The Witch’s Daughter (2 page)

‘Good morning to you,’ I said. ‘Won’t you step inside?’

He regarded me with dew bright eyes for a second or two before scurrying through the open window. I felt the icy chill of his naked ears as he brushed by. He completed a circuit of the room before settling to wash his paws by the stove. I fetched him a morsel of bread. ‘I will strike a deal with you,’ I told him. ‘Tell your family to let my stores alone, and in return I will set out a daily meal for you on the windowsill. Do you agree?’

He paused in his ablutions. No sound came from the tiny creature; rather, I felt his acknowledgment of our bargain. It will be worth a few crumbs to have my supplies free from the attentions of mice.

I have already positioned my oak table, dresser, and merchant’s chest, which fits snugly next to the Belfast sink, and put up shelves on the far wall for my many storage jars. The space succeeds in being both warm and light and will be a good place in which to work. Last night the moon’s beams fell through the curtainless glass and washed the room in their pearly light.

Later, I went out into the copse and lit a candle, calling on the spirits and fairies of the woodland. I invited them to show themselves and assured them that they were welcome to stay and that I would not take their rightful home from them. I am a guest in their woodland, and during my stay here I will use it with care and respect.

FEBRUARY 10, 2007—FOURTH QUARTER

The snow has gone and been replaced by an iron frost, which means my gardening continues to be frustrated. Nevertheless, I managed to give the holly hedge some much-needed attention and clear spaces ready for the new plants. I am lucky to have such a protective boundary to my property. Parts of it must have been put in when the house was built, which I understand to be well over a hundred years ago. How long that sounds, and how much the world has spun and shuddered in that century. And yet, for me, it is but a chapter in my life. In truth, I have more in common with the ancient oak on the village green, though I doubt it has seen as many summers as myself.

While I was working on the holly, a squirrel came to see what I was about. He was a fine specimen, with long tail and dense silver fur. I bid him come closer, and he was happy to climb onto my arm and sit on my shoulder. There is comfort to be had in the company of wild things and delight to be found in their trust. I became aware I was being watched. I am, of course, always alert to the sensation of being observed, but on this occasion I was not alarmed. I sensed a peaceful presence, albeit one possessed of great energy. I paused and made as if to stretch my aching back, the squirrel jumping down and hurrying away as I did so. I caught sight of a slender girl standing in the lane. She was dressed inadequately against the cold and fidgeted in her fashionable boots. She looked at me with an open face, curiosity written on her pleasant features.

‘Good morning,’ I said and waited.

‘Hi.’ Her voice was soft. ‘What are you doing?’

‘As you see’—I pointed with my trowel—‘repairing the hedge.’

‘Bit cold for gardening, if you ask me.’ She rubbed her hands together and then began to blow on them.

I wondered how old she was. She was shorter than me, but many women are. Fifteen maybe? Sixteen? The cusp of adulthood shifts from one decade to the next, backward and forward, so that I am unable to guess accurately anymore. Her tight-fitting clothes and obvious desire not to hide her body spoke of a young woman, while her hesitant voice and lack of eloquence suggested an awkward child. Seventeen, I decided. Little more than the age I was when my world collapsed. When I was thrown into an interminable future of hiding and solitude.

‘I like this cottage,’ said the girl. ‘I like the way it sits up here watching the village. Its windows are like smiley eyes, aren’t they?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Saw the smoke coming out the chimney,’ she said. ‘This place was empty when we moved here. You new too, then?’

‘New to Matravers, yes.’

‘We’ve been here a month. Feels like a bloody lifetime.’ She began to flap her arms, as much in agitation as to keep warm.

‘You don’t like the village?’

‘The place is okay, fields and stuff, but I mean, there’s not much to do here, is there?’

‘Not what you’re used to?’

‘Nah, we come from Basingstoke. Dulwich before that. God knows where we’ll end up next. Mum gets an idea in her head and that’s it, we’re packing. She thinks the countryside will be better for me. Less chance I’ll get into trouble. Less chance I’ll have a life, more like.’

I looked at her more closely. There was something about this young creature, something appealing, something honest and trusting that is rarely found in a stranger. I caught myself considering offering her a mug of hot chocolate to warm those frost-nipped fingers. But no. It would be so easy to encourage a harmless neighborly acquaintance, but I must not. I returned to my task, turning my back on the girl.

