The Naked Witch (A Wendy Woo Witch Lit Novel Book 1)

by Wendy Steele

  “Ouchy?”

  “Yes, I need to get home.” She drained the last of her lime and water. “Lou, I found out something. Something about my past and I’m going to confront my Mum about it. Wise?”

  “Depends. You need to follow through the consequences.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said you found something out. You going to tell me what or how?”

  Lizzie shook her head.

  “Okay, fair enough. Let’s say you ask your Mum if something is true, be prepared for both answers.”

  Lizzie hugged her friend. “I said you were clever.”

  The sunshine bubble had burst and warm summer rain descended. The bowling alley was seething with noisy, sweaty bodies. Lizzie sighed. Her festival trousers were already sticking to her legs and her head was full of lead. She accepted a lime and water once seated in their lane and watched Sam showing Rowan how to bowl. Her hands were bigger than Lizzie’s with long graceful fingers. With her first ball, she knocked down six skittles and cleared the rest with her second to cheers from the other three.

  She flopped down beside Lizzie. “This is awesome! I had one game with Lou but haven’t let on to Sam. He seems keen to tutor me in the art of bowling.”

  She was about to lecture her daughter about the dangers of playing those kinds of games when her turn was called and she shuffled forward, head bent and grumbling. Richard searched for a ball on their rig before pushing through the crowds and returning triumphant with an orange ball. It fitted her fingers well but because of that, it was light and her first attempt landed in the gulley. Her second took one skittle before following the first.

  “We need to find you a weightier ball but with small finger holes.” Richard stood scanning the rig to his left.

  “We really don’t.”

  “That one might do.”

  She watched Sam or rather, she watched Rowan watching Sam. His strike received a high five and a shoulder nudge in return but it was the eyes worrying Lizzie.

  Rowan took aim and sent all the skittles flying. And then she did it again. Lizzie prayed Sam’s admiring looks were only for Rowan’s bowling prowess.

  “Here you go.”

  Lizzie took the black ball, weightier but with the required finger holes. She took aim and sent all the skittles back to where they came from.

  “Thanks for this Richard, but we could have gone back to ours for food.”

  “My treat, the whole evening. I’ve enjoyed it. Got to team up with my son, even though we lost to you ladies.”

  Rowan waved her pizza at Lizzie. “You were cool, Mum. Can we come again, please?”

  “As a treat, why not!”

  “Can I have my birthday here? Jess and Emma would love it!”

  “I…don’t know. We’ll see.” Lizzie took a bite of pizza and pushed salad around her bowl.

  “When’s your birthday?” asked Sam.

  “Not ‘til October so Mum can save up.”

  “I said we’ll see. You might change your mind and want something else by then.” How I hate this subterfuge about money!

  “Mine and Dad’s are in December,” persisted Sam.

  “Two Sagittarians, a Cancerian and a Scorpion. No wonder we get on so well, though your moon sign and other alignments have more bearing on overall personality. What?” said Rowan, shrugging at Lizzie’s wide-eyed stare.

  “I didn’t know you were into astrology.”

  “I’m not but I love the ancient Egyptians and they were. Lots of tribes were.”

  Rowan talked while the others listened, food forgotten.

  “The monuments they built were aligned to the stars and planets. That’s astronomy not astrology but I picked up a few bits of that along the way. And it’s not only the Egyptians! Neolithic and stone age man weren’t grunting savages! They built huge complicated earth works and monuments and transported…do you know, Mum?”

  “What, darling?”

  “I really wish I didn’t have to do these next two years at school.”

  Lizzie struggled to hide her astonishment at Rowan’s passionate outburst. “Why’s that?”

  “I love art and history, classics and drama, you know that, but I want to study archaeology and anthropology and find out more about our ancestors.”

  About to leave the front of the car, Lizzie changed her mind. “Richard, can I ask you a favour?”

  “Sure.”

  “Take the key, Rowan. I won’t be a moment.”

