The Witch's Daughter

by Nina Bawden

  ‘Good-bye witch,’ he said, and went out of the back door, closing it softly behind him.

  The sound of the car starting up disturbed her, but not enough to wake her fully. She just jerked a little as if she had had a falling dream, but then she went properly to sleep again and slept deeply, not stirring until some time after three o’clock in the morning, when the fire died and the room grew cold and the old cockerel, roosting on the pile of peat in the yard, let out his first sleepy, dawn crow.

  *

  Tim woke at about the same time. Like Perdita he had slept deeply at first, from exhaustion, but the moment he opened his eyes he was fully awake, his mind active and crammed full, as if it had been working hard all the time his body had been asleep.

  For a short while he lay still, listening to the hollow thunder of the wind. It was not morning yet, but, because the nights were short on Skua, the darkness was already paling outside the window. Restless, he tossed in his bed and made a groaning sound, hoping Janey would wake up so he could talk to her. But she slept soundly on.

  He felt he must talk, or his mind would burst. So he whispered aloud, ‘What did he do with the jewels, then? If he didn’t have them on him when he was caught? Gave them to Mr Campbell? I wouldn’t have done that. Even if I trusted him, it wouldn’t be safe, the police might have searched him, too. Perhaps he didn’t have them with him at all. He must have known, after he knocked Dad down, the police would be looking for him. If I’d been him I wouldn’t have taken them with me, just in case. I’d have left them hidden somewhere. Somewhere good and safe …’

  He stopped and sighed. Last night, before he went to bed, he had asked the policeman what he thought had happened to the jewels but he had just shrugged his shoulders, and then, as if he didn’t want to discuss Mr Jones or Mr Smith anymore, had told Tim how thieves sometimes hid their loot in the oddest places. One he knew had planted roses: when the police dug up his rose garden, they found silver—cigarette boxes, candlesticks—buried beneath each rose.

  ‘How did you know where to look?’ Tim had asked.

  ‘We’d been watching him. As it happened, this man had never shown any interest in his garden before. So when he did, it was out of character, something that didn’t quite fit in. D’you see?’

  ‘Like Mr Jones bringing golf clubs to Skua? That was odd, because there isn’t a golf course, and if he’d really wanted to play he’d have found that out, wouldn’t he? Before he bought new golf clubs? So it looks as if he just thought there probably was a course and he brought the clubs as a sort of disguise in case anyone should wonder what he was coming to Skua for.’

  The policeman had smiled approvingly and said he was a sharp lad, and Tim had swelled with pride. If only his father had heard that!

  Now, smiling to himself, he spoke into the darkness. ‘You see, Dad, little things are important. Even if they don’t always seem it. It’s like doing a jigsaw puzzle. All the little bits don’t mean much on their own, till you fit them together to make a pattern. I expect, if I think about it, there are quite a number of other things I’ve noticed, even if I don’t quite see where they fit in yet …’

  What, though? What little thing could there be, that the police didn’t know already? About Mr Jones or Mr Smith? What did he know about Mr Smith? Nothing peculiar, really, that he hadn’t told the policeman. He was just a man who kept himself to himself except that sometimes he went lobster fishing with Mr Campbell, though Perdita said Mr Smith didn’t like lobsters.

  Lobsters! Suddenly, Tim sat up in bed. ‘Janey,’ he said, so excited suddenly that he could not keep it to himself. ‘Janey—wake up!’

  She rolled over on her back with a little, gruffling snort, and put her thumb in her mouth.

  Tim looked at her indecisively. His mother had said she was worn out, poor child, and he must be careful not to disturb her.

  But he had to tell someone. Mum! Mum wouldn’t mind being woken up. This was the sort of thing that was bound to interest her. He got out of bed and ran from the room.

  Mrs Hoggart was asleep. He tugged at her arm to waken her and she stirred sleepily. ‘Wha …?’ she began, and then sat bolt upright with a little cry. The room was suddenly illuminated with yellow light and the light was followed by a loud crack, like a big firework exploding.