‘You should wear a warm coat on a day like this,’ I told her.

I felt her watching me for a moment longer, then heard her leave. I confess a coldness gripped me that would not be got rid of by any amount of manual labor. Soon I went inside and busied myself in the kitchen, not wanting to dwell on the hard truth that had made me send the girl away. The heavens know I am accustomed to keeping my own company; it cannot be said to be an unfamiliar state for me. Nonetheless, there is but a spasm between solitude and loneliness. And I live in the knowledge that my friendless state is not a choice but a necessity, for my own safety and for that of anyone who would be close to me.

I put myself to the task of unpacking the last of the boxes. There is something comforting in the sight of well-stocked shelves, so that by the time I had positioned the last of the storage jars of pickled beetroot I had shaken off my earlier melancholy. The gleaming rows of glass and provisions suggested order and security. This evening I lit only candles in the kitchen and sat by the stove with the fire door open, watching a log of apple wood burn. The sight of it warmed me as much as any heat it might have given out. I was dressed, as is my habit through the winter months, in layers of comfortable clothing—a fine silk vest, soft woolen tights, cotton shirt, a heavy cord skirt that skims the floor, and two light sweaters. My sealskin boots were given me by an Inuit fisherman during my time spent in the great ice plains of the north. I peeled off a wool-mix knit. The yarn crackled as I tugged the garment over my head. Small sparks fizzed between the fibers and my hair, visible in the semi-darkness to a keen eye. I turned to the table and set some oil to warm in the burner. Rosemary. Soon the room was filled with the uplifting fumes. As it always did, the scent made me think of my mother. Her eyes were blue as the flowers of the plant, and her presence as powerful and restorative as the essence of the herb. Even now I can see her patiently showing me how to bind bundles of the twiggy stems together and hang them up to dry. I could have been no more than six years old. She would stand behind me and wrap her arms around mine, leaning forward to help my fumbling fingers. I was enfolded in her limitless motherly love, and I would breathe in her own sweet smell. She had such patience. Such tenderness. Such determination to teach me all that she knew, to share with me all her wonderful knowledge. It is the cruelest of the torments of my great age that grief does not abate, not beyond a certain level. It merely continues, my only companion across oceans of time.

FEBRUARY 13, 2007—MOON ENTERS CAPRICORN

Still cold, but the frost is weakening. I ventured into the village today. I was aware I had been putting it off. Whilst I do not wish to encourage more than the most basic of acquaintance with my neighbors, I know it to be a mistake to remain completely distant. To be a recluse is to be mysterious beyond the endurance of villagers of this modern age. Better to allow a polite exchange of nods and hellos and discourse about the weather. I strive to be dull in my conversation, even to the point of rudeness if it is unavoidable. I will impart only sufficient information for those with an interest to construct a dry history for me. That way I may be left in relative peace. However, I had not reckoned upon finding the teenage girl in the village shop when I went there to buy some simple groceries. Clearly not put off by my curtness during our previous meeting, she seemed pleased to see me.

‘How’s the hedge?’ she asked.

‘Taking shape slowly, thank you.’

‘Are you going to paint the outside of the house?’ she asked. ‘I saw one like that once done in light blue with white windows and a navy door. Like a fairy-tale house. That’d be fab.’ She faced me, eyes bright with her idea.

I wondered at her interest in the place. She was on her own as before. Had she no friends in the village? In my experience, teenage girls rarely did anything alone. I reminded myself she too was a newcomer and might not yet have had time to make friends.

‘I hadn’t thought,’ I told her. ‘The color of the walls is not hugely important to me.’ I went about my shopping, hoping that would be the end of it, but she trailed after me up and down the aisles like an over-eager flower girl.

‘Have you got a dog? Great garden for a dog, with those woods at the back. Mum won’t let me have one. Says the hairs would clog up the vacuum.’

‘No. No dog.’ I took a bag of brown sugar from the shelf.

‘Oh, I like brown. Especially the crunchy stuff. On cereal. Do you like cereal? It’s over here, look. Honey Crunch or Cocosnaps? No, someone skinny like you’d be more into muesli, I reckon. Do you like muesli?’ She held up a packet, beaming now.

I looked at her levelly.

‘You ask too many questions,’ I said, moving toward the counter, keen to be gone.

