by Adele Abbott
Witch Is When
Life Got Complicated
Published by Implode Publishing Ltd
© Implode Publishing Ltd 2015
The right of Adele Abbott to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved, worldwide. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or alive, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Chapter 1
“Are you sure you wouldn't like some?” Grandma waved the pan under my nose.
“No, thanks. I'm good.”
“Your mother used to swear by my vegetable soup.”
“I'm sure it's lovely, but I'm not hungry at the moment.” The lumpy, green liquid looked and smelled like no vegetables I'd ever seen. I had my suspicions that frogs or slugs might be involved.
“Your loss.” She poured herself a bowlful, and joined me at the kitchen table. How was I supposed to concentrate when I was likely to throw up at any moment?
“For your first lesson, I thought we'd focus on the 'hide', 'sleep' and 'rain' spells,” she said in between mouthfuls of (allegedly) vegetable soup.
My name is Jill Gooder, and I'm a Private Investigator. My father was also a P.I. I joined the family business straight from school. When my father died, I took over. But I guess that doesn't explain why I was taking magic lessons from Grandma. I’d only recently discovered that I was a witch—I didn't find out until my birth mother died. Since then, I’d been studying the book of spells which I’d inherited. I thought I'd been doing okay on my own—Grandma disagreed.
“There's really no need for you to do this,” I said. “I'm sure you're really busy. I've been doing okay learning these by myself at home.”
“Really?” Her gaze cut through me.
“I thought so.”
“Did you now? Go on then, turn that butter to stone!” She barked.
“Stone?”
“Too slow!”
“Make this bowl float in the air!”
“Float?”
“Too slow!”
“I can—err—I can make myself invisible.”
“Go on then!”
My mind went blank. I should have known this spell inside out; I'd used it enough times.
“Too slow!”
“You're making me nervous.”
“Me?” She cackled. “Why would you be nervous of me?”
I shrugged.
“There'll be regular tests.” She slurped another spoonful of gruel.
“Tests? I'm not very good at tests. I always freeze.”
She gave me a look.
“But I suppose I could get better.”
“Let's hope so.”
“What happens if I don't pass one of the tests?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Probably not.”
A quick read through of the 'hide' spell told me that it was similar to the 'invisible' spell I'd already mastered.
“Make sure you familiarise yourself with the limitations of every spell.” Grandma put down the spoon, lifted the bowl to her lips, and drank the last few dregs—gross!
This particular spell had no time limit; it ended only when it was specifically reversed. Where the 'invisible' spell would make me invisible, the 'hide' spell could be used to make objects or small animals disappear. It wouldn’t work on humans or sups, which was a pity because there were a few people I'd have gladly never seen again. One of them was standing right in front of me.
“I'll ignore that remark,” Grandma said.
I looked at her, puzzled.
“Didn't I mention that I can read your mind?”
Great, I should have realised. I could only use the ‘mind read’ spell once a year, but as a level six witch, Grandma could no doubt use it as often as she pleased.
“Come on then.” She thumped the table. “Have you memorised the spell?”
“I think so.”
“Make that chair disappear then.” She pointed at the two unoccupied chairs on the opposite side of the table. Her finger was so crooked that I couldn't tell which one she was pointing at. What would she do if I picked the wrong one? It didn't bear thinking about. I cast the spell, and hoped I'd chosen correctly. The chair on the right disappeared.
“Very good! We'll make a witch of you yet! Now make it reappear.”
I did as she asked. Easy peasy this witch malarkey.
My cousins, Amber and Pearl, came charging into the room, but stopped dead in their tracks when they saw the look on Grandma's face.
“What do you think you're doing?” she yelled.
“Sorry, Grandma.” Amber's gaze shifted to the floor.
“Sorry.” Pearl also seemed fascinated by her footwear.
“We wanted a word with Jill,” Amber said nervously.
“So, you thought you'd interrupt my lesson?”
“Sorry.”
“Go and wait in the living room.”
The two of them reversed slowly out of the kitchen.
“Youngsters!” Grandma shook her head.
“I know.” I tutted.
“That includes you.”
“Oh. Yeah, right. Sorry.”
The second spell was called 'sleep', and did pretty much what it said on the tin. It allowed me to put a person or animal to sleep.
“Will it work on anyone?”
“You needn't think you can use it on me.”
“No, I didn't mean—”
“You can use it on a child or an adult, and on creatures great and small, but the larger the target the more focus it will need.”
We had to go outside to practise the final spell. 'Rain' was pretty cool, even though I couldn't imagine when I'd ever need it. It allowed me to conjure up rain clouds, but they only covered a small area. I couldn't make it rain all over the city, but it might save me having to use the hosepipe in the garden if we had any dry spells. I was just beginning to think I'd mastered it when I misjudged the positioning of the cloud, and ended up getting soaked.
