“Incognito is the watchword. Remember... Softly, softly, catchee monkey,” Ruby briefed them.
“Manners, dear!” sniffed Eddy. “Really! If there's one thing I don't need, it's constant reminders of how I got into this sorry state, OK? Thank you very, very much.”
They all lent a hand loading up Ruby's little silver-coloured car. A small theatrical “gypsy” tent of bright blue and rich purple cloth, emblazoned with golden suns and silver moons, in varying states of wax and wane, and a myriad of other silvery stars; Ruby's Beidermeier cards; Tarot cards; some Moroccan lamps (for atmosphere); a circular three-legged Arabic table, with the full sun altar cloth for on top; a couple of padded comfy stools; a few tea-cups; tea (naturally); Pearl’s self-boiling silver samovar (to keep said tea constant and hot); some essential oils to burn; the oil burner; some candles; and Chen in his disguise as the crystal ball – all were somehow squeezed into the boot or onto the back seat
Pearl remarked that it would take them the whole day of the fête just to set up all of their paraphernalia.
Ruby acknowledged that her sister might be right, but: “I'm sure we can take a few 'abracadabra' type short cuts when nobody is watching too closely.”
With that, Ruby, Pearl and Tobias squeezed into the overloaded car, bid farewell to Eddy. and started on their way.
Magpie Jack flew on ahead. He didn't care much for cars; he much preferred the open air and freedom of flight, whatever the weather. “Flying is less noisy, less dirty, less cramped and far cheaper.”
As he flapped away from the others, disappearing up and off towards the churchyard, they could see his wings glinting in the morning sun; jet black, yet flashing with marvellous hues of electric blue and emerald sea greens as his swooping flight and the angle of the light dictated.
**********
Ruby arrived at the Church gates, and was pointedly directed towards the parking area in the pub opposite, by the surly Verger, Mr Bramhall. The car duly parked, Ruby and her companions all bundled out, and began to unload the contents of the boot.
Carrying far more than was really advisable (or practical) for ladies of their advanced years, Ruby and Pearl transported everything to the field where the fête was being held. Each stall had been allocated a space, and to make matters as simple as possible, the spaces had been marked with a crude wooden post in the ground with a piece of white paper stapled to it.
After a quick search, Ruby found hers. The paper read:
“Ruby. Space needed for tent to tell fortunes and other such mumbo-jumbo tosh.”
The Verger, who was responsible for the allocation of space and the manufacture of the signs, was neither as tolerant, nor as indulgent of Ruby's beliefs and practices as Reverend Phullaposi.
“Hmph!” Ruby tore the paper notice from the post and methodically scrunched it up as small as possible, while looking directly at the Verger. Mr Bramhall affected not to notice.
There was then a lot of puffing, panting, heaving – and more than a few unladylike curses – as Ruby and Pearl tried to erect the tiny tent.
“I don't remember tents being such a problem in the Brownies,” moaned Pearl, struggling from under acres of purple and blue quartered cloth, and looking for all the world like a psychedelic ghost.
“That's because we requested help from the scouts to put them up.” Ruby replied, retrieving a tent peg that she had somehow managed to catapult a fair distance from them, very nearly impaling Mr Atkinson as was constructing his coconut shy.
Ruby smiled at Mr Atkinson, as sweetly as she knew how, and received a surly scowl in return. The good Mr Atkinson, like the verger, didn't hold with all this 'New Age, hug a caravan and have a lentil burger nonsense' invading the village. Sandals, in his opinion, were for Southport beach; not for dancing beneath oak trees while playing a silly flaming flute.
Ruby ignored the scowl and went back to helping Pearl, who now resembled a Technicolor version of the mummy.
“I need a cuppa,” Pearl wheezed.
“Too true. We're both far too old for this.”
Ruby took a quick look round, and saw that, thankfully, everybody else was far too engrossed in their own do-it-yourself stand-building nightmares to notice what she was up to. She plunged her hand into the drawstring bag that hung by the side of her cassock, threw a quick circle of powdered bay leaves onto the ground, sprinkled on a couple of drops of lavender oil, then raised both arms and, as quietly as possible, clapped her hands together and whispered...
“Quod superius est sicut quod inferius et quod inferius est sicut quod.
Superius ad perpetranda miracula rei unis.”
Zip! The tent was up, and the lamps and candles were hung and lit, providing a hazy, purple-blue stage-mystical atmosphere. The samovar was bubbling away, contentedly hissing wisps of steam from its silver lid; the table was up, and the cloth was spread; Chen was on the table, as were the tarot and Beidermier cards; and the cups were filled with a perfectly-prepared brew.
Everything was set.
“Tea?” offered Ruby.
“I thought you'd never ask,” breathed Pearl.
Just as they were getting cosy, enjoying their well-earned refreshments, the Verger stuck his head through the flap of their tent.
“Blimey. That didn't take you long. How'd you manage it? I hope you've not been up to anything funny, like... And you both know what I mean by that... If you have, I'll have you removed instantly, and report you to the Reverend, or even to a higher authority. Do you understand?”
His tone was suspicious to say the least. The two weird sisters smiled at him as though butter wouldn't melt.
“Organisation, co-operation, experience and good, old-fashioned know-how,” Ruby replied drily, sipping tea and circling her