‘That’s what Mum says. But then, how can I learn anything if I don’t ask questions?’

‘That’s another one.’

‘Yeah, I suppose I just can’t help myself.’ She giggled, a joyful sound, like spring rain falling into a dew pond.

A tightness gripped my chest as I realized it was not my younger self the girl reminded me of, aside from her age. It was Margaret, my dear sweet baby sister. Margaret of the light step and easy laughter. Margaret who adored me as much as I did her. Yes, there was something about the openness and innocence of this girl that had also been at the heart of Margaret’s character. I nodded hello and thank you to the shopkeeper and handed over my money. As I turned to go, the girl stood looking at me, blocking my path to the door, as if waiting for something.

‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’ I asked.

‘Teacher training. We get the day off to study at home.’

‘Then shouldn’t you be at home, studying?’

The girl had the good grace to blush. ‘I came in to get a Valentine’s card,’ she said, ‘only I can’t choose. Look.’ She pointed to the display near the counter. ‘Funny, sexy, or romantic—what d’you reckon?’

‘That rather depends on whom it’s for.’

She blushed deeper and studied her feet.

‘Michael Forrester.’

‘Well, what is Michael Forrester like?’

‘He’s wicked. Everybody likes him. Especially the girls. And he’s brilliant at sports. Athletics, rugby, swimming. Wins everything. He’s so cool.’

‘His ego must be sufficiently inflated already, by the sound of it. I should save your money.’

‘Oh no, he’s really nice. He held the door open for me once. And he said hello.’

‘And how long have you been carrying a torch for this paragon?’

‘What? Oh, dunno. Only met him last month, didn’t I?’

Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and her whole demeanor told of the torture of unrequited love. She was pretty enough but clearly lacked confidence. And something else. There was an absence of worldliness about her, despite her sham bravado, which, while strangely appealing to an adult, must have been a handicap for her among her peers. I saw now how solitary the girl must be. She did not fit in. She was an outsider. At that moment, with her guard down, loneliness emanated from her in painful ripples. The sound of the shop doorbell saved me from having to advise her further.

‘Morning, Mrs Price. Tegan, how are you, my dear? How is your mother? Ah, our newest new neighbor, forgive me for not having called in to welcome you to Matravers before now.’

I looked round to see a stout, bearded man offering me his hand. His eyes shone with the love of life, and his smile was broad and sincere, but the very sight of him made my temples pound. It was not his fault. How could he know how the presence of a priest would affect me? How could he ever imagine the fury that his Church ignited within me? The same Church that had condemned my mother and taken her from me. I took a breath to steady myself, but the smell of communion wine lingered on his vestments. Still his hand remained extended toward me. He waited. The girl waited. Mrs Price behind the counter waited. Such a small moment, and yet it would define my position in the village for as long as I live here. I straightened my shoulders and mustered a smile, clutching my purchases to me.

‘Sorry,’ I said, indicating my packages.

‘Oh, not to worry.’ He smiled on and dropped his hand, ‘I’m Donald Williamson. You’ll find me at the vicarage most evenings. Feel free to drop in; Mary would love to meet you.’

‘Thank you. I’m busy unpacking at the moment, but I’ll keep it in mind.’ I began to edge past him, struggling with the revulsion such proximity to one of his kind inspired in me.

‘Any time,’ he called after me as I reached the door, ‘and hope to see you on Sunday. Ten o’clock. All are welcome.’

I shut the door on his further entreaties and strode for home. Even after all this time I found it near impossible to conceal my feelings for an official of the Church. I had good reason to feel the way I did, but even so I was angry with myself. It was foolish not to be more in control and ridiculous to experience such fierce emotions toward every harmless reverend who crossed my path. Before I had reached the other side of the village green, I was assailed by a strong sense of foreboding. Unsettled as I was by the meeting with the priest, I recognized this to be a separate threat. I stopped. I lifted my chin and slowly looked about me. There was nothing to be seen. Not a movement. Not a shadowy figure. Nothing out of the ordinary. Silent thatched cottages. A quiet terrace. An empty bus stop. Ducks quacking with reassuring vulgarity on the pond. Nothing to be frightened of. Nevertheless, it was with no small amount of relief that I reached the sanctuary of Willow Cottage and closed the door swiftly behind me.