Free I Do Not Sleep by Judy Finnigan

a stuff who wants to see me, all I want is to sleep.

‘Go away, Adam. Please go away.’

‘No, seriously, Moll, I know you’ll want to see Queenie.’

Queenie? Dear God, no. Had she told Adam I’d met her and Ben at the Blue Peter yesterday? I prayed not.

‘Adam,’ I croaked. ‘Really, I feel crap. I don’t want to see anyone today. Anyone .’

Too late. Queenie had already stuck her head through the door.

‘Hello, gorgeous. I heard through the grapevine that you were all back here at Coombe, and I couldn’t wait to see you again.’

I closed my eyes. ‘Sorry, Queenie, I’m not well.’

‘I know, darling. I’ve asked Lola to bring you up some honey and hot lemon. What a sweetheart she is, by the way. Imagine little Danny being married! And as for Edie, she’s gorgeous. You are so lucky, Molly, having a granddaughter. I still don’t have any grandkids, even though I’m older than you. My lot are so feckless and irresponsible, I doubt they’ll ever get round to it.’

Lucky? Queenie actually thought I was lucky? I held my tongue, but inwardly I was seething.

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I thought perhaps we could have a little chat.’

I looked at her balefully. Adam disappeared downstairs.

‘What are you doing here, Queenie?’ I hissed. ‘I don’t want Adam to know I saw you in the Blue Peter yesterday.’

‘That’s all right, honey, I know. He thinks Linda and Bevis told me you were all at Treworgey again.’

Linda and Bevis Wright were the owners of this little holiday hamlet. They were discreet, lovely and totally trustworthy. But it didn’t alter the fact that I was ill, and the last person I wanted to see at my bedside was Queenie. Queenie was magnificent and larger than life, but gossip was her currency and her joy.

Lola brought up the lemon and honey drink, and with a worried look at Queenie went back downstairs.

I struggled up. ‘Look, it was really nice to see you again yesterday, but what do you want? I’m really not well.’

‘I know, I’m sorry. But the thing is, there’s someone who wants to talk to you.’

I sighed. ‘Well, to be honest, I don’t want to talk to anyone. Can’t you see I’m not up to it?’

‘Yes. Obviously you can’t talk at the moment. But in a couple of days, when you’re feeling better, you will really want to meet Len.’

‘Len? Who is Len?’

‘He’s a Charmer, Molly.’

‘A charmer? But who is he?’ Visions of George Clooney and Brad Pitt swam into my head.

‘You must have heard of Cornish Charmers, Molly. They’re white witches. They’ve been healing people and casting charms for centuries down here, especially on Bodmin Moor.’

I sighed. ‘Oh, Queenie, don’t go all mystic on me. Please, just go and let me sleep.’

And then, flooding into my mind, scaring me rigid again, came the terrifying image of the evil-eyed scarecrow at Jamaica Inn. Queenie had gone ‘all mystic’ on me ? Who was I kidding? The idea of a white witch seemed quite tame, compared to the fiend I’d seen at the Inn; yes, on Bodmin, where Queenie claimed these so-called Charmers congregated. But I had no intention of cutting her any slack. I’m not prepared to make myself vulnerable to the village gossip, barmaid, I thought snobbishly, then flushed with shame as I considered how genuinely kind Queenie was. She didn’t notice my face had gone red, but she was insistent I listened to her.

‘I’m serious, Molly. It’s OK. I know you’re poorly. But you should talk to Len. He’s waiting for you. He’s got things he needs to tell you. About Joey.’

I stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m not going to talk any more. You obviously need to rest. When you feel up to it, call me. I’ll leave my home number with Adam.’ She leaned down towards me. ‘Molly, I’m not being frivolous here. Len can help you, he really can. I totally believe in him, and what he can see.’

I turned over. Although I felt something, some faint echo of