by B G Denvil
The two boys looked up. One pointed a finger and told me to get lost. But the other boy was nice, and he threw the bladder at me, and shouted for me to catch it.
I’d never played ball in my whole life before, but the thing was easy to catch, and I threw it back. The nice boy caught it and walked over. The other one followed him. The nice one said, “I’m Rollo. I’ve never seen you before. You new here?”
“I’m Rosie,” I said, a bit shy. “And I’ve been around here for ever. I live up Kettle Lane in The Rookery.”
The mean boy sniggered and said, “You one of them big black noisy birds, then? You got a nest?”
The nice one turned around and told the mean one not to be mean. He said, “You live in that big house up there? I thought that was just for old beggar folk.”
I was a bit confused. “My mother owns it and runs it,” I told the nice boy. “And a lot of our people aren’t beggars.” Actually I couldn’t think of any. “They’re rich people.”
“Come on then,” he said. “Let’s play. I reckon you stand in the middle, and I’ll throw the ball over your head to Martin, and you have to jump up and try and catch it.”
At first because the mean boy was a mean pig, I just stood there feeling unwanted. But then afterwards I was just enjoying myself – and I managed to jump up and catch the ball every single time. However high the nice boy threw it, I caught it before pig boy. Sometimes the nice boy chucked it sideways, but I still got it first.
Getting tired of being made to look pathetic, the mean pig said he was bored and wandered off. I sat down on the stone wall around the church yard, and the nice boy sat next to me, still clutching the blown up bladder.
“I’m Rollo,” he said. “I live down the road with me dad.”
“Where’s your mother?” I asked with extreme stupidity.
His face creased up, and he said, “She died. Last year. “
“I’m so sorry,” I said. I didn’t know anything much about death. Absolutely no one in our house ever died. I supposed old people died eventually, but it was extremely rare for a witch or wizard to die before the age of two hundred. I was about to ask how old his mother was when she flew off, but I stopped myself in time. I had enough sense to guess he was upset and missed her. So instead, I said, “I’m ever so, ever so sorry.”
He must have recognised the sympathy and started talking. “She was lovely, my mum. Much nicer than my dad. He misses her too, but he sort of can’t talk about it as if he’s gone all locked up. His mouth doesn’t open. Other people cry, but he doesn’t.”
I was nine, and he must have been a few years older. I’d guess about twelve. Anyway, I said, “That must make it more difficult for you. I wouldn’t miss my mother. She’s – well – not nice.”
Still haggling over prices in the market, I could see her waddling backwards and forwards with two big baskets, which I knew I’d have to carry home. At least I felt lucky since she was still busy. She also liked to gossip. For the very first time, I was glad.
Now Rollo was also looking sympathetic. “That must be horrible,” he said. “I can’t imagine having parents I don’t love. My dad’s good, but it’s just like he’s locked away in a big box. My mum was really wonderful.”
Apart from being sympathetic, I was a teeny bit envious. I wished I could have a mother I adored who made it clear she thought I was gorgeous too. Papa was sweet, and he liked me. But I only saw him about twice a year. So I asked, “Would you tell me about your lovely mother?” And I settled back to be bored.
But he wasn’t boring at all. “She was only little,” Rollo swept straight away into a very long description. After a long time, I felt I knew the woman, and I knew Rollo even better. I was enjoying myself when abruptly I heard my own mother’s voice. Not so sweet, but one I’d never fail to recognise even from a distance.
“Rosie, are you there? Come over here at once. You know perfectly well why I brought you.”
I smiled apologetically at Rollo. “Sorry. I have to go.”
“Hope to see you again,” he muttered. “Any idea when?”
“Probably in a week on next market day,” I said.
He seemed pleased. “Look for me then. I’ll look for you.”
Mother dumped her two overflowing shopping bags down on the grass, and I picked them both up and hurried after her down Kettle Lane.
I found myself just counting days. I wanted to see Rollo again. He was the first friendly person of a similar age to myself that I had ever talked with.
