‘I think you are a witch,’ Eleanor said slowly. ‘You cast a spell on Griff that day. How else can one explain the fact that you have stayed young? Your appearance hasn’t changed one bit over the years. You are four years older than me, but you look like a girl. Une fille eternelle. As my grandmother used to say, to look that good at fifty-five, you must have been sleeping with Satan.’
Eleanor’s thoughts turned to the Corinne doll she had found in Griff’s bedroom. The doll was fashioned in Corinne Coreille’s exact image and bore a ‘Made in Japan’ tag. Eleanor had found herself sticking pins in it – at first casually, but then she had got angry and become quite frantic with it.
She had given an account of what she had done in her first letter to Corinne Coreille.
‘You may call it my one attempt at “counter-magic”. The first pin went into your dainty little nose, the next two into your beautiful eyes, the third and fourth into your shell-like ears, the fifth into your smooth forehead. I went on till the doll was transformed into a pincushion – no, into a porcupine! It made me laugh and for a couple of moments I felt better. (I don’t suppose it hurt?)’
It occurred to Eleanor that that was the way she had recited poems at school – fluently, expressively, without stumbling over words, pausing at all the right places. Anyone listening to her could tell the parentheses from the commas, the semicolons from the full stops. At school her favourite poem had been Browning’s The Laboratory. (Not that I bid you spare her the pain – Let death be felt and the proof remain!) She was particularly good at ‘doing’ highly strung women in the grip of uncontrollable emotions.