Page 54 of The Promise of Tomorrow
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 nomysterious 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, howElena 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.’