  Rowan stared at the key.

  “You can get me the Escher book you’ve been going on about. I’ll find you in school and give it back on Monday.” Sam pushed Rowan from the car.

  “What can I do for you?”

  Lizzie looked at his kind face, more flushed than usual. Every now and again, often when he was watching Sam, she saw his blue eyes twinkle.

  “I wondered if you were doing anything on Sunday?”

  “Is this a date?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, apart from taking Sam to band practise…”

  “Be between three and four o’clock. The buses are only once an hour on a Sunday.”

  “Can I take you somewhere?”

  “No! Sorry. I’m going to visit my mother. I’m fine going on the bus but I may not be fine coming home alone.”

  His worried face made her smile.

  “It’s not such a big deal but if I get upset my head is still wobbly.”

  “No, I get it. If you need me, call me from your mother’s house and I’ll be there as quick as I can. You’d best give me the postcode now.” He took out his phone and added the digits and letters to his notes. “Whereabouts is that?”

  “Danbury.”

  “It’ll take me half hour to get there, at least.”

  “I’ll meet you in the Danbury Lakes car park by the ice cream van but I’m sure I’ll be fine. Thanks, Richard.”

  “Call me, if you need me.”

  “I will.”

  “Have a good day tomorrow. Try and rest.”

  12

  A phone call from Marsha, checking to see how her head was, almost made Lizzie late for the bus. She spent the fifteen minute journey brow mopping and attempting to take calming breaths.

  “So you’ve finally come to apologise!”

  “Thanks for the greeting, Mum. Hello, how are you?”

  The heavy wooden door shut behind her. She followed her mother through a vast hall with an open fireplace and a log cradle big enough for small branches. The kitchen was dark wood with a dark beamed ceiling, black granite surfaces and a beige coloured range, but opened at one end onto a conservatory and a sumptuous landscaped garden.

  “I had no idea you were coming so I haven’t baked anything.”

  “I brought carrot cake.”

  Lizzie took a plate from a cupboard and laid out four glossy orange slices.

  “Half a cake.”

  “It’s Rowan’s favourite so…no! I will not defend myself! I brought four slices. One each over tea and two for you for later. You shouldn’t criticise, you should say thank you.”

  Patricia McCartney poured hot water from the boiling kettle into a china teapot, decorated with shepherdesses. “We seem to be arguing again.”

  “Shall I take this into the conservatory?”

  Lizzie looked around at the new addition to the house. She visited rarely, barely once a year but her mother was adding extensions faster than a hotel developer on a Monopoly board. A rickety glass and wood lean-to had been removed to accommodate this glossy PVC structure that not only almost doubled the dining end of the kitchen but ran all along the back of the house and when Lizzie stood up to take a look, wrapped all around the other end of the house as well. Orange and lemon trees in huge pots filled the air with a zesty freshness. Lizzie sank gladly into one of the wide wicker seats. The colour scheme was peach out here, peach covers, cushions, curtains and rugs. Lizzie reached for her cup and sipped, nausea griping at her stomach. A large
wooden fan turned slowly above them. They ate their cake with the correct forks.

  “So have you come to apologise, or not?”

  Lizzie sighed. “No small talk? You’re not wondering how my first week back at work went? No, I haven’t come to apologise. I said before, we need to talk.”

  “What would we have to talk about?”

  “Dad.”

  “And I told you, I have nothing to say to you about your father.”

  “Then I’ll ask you, why did Dad start working away?”

  “We needed the money.”

  “But you said his schemes were hare-brained.”

  “Some of them paid off but he wasted most of our money.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t because you’re two of a kind.”

  “And that’s what you hated, didn’t you? You hated that Dad loved his daughter.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “You were jealous of your own daughter.”

  “How dare you!”

  “How did you phrase it, Mum?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about! Enough of this nonsense or I’ll be forced to make you leave.”

  Her mother’s face was pale, flushed at the cheeks and the neck, frown lines scoring her forehead.