The following Friday took about twenty days to arrive, and I hopped up and down while I waited for my mother to get ready. She came out and looked at me in surprise. “I only want two parsnips and a chat with the old human idiot who sells them.”
“But I should come,” I said, feeling suddenly sick. “Parsnips can be heavy.”
She picked up another basket and nodded. “Come on then, and I’ll get some salads while I’m there. You can carry them.”
I danced all the way along Kettle Lane, as if my wretched mother had offered me a whole chest full of puppets to play with.
Having never trusted my luck, once my mother engrossed herself in the exciting parsnips, I hurried off to search for Rollo. It took all of three blinks. He had seen me arrive and was waiting. He grabbed my shoulder.
“Hi. I hoped you’d come. Reckon you’re the only person I can talk to about my mum.”
We sat on the church wall again. Being Friday, there was always plenty of fish for sale, and they were real fish with the smell of real dead fish. I hated that. In The Rookery, we never ate real fish or meat of any kind, only magical meat. Not that Mamma ever made it taste very nice, and sometimes I had sneakily wondered whether real meat and fish would taste better. But that was something I’d never know.
What I did know was an awful lot about Rollo’s mother and father. I finally went home with a promised agreement to meet in a fortnight. I guessed my mother wouldn’t want to drag over to the stalls next week. I just wondered if I could face waiting a whole two weeks.
Three
I was sitting in my little room, cuddled up on the window seat and staring out of the mullions, when I heard a shuffle behind me and stared around.
The door didn’t seem to have been opened, so I knew this must be a witch. Besides, no one else ever came here. This woman looked vaguely familiar, yet I was sure I didn’t know her.
“Hello,” I said. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, yes, you can indeed,” she said, and promptly disappeared.
I was startled to say the least. Now I may have been only nine years old and with all the signs of a weak grade to come, but I wasn’t entirely stupid. Witches didn’t arrive asking for help from children, and then disappear immediately. Yes, witches could walk through doors. Even I had been able to do that when I was very tiny. And witches could fly out straight through windows as well – or the stronger ones could. But to disappear wasn’t normal, and besides, why come if she wanted to leave so quickly? Or had she come to me by mistake?
I forgot about it by the evening. Another delicious dinner of half raw parsnip and imitation dumplings of water, garlic and fish scales. There was some fish floating around in the soup too, little tiddly yellow things with their bones sticking out. It seemed a bit odd to me. If you’re going to make imitation fish, make the poor little things fat and scrumptious. I served this delectable meal to all our residents, and each one of them muttered, “Rancid” or “Disgusting” or “I presume you’re trying to kill me off?”
Only Whistle and Bertie actually ate their dinner. Bertie just ate it. He usually did. His mind was on other things, and he didn’t care about food. Most of the time he didn’t even turn up to the dining chamber. As for Whistle he just did a chicken cluck and waved one finger, and the meal turned from vile into something wonderful.
Later, I washed the dishes, threw the wasted muck out under the trees in case the birds or a wandering badger or squirrel wanted a bit of fish bone or parsn
ip, cleaned up, scrubbed the table and staggered up to bed.
The woman was waiting for me on my bed. To me, at nine, she looked quite old, but I’d seen worse. Peg, for instance, one our top grade witches, very sweet too, she actually looked her age and was roughly two hundred.
But sitting on my bed was a slim and attractive woman with grey hair tied up in a sort of knot on the back of her head. She had plump cheeks and not a lot of wrinkles, and she just looked so familiar. But she certainly wasn’t one of our residents.
“Oh, you’re back,” I said. “I was puzzled when you went away so quickly before.”
“I cannot control my movements,” she said softly. “I am not yet practised. I can try to come, or try to go. But what happens is what is meant.”
That didn’t make the slightest sense to me, but I liked the look of her. So I stood there and smiled and asked her how I could help. “You asked me to help, the first time. But there’s not an awful lot I can do.” I bit my lip. “Could you have muddled me up with someone else?”
