Not Just a Witch

by Eva Ibbotson

  And another . . .

  Then she put back her head and screamed.

  Daniel reached her first. ‘What is it?’ he gasped. ‘What’s the matter?’

  But Heckie couldn’t speak. She just pointed at the statue with a hand which shook as if she had a dreadful fever.

  ‘It’s Dora,’ she managed to bring out. ‘Dora Mayberry did it. She’s betrayed me, she’s cheated me! She’s done me out of my triumph! This is her work. I’d know it anywhere!’

  Daniel went right up to the statue – and then he understood.

  It was Max Swinton who stood there, carefully mounted on a marble slab. Max Swinton’s mean little eyes, his silly moustache, his fat chin, were all there in stone. His trousers, tight over his straining thighs, his bulging beer belly, the Avenger’s badge . . . all were there, for ever and ever, caught in white marble now touched by the first rays of the morning sun.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The night after she found Max Swinton’s statue, Heckie couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking how wicked Dora Mayberry had been, snatching the politician from her and doing poor Mr Knacksap out of his tiger. Copying Heckie’s hat had been bad enough, but this was far, far worse.

  But the more she tried to tell herself how awful Dora had been, the more she kept remembering things from the thirty years that both of them had been at school. The time that Dora had cut her toenails for her because Heckie had hurt her back during chimney landing practice. The way Dora always picked the earwigs out of the Hoover bag when it was her turn to clean the dorm because she knew how it upset Heckie when earwigs were put in the bin. And what a netball player the witch had been!

  Was it possible that Dora hadn’t meant to upset Heckie? Did she too just think that Max Swinton ought not to be around any longer? And where was Dora? Could she have moved to Wellbridge?

  In the morning, as soon as she had fed the animals in the shop and given the dragworm his princess, Heckie went to see Mr Gurgle to ask him if he’d heard anything about the stone witch. The cheese wizard was in a bad mood because his Stilton had developed a limp, but he tried to be helpful.

  ‘I haven’t heard anything myself,’ he said, ‘but Frieda Fennel did say as how a stone-mason’s business out in Fetlington has changed hands – that’s past the prison, you know. She did say that the quality of work was very high and she was wondering.’

  So Heckie went to see the garden witch who was wheeling a single artichoke along in her wheelbarrow, her muscles straining because it was the size of an armchair, and she said, yes, she was almost sure the new owner of the stone-mason’s was a witch. There was something about the garden gnomes that was special.

  But when Heckie had got the address, she couldn’t make up her mind. Suppose Dora was still angry with her? Also, there’d been rather a fuss about Max Swinton since statues, unlike animals, can’t run away or be sent to the zoo. Questions were being asked and though no one guessed the truth, there was a lot of puzzlement.

  She was still deciding what to do when she met Mr Knacksap for tea at The Copper Kettle.

  The furrier had gone off in a rage when he heard that he wasn’t getting his tiger, but since then he had done some serious thinking. A witch who could turn people into animals and another witch who could turn people into stone . . . What did that suggest? To Mr Knacksap it suggested riches beyond his dreams, a life of plenty in which he need never work again. The plan he now came up with could only have been worked out by someone half mad with cruelty and greed, but Mr Knacksap was exactly such a man.

  So he wrote a little note to Heckie saying he was sorry he had lost his temper, but he’d been so upset at disappointing his friend who was a lord, and inviting Heckie to meet him for tea.

  Heckie was terribly pleased to see him and she asked him at once what he thought she should do about Dora Mayberry. ‘You see, I do hate to go on quarrelling, but I couldn’t bear it if she was unkind to me. What do you think I should do, Li-Li?’

  This gave Mr Knacksap just the opening he was looking for. ‘I tell you what, my dear,’ he said, smiling his gooey smile, ‘since you’re such a shy and delicate little thing, why don’t you let me go? I’ll give her your message and tell her you want to be friends and see what she says.’

  ‘Oh, would you, Li-Li? That’s so kind of you. So like you. I’ll write her a letter and give it to you.’

  So Heckie wrote a letter in which she said that while she had been rather cross about Mr Swinton, who was really hers, if Dora really hadn’t known what Heckie was going to do, then she was happy to let bygones be bygones. ‘Because I have missed you very much, dear Dora,’ wrote Heckie, and then she sealed the envelope and gave it to Mr Knacksap to take to her friend.