  “I’ll go when I have my answer.”

  “You’ll go when I tell you! How dare you speak to me in this manner!”

  “Sit down!”

  Her mother’s eyes widened, the corners of her mouth twitching as she sat back in her seat.

  “You threatened him, didn’t you? You forced him to be less loving and drove him to drink.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “I don’t lie.”

  “Not so like your father then!”

  Patricia mopped at her brow with a peach napkin, traces of foundation marking its surface and sniffed, attempting to raise her nose above the offending item that was Lizzie. “You’re a hateful, girl.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You were always so manipulative, getting your own way all the time and forcing your father to look at your paintings.”

  “I painted in the lean-to, here before the conservatory. It looked out on a lawn surrounded by flowers and Dad’s gnomes and gargoyles, remember? Look at it now! You’re obliterating every trace of him and me, aren’t you? Don’t answer that. I’m leaving.” Lizzie reached for her phone and rang Richard’s number. “Yes, ready to leave. See you in the car park.”

  “I suppose that’s a man. Secrets and bad choices you’re too ashamed to face your mother with. Don’t tell me, let me guess, this one’s an artist.”

  “I’m not arguing. I wanted you to know, I know the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “You ruined Dad’s relationship with me and kept him from me. You blackmailed him. His release was to drink.”

  Patricia McCartney’s laugh was short, guttural and vicious. “You don’t know anything.” She spat the words, rising from her chair.

  Lizzie faced her, nose to nose. “I do, Mum. I know it all and unless you want me to tell Rowan, and risk never seeing her again, I suggest you start being honest with me.”

  Patricia McCartney’s face reddened, her right eye twitching in disbelief.

  “That’s blackmail.”

  “Touché.”

  She was licking a lemon ice when Richard pulled up to collect her. He accepted her offer of an ice cream and they wandered under the trees.

  “Thanks so much for this. I’ve had time to cry and time to think and I’m grateful I don’t have an hour of being jolted on that bus.”

  “No problem. Sam and his mates were at the park so I’ve been reading about growing fruit.”

  “What kind of fruit?”

  “My favourites.”

  Lizzie laughed. “Good thinking.”

  “Blackcurrants, red currants, blackberries, gooseberries, so berries and currants mainly.”

  “I love soft fruit but you’ll need to protect it from the birds. I’ve apple trees in my garden, both cooking and eating. I’ll swap you.”

  “Give me a chance! I’ve not decided where to make the beds yet!”

  Sunlight dappled through the leaves. They followed a small stream into the forest and sat against a hill, bracken dripping over them and water trickling by.

  “How did it go?”

  “As well as could be expected. I’m ashamed to say, I resorted to a little blackmail.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really. It’s up to her now. In the meantime, I have to get used to the idea that it wasn’t my fault the father I adored distanced himself and seemed to have stopped loving me. He had no choice, Richard. My mother saw to that. ”

  “Why? Why would she do that?”

  Lizzie pulled at a stem of grass and brushed the tufted lilac end against her cheek. “Because it has to be about her, I guess. Dad and I were close, really close. We’d look at each other and know what the other was thinking. He bought me my first paint box and made me my own easel.”

  “Did he paint?”

  “Before he married my mother.”

  “What did he do?”

  “From what I can make out, it was an import and export business. Dad rented space at the docks. I remember driving there once to a warehouse filled floor to ceiling with boxes. Dad showed me fancy dress costumes, accessories for parties with balloons and party bags and gifts. It was probably shoddy stuff but to me, all the crowns shone with real diamonds and the fairy dust really worked.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Five, no nearer six. I remember some of the people who worked for Dad too. They were kind. One of the ladies hunted through a box and Dad presented me with a fairy dress, complete with matching flashing wand. She helped me put it on and I wore it home, my cheeks flushed with happiness, pinker than my dress.”

  Lizzie dropped her head on Richard’s shoulder.