  Tim rushed to the window. Another flare went up. ‘Mum.’ he shouted, ‘Mum! There’s a boat on the rocks!’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ON THE ROCKS

  WITHIN ABOUT TEN minutes, it seemed, the little town was alive, the jetty crowded with people—men, women, children, even babies-in-arms, their faces still round and solemn with sleep. A few men were fully dressed in oilskins and sea boots but most people wore only a coat, hastily thrown over their night-clothes. In the hotel, only Mrs Hoggart stayed indoors, watching from her bedroom window, because Janey still slept, in spite of the commotion. Mrs Hoggart would have kept Tim with her but, guessing this, he had wisely gone before she could tell him to stay.

  At first Tim could see nothing—nor could anyone else. A heavy mass of black cloud obscured the sea and harbour. For a little it was all Tim could do to stand against the wind which rushed like something solid into his mouth and up his nostrils. His eyes streamed with water—his own, salty tears mingling with the spray that dashed up against the sides of the jetty. Then, suddenly, the horizon began to clear. The furious wind seemed to sweep the sky, driving the black mass of cloud before it as if rolling up a curtain. Almost at once, a cry went up. The boat—clearly seen now, in the greying light—was caught on the rocks beyond the harbour. The heavy sea seemed to lift it rhythmically: each time the great waves receded, they left the little boat smashed further and further on its side.

  After the first two flares there had been no more. There was no sign of life on the boat, which was not identified at first. Then, ‘It’s the Asti’, a man shouted. ‘Mr Smith’s boat.’

  ‘Madness,’ another said. ‘Madness.’ Terrified and excited at the same time, Tim pushed his way among the crowd and heard them conjecture that Mr Smith must have left the bay where he kept his boat—the next round the coast—and, discovering that he couldn’t handle her, had tried to run into Skuaphort for shelter instead of making for the open sea where he would, at least, have had ‘sea room’ and a chance of survival. ‘What was the fool thinking of?’ one old fisherman said. To enter Skuaphort from the far side of the loch was dangerous in any weather: with this sea and wind driving any boat onto the partly submerged rocks, it was utter folly.

  A boat was manned but it was impossible to get it out of the harbour: beyond the sheltering arm of the jetty, the sea rose up like a wall. Since rescue from the sea was clearly impossible, the people left the jetty and made their way round Loch Kinnit to the point on the opposite side from the town, where a small group of men had already gathered on the beach. From this point, the wicked line of rocks ran out, jagged and black. The sea cracked against them with a sound like cannon fire and from time to time they disappeared completely, under a level surface of yellow froth.

  The townspeople gathered on a little bluff and watched the men on the beach. Ropes had been brought. One fisherman waded into the black water which was, at one second, only ankle deep, and the next rose chest high as a wave swelled in. He made for the rocks. The distance was nothing, but the terrible sea made it a desperate journey, and, though he struggled hard, he had to be dragged back, face and hands cut and bleeding, before he had managed to get even a third of the way to the wrecked boat. Another man volunteered at once, and his wife, a plump woman who wore an old army greatcoat over her nightdress, jumped down off the bluff and clung to him, weeping and shouting. He was not to go. He was not to leave her. He would be drowned as her father had been. The tears streamed down her face. Tim felt that he ought not to watch her and was ashamed because he could not tear his eyes away. In the end, others intervened and said the woman was right. ‘There’s not a thing anyone can do,’ one man said.

  The
words were ominous, like a tolling bell. People fell silent, huddling together in the dawn light. The boat was lower in the water now and could only be seen occasionally. The mast, its stays long since parted, had snapped in two, like a twig.

  ‘Wheelhouse gone,’ someone said, and a kind of corporate sigh, or groan, ran through the group of watchers.

  For a little while, no one moved, or spoke, except in undertones. Even the littlest children were silent now, huddling beside their parents or staring round-eyed, from the shelter of their arms.

  ‘Is there any chance?’ a low voice said. Tim turned. The policeman was standing behind him, his red and white pyjama jacket visible under his overcoat. He had spoken to Mr Tarbutt, who was shaking his head.