“No, indeed no,” she said, and when she shook her head, there was a sort of mist around her, as if she was only half there, and shaking her head made her go wobbly. “I know exactly who you are,” she said, and the mist settled. “No one else can help me except you.”
Now I knew. It suddenly all fitted into place, and I knew exactly who she was. So I said, “You’re Mistress Agnes Snoop. You’re Rollo’s mother. I’m delighted to meet you.”
She wrinkled her misty nose. Every movement made her mist up even more. “You do know I’m dead, don’t you, dear?”
“Yes, of course I do,” I said cheerfully. “Rollo talked about you for about twenty-four hours. He misses you so very, very much.”
“Does he?” She looked quite weepy. “Truly? I wasn’t sure. I don’t want him to be unhappy.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I think he is. And evidently his father just sits utterly silent and won’t talk.”
I think I’d made her cry. Can ghosts cry? With a gulp, she said, “I want to make it better.”
And she disappeared exactly when she was going to talk sense. I just hoped somehow she’d manage to come again.
There were plenty of ghosts around, but I’d never seen one before. I knew that sometimes and after a fair bit of time dead, if they concentrated and had a really important reason to come back, then they could turn into quite solid looking ghosts.
Whistle talked to me about ghosts a couple of times, and Peg did once.
It was Peg I went to after seeing Rollo’s mother. There were still several days before I could meet Rollo himself, and I had no idea what I was going to tell him. So I went up to the top of the house up two thousand stairs, for Peg lived in the attic room next to Whistle’s, and knocked on her door. “Come in, Rosie,” she called, knowing immediately who was outside.
I went in, sat on the stool she indicated and started my story.
“You’re a bit young to be falling for boys, aren’t you?” she asked.
“I haven’t fallen for him,” I said in alarm. “But he’s the only young person I’ve ever met who talks to me and acts like a friend. Everyone else is too busy or bossy or like my mother. Except you and Whistle, and sometimes my father, when I can find out where he is. But knowing someone almost my own age is wonderful, even if he does just talk about his parents.”
“Ghosts,” said Peg, “can be summoned by us, or come of their own accord. But there has to be a reason. A strong reason. I presume your ghost has something special she wants you to tell her son. “
Peg was so little, she looked a bit like one of the puppets they sold in the market. She had strings of untidy white hair, a teeny little face with a pointed chin, a long pointed nose and sweet little golden eyes that blinked blue. She usually wore some sort of tunic or cloak which covered her completely so you could hardly see if she was real. But she was a strong witch, even if she did get muddled quite often.
She wasn’t muddled now. “So how do I get her back?” I asked.
“The poor woman will probably come anyway,” Peg assured me. “But if not, I’ll help you call her.”
“Can I just sit and call her now?” I wanted to see her again and get ready to tell Rollo.
“You can try,” Peg said. “But you’re unlikely to succeed. It’s not so easy.”
I spent the entire evening until I was exhausted trying to call my friendly ghost back to visit, but she didn’t come. Meanwhile it was Wednesday, and in two days I knew we’d be off to market again, and Rollo was expecting me.
But that night my dreams were odd, as if interrupted by drafts and doors opening and shutting. It was actually rather disturbing, and I did the usual thing – starting by being sure this was the ghost trying to get through, and then telling myself not to be an idiot; these were just silly dreams and didn’t mean a thing. As my convictions went up and down until I felt quite bilious, I started calling Agnes again. Instead, I felt the door shutting.
So naturally early the next morning after cleaning up, wiping and scrubbing, dusting and polishing and getting those two horrid buckets of water from the well, I went scurrying off to Peg’s again.
“I think it was Agnes,” I said, followed by, “I don’t suppose it was really. Just silly dreams. But I want to get hold of her.”
“Dreams are never just dreams,” said Peg. “They always mean something but usually in symbolism. If you dream of big cows sitting on your neck, it just means you feel a bit over-burdened. All very simple.”
