The Witch's Daughter

by Nina Bawden

  ‘You believe me, though?’ Tim interrupted him. Quite suddenly, it was all he cared about.

  Mr Hoggart looked at him gravely. ‘Yes, Tim, I do.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you believe me?’

  Tim slid down from the boulder he was standing on, and put his hand in his father’s. ‘Yes, Dad,’ he said. ‘Shall we go and have lunch now?’

  Janey was sitting in the mouth of the cave, examining a sheep skull. ‘This one’s broken,’ she complained. ‘A bit of die jaw’s gone. I don’t want a nasty broken skull in my collection.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather collect something nice, dear?’ her mother said. ‘There must be lots of pretty shells on this beach.’

  Janey scowled. ‘I don’t want to collect shells. I want to collect skulls. They’re more useful.’

  Mrs Hoggart made a resigned face and Tim grinned at her, feeling very grown up and cheerful. He went back into the cave. There were a good many skulls, washed up against the rocks, but it was harder than he expected to find a perfect one. Mr Tarbutt joined him. Between them they found several good skulls and dropped them beside Janey.

  ‘Pick the best, I should,’ Mr Tarbutt said.

  ‘Not until after lunch, dear.’ Mrs Hoggart was unpacking the picnic basket. ‘Ham or chicken?’

  Tim passed round the sandwiches, keeping one of each for himself. Janey took one bite and put her sandwich down. Her little hands stroked the skull lovingly. ‘This one’s a beauty,’ she said. ‘It’s perfect, no nasty, jagged edges.’

  ‘Came off a shelf high up,’ Mr Tarbutt said, casually glancing. ‘The ones on the ground get damaged by the tide.’

  ‘There’s something inside it,’ Janey said.

  Her mother sighed. ‘Do put the nasty thing down while you’re eating.’

  She spoke without looking at Janey because she didn’t want to make a fuss if the child disobeyed her. Mr Hoggart, who thought skulls were gruesome but perfectly hygenic, said nothing. He was busy opening a can of beer. Tim, stuffing the last of his second sandwich into his mouth, eyed the picnic basket and reckoned up how many more he was likely to get. Mr Tarbutt, stretched out lazily on the shingle, was munching slowly and watching the sea.

  ‘Someone’s been collecting stones‚’ Janey said.

  They turned to look at her at last. She sat, her legs straight out in front of her, emptying the contents of a small leather bag into her lap.

  No one spoke. No one had breath to speak. The little girl picked up the jewels and trickled them through her fingers. The sunlight caught them and seemed to set them on fire. Janey laughed.

  ‘They feel like pretty stones,’ she said. ‘Are they pretty, Tim?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A BUNCH OF FLOWERS FOR JANEY

  PERDITA SAT ON the great rock in the bay. The gulls mewed round its battlements, diving, or just lazily drifting on the wind. She took no notice of them. She was staring out to sea. The steamer would be here soon. It would cross the bay and round the point into the harbour at Skuaphort and take Tim and Janey away.

  She knew they were leaving. Annie had told her this morning when she had given her the presents they had sent up for her in Mr Duncan’s van: a scarlet jersey from Janey—a new one she had never worn—and a necklace of beads from Tim. They were cheap green glass beads from Mr Duncan’s store, and Perdita thought they were beautiful. She wore them now, over the scarlet jersey, and from time to time she touched them to make sure they were still there. They comforted her, but could not take away the ache in her heart.

  Only one thing could do that, and she hadn’t the courage for it. Though Mr Duncan had offered to take her down to the town to say goodbye to the children, she had shaken her head and clung to Annie. ‘It’s no good, she’s still grieving,’ Annie had said.

  Grief was part of it, of course, but not all. Her own narrow escape from drowning had mercifully dulled her mind: by the time she had recovered from the shock and the physical exhaustion, the horror of that dreadful night seemed almost like a dream. Though she mourned for Mr Smith, it was with a gentle, blunted sadness, as for something that had happened a long time ago.

  Tim and Janey were more real to her just now. When Mr Duncan had gone, she had rested in Annie’s arms a minute, her face pressed into the old woman’s shoulder. Then, as soon as she heard the van start up, she had torn herself away and run out of the house to call after him.

  ‘Mr Duncan, Mr Duncan, wait for me …’

  But the van was already jolting down the rutted road and he did not hear her. She had stood in the yard gate, the tears streaming down her face, until Annie had come out after her. ‘Walk down to the hotel then, there’s plenty of time,’ she had said, but the only answer was a fresh outburst of painful tears and Annie had lost patience with her.