  But what did Mr Knacksap do?

  As soon as he was out of sight, he tore the letter into little pieces and threw them away. Not even into a bin because he was a litter lout as well as a creep – just away in the street where the wind blew them all over the place. Then he hailed a taxi and drove to the stone-mason’s yard.

  Dora Mayberry was in her overalls and Wellington boots, chipping with a chisel at the nose of a Greek hero whom a rich businessman wanted to put in his park. Just as Heckie kept an ordinary pet shop to earn her living in which the rabbits and guinea pigs really were rabbits and guinea pigs and not changed people, so Dora did ordinary stonework for anyone who would pay her and she did it very well. The hero was the kind with a lion skin round his shoulder and a lot of muscles and a club, and Mr Knacksap stood for a while watching before he coughed softly and asked if he was in the presence of Miss Dora Mayberry.

  ‘That’s me,’ said Dora, nodding, and she wiped her chisel and looked at the handsome man in his dark coat with the raccoon collar and the black hat. ‘Come in,’ she said, blushing a little because there had been no gentlemen in the Witch Academy and she was very shy.

  Mr Knacksap followed her in, his nose twitching with curiosity. So this homely woman could turn a man into stone. Quite a lot of men if need be!

  ‘I’ve come with a message from a friend of yours. A Miss Hecate Tenbury-Smith.’

  ‘Heckie!’ Dora’s round little eyes lit up. ‘How is she? Tell me about her, please. Oh, I have missed her so!’

  For it was true, Dora had not meant to annoy Heckie. Though she had moved back to Wellbridge, hoping to make it up with her friend, she had not dared to go and see her. Suppose Heckie snubbed her? Then she had read about Max Swinton in the paper and become very upset. A man like that shouldn’t be allowed to exist, she thought, and when Swinton took a stroll in the park, she’d been ready for him. It had been hard work dragging him to the right spot, mounting him properly, but she’d done it and been proud of her handiwork. In the old days she’d have gone straight to Heckie and shown her what she’d done.

  So now she waited eagerly for what Mr Knacksap had to say.

  ‘I’m afraid your friend is absolutely furious with you. In fact you can hardly call Miss Tenbury-Smith your friend. She never wants to see you again.’

  ‘Oh, oh!’ Poor Dora put her hand to her mouth and her eyes widened in sorrow and dismay. ‘But why? Why?’

  ‘She’s very angry with you about Mr Swinton’s statue. She was going to change him into a tiger and everything was prepared. But it isn’t just that. She feels very bitter about the hat and everything. She sent me to tell you that she never wants to set eyes on you again.’

  Poor Dora! She was a solid, well-built woman, but she just seemed to shrink as Mr Knacksap spoke. He went on telling lies for another ten minutes and then he went back to Heckie.

  Heckie was waiting for him, her pop eyes bright with hope.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s no good, dear,’ he said. ‘Dora Mayberry never wants to see you again as long as she lives. I won’t repeat some of the things she said about you, but they were quite terrible.’

  Heckie turned pale with disappointment. She had come down to meet the furrier in the street because the dragworm was at home, and now she leant
against a lamp-post, almost as though she might faint.

  ‘Don’t be sad, my little prettikins,’ said Mr Knacksap, taking her hand. ‘Your Li-Li will look after you.’

  The horrible man’s plan was clear now in his head. He’d been excited at the idea of having one tiger skin to sell, but this . . . If he pulled it off, he’d be the richest furrier in the world!

  And he would pull it off. He had one witch in his power. Now he would get the other one too.

  And then . . .!

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mr Knacksap now began to court Heckie seriously. He came to see her on Tuesdays and Thursdays and Saturdays, and on those days Daniel came at tea time to take the dragworm for a walk. He brought her red roses which he stole from the garden of the blind lady, and plain chocolates with hard centres because they were her favourites.

  And one afternoon, sitting on the sofa in her cosy flat, he told her that he wanted to change his life.

  ‘I’m tired of living in town among the fumes and the dust,’ said Mr Knacksap. ‘I want to go and live in the country where the air is clear. In the Lake District, where there are mountains and heather and . . . er . . . lakes. I want to milk cows!’ said Mr Knacksap, waving his hand.