  ‘He’s gone now, for certain, Cabin’ll be full of water.’

  The policeman swore softly. He must have gone very pale, Tim thought, because the dark mole on his cheek seemed to stand out more than before. Then he said, ‘I never thought he’d be such a fool—on a night like this …’

  ‘She’s breaking up,’ someone shouted, and the whole crowd seemed to surge forward in unison, like a wave.

  There was no sign of the broken mast now. A bigger wave than any that had gone before, had turned the boat completely over, exposing her white hull.

  It was then that Tim saw Perdita. She was down on the beach, standing some way away from a group of fishermen. The instant he set eyes upon her, she began to run. Tim slipped over the side of the bluff, landing on the rocky beach with a jar that sent an arrow of pain shooting through his sprained ankle. He shouted her name with all his strength, but she didn’t turn.

  She was making straight for the rocks. All eyes were fixed on the foundering ship and no one had noticed her except Tim. She was waist deep in water before Tim could get to the nearest man and grab his sleeve. ‘She’ll drown,’ he shouted. ‘Oh look—she’ll drown …’

  The man looked bewildered and then let out a hoarse cry as he saw where Tim was pointing. She was clinging to a rock—clinging for her life as a green wave curled over her. She disappeared, and then, as the sea sucked back, they saw she was still there, small, hunched, the pale blur of her face turned towards the shore. The fisherman shook Tim from his arm and ran. He was in the sea and almost at the rocks by the time the next wave came and the rest of the watchers had seen the danger. ‘Rope—get a rope,’ someone shouted. Then a woman screamed—a high, level sound like a train whistle.

  The second wave had swept the child off the rock. There was no sign of her.

  Tim felt deathly sick. The beach was a pandemonium of cries and running men. Bulky figures rushed past him, shutting off his view of the sea: one knocked him flying. He fell on the beach and lay there, sand and salt in his mouth and terrible thoughts in his mind. This was all his fault. If he had not talked to the policeman, if he had not talked to her, last night …

  Someone took hold of his arm, and jerked him to his feet. He looked up, saw the policeman, and then felt as if something had exploded in his head. He thumped the policeman in the stomach with his free hand and shouted, ‘Get away, get away, I hate you …’

  ‘Steady on, old chap,’ the policeman said. And then, ‘It’s all right, boy, it’s all right …’

  He held Tim’s shoulders and twisted him roughly so that he could see the fisherman stumbling in the water, holding her in his arms. Willing hands helped them ashore and laid the child on the beach.

  Her hair streamed on the pebbles like dark seaweed. She lay on her face and Mr Tarbutt knelt beside her. Tim would have run to them but the policeman took his hand and held him back, while a knot of people gathered round, obscuring his view. The policeman held Tim’s hand very tight and it seemed to the boy that ages passed. His first rush of glad relief when he had seen she was safe had subsided, leaving him in the grip of a bleak and terrible despair. She was dead—dead, and it was his fault. He was quite convinced that she was drowned, that they would never revive her, when a woman cried out that she was breathing.

  Instantly, a wave of relief swept through the crowd, spreading in ripples of movement, even of half-hysterical laughter as the people shouted the good news to each other. Someone brought blankets and she was lifted, rolled up like a cocoon with her head against Mr Tarbutt’s broad shoulder.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ the policeman said to Tim. ‘She’s all right now.’

  Tim had not realised he was crying until he lifted his hand and felt his face was wet. By the time the policeman had produced a handkerchief to dry his eyes, Tim had recovered sufficiently from his despair to be ashamed of his babyish behaviour and to insist that he wasn’t crying, it was just that his face was wet with spray.

  ‘Nothing to be ashamed of if you were,’ the policeman said.

  *

  The people of Skuaphort straggled back home. The morning light reddened their faces, which were strained and grave. A life had been saved, but another had almost certainly been lost, and, thinking of Mr Smith, they thought of others, too: of fathers, husbands, brothers, sons. There were few families on Skua that had not lost someone to the sea.

