The Witch's Daughter

by Nina Bawden

  ‘Perhaps we can give you a tow,’ Mr Hoggart suggested.

  ‘With Tarbutt’s old Ford?’ The man laughed and tossed away his cigarette end.

  ‘Oh, surely …’ Mr Hoggart adjusted his spectacles and looked enthusiastic: he liked to think of himself as a practical man in an emergency. ‘If I put it in bottom gear …’

  ‘We haven’t a tow rope,’ Tim said patiently. He looked at the man. ‘Have you?’

  ‘No.’ The man’s expression was suddenly more friendly. ‘Stupid not to carry one, on these roads. Though what I really need is a chain and a Land Rover. If you and your father would kindly give me a lift.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Mr Hoggart said. ‘Skuaphort?’

  ‘On the way. Perhaps you’d drop me off.’ The man got out of his car. ‘My name’s Smith. You’ll be the botanist, staying at the hotel?’ He smiled at Mr Hoggart’s surprised look. ‘Everyone knows everyone else’s business on Skua.’ He got into the Ford beside Mr Hoggart and said casually to Tim. ‘How about you? Going to follow in your father’s footsteps?’

  ‘No.’ Tim, who was still feeling resentful, scowled at the back of his father’s head. ‘I’m not going to be a botanist,’ he said scornfully. ‘I’m going to be something useful, like a policeman.’

  Mr Smith raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you really think that is a more useful profession?’ he asked, very dryly.

  Mr Hoggart coughed. An extremely polite man himself, he was always embarrassed by rudeness. He tried to apologise for Tim. ‘He’s been a bit bored today, I’m afraid. Flowers aren’t really much in his line …’ He smiled over his shoulder at his son in a kindly way that made Tim feel ashamed. ‘He prefers stones. In fact, he’s got quite an interesting collection. Tim—why don’t you show Mr Smith the one you got today? The—er—ruby.’

  ‘Ruby?’ Mr Smith turned round in his seat. Tim could not see his eyes, because of the dark glasses, but he felt that their gaze was suddenly intent.

  ‘Dad says it isn’t one,’ he said slowly, rather reluctant to expose his treasure to someone else’s judgement.

  ‘Show me,’ Mr Smith said. ‘As a matter of fact, I know a bit about precious stones.’

  He held out his hand and Tim gave him the little stone. Mr Smith turned it over thoughtfully, his dark glasses pushed up on his nose. ‘Well …’ he said, and seemed to hesitate. Tim felt excitement mounting inside him.

  ‘Gate, Tim,’ his father said, stopping the car. Tim tumbled out, opened the gate, closed it, and almost fell back into the Ford. Then his heart sank. Mr Smith was shaking his head.

  ‘Afraid not, old chap. Could be a bit of jasper quartz I suppose, though that isn’t common round here. Or some sort of crystal, like red copper ore. But I’m very much afraid,’—he smiled at Tim regretfully—‘that when it’s cleaned up, it’ll turn out to be just a piece of red glass.’

  ‘Oh,’ Tim said. ‘Thank you.’ He took the stone and thrust it deep into his pocket.

  ‘Sorry, old chap,’ Mr Smith said.

  Tim stared out of the window. Disappointment blurred his vision. He began to hum under his breath to show Mr Smith and his father that he didn’t really care.

  The road led round the side of Ben Luin and came down to the sea and a small beach where a tent was pitched. The tent had been extended at one end to make a more permanent, if slightly makeshift dwelling, by a heavy, dark tarpaulin fastened over some kind of frame. A piece of piping protruded from the top, to make a rough chimney. A Land Rover stood on a patch of grass between the tent and the Ford.

  ‘If you’ll drop me here,’ Mr Smith said. As Mr Hoggart slowed the car, a boy of about Tim’s age came out of the tent and stared. The Ford stopped and Mr Smith got out and waved to the boy. ‘Alistair,’ he shouted, ‘your father at home?’ Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Mr Hoggart. ‘Will Campbell’s a friend of mine. Lobster fisherman. Camps here during the summer season. Bit of an eccentric, but a good chap. He’ll give me a hand with the old Jag.’

  Mr Hoggart nodded and smiled as if he were not quite sure what reply to make.

  ‘I’m grateful for the lift,’ Mr Smith said.