  ‘Sheep, dear,’ said Heckie. ‘It’s sheep you have in hill country.’

  Mr Knacksap frowned. He did not like to be interrupted and was not quite sure if he wanted to milk sheep.

  ‘Chickens too!’ he cried. ‘I want to get up at daybreak and look for brown eggs in the straw!’

  He fished in the pocket of his jacket and showed Heckie a picture. It was of a pretty whitewashed cottage with a porch, standing in the shelter of a high hill. A stream ran through the garden, with alder trees along its banks, and a dovecote covered in honeysuckle stood by the gate.

  ‘Oh, Li-Li, what a pretty place!’

  ‘It’s called Paradise Cottage,’ said Mr Knacksap. ‘And what I want more than anything in the world is to live there.’

  Heckie was silent. When you love somebody it is sad to think that they may go and live a long way away, but she tried to be brave. ‘If that’s what you want, you must do it, Li-Li. But, oh, I shall miss you.’

  Mr Knacksap seized Heckie’s hand. ‘No, no, dearest Hecate – you don’t understand! I want you to come with me. I want us to live there together! I am asking you to marry me!’

  In the staffroom of Wellbridge Junior School, they were once again talking about Daniel Trent.

  ‘He’s looking thoroughly peaky again,’ said the deputy head. ‘Just when he seemed so much brighter. I wonder if I ought to have a word with those professors?’

  But it wasn’t the fault of Daniel’s parents that he was unhappy. They did what they had always done. It was Heckie’s engagement that had made Daniel so wretched. If she’d just been going to marry Mr Knacksap, it would have been bad enough, but she was going to live miles and miles away in the Lake District. And so soon! Mr Knacksap wanted to have the wedding before the end of the month.

  ‘You’ll come and stay with us often and often,’ Heckie kept saying, and Daniel always answered: ‘Yes, of course I will.’ But he knew that he wouldn’t. Mr Knacksap didn’t like children; anyone could see that.

  ‘I suppose Heckie must be very happy,’ said Sumi when the children met at break. ‘But she looks awfully tired.’

  ‘She’s worried about the dragworm,’ said Daniel. ‘She can’t take him with her because of Mr Knacksap being allergous or whatever he is.’

  ‘Well, I think he’s up to something,’ said Joe. He was sitting on the coal-bunker eating a banana and looking more like a small ape than ever. ‘I believe he’s marrying her for a reason. And why can’t he ever come and see her on a Monday or a Wednesday or a Friday? What’s he doing the other days, do you suppose? I tell you, he’s a crook; I just know it.’

  But what could the children do?

  ‘If we try and warn her, she’ll never believe us,’ said Sumi.

  ‘No,’ said Daniel thoughtfully. ‘She wouldn’t believe us. But there’s someone she’d have to believe, isn’t there?’

  The others looked at him. ‘Yes,’ said Joe slowly. ‘I see what you mean.’

  Mr Knacksap opened the door of his shop and stepped into the street. He was carrying a bunch of roses and a box of chocolates, but the roses were white, not red, and the chocolates were not plain ones with hard centres, but milky ones with soft centres.

  There were other differences too. When he went to see Heckie, the furrier always wore a dark suit and had his hair parted in the middle. Now he was wearing a white suit and his hair was parted at the side. What was the same, though, was the greedy, furtive look on his face.

  He crossed Market Square and made his way down the narrow road which led to the bus station. A Number 33 was waiting to set off for Fetlington, on the north side of the town, and as he rode past the prison and the football ground, the furrier closed his eyes and gloated. In a month he’d be safely in Spain, leading a life of luxury. Fast cars, casinos, beautiful girls to massage his feet and scoop the wax out of his ears as he lay beside the swimming pool!

  At Fetlington Green, he got off and walked past a row of shops, then turned down the hill towards a piece of open ground with a barn and workshops. The sound of chipping and hammering came to him across the still air and he smiled his oily smile. She was a real worker, you had to give her that!

  ‘Coo-ee,’ called Mr Knacksap, as he opened the gates of the stone-mason’s yard. ‘It’s me!’