  Only the young children were not oppressed by the general feeling of sadness and mourning. Earlier, they had been frightened and clung to their parents: now the drama was over, some five or six of them gathered together and began to whisper and giggle. No one took any notice of them, and, by the time the procession had reached the town, their voices became louder and less restrained.

  ‘She’s a witch for certain,’ said one fat little seven year old. ‘I’m not scared, though …’

  ‘You’d better be, Will McBaine,’ his sister said. ‘Or she’ll turn you into a toad.’

  ‘Or a crow. A big, black, flappy crow …’

  The little boy’s face went red. ‘She will not, then. Alistair Campbell threw a stone at her, and she didn’t turn him into anything at all.’

  His voice piped up clear in the morning. Several women turned to look at the children. Suddenly one of them turned very red and said in a loud voice, ‘That’s enough!’ She rushed at her own small daughter and gave her a hearty smack. For a moment the child was silent, dumb with astonishment. Then she opened her mouth and bawled like a calf. ‘And that’s what the rest should be getting,’ her mother cried, looking defiantly and angrily round her.

  The other women glanced at each other. None of them really believed the little girl from Luinpool was a witch, but they had let their children say so, not bothering to correct them, either out of idleness, or because the superstitious nonsense amused them. Now, shame stirred in them, and, before they could take to their heels, the astonished children found themselves seized, and shaken or spanked—not very hard, perhaps, because their mothers were uncomfortably aware that they were as much at fault as their children—but hard enough to make them cry. Their wailing rose to the pink, morning sky, and Mr Tarbutt, entering the hotel with his burden, smiled to himself, rather grimly.

  *

  Perdita was put to bed. Mrs Tarbutt, who had been waiting with hot water bottles and warm milk, came downstairs a little later and said the lassie was sleeping now and that Mr Tarbutt had better go up to Luinpool for Annie MacLaren.

  Tim and the policeman got the remains of the hot milk which had sugar and brandy in it.

  They drank in silence. Then the policeman cleared his throat. ‘Don’t blame yourself, Tim,’ he said.

  Tim put his empty cup down on the table and stared at it.

  The policeman said, ‘You did your best. It was you saw the fire and sounded the alarm. No one could have done anything in that sea.’

  Tim remained obstinately silent. But, as he sat there glumly staring into space, he remembered what he had been thinking about before he saw the first flare go up from the boat. For a moment he struggled with himself. He didn’t want to talk to the policeman anymore, but he couldn’t bear to keep this interesting piece of deduction to himself, either.

  In the end he said, very grudgingly, ‘I think I know where Mr S
mith kept his jewels. In the cave.’ The policeman smiled, and Tim went a little red. ‘It’s not just a guess. You see, he didn’t like lobsters.’

  The policeman raised one eyebrow.

  Tim said, ‘He went lobster fishing, and there’s no real sport in that, not like trout or salmon, so there must have been some other reason. I think it was because he wanted an excuse to go down to the cave whenever he wanted, and if he was going fishing, no one would think it funny.’

  The policeman was stroking his stubbly chin with the palm of his hand. ‘It’s an interesting theory. Quite a likely one, perhaps, though I don’t see that we can ever prove it. Never mind.’ He smiled, and his eyes were amused and friendly. ‘You know, young man, if it should ever take your fancy, you’d make a very useful detective, some day.’

  Though this was something Tim had always longed to hear, for some reason it gave him no particular pleasure now.

  He said, rather coldly, ‘I think I’d rather be a botanist, like my father. Not so many people get hurt.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A NEEDLE IN A HAYSTACK

  TIM HAD HONESTLY believed, when his mother sent him to bed that morning, that he would never sleep again. But he slept all day and woke in the evening too drowsy to swallow more than half a glass of milk and a digestive biscuit before his eyes closed and Mrs Hoggart put out the light. When he finally woke up properly, halfway through the following afternoon, the policeman had left and his father had arrived on a hired motor boat.