Cat's Paws and Curses Read online

  Nyx had been snoozing in her basket of wools, but when I locked up, she rose daintily to her feet, executed a perfect cat’s stretch, stepped out of the basket and leapt nimbly to the floor. I thought she would make for the connecting door so that she could go upstairs to my flat, but no, she walked right past and headed for the curtained doorway that led to the back room. She pushed the curtain aside with her nose and walked in.

  I followed.

  The knitting needles and crochet hooks were already busily at work. Except for Sarah’s. She was unwrapping a hamburger.

  Nyx made her way around the circle, stopping to poke her head into Joan Fawcett’s open tapestry bag. When she walked by Hudson, he leaned down to scratch her behind her ears. She showed her approval by purring loudly. Then she rubbed against Sarah’s legs before jumping onto Mabel’s lap, turning around a few times until she found a comfortable spot and then settling down for a nap. It seemed that lying in my front window snoozing for hours had exhausted her.

  We always began the vampire knitting club meetings with a show and tell, so it had seemed natural to begin doing the same thing with my evening knitting circle. It was fun to see people’s projects grow, especially if they had time to work on them between meetings. There was an excitement as the date of gift-giving grew closer, and this added a touch of suspense and drama to what was normally a fairly staid activity. Would Joan finish her granddaughter’s blanket in time? Would little Henry’s sweater be too big? But at the rate he was growing, should Eileen not make it big? Could Hudson complete six pairs of slippers and still manage his schoolwork?

  I was about to ask who wanted to go first when Priscilla Carstairs spoke up. She was eyeing Sarah Lawson with distaste as Sarah chomped into her fast-food burger. A cardboard container of french fries was propped somewhat precariously between her knees. “Really, Sarah, this comfort eating isn’t helping. It certainly won’t bring him back.”

  There was a terrible silence, and in the silence we heard Sarah swallow a bite of her burger almost like a gulp. It was one of those painful pauses where no one knew what to say. Priscilla looked around at us all. “Well. It’s true. There is no point hiding from the truth. Sarah’s put on about two stone since her husband left her.”

  The trouble with knitting circles was that they could sometimes be confused with therapy circles. Sarah had shared her troubles in her marriage while the needles clacked on. We all knew about Gordon Lawson’s unkindness to his wife and how he’d threatened to pack his bags and leave her on more than one occasion. It sounded like he did this every time she disagreed with him. Then she’d back down and beg him to stay.

  Eileen Crosby was sitting beside Priscilla and turned to her, looking severe. “Priscilla, what you’re doing is called fat-shaming. In the workplace you could be disciplined for speaking to someone that way.”

  Priscilla made a tsk-ing sound. “That’s what’s wrong with the world today. Everyone’s afraid to speak the truth. Sarah needs to stop moaning and feeling sorry for herself. She should get some exercise and eat sensibly.” She patted her own flat stomach. “Look at me. Not an ounce of fat on me. It requires discipline to stay slim and a lifetime of denying oneself fatty foods, but it can be done. I only want what’s best for the girl.”

  “This is the first food I’ve had all day,” Sarah said, swallowing and speaking up in her own defense. “And he hasn’t left me. We’re in marriage counseling. I’m knitting him a Christmas jumper. It’s got elves throwing snowballs on the front of it.”

  Yep, that should solve her marriage problems.

  “I’m sure it will be beautiful,” Joan said. Joan was sitting on Priscilla’s other side. She and Eileen were like kindness bookends pushing against Priscilla’s thoughtless cruelty.

  I decided to get this meeting back on track. “While Sarah finishes her dinner, why don’t we do our show and tell? Who wants to go first?”

  No one volunteered, so I turned to the man sitting beside Sarah, casting pink stitches onto his needle. “Hudson. How did your dad’s slippers work out?”

  “Yeah. Great. The ol’ fella’s got big feet and all, but he likes to put them up of an evening and watch telly. I didn’t bring them tonight, but this is the wool for me gran’s pair. Shouldn’t take as long as her feet are so tiny.” He glanced around. “I only hope I get them all done in time. I’ve still got me Auntie Lizzie’s to do. I’m thinking red for her as she’s got such a temper.” He made a face, and we all laughed.