  ‘Well—either you go or you don’t, it’s all one to me. I don’t understand you, lady.’

  Perdita did not understand herself. She felt as she had felt about the picnic yesterday: both longing, and fearing, to go. It was part ordinary shyness, perhaps, part fear of Tim’s questioning, part the hurtful memory of the way he had bullied her at the hotel—oh, so many things rolled up into one that it was impossible to sort them out. All she knew was this feeling which was a kind of trembly wanting and not-wanting which grew more difficult to resolve with every passing minute. So she had put on her sweater and glass beads and come to the rock to comfort her sad heart.

  But there was no comfort on the rock. She could not even shut her eyes and fly with the gulls in the air, because Tim had shown her that being a witch and flying and seeing round corners, was only a game she had played. She wasn’t a witch any longer. She was only a lonely little girl. She had been lonely before, but she had never, in all her life, been lonely the way she was now. There would be other children to play with as soon as she went to school, Annie had told her, none of them would run away from her now, but at this moment she didn’t want other children. She only wanted Tim and Janey—especially Janey. If she could only see her once more, say goodbye and hear her say she would come back one day, it would be all right …

  She sat, irresolute and miserable, watching the sea. It was choppy today, flecked with white as far as the horizon, and the gulls on the surface of the water rocked, sideways on, to the waves. There was no sign of the steamer yet, but while she sat there, several small boats rounded the point and crossed the bay to the further headland. Perdita knew they were going to Carlin’s Cave.

  The news of Janey’s discovery was all over the island, Mr Duncan had told Annie this morning. ‘Up on a ledge, tucked inside a sheep skull—the cheek of it!’ Mr Duncan had said. ‘Staring you in the face, you might say. Thousands and thousands of pounds of rubies and diamonds and emeralds …’

  In spite of this generous estimate, no one knew yet how large a part of the stolen jewels had been recovered, nor would they know, Mr Duncan had said, until the contents of Janey’s little bag had been counted and checked. In the meantime, the police were trying hard to find Mr Campbell, a well-equipped salvage boat had come out from the mainland to investigate the sunken Asti, and almost everyone who could spare the time—and a good many who couldn’t—were making their way by boat or on foot to Carlin’s Cave. ‘There won’t be a skull left unturned on the island,’ Mr Duncan had said, and laughed loudly at his own joke.

  Perdita had heard all this without much interest, but now a new thought came into her mind. If most of the islanders were at the cave, there would be hardly anyone on the jetty to meet the steamer. Only the few who had to be there, and they would be too busy to bother about her, too busy to point at her and whisper behind their hands. It was one of the things she had feared most, she suddenly realised—that gauntlet of curious eyes!

  She drew a deep breath and got to her feet. As she did so, the steamer came into view. The colour came up into her face. She was still shy, still frightened, but if she hesitated too long it would be too late. She gasped suddenly and turned to run but after a few steps she stoppe
d abruptly, as if she had come up against a wall.

  They had sent her presents. What could she give them? There was nothing—she had nothing of her own. Then she remembered that first day on the beach when she had found the sliver of rock with the leaf pressed into it. Janey had been pleased with that. But surely, real flowers would be better? She knew where some pretty ones grew, on a boggy patch beside a little stream: she had picked them sometimes for Annie. But which stream? As she looked wildly round her, the great rock seemed suddenly strange to her, like a foreign land. When she found the flowers at last, the breath was sobbing in her throat and her fingers were trembling so she could hardly pick them. She pulled them up in clumps—as many as she could, as many as she could hold. She stood upright and saw the steamer moving across the bay. It was nearly at the point.

  Gasping, she went down off the rock and ran across the sand and up through the dunes. She cut her knee getting over the dry-stone wall and the warm blood trickled down her leg into her boot as she stumbled through the wet bog. When she reached the top of the ridge, the steamer was in the harbour and she stood for a minute, watching it with despairing eyes. The blood pounded in her head and the air was like a sword in her throat. Her mouth was dry. She licked her lips and began to run down the ridge. Her legs felt soft and shaky beneath her and the sky and the hillside seemed to jolt up and down in front of her eyes. She hadn’t the strength to jump the stream by the ruined cottage and stumbled through it, slipping on the slimy pebbles so that she fell on the spongy round of the opposite bank, flat on her face, crushing the flowers.