“And ghosts popping in and out of big doors that keep shutting in my face?”
“Well,” she admitted, “possibly that was what the poor woman was trying to do, and the doors shut in her face as well.”
No help at all, in other words. “I don’t want to be a nuisance,” I lied. “But it’s Thursday.”
Peg seemed mystified. “You sleep on Thursdays?”
“No. I go to market with my mother on Fridays,” I said. “And so I’ll see Rollo tomorrow. I’d love to tell him I’ve seen his mother, but unless there’s some special message or something, he’ll just think I’m a lunatic.”
Peg looked more muddled than the day before. I think I’d made her dizzy talking about days of the week. They were all the same to her. But I persisted, and she was being extremely sweet and trying to help.
She looked upwards, clapped her hands three times and called, “Agnes Snoop. We call you. You need the help which we are ready to give. First we need you. You must tell us what to do.”
There were, I admit, swirls of mist, and it really seemed as though someone was trying to get through. So I copied Peg and clapped my hands three times, looked up and called, “Agnes Snoop. Please come. I will meet your son Rollo tomorrow. What can I tell him?”
Absolutely nothing, it seemed.
Peg summoned up a couple of nice warm biscuits and gave them both to me. “Keep trying,” she advised.
I did. Having eaten both biscuits, I sat on the little stool and went through the business about ten times. Clap three times. Look up. Call Agnes by her full name, and give a proper reason for her to come. Picture her in your mind and make sure you really, really want her to appear.
I was doing this the eleventh time, when Peg suddenly stood up. She straightened her skirts, stamped her small feet, and said with a bright smile, “Well, I think I’ve just had a wonderful idea.”
I looked up, delighted and waiting with a big grin.
Which is when Peg whirled around, faster and faster, both tiny feet off the ground and her hair in an even more tousled mess, and with an audible squeak, she completely disappeared.
So witches could disappear after all.
Four
Her poor little screwed up face looked so sad. She never planned nor wanted these complications, and everyone else laughed and said she was obviously saying her spells back to front or up to down. Personally I just thought it was one of the quirky things that came along with magic.
S
o I leaned back with a sigh, and when Peg didn’t reappear after a few yawns on my part, I wandered back to my own room.
I carried on trying to call Agnes, but nothing came of it. I served dinner, I cleaned up, I served supper, I cleaned up, I wandered around the garden, talked to the birds, talked to the bats, talked to the strange little half shadow of a pretty white kitten which I’d often seen around ever since I was a baby. Not that it ever spoke back and was really just fluffy white transparency, but it still had that nice warm familiarity, and I loved it very much. I even dozed for about an hour, hoping that my ghost could appear in my dreams. But she did not, and then it got to evening, and at long last Peg reappeared shortly after supper.
I was wandering outside and looking up, saw her at her own window in the attic. She waved, and up I went, running up all those stairs again, and arrived breathless at her open door.
Peg was breathless too. She told me she still felt dizzy, so I waited a little, admittedly impatient, since it would soon be Friday again, and off to the market.
Eventually, after I had handed her a large cup of wine, Peg pushed back her even more raggedy hair, wiped the pointed tip of her nose on a corner of her bed’s eiderdown, and actually started looking very excited.
“My funny travels are never my idea, you know,” she told me. “Usually I go to places I don’t like very much. But this time I went somewhere so interesting, I would have liked to stay longer. I was in a big bright shining city, all surrounded by real jungle. That jungle smelled hot and sweaty, and I saw this enormous cat. Well, it looked like a cat but it was huge, and all golden orange with lots of dark stripes all over, even on its big face. It was fierce too, and snarled. I think it likes eating people, and the people ran away from it. They called it a tigga, and I ran away too. But the city was really beautiful. Oh, quite magnificent with so many vast white shining palaces, all like marble castles with doors high enough for other palaces to fit under. They were all so beautiful, but then I found out they were cruel too, and I realised why they were all so big.
