotes about there being no such thing as coincidence. Any detective knew that.
‘Sorry for being a bit… offhand earlier,’ said Rory to Morag as they stood in the hallway to go, a sheepish look on his face.
‘Don’t apologise, lad. I can tell, you’re a good friend. You were looking out for Elena.’ She opened the door. ‘Rory Bunker. An unusual surname. Do you know the origin of it?’
‘No. Should look into it, really. I used to get called Golfie at school.’ He went outside, into the slushy night.
Morag put her hand on Elena’s arm as she went to follow. ‘I’m always here, if you want a chat. My landline’s been playing up lately.’ She sighed. ‘My nephews have convinced me it’s time to finally get a mobile phone. If you give me your number, I’ll message you mine, if you want.’ Morag gave a wry smile. ‘I fear they’ve got me a smart phone for Christmas. Silly name, isn’t it? As if anyone would make a phone that was stupid.’ She disappeared and came back shortly with a notepad and pen. Indifferently, Elena scribbled down her number.
Yet Elena was grateful for the woman’s time. ‘Thanks, Morag. Sorry for just calling by unannounced.’
‘Your mum is very lucky to have a daughter like you.’ Morag gave her a hug. Half-heartedly, Elena patted the fortune teller’s back and Morag’s perfume jogged her memory, a soothing smell of heather and pine. ‘I’m sorry, lass. I imagine this visit has given you a lot to take in?’
Ya think? Where to start? Morag believed that twenty years of torture simply came from a muddle over a book? No. It didn’t make sense. As Gayle, as her parents, as school teachers always said, order and rationale had ruled that little girl’s life. She’d never hallucinated with any other childhood bug and didn’t believe that adult Elena would have continued to believe the promise, unless there was some significant reason to support it .
‘That comment you remembered, about making a deal that meant you would “pass on to the next stage of our world”…’ said Morag, and she nodded encouragingly. ‘That’s not from the book, but wherever it came from, perhaps it’s food for thought. Maybe a new stage of your life is waiting for you, around the corner, and all you need is a nudge in order to move forwards to it.’
Elena stepped outside. The only direction she needed to move in was away from the bungalow and this woman who, getting on in years, quite possibly had a dodgy memory and couldn’t recall exactly everything she’d said to young Elena all those years ago.
‘Thanks again for seeing me.’ Elena was thankful. Truly. Yet so disappointed. The explanation Morag had given didn’t feel like the whole story. It was as if the last chapter was missing and wasn’t to be found in Scotland. Oh, Morag had provided a denouement, explaining about the crystal ball, about the importance of the clock and midnight, the dark chocolate. However, Elena knew, in her heart, that this wasn’t The End; that the story of that frightening night, still with loose ends, had a final plot twist waiting in the wings.
‘One last thing. That card was important,’ called Morag from her doorway. ‘Don’t forget that, Elena.’
Really? In Alice in Wonderland , the King of Hearts was weak and indecisive. As an avid reader of books, Morag should have known that.