  The chipping stopped. Dora Mayberry came out of the shed, wiping her hands. ‘Lewis!’ she said, smiling happily, and bent to sniff the roses. ‘Your tea’s all ready. I’ve got those cup cakes you like so much. Come on in and make yourself comfortable.’

  When Dora had heard that Heckie was still cross with her, she’d gone to pieces. She fed her hat with any old rubbish and she didn’t care what she turned to stone – not just the fish fingers and her potted geranium and the bobble on her bedroom slippers, but the ointment she was supposed to rub on her chest for her cough, so that life in the cottage became quite impossible. Even the ghost in the wardrobe got harder and began to creak like a rusty hinge. It’s pretty certain that someone would have come and taken Dora away to a mental hospital before much longer, but one Wednesday afternoon there was a knock at the door and a visitor stood there, carrying a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates.

  After which a new life began for Dora Mayberry. Twice a week, on Wednesdays and Fridays, the tall, dark man who had brought the message from Heckie came to tea. She didn’t like to ask him too many questions, but she learnt that he was called Lewis Kingman (she had already noticed the initials L.K. stamped on his wallet) and that he worked in insurance. But he wasn’t happy in his work and now, biting into a chocolate cup cake, he told her what he wanted to do with his life.

  ‘You see, dearest Dora, I feel I cannot go on living in town,’ he said. ‘My lungs are delicate. I need to be in the country. Somewhere open and clean. In a house like this.’ And from the pocket of his suit he brought out a picture.

  ‘What a pretty place!’ said Dora. ‘The dovecote and the trees, and the way the river runs through the garden!’

  ‘It’s called Paradise Cottage,’ said Mr Knacksap. ‘And what I want more than anything else in the world, is to live there with you!’

  For a moment he wondered whether to go down on his knees, but Dora wasn’t very good at dusting, and anyway there was no need – the silly witch was looking adoringly into his eyes.

  ‘Oh, Lewis!’ she said. ‘You mean you want to marry me?’

  ‘I do,’ said Mr Knacksap.

  The next day, he bought two of the cheapest engagement rings he could find and had them engraved with his initials. But it wasn’t of the two bamboozled witches that he was thinking as he left the shop. It was of a man in a distant country who was almost as crazy and greedy as he was himself.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The name of this man was Abd
ul el Hammed and he was an exceedingly rich sheikh who lived between the Zagros Mountains and the Caspian Sea. The sheikh was rich because his country was full of oil wells, but he was also very old-fashioned – so old-fashioned that he had one hundred and fifty wives, just as Eastern rulers used to do in the olden days. The wives lived in a palace all of their own and the sheikh liked to show them off, all dressed alike in beautiful clothes and fabulous jewellery, so that everyone would be amazed that anyone could have so many women and be so generous.

  In the summer, the country in which the sheikh lived was very hot, but in the winter, because there were high mountains near by, it was very cold – and it was then that he liked to dress his one hundred and fifty wives in valuable fur coats. But it is not easy to find a hundred and fifty coats made of priceless skins and all alike. The sheikh had been looking round and had sent messengers to all the furriers in Europe and he had not found what he was looking for.

  This sheikh wanted to see every one of his wives dressed in a coat made of snow leopards.

  Tigers are beautiful and exciting, so are jaguars and ocelots, and people who like fur coats swear by sable or mink. But in all the world, there is nothing like a coat made of snow leopards.

  Snow leopards live in the highest mountains in the world – on the slopes of the Himalayas and the Karakoram, where there are no people, only ice and eagles and the sighing of the wind. They are so graceful and so fearless – and above all so rare – that to look at one is to feel a lump come into your throat. There are so few left now that to shoot or trap one is to risk being sent to prison and only a person with no soul would dream of trying it. To kill one snow leopard and make his skin into a fur coat would be almost impossible. To find three hundred (because at least two leopards are needed for a single coat) . . . well, no one but a mad, rich sheikh would even dream of it.

  But the sheikh Abdul el Hammed did dream of it. The more he couldn’t have what he wanted, the more he was determined to have it. He had offered a thousand pounds for a snow leopard skin and then fifteen hundred, and at last two thousand and more just for one skin. But there simply weren’t any snow leopards to be had. Not even the greediest people were willing to break the law which protected these marvellous and unusual beasts.