  ‘Glad we came along.’ Mr Hoggart smiled again, and moved his hand to the gear lever, but Mr Smith seemed reluctant to take his hand off the side of the car. ‘Oh, well …’ he said vaguely. He sighed and stared at the tent. The boy had disappeared now. ‘Must be getting along, I suppose,’ Mr Smith said, but showed no signs of doing so. Instead he poked his head inside the car and said to Tim, ‘Tell you what, old chap, one good turn deserves another. As I said, I know a bit about stones—sort of amateur geologist, as a matter of fact. If you like, I’ll take that stone of yours home with me. I’ve got all the right gear, microscopes, that sort of thing, I’ll get it cleaned up a bit and have a good look at it for you.’

  ‘Really, that is most kind,’ Mr Hoggart said. ‘Isn’t it, Tim? Tim …’

  Tim put his hand in his pocket. His fingers touched the stone, curled round it—and then stayed still. For no reason—for absolutely no reason that he could think of at that moment—he suddenly felt an enormous reluctance to part with his useless treasure. And it wasn’t just the sort of reluctance he would ordinarily have felt about parting with a newly acquired possession, not just the simple desire to keep the stone to himself a little longer, to touch and admire it … Tim was sure he would have conquered such a babyish feeling. No—it was something else altogether, something to do with the way Mr Smith was smiling and stretching out his hand, not only confident that his very kind offer would be accepted, but also—suddenly Tim was sure of it—very eager that it should be. Why? He didn’t seem the sort of man who would, in the ordinary way, be so terribly keen to put himself to any sort of trouble for a boy …

  ‘No thank you,’ Tim said loudly.

  His father turned to look at him in surprise and some embarrassment. Tim looked squarely back at him.

  ‘I want to show it to Janey, first,’ he said.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MR HOGGART HAS AN ACCIDENT

  ‘I CAN’T SEE whether it’s pretty or not,’ Janey said. ‘It’s too dirty.’

  She saw with her fingers which felt and stroked and patted, learning the shape of the stone so well that she would always, Tim knew, be able to pick it out from all the other stones he had found since he had come to Skua. ‘Perhaps you could clean it up with gin,’ she suggested. ‘Mum cleans her engagement ring with gin, and that’s got rubies in it.’ She put the stone back into the white cardboard box that held the rest of Tim’s collection. ‘Tell me about Carlin’s Cave again.’

  Tim told her. She listened eagerly, her head on one side. ‘I wish I could go there.’

  ‘You couldn’t possibly. It’s terribly dangerous going down the cliff. Even for people who can see.’

  Janey said nothing. Once, if someone had told her there was something she could not do—would never be able to do—she would have thrown herself on the floor, screaming and kicking, in a terrible tantrum. But that was when she was younger: now she was nine years old, Tim knew she minded about not being able to climb down the cliff because she had gone suddenly quiet, but a stranger would not have known.

  He said, ‘I don’t suppose Dad would’ve let you go anyway, because you’re a girl.’

  ‘Girls can climb as well as boys,’ Janey said. ‘And they can find things, too. I found lots of shells on the beach and a lovely sheep’s skull. I’m going to collect sheep’s skulls.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘To put things in, of course,’ Janey said in a surprised voice. ‘They’re awfully useful for that.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Tim said doubtfully, looking with some distaste at the white skull grinning on the pillow of Janey’s bed. ‘I can’t see there’s much point in collecting them, though. I mean there are just hundreds and hundreds of sheep’s skulls on Skua, lying about all over the place. You ought to collect unusual things—like stones, or Dad’s orchids.’

  ‘Orchi
ds aren’t useful, though. Sheep’s skulls are,’ Janey said. She paused. ‘I did find something unusual today. Mum says it’s a fossil. I’m going to collect fossils and keep them in my sheep’s skull.’

  She produced a flat piece of rock from her pocket. Tim turned it over. ‘Looks like a piece of slate to me.’

  Janey sniffed. ‘You’ve not looked properly. You never look properly. It’s got a leaf in it, a fossilized leaf, can’t you see?’

  She took his finger and traced it up the spine and along the radiating veins. It was only then that he saw it: the shape embossed on the stone, a fragile skeleton of a leaf that had got pressed into the rock, millions and millions of years ago.

  ‘I don’t know how people who can only see, can tell what things are,’ Janey said.

  They went down to supper with their parents. Their table was by the window looking out onto the harbour. The only other person in the dining room was Mr Jones, sitting at his solitary table and chewing a toffee while he waited for his soup to be brought to him.

  Janey said, ‘Someone came and played with me, on the beach.’