Nice hair,” Amber laughed when my lesson was over.
“I messed up the 'rain' spell.” I ran my fingers through my hair, which was still soaking wet.
“Don't worry.” Pearl patted me on the back. “We've all been there.”
“Are lessons with Grandma always as bad as that?”
“She probably took it easy on you because you're new to it.”
If that was taking it easy, I didn't want to know how bad it might get. “Did she teach you two?”
“Mum taught us most of the time, but Grandma used to take a lesson at least once a month.” Amber cringed at the memory.
“Do you think Aunt Lucy would teach me?”
“She was going to, but Grandma said because you were a late starter, you had to be taught by the best.”
“Lucky me.”
“Did she say there'd be tests?” Pearl asked.
“Yeah. At the end of each month.”
“Oh dear.”
“What do you mean, 'Oh dear'?”
“Grandma's tests are super-hard,” Amber said.
“Great.” This was going from bad to badder. What do you mean there’s no such word? If I can be called Gooder, then what’s wrong with badder?
“You'd better not get anything wrong,” Pearl said.
“You don't want to know.”
I wished people wouldn’t keep saying that. “Why did you want to see me anyway?”
“We wanted to ask—” Pearl began.
“A favour,” Amber said.
I had a bad feeling about this already. “What kind of favour?”
“Can you help in the tea room this weekend?”
“I thought you'd taken on an assistant?”
“Someone,” Pearl said, “fired her.”
“I didn't fire her,” Amber protested.
“You threw a cupcake at her and told her she was a moron.”
“She dropped a tray of muffins.”
“It was an accident.”
“On my toe!”
“It was so funny.” Pearl laughed.
“Look!” Amber pointed to her big toe, which was red and looked a little swollen.
“I'm not sure I'd be much help,” I said.
“You'll do great. Please say you'll help.”
“I've never worked in a tea room before.”
“We'll show you the ropes.”
“Will there be a test?”
“No tests! We promise.”
“Okay then, I'll give it a go, but don't blame me if it goes horribly wrong.”
Amber and Pearl ran Cuppy C, a cake shop and tea room. The twins were part of my new family who, until recently, I hadn't known existed. Just like me they were witches, but unlike me, they'd always known they were. My new family: Grandma, Aunt Lucy and the twins lived in Candlefield, which was home to all manner of sups. Sup is short for supernatural, and includes witches, wizards, werewolves, vampires and goodness knows what else. I still lived and worked among humans in Washbridge, but I also made regular visits to my new family in Candlefield.
The Walrus and Hammer pub was just across the road from the offices of the Bugle, Washbridge’s local newspaper. It was the watering hole of choice for its esteemed journalists. Dougal Andrews (or Dougal Bugle as I preferred to think of him) was sitting with a group of five other men—all of them loud, and most probably drunk.
After the recent so-called 'Animal' serial killer case, and in a moment of insanity, I'd agreed to allow him to do an article about the part I'd played in the arrest of two murderers. I'd given my permission on the strict understanding that the article wouldn't be a hatchet job on the local police, and that it wouldn’t be published until I’d approved it.
It was a hatchet job and I wasn’t given an opportunity to approve it prior to publication. Good job guys!
“Jill!” Dougal greeted me like a long lost friend. “Everyone, this is the great Jill Gooder, private eye extraordinaire.”
“This isn't the article I agreed to.” I waved the newspaper in his face. “You promised I'd be given a chance to review it before publication.”
“I had a deadline to meet. Why don't you join us? What are you drinking?”
“I'll have one of these.” I picked up the pint of beer from the table in front of him, and poured it over his head.
“What the?” He jumped up.
“If you don't print an apology,” I spat the words, “I will hunt you down, and rip off your head.”
“Is that a threat?” he said, as he wiped beer from his eyes. “I have witnesses.”
“It's not a threat. It's a promise.”
I could still hear his drinking buddies laughing when I was half way down the street.
“I think I have a migraine coming on,” I lied.
“You're staying!” Kathy gave me her patented big sister look.
I was adopted as a baby. Kathy was my big sister—four years older than me. She knew about my new family, but had no idea that we were witches. I hated keeping secrets from her, but it was a strict rule that humans could never know that sups existed.
Kathy had bought tickets for the local amateur dramatics society's latest production. The Washbridge Grand Theatre was anything but grand. The Washbridge Dilapidated Theatre would have been closer to the mark. It had obviously been built by the first cavemen, and was now held together by dust and rusty nails. My seat felt as though it was stuffed full of metal coat hangers.
“Why do you always insist on dragging me here?” I said.