  Clara and Mabel were next. Clara was knitting a lace shawl in pale gray that I happened to know was for their undead friend Sylvia. Mabel was also an exquisite knitter but she didn’t have the most sophisticated taste. She was working on a jumper featuring a snowman with a felt carrot nose and lumpy black “coal” eyes. She said it was for a friend, and I suspected it was intended for Theodore, who was sweet enough that he might actually wear it.

  Eileen was sitting beside Mabel. She held up little Henry’s sweater, which consisted of the back and half of one sleeve. “I’ll have to burn the midnight oil to get this finished in time.” Then she pulled out her phone. “I got some new pictures of the baby this morning. I’ll pass them around.”

  “You’ll finish in time,” Sarah said. “Don’t worry.”

  Priscilla passed the phone along, barely glancing at little Henry. “He’ll hardly be disappointed if he doesn’t get his sweater in time for Christmas. He doesn’t know what day it is. His brain is the size of a tadpole.”

  Chapter 3

  When we got to Priscilla, she said, “I’ve been busy this week. I finished four of my little tree ornaments.” And she pulled them out one by one. Priscilla was a bit of a show-off, but no one could deny her ornaments were really lovely. Her reindeer were works of art. I wouldn’t have known you could knit antlers that small if I hadn’t seen it done. She had a fat Santa with a sack of presents on his back and black knitted boots, the little drummer boy, a crocheted angel, and tonight she was working on a crochet snowflake.

  “Who are they for?” Hudson asked her while we all complimented her.

  She looked surprised at the question. “They’re for me, of course.”

  Of everyone in the circle, she was the only one who was knitting for herself.

  Eileen Crosby stopped to rub her knuckles. “Oh, this arthritis. I’m determined to keep up my knitting, but in the cold weather I do feel it in my joints.” She turned to Joan Fawcett, whose walking stick was hooked over the back of her chair. “You’re a fellow sufferer, I presume?”

  Joan Fawcett shook her head. “No. It’s an old injury. I had a terrible fall when I was seventeen years old. I’ve never fully recovered.”

  “Oh, how awful,” Mabel said. “Was it in the war?”

  Mabel had been turned during World War II. I’d warned her about referring to things she shouldn’t be old enough to remember. I glared at her, but she was gazing at Joan Fawcett with interest, and I could tell she was ready to launch into stories about the 1940s. I caught Clara’s eye and watched as she gently kicked her friend in the ankle.

  Mabel jumped, glanced at Clara and then at me, as she realized what she’d done. She looked guilty. If she hadn’t been a vampire, I know she would’ve blushed.

  Joan Fawcett also glared at Mabel. “In the war? What war? I am eighty-two years old, not a hundred and two.”

  “No. Of course not. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “And what are you working on, Lucy?” Eileen asked. I was grateful to her for turning attention away from Mabel’s blunder. I was working on a bright red scarf. In truth, I had quite a few projects that I had begun and not finished for one reason or another, mostly because I made a mess of them. It was usually easier to abandon the project than to try and fix my own knitting. But I had high hopes for that scarf. It was done all in the same wool, and if I was careful, I could manage the stitch. I held it up. “It’s a scarf I’m making. The stitch is called the cat’s paw.” It was supposed to be easy. It was an eight-ro
w pattern that repeated, and when it was done, the result would be a beautiful lacy-looking wrap. The vampires were always knitting me beautiful things, and for once I wanted to knit something for my grandmother. Since she’d joined the undead, Gran had become a great deal more stylish, and I thought she’d be thrilled to receive something I’d knitted myself. It wouldn’t be as flawless as what she and her friends could make, but I knew she’d treasure the scarf just because I had made it for her.

  We all began knitting in earnest. Even Sarah finished her burger and fries and pulled out the sweater she was making for her husband. Priscilla Carstairs said, “I began making small pieces when I was on stage. There might be an hour between when I was dressed and made up and when I was called. I could have a small bag with me in the green room. A larger knitting bag was simply too cumbersome.”