  “You tired? Do you want to go?”

  “No, but I should. Rowan will be back at six o’clock for tea and I’ve not started the ironing yet. Thanks, Richard.”

  “I said I didn’t mind picking you up.”

  “Thanks for letting me talk, is what I meant. I miss him, you see, after all these years. I’ve been carrying a laden basket for a long time and sometimes, it’s good to lighten the load.”

  “How old were you when he died?”

  “Fourteen. He died on my fourteenth birthday.”

  That evening, Rowan attempted dinner in the kitchen while Lizzie shouted instructions from the lounge, standing at the ironing board, diminishing a clothes mountain resembling Vesuvius. She’d left the washing on the line while at her mother’s. It was too dry and needed spraying. It seemed Rowan’s first foray into ironing had been her last. Once Rowan’s shirts, trousers and skirt were done, she chose one dress for herself and joined Rowan in the kitchen.

  “Looks good.” She peered into the pan. “Did you put garlic in?”

  Rowan, her hair tied high in a ponytail on her head, sucked in her cheeks and looked to the ceiling. “Am I cooking dinner?”

  “Sorry, you’re absolutely right. Shall I put the kettle on to rinse the pasta? Pasta, spaghetti? To go with bolognaise?”

  Rowan’s mouth squirmed. They both laughed. Lizzie boiled a kettle, starting a pan with a little cold water on the hob.

  “How was Granny?”

  “Her normal self.”

  “Did she hurt you?”

  “No! I won’t let her do that.”

  “But she always does.”

  “No, it’s just her way.”

  “Stop defending her, Mum. You always do.”

  “Do I?”

  Rowan nodded.

  “Perhaps it’s because I don’t understand, you know, how anyone can be so deliberately mean. I wouldn’t say or do something I knew would hurt someone I loved so I don’t understand her. I suppose I keep hoping there’s a good reason, s
o I give her the benefit of the doubt. Having said that, I did tell her a few home truths today.”

  Rowan stirred. “It’s a weird way to love but the world is made up of odd human beings. I read in a magazine today about men who feed their girlfriends to make them fat, on purpose because they want to show they love them. How weird is that?”

  “Your Granddad used food and sweets to show love, though not in such an extreme way. He grew up in Ireland with four sisters and a brother in a house with two bedrooms and an outside loo. He never tasted sweets until he came to England.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Sixteen I think and his brother was seventeen.”

  “That’s Sam’s age.”

  “I know.”

  “And look at all the stuff he has!” Rowan took another wooden spoon and stirred the spaghetti in the boiling water. “He’s so lucky!”

  “And you’re not? Sorry. I’ll lay the table.”

  Lizzie spread a faded orange cloth over the table. She’d bought it from the charity shop for a pound because someone had laboured over the sunflowers in each corner yet they looked like someone had dropped a chocolate button in custard. She felt two arms around her waist.

  “I am lucky and I do love you.”

  Lizzie turned and embraced her daughter. “I know and that’s why I’m lucky too.”

  The bolognaise sauce could have done with a bit more salt but Lizzie added at the table and praised Rowan for her endeavours. Enthusiastic with her measuring, Rowan had made enough bolognaise sauce for four more dinners. They spooned them into margarine pots and left them to cool while they ate strawberries and soya ice-cream, sprinkled with cornflakes and nuts, from two champagne flutes. They talked about Emma’s Mum’s boyfriend’s lack of thought about underwear, Lisa’s yearning for a puppy and the new life of her good friend, Jess, sharing her room with her nine month old sister.

  “She’s so stressed! Babies cry all the time! I said she could come over in the holidays and she really wants to but her Mum needs to get back to work so guess who’s going to be left holding the baby?”

  “Does she have a Dad?”

  “Yes and no. Jess’s Dad moved away years ago but Tilly’s Dad is local. He doesn’t live with them but he has Tilly for a few hours at the weekend.”

  “So he’s not her Mum’s partner?”