“Because you enjoy it.”
“I hate it.”
“You say that, but I know you don't mean it.”
“Don't you remember what I said after the last one?”
Kathy shrugged, but I knew full well that she remembered.
“I said, and I quote, that I'd rather cut off my arm with a blunt knife than sit through another one of these.”
“This one will be different.”
“How?”
“It's a comedy.”
“So was the last one—allegedly.”
“You laughed at it.”
“Only when the male lead tripped and fell off the stage.”
It was the same crowd every time—blue rinses and dicky bows. Everyone smiled and said 'hello' to Kathy, but they all blanked me.
“What's up with them?”
“They haven't forgiven you for last time. Poor old Thomas.”
“I wasn't the only one who laughed when he fell off stage.”
“You were the only one who shouted 'break a leg'.”
The first half of the play lasted three days short of a millennium. If Kathy hadn't told me it was a comedy, I'd never have guessed. Everyone else seemed to find it funny—I think they must have been paid to laugh. The interval came as a blessed relief.
“Before you ask,” Kathy said. “No, you can't leave.”
“The thought had never entered my head,” I lied. “Do they have anything to drink in here?”
“Just tea and coffee.”
“No vodka then?”
“No, and anyway, it isn't all that bad.”
“Are you kidding? The dialogue is painful. They should have called it 'Just so'.”
“What are you on about?”
“You must have noticed. Every other sentence is 'So, I went to the farm...' or 'I'm just not happy' or best yet 'I'm just so fed up'. Who wrote this rubbish?”
“You're only picking fault so you can leave. Well it isn't going to work.”
Kathy turned her back on me, and began to chat to the woman seated next to her. I should have been back at home, practising my spells. If I failed the test, and Grandma turned me into a frog, it would be Kathy's fault.
“I've just remembered,” Kathy said, as she turned back to face me.
“That I’m still sitting here?”
“Lizzie has started collecting beanies.”
Lizzie was my niece who I loved to bits—in small doses.
“I thought she was into Lego?”
“She is, but some of her school friends have beanies, so she's decided to collect them too.”
I knew exactly what was coming, and suddenly I couldn't wait for the second half of the play to begin.
“I told her that you'd show her your collection.”
“She's too young for beanies.”
“You wanted to buy her one for her birthday. And besides, you were the same age when you started with them.”
“Are you sure?”
“Don't you remember? Mum bought you that funny looking octopus?”
“Squid.”
“What?”
“It wasn't an octopus, it was a squid.”
“It scared me.”
“Postman Pat used to scare you.”
“He still does.” Kathy shuddered. “So, can I bring Lizzie over to your place to have a look at your collection?”
I could picture her sticky little fingers all over my beautiful beanies.
“I don't have them any more.”
“I've seen them in your wardrobe.”
“I gave them to a charity shop.”
“When?”
“Recently. Very recently. Yesterday in fact.”
Chapter 2
The second half of the play was as riveting as the first, and my will to live was slowly ebbing away. According to the programme notes, it was some kind of humorous costume drama. The only humour, as far as I could see, was the price of the programmes. Six pounds? Someone was having a laugh.
On stage, the evil duke had just got his comeuppance. The duchess had grown tired of his womanising, and had dispatched him with a dagger.
Credit where credit is due. The special effects were good. The blood that was seeping through his waistcoat, and dripping onto the stage looked very realistic from where I was sitting. And the way he fell to the floor like a lead weight—that must have hurt.
The scream was loud enough to shatter ear drums—over-acting if you ask me. Milly Brown, a friend of Kathy’s, was playing the duchess. She screamed again, as she stared transfixed at the blood on her hands.
“Help!” she yelled. “Someone help!”
No one reacted at first—no one wanted to look stupid, in case it was part of the play.
“Something’s not right,” I said. All of my years of P.I. training had not been in vain.
As the reality of the situation dawned upon the audience, the small theatre was suddenly filled with panicked voices.
“Is there a doctor in the house?” someone shouted.
A middle-aged man in the third row got to his feet, and was soon clambering onto the stage.
Moments later, still crouched next to the prone duke, the doctor shook his head. “Someone had better call the police.”
“No need.” A familiar voice came from the back row. “I’ve already called it in.”
I hadn’t noticed Jack Maxwell until that moment.
“Everyone! Can I have your attention?” Maxwell waited for silence. “Please remain in your seats. My colleagues will need to take a note of your name and address before you leave.”
As Maxwell passed by our row, his gaze met mine. Had he known I was in the theatre all along? Who had he come with? I checked the seats either side of where he had been sitting. On one side was a pretty young woman about my age. On the other side was an elderly man.
It was two hours later when we were finally allowed to leave.