  “How exciting,” Clara said. “Were you an actress?”

  We all looked at Priscilla, probably trying to trace the likeness to someone we might have seen on stage or screen. Priscilla smiled, somewhat condescendingly. “No, dear. I was a prima ballerina.” She said the words slowly and with pride as though making sure even the deaf among us would know of her accomplishments.

  Sarah sighed. “I always wanted to be a ballerina.”

  Priscilla laughed softly. “Every little girl wants to be a ballerina. Most don’t have the discipline or the talent.” She glanced at Sarah as though her gaze alone would make it clear that poor Sarah had neither. “I remember an early teacher of mine at Miss Adelaide’s Dance School used to demonstrate my turnout for the rest of the class. Of course, to be a dancer, a girl needs extensive training as well as the right build. But what separates the prima ballerina from the girl in the back row of the corps de ballet is hard work. Discipline. Constant practice.”

  She shook her head. “Many a girl wishes to be a ballerina, but very few will see their dreams come true on stage.”

  Eileen looked at her, pausing with the pale blue cashmere wrapped around her finger. “I imagine there’s also a certain ruthlessness involved, too, in getting to the top.”

  “Oh yes, indeed.” Priscilla chuckled in a slightly evil way. “Oh my goodness yes. It may look like it’s all tutus and bouquets of flowers, but it’s the hard-hearted ones who survive. Good girls finish last.”

  We knitted on. Eileen told a story about little Henry waving his arms about when he saw his mother. Sarah talked about how well they were doing in marriage counseling and that her husband had promised to start helping with the dishes—if one of his favorite programs wasn’t on TV. Since he seemed to be addicted to everything from the EastEnders to Peaky Blinders to The Great British Bake Off, I wasn’t confident he’d be doing much dish-washing, but Sarah seemed hopeful and so I tried to be hopeful too.

  I was counting stitches very carefully, determined I wasn’t going to screw up this scarf. I wanted it to be as close to perfect as I could manage for my beloved grandmother. My shoulders were so tense from concentrating and probably holding my needles at the wrong angle that I was getting a pain between my shoulder blades. I didn’t want to look uncomfortable in front of people who paid me for knitting supplies, so I glanced surreptitiously at my watch. Good. It was close enough to tea time that I could put down my work without creating suspicion that I wasn’t tearing myself away from my favorite hobby.

  I got up quietly and plugged in the kettle. I had teacups and saucers all ready, a silver mound of teaspoons and the tin of cookies along with a jug of milk and a sugar pot. I’d bought Christmas napkins too. I couldn’t believe it when I discovered napkins that featured Christmas sweaters on them.

  I fussed with the cups, putting a teaspoon on each saucer until the kettle boiled, then I made tea in the big Brown Betty. It needed a couple of minutes to brew, so I sat back down and picked up my knitting again. At least I’d been able to ease the kink between my shoulder blades.

  I had the wool around my finger and I was just hooking it around the knitting needle, ready to knit a stitch, when the lights went out. There was no warning, no flickering. One minute I could see, and the next minute we were plunged into darkness.

  Chapter 4

  Someone gasped. It was so dark I couldn’t see my knitting in front of me. In fact, I couldn’t see anything at all. “What’s going on?” Sarah, I thought, cried out.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. “The power’s gone out. It happened this afternoon. It will come back on again in a minute.” I had no idea why I said that. It wasn’t as though I had a secret line into the workings of whatever government department was in charge of lighting Oxford. However, I felt that since this was my shop, I should sound as though I were confident power would soon be restored. “In the meantime, I’ve got a flashlight and some candles somewhere.”

  The candles were my witch ones. I had been practicing lighting the wicks without the use of matches. However, I didn’t think having candles spring magically to light while I recited a spell would soothe the already nervous knitters sitting here in the dark. I could hear shuffling and somebody coughing. Scrabbling noises, as, no doubt, women were looking for their handbags so they could pull up the torch app on their smart phone.

  Suddenly, there was an almighty crash and the sound of breaking china. Then someone screamed. An older woman. Joan? Priscilla? cried out, “I’m burning. Aaagh. I’m burning.” One scream led, naturally, to another, as though there were a screaming virus and all the knitters succumbed.