  She lay there, spent. She had no more will, no more strength. It would be pleasant to lie there for ever, her feet in the cool, running stream, and her face on the earth. A kind of lovely sleepiness seemed to be stealing over her, a delicious peace … She had to fight with herself—against herself—to get up, forcing one leg to move, then the other. Her legs felt queer as if they might easily bend backwards as well as forwards, and her head was singing.

  She reached the stone road and thudded downhill. Her feet seemed to move by themselves, bang, bang, on the stone road, one, two, one, two … She came into the town, rounded the corner by the school house wall, and saw the jetty. There were very few people there. The mail van, Mr Duncan, Mr and Mrs Tarbutt. With a shock, she saw Mrs Tarbutt was waving.

  Waving goodbye.

  ‘Janey,’ she sobbed inside her. ‘Janey …’

  She reached the jetty. She was too late. They were unfastening the gangplank and a man was unwinding a rope from one of the bollards. She looked up at the steamer through a mist of tears.

  Janey and Tim were on deck, waving to Mrs Tarbutt. They did not see her. ‘Wait, oh wait …’ she tried to cry, ‘look at me, I’m here …’ but the words came out through her parched throat in a dry whisper. They were going and they had not seen her. The world blurred and shook in front of her eyes.

  ‘Wait—wait—oh please, wait …’

  For a moment, she was confused. That wasn’t her, shouting. She couldn’t shout. Nor could she rub her eyes with her hands because her hands were full of flowers. So she blinked and shook her head to shake the tears away and looked at the steamer.

  It was Tim shouting. Red in the face, he had grabbed at the sailor who was removing the gangplank. He was jumping up and down.

  Miraculously—at least, it seemed like a miracle to Perdita—someone took her by the arm. Mr Tarbutt said, ‘You’ve been a long time. The little lass was grieving.’

  She went, on wobbly legs, up the gangplank. ‘I knew you’d come,’ Janey said, at the top. ‘They said you wouldn’t, but I knew.’

  ‘I picked you some flowers,’ Perdita said, and thrust them into Janey’s arms.

  There was no time for more. There was no need for more. The ache in her heart was gone. She turned and walked down the gangplank and someone lifted her off onto the jetty.

  ‘She brought me some flowers, Dad,’ Janey said to her father.

  ‘Did she? That was nice—she’s waving, wave back, Janey.’

  ‘I can’t, holding all this stuff.’

  ‘Give it to me, then.’ Mr Hoggart took the flowers and Janey began to wave with both arms, like a windmill. He glanced down at the mass of flowers in his hands, and then looked more closely. He whistled softly under his breath. The delicate, purplish petals were crushed and damaged, no use as specimens, but they were quite unmistakable. They were the rare flowers, the ‘black orchids’ he had been looking for. ‘Where did she get them, I wonder?’ he said, speaking to himself, and then he laughed. ‘Well—I’ve only to ask her,’ he said answering his own question, and turned to his son. ‘Tell her we’ll be back,’ he said. ‘Soon. Soon as we can manage.’

  ‘Goodbye—we’ll come back,’ Tim shouted.

  ‘Soon,’ Janey cried. ‘We’ll be back soon …’

  The little girl stood on the jetty and waved and the two children leaned over the rail of the steamer and waved too. The steamer drew away from the jetty and the dirty water pumped out of the bilges and the gulls wheeled round, crying and looking for titbits. The steamer moved out of the harbour and the jetty grew small and the people on it smaller too, until they were just dots of colour, and then not even dots, but nothing at all.

  ‘There’s no point in waving now‚’ Tim said to Janey, ‘you can’t see her anymore.’

  ‘I can in my mind, you stupid thing‚’ Janey said.

  About the Author

  Nina Bawden is one of the most admired and engaging writers of fiction for children and has written more than fifty books. Born in 1925, she was educated at Oxford and completed her first novel the year after gaining her degree. She is the author of such classics as Carrie’s War and The Peppermint Pig, and has won the Guardian Fiction Award and the Phoenix Award as well as being commended for the Carnegie Medal. Described by the Daily Telegraph as ‘without question one of the very best writers for children’, she divides her time between London and Nauplion in Greece.

  Copyright

  This ebook edition first published in 2011

  by Faber and Faber Ltd

  Bloomsbury House

  74–77 Great Russell Street

  London WC1B 3DA

  All rights reserved

  © Nina Bawden, 1963

  The right of Nina Bawden to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

  ISBN 978–0–571–28708–6