“Of course,” said I.

“Then read me the list.”

She returned the book to me. I thumbed through the pages and read her the list.

Mother Demdike busied herself about the place. She delved into jars and drawers and when she had found everything that I sought she packaged all in a brown paper bag and handed it to me.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Your hand,” said Mother Demdike. “Your part of the bargain. You must let me read your hand.”

“Certainly,” said I. “That’s fair.” I stuck my hand out and she took it between her own.

“Oh yes,” she said. “Oh yes.”

“Oh yes?” I asked.

“Oh yes. It’s all here, written right through you. You will perform great deeds. You will do special things. But society will hate you for the special things you will do. You will become a hated person. A social pariah. But you will advance humankind, you will be remembered, as I will be forgotten.”

“I’ll remember you,” I said.

“No, you won’t.”

“I will.”

“You won’t.”

“Check my palm again.”

Mother Demdike checked my palm again. “Oh yes,” she said. “I will be remembered. That’s nice, although I take exception to being called ‘the rankest hag that ever troubled daylight’.”

“But at least you get a mention.”

“Do me one favour, Gary,” said Mother Demdike.

“I’ll try,” I said. “What is it?”

“Put a blue plaque up. On the site of my hut. If you can. If you have the power.”

“And will I have the power? Check my hand again and tell me.”

Mother Demdike checked my hand again. “Yes,” she said and she smiled at me. “You will have the power. You will.”

“Then I’ll make sure the blue plaque goes up.”

“Thank you,” said the old one and she kissed the palm of my hand.

I took my leave of Mother Demdike. She’d given me not only the herbs I required, but also a whole lot more. I don’t know how to explain it, but when I left her little hut I felt real. As if I could do things that mattered, really do them. That I would make my mark upon mankind. Do something big.

I have a lot to thank that old woman for. She didn’t say much to me, but she said the right things.

And the day eventually came when I did have the power to get that blue plaque up. Her little hut had gone by then, she had gone and the memories of her were fading. A new block of flats was up and new thoughts and ways were on the go.

I didn’t bother to get the blue plaque put up, though. I mean, ugly old cow. I could never see the point of ugly people.

Dave was already at the launderette. He loved that launderette, did Dave.

He’d been introduced to the joys of launderettes by a friend of his called Chico, who lived in Brentford’s Puerto Rican quarter. Chico had explained to Dave about the pleasures of watching the washing go round and round in the big new washers. These pleasures are really subtle; they have to be explained. They have to be understood and they have to be mastered.

That doesn’t sound altogether right, does it? Mastering pleasure. But it’s true. To appreciate anything fully and completely, you have to be its master. You can have moments of exquisite pleasure, drinking, drugging or sexing it away. But if you are not the master of the pleasure, you will eventually be its slave.

I never mastered the pleasures of watching the washing go round and round in the washers. But I never felt slave to them, either. I just thought the whole thing was stupid. I just didn’t get it.

Dave was seated on the bench, his eyes fixed upon a white wash. A look of ecstasy upon his face, his knees held tightly together. He was entranced.

“Oh, wow,” went Dave. “Oh, bliss.”

“Enjoying yourself?” I asked, as I sat down beside him.

“Immensely,” said Dave. “Do you know, I foresee a time when almost every household in the country will own a washing machine.”

“Own a washing machine?” I laughed out loud. “What? People will have washing machines in their homes? Instead of here in launderettes?”

“Mark my words,” said Dave. “And televisions too.”

“What is a television?” I asked.

“It’s a wireless with pictures.”

“What? Pictures of a wireless?”

“Moving pictures, like in a cinema. It’s a sort of miniature cinema for the home. There’s one on display in the window of Kay’s Electrical in the High Street.”

“I’m not allowed to go near the High Street,” I told Dave. “My dad says that homos hang around the High Street.”

“Do you actually know what a homo is?” Dave asked, although his eyes never left the washing white wash.

“Of course,” I said, though I didn’t. “But you’re mad, Dave. A washing machine in your house. Where would you put it?”

“I’d put mine in my bedroom,” said Dave. “And I’d have it on while I was having it off with Betty Page.”

I stared hard at the washing machine. I could see the white wash going on behind the glass door panel. It reminded me a bit of the octopus in the movie 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, being viewed through a porthole in Captain Nemo’s Nautilus. But without the tentacles or the suckers. Or even the octopus. Or even, now I come to think of it, the movie, for that was made several years later. But pleasure, eh? It’s a funny old game.

“Mad,” I said. “Quite mad.”

“Hold on,” said Dave. “Don’t speak. There’s a good bit coming up.”

I held my counsel and also held my breath.

“Wow,” went Dave once again. “Brilliant.”

“It’s completely lost on me.”

“Speak English,” said Dave.

“I don’t understand it. But, listen, you know I told you that I had a big idea?”

Dave nodded, but he wasn’t really listening.

“I went down to the library,” I continued, speaking clearly and loudly, in the hope that some of it might get through. “I went to the library and while I was there I heard two men talking about something really strange. But I’ll tell you about that later. I got the book I needed and I also got some other stuff I needed, which I’ve hidden away in a secret place. You’re going to love this.”

“I am loving this.” Dave was all misty-eyed.

“I’ve got a big idea,” I told Dave.

“I’ve got a big bulge in my trousers.”

“What?”

“What?” said Dave. “What are you talking about? Can’t this wait till later?”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll be having a fag. Come and talk to me when you’re finished.”

“I can’t finish properly. I haven’t reached puberty yet.”

“Completely lost on me.”

I went outside and had a fag.

Naturally I smoked Woodbine. Well, I would, wouldn’t I? I mean, Lazlo Woodbine? What else was I likely to smoke? All children smoked in those days. But then in those days cigarettes were good for you. Like nuclear radiation and lead soldiers. In fact, almost everything was good for you in those days: a good smacked-bottom; a good dose of castor oil; a good helping of National Service; a good stretch behind bars. They were good times all round, really.

I was finishing off my fag when Dave came out of the launderette. “Give us a puff,” said Dave.

And I gave Dave a puff.

“My big idea,” I said to Dave. “It’s about P.P. Penrose.”

“Go on, then,” said Dave, taking another puff at my fag.

“You know what you said about taking relics? I think we can go one better than that. Take his whole body and bring him back to life.”

Dave took a final puff from my fag and stamped the tiny butt end out upon the pavement. “You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?” he said.

“No. I’m serious. I’ve got this book about how to make zombies. And it needs special herbs and I’ve got the herbs and everything. Including a human skull to mix them up in. I can do all that part in my sleeping cupboard.”

“Cool,” said Dave. “Will it really work, do you think?”