  “There’s something on my feet. It’s wet. I think it’s blood!” This was Sarah.

  “It’s not blood,” Hudson said in a soothing voice. “It’s probably tea. You heard the crockery breaking.”

  I felt like screaming myself. It was like being in the middle of a horror movie. I was plunged back to the fears of childhood, thinking monsters were hiding under the bed, ready to pounce as soon as the lights went out. Only the lights were out, and it felt as though bad things were happening.

  There were strange noises. Six panicked people’s breathing sounded loud, and whoever was burned was definitely in distress, crying and moaning.

  Naturally, I’d left my phone upstairs. I’d have to find my flashlight and some matches to light the candles with. I got up and felt my way to the wall. I bumped into someone and had to bite my lip to stop myself from screaming and running for where I thought the doorway might be.

  The person I bumped into let out a startled cry, then said, “Is everyone all right?” It was Eileen’s voice.

  “No. I’m burned. I think the tea spilled on me,” said Joan. I recognized her voice now that she wasn’t screaming.

  Oh, no. This was very bad. I flailed around in the dark until I felt the curtain. I was just pulling the fabric aside to go out into my front room where the candles were kept when suddenly the lights came back on.

  It was almost as disorienting as when we’d been plunged into blackness.

  I turned back to see that everyone was in their seats. Even Eileen was just sitting back down. The table was standing, but most of the cups and saucers had been knocked over, as had the teapot and kettle and the tin of cookies I’d made myself.

  “That took me back to my childhood,” Clara said, picking up her knitting once more. “Of course, that was before electricity.”

  Oh, perfect. There was Clara, now, doing the very thing I had warned her not to, reminiscing about a time far in the past. Luckily, Mabel was quicker-witted than I was. She laughed gaily. “You’re not that old. I suppose next you’ll tell us about how you used to play in the sand when the dinosaurs ruled the earth.”

  I heaved a sigh of relief. Nodded gratefully to Mabel. Clara looked somewhat abashed, returning busily to her sweater.

  I surveyed the damage. About half the teacups were broken, but I had lots more upstairs. There was also another teapot, more milk and sugar. I even had extra cookies. “I can soon clear all this away,” I said. “Do you all still want tea? It won’t take a minute to make it again.”
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  “I can help clear up,” Hudson said, getting to his feet.

  “I’ll have tea and a biscuit,” Sarah said, putting a hand to her chest. “I think I need it for the shock.”

  “Yes, tea would be lovely,” Eileen agreed.

  Joan held out her arm, and I could see her sweater dripping. “I’ve already had one cup thrown all over me. I’ll drink the next one, thank you very much.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said instinctively. “Is it very bad?”

  “Hurt like the devil at the time, but it’s not too bad now.”

  “But how did the tea get knocked over?” Clara asked. “I didn’t get up. Did one of you?”

  We all looked at each other. No one said anything.

  I glanced around, wondering why no one wanted to admit to knocking into the tea table. It wasn’t as though they’d get in trouble. My gaze landed on Priscilla. Her head was bent forward, and her hands lay in her lap with her finished ornaments and the half-finished snowflake, but she wasn’t crocheting.

  As I looked at her, I got a very strange feeling. Whether it was my witch senses or my normal human ones, I wasn’t sure, but the feeling was bad, as though something cold and slimy was balled in my chest. I took a step toward her. “Mrs. Carstairs?” Nothing. “Priscilla?”

  She didn’t react when I called her name the second time any more than she had the first.

  I glanced around the knitting circle and found that everyone was staring at Priscilla Carstairs.

  I went closer. I didn’t want to touch her in case she’d fallen asleep. Maybe she was one of those people who could doze off the minute the lights were turned out. So as not to startle her, I squatted down onto my haunches at her feet so that I could look up into her face. I’d intended to call her name again, but the words got stuck in my throat.

  A very strange sound came out of my mouth, sort of a hiccup, a gasp and a scream all rolled into one. Her eyes were open, and she appeared to be staring right down at me, but her gaze was glassy.