  Mrs Hoggart looked surprised. ‘Janey—there was no one there except us.’

  Janey put her head on one side as she felt round her plate for the spoon. ‘Not while you were awake. But you went to sleep. It was while you were asleep that she came.’

  ‘Who?’ Tim asked.

  ‘I don’t know her name. She knew mine, though. I was looking for shells and she said, ‘Hallo, Janey,’ and gave me the stone with the leaf in it. She showed me how to feel it.’

  Tim was interested. ‘What did you talk about? Didn’t she tell you her name?’

  Janey shook her head. ‘I did ask, but she just laughed. A sort of whispery laugh. Then she let me feel her face and her clothes—she had a funny long skirt on. I asked her several times what her name was, but she just said Ssh. I think she was scared Mum would wake up. So we looked for shells for a bit, and when Mum woke up, she went away.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Janey?’ Mrs Hoggart said.

  ‘Because she wanted to be secret. If she’d heard me telling you, she might’ve made up her mind not to come again.’

  ‘But you said she’d gone away!’ Mrs Hoggart looked at her husband with an expression Tim recognised.

  Janey couldn’t see the expression, but she could hear the tone of her mother’s voice. She said, indignantly, ‘Only hiding where you couldn’t see her. I knew she was still there, because she made a bird sound to tell me.’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything, darling,’ Mrs Hoggart said, in the special, bright, humouring voice she sometimes used to Janey.

  Janey scowled. ‘Don’t talk to me in that silly way. She didn’t want you to hear. Only me. And I did hear. I can hear things other people can’t, you know I can, you stupid.’

  ‘Don’t be rude to your mother.’ Mr Hoggart, who was anxious Janey should not be spoiled, just because she was blind, spoke to her firmly. ‘And eat up your soup, we’re all waiting for you,’ he said.

  Janey went very red. Beneath the tablecloth, Tim felt for her free hand and squeezed it sympathetically: he knew Janey was often lonely, and that the people she invented to play with, were very real and important to her. But Janey must have guessed that he didn’t believe in this girl on the beach anymore than her parents did, because she wrenched her hand away angrily, and burst into tears.

  *

  As soon as supper was over, Mrs Hoggart took Janey to bed.

  ‘Exhausted, poor darling,’ she said, when she came down and joined Tim and his father who were playing chess by the fire in the hotel lounge. ‘The wind’s getting up, so I bolted her window. I think, really, we ought to ask if she could eat earlier, having supper with us means she stays up long past her bed time. Now, where did I put my knitting? I’m sure I had it earlier on—yes, I did, I remember sitting here knitting when Janey and I came back from the beach. What can have happened to it?’

  Neither Tim nor his father spoke, and she did not expect them to, being the sort of person who always conducted this sort of conversation with herself.

  ‘Oh, here it is, under the cushion. I’m sure that’s not where I put it. Who did put it there, I wonder?’

  This time Tim did answer her. ‘Mr Jones, I expect,’ he said. ‘He was sitting there before supper. Left a lot of toffee papers on the ground and Janey picked them up and packed them into her sheep’s skull.’ He laughed. ‘Janey says she’s going to call him Toffee Papers. That’s a good name for him, isn’t it?’

  His mother frowned and whispered, ‘Ssh, dear. He’s only just the other side of the passage, in the little bar …’

  Mr Hoggart stood up. ‘I’d better go and say good night to Janey. I won’t be long, Tim.’

  ‘Shouldn’t bother, dear, she’s probably asleep already,’ Mrs Hoggart said, but her husband had gone before she had finished her sentence.

  ‘He’s sorry he was cross with her at supper,’ Tim said.

  ‘Yes, I know. But it’s difficult …’ Mrs Hoggart stopped and sighed. She gazed into the fire for a minute and then her expression changed: she was thinking of something else. ‘Tim,’ she said softly, ‘I’m sure I’ve seen him before …’

  ‘Who?’ Tim was only half listening. His father wanted him to be good at chess, and though Tim did not much care whether he was good or not, he wanted to please his father and so he stared hard at the board, trying to work out his next move.

  ‘Toffee Papers. Messy habit, that …’ Mrs Hoggart was gazing thoughtfully in front of her. ‘Funny thing is, I know his face. Not well, mind you …’

  ‘As if he was someone you’d seen several times on a bus?’ Tim suggested. His mother had a good memory for faces, but could seldom put names to them.

  ‘Well, no. I don’t think it was a bus …’

  ‘Train, then. The train up to London.’ Tim abandoned the chess board and launched into this game, which he much preferred: he and his mother shared a taste for what Mr Hoggart called useless speculation. ‘The Telly?’ Tim said, ‘Or the newspaper?’

  His mother’s eyes widened. ‘I’m not sure … perhaps …’ Suddenly she struck the heel of her hand against her forehead and cried excitedly, ‘That’s it, I think I’ve got it, Tim. It was …’

  But what—or where—it was, Tim didn’t discover. There was a loud wail from upstairs and his mother gasped Janey’s name, and shot out of her chair like a jack-in-the-box.

  ‘It’s O.K. Dad’s there,’ Tim shouted, but she had gone from the room. He picked up her knitting which had fallen to the floor, and followed her. If Janey had had a nightmare, she would want him. She loved her mother and father, but when she woke from a bad dream, it was Tim she turned to …

  *

  But this was not a bad dream. It was real. When Tim reached the bedroom, Mrs Hoggart was kneeling beside her husband who was lying on the floor. He was lying very still. Janey was sitting up in bed. She wasn’t crying, but she was shaking all over. Tim went to her and took her hands. ‘There was someone in the room,’ she whispered, and pressed close to him.

  Mrs Hoggart looked up. She was pale, but her voice was controlled and gentle. ‘Only Daddy, darling. He was coming to say good night and he had an accident. He must have slipped.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ Janey asked.

  ‘No, my darling, of course not. I think he’s banged his poor head. We’ll have to put him to bed and get a doctor. Tim, dear, would you run down and ask Mr Tarbutt?’

  She was speaking slowly, to quieten Janey, but her eyes were frightened.

  Mr Tarbutt was already coming up the stairs. ‘Doctor!’ he said in a bewildered voice, when Tim explained what had happened. ‘Well, I’m afraid …’ He ran up the last few stairs and into the room. ‘I’m afraid it’s Wednesday,’ he said.

  ‘Wednesday?’ Mrs Hoggart repeated, staring at Mr Tarbutt as if she feared he was mad. ‘What’s Wednesday got to do with it?’

  ‘Doctor comes Tuesdays and Friday
s‚’ Mr Tarbutt explained. ‘Otherwise, in an emergency, we have to telephone the mainland.’ He knelt beside Mr Hoggart. ‘I was in the Medical Corps during the war. Long time ago, I know, but I keep my hand in round here … cuts … sprained ankles … I even set a broken arm last summer …’ While he was speaking, his fingers explored Mr Hoggart’s head. ‘Got a whacking great lump there. I should guess he slid on the rug, fell backwards, and knocked himself out on the bed. Nasty things, these iron bedsteads, I wish we could afford to replace them.’ He sat back on his heels and looked at Mr Hoggart thoughtfully. He looked peaceful, but he was breathing loudly, in a snoring sort of way. ‘Concussed himself, maybe,’ Mr Tarbutt said.

  He frowned across the room at Tim, who was sitting beside Janey, stroking her hair to comfort her. ‘Better get the lass out of here‚’ Mr Tarbutt said. He got to his feet, crossed the room in a stride, and picked Janey up. She hated to be lifted by strangers, but before she could protest he had whisked her next door, into her parents room, and deposited her on their bed. ‘Stay with her, now‚’ he said to Tim.

  Janey nestled in Tim’s arms, her face buried in his shoulder. He sat still, holding her and straining his ears to hear what was going on outside the door, which Mr Tarbutt had closed behind him. There was a confused babble of voices and steps running up and down the stairs. He could hear Mr Tarbutt, and then his wife answering him, but not what they said. He wished he could be out there, doing something to help, but he couldn’t leave Janey. She was so still that once he thought she had fallen asleep, but the moment he relaxed his grip on her she clutched at him fiercely until he held her tight and safe again.

  His arms had begun to ache and it seemed as if hours must have passed—though, looking at his watch, he saw it was only twenty minutes—when the door opened and his mother came in.

  She had her coat on. ‘Darlings‚’ she said, ‘are you all right?’ Without waiting for an answer, she sat on the edge of the bed and told them that Mr Tarbutt had telephoned the doctor at Oban, who had said Mr Hoggart should be taken to hospital at once. ‘It’s probably nothing much‚’ she said. ‘But they always take X-rays when you have a bad bang on the head, and they can only do that in hospital. So the Emergency Service is sending a helicopter.’