by Val Thame
“Don’t tell anyone what I’m doing,” said Nettle. “Otherwise all the young witches will be turning up and trying to be nice to me and I know they won’t mean it. I’ll be in my room till lunchtime and try not to bother me. I hate being disturbed when I’m working.”
“Before you go, Aunt . . .”
“Mmm?” Nettle was sorting through the books on the kitchen dresser.
“Where do I change a savings certificate?”
“A certificate?”
“Yes. Mother gave it to me at my naming ceremony.”
“Ah yes,” said Nettle, dreamily. “I remember that well. You were such a peculiar baby. Not like other witchlings. You were always smiling. Very odd. I chose your name. Did you know that?”
“No, I thought all the aunts chose names.”
“So they do, but Goodrun was my idea. You should have heard some of the other suggestions. Spiderlegs, Muddikins, Drizzle.”
“‘Drizzle’? Ugh. I’m glad you chose ‘Goodrun’,” said Goodrun.
“My pleasure!” said Nettle. “As for your certificate, I should try the post office. There’s one on the corner.
And scooping up two armfuls of books, Nettle and her beads went jangling upstairs.
Before following her aunt upstairs, Goodrun loaded the breakfast things into the amazing dishwasher and switched it on. It swashed and swooshed noisily. Then she ran upstairs to get the certificate. Not only was she excited about cashing it, there was also the chance that somebody in the post office might have some records about her father. She wanted to whoop, so she did. “Whooop! Whooop!”
Nettle called out, “What’s going on?”
“I’m going out,” said Goodrun.
She heard Nettle mumbling about “terrible noise” and “people not listening to what they were told” and “a spare key downstairs”. She found the key on a hook by the front door. Goodrun put it in her pocket with her father’s certificate. Then she opened the front door and, for the first time in her life, stepped out into the real world.
Chapter 6
The sun was shining and the air smelled clean and fresh outside. Cottages, much like Nettle’s, lined both sides of the road but most were in better condition than Nettle’s and all of them had better gardens. Goodrun passed gardens with neatly-clipped hedges, smooth, green lawns and borders of bright flowers. She began to daydream, imagining her aunt’s cottage as it might look with the weeds cleared, the windows sparkling, and the garden dug over. In her mind she had already cut back the ivy and repaired the porch. She was even thinking about what colour to paint the front door.
She wondered what her sister was doing this fine morning. Probably something dreadful because Evilyn hated sunshine. The sky was a beautiful rich blue, except for one flat, grey rain cloud hovering over the church steeple. Goodrun hoped it had nothing to do with Evilyn.
It did not take more than ten minutes to reach the village centre. The post office was easy to find because it was, as Nettle said, on the corner and had a big red “Post Office” sign hanging outside. Inside, it was divided into half shop and half post office. The shop half sold all sorts of things — chocolate bars, birthday cards, sticky tape, batteries, books, soft drinks, pencils and purses. It reminded Goodrun of the confiscation cupboard at the Academy. This was a large, locked and bolted cupboard where the ugly crone, Witch Pickings, kept all the things she had confiscated from the girls. Only Pickings had the key to the cupboard and, every so often, when she felt like a good gloat, she would sit in the cupboard and drool over the treasures she had “picked” up.
A young man with a silly grin and a mop of black curly hair was sitting on a stool behind the counter. His brisk voice cut through Goodrun’s thoughts.
“Do you want something? There’re other people waiting, you know.”
“Yes. I’d like to cash this, please.”
She handed over the certificate. She was sorry to see it go after all this time. It made her feel sad. She had nothing left of her father’s except the brown envelope. She put that back in her pocket.
The young man read the paper very carefully.
“It’s very old,” he said.
“Does that matter?”
“Could do. A few more weeks and it would be out of date.”
Then the young man seemed to take a sudden dislike to the certificate because he banged it several times with a fat rubber stamp. After that he took some notes from a drawer and counted them at great speed. He put the notes in a plastic bag and prodded it under the glass screen. Goodrun took the packet of money and tucked it well down into her other pocket.
“Next, please!” he said, staring past her.
“But I wanted something else,” said Goodrun.
“Stamps?” said the man, opening his big book of stamps. “How many?”
“No, I don’t want any stamps. I’m trying to trace my father’s family. I wondered if you could help.”
He slammed the book shut.
“Look. This is a post office, not an Information Bureau.”
“Do you know a place called Brooms?” asked Goodrun.
The young man laughed. “Brooms? Never heard of it. What about you, Elsie?” He turned to the woman sitting next to him. She smiled and shook her head.
“Well, it might be Brooms something else,” said Goodrun. “I’m not sure.”
“Nothing like that round here,” said the man. “What’s your name? That might help.”
“Smith.”
The post office man and the post office lady began to laugh. Goodrun thought it was very rude of them.
“What’s so funny?” she said, sharply.
“I’ll tell you,” said the young man. “There are hundreds and thousands and millions of Smiths. Millions of them. Cor! Talk about finding a needle in a haystack!” And he sniggered noisily.
“What did your father do?” said the lady, grinning, but friendly.
“He was a magician,” said Goodrun.
Both rocked on their stools. They seemed to find this even funnier than being a Smith.
“Oh well, that’s easy then,” said the man, smoothing his fat curls of which he was obviously very proud. “There aren’t many of them about. Here!” he addressed the queue of people behind Goodrun. “Anybody got a magician called Smith living next door?”
His last remark sent Elsie into near hysterics. Goodrun’s happy feeling was wiped away by the cruel laughter and replaced by a little bubble of anger.
“Now, move along, dear,” said the young man, “can’t you see we’re busy?”
Goodrun could feel the bubble growing until it was near bursting.
“How rude. How dare they laugh at my father,” she thought angrily.
Before she left the post office she gave the man on the stool a long, hard look. He was counting out some stamps.
“Sticky fingers, three-legged stool, now let’s see who looks the fool,” she said. And zap! The spell was on him.
The first thing that happened was all the stamps stuck together. He could not even open the book. Then with a queue of customers watching, the tall stools began to wobble. Both the curly-haired man and the giggling woman began to sway to the left, then to the right. Then the man’s stool toppled over completely. When he stood up again, surprised but unhurt, his thick black curls had gone. He was completely bald.
Even from outside the shop Goodrun could hear the shrieks of laughter.
“And I don’t care,” she thought. “ I shall find my family. And the next time anybody asks, I shan’t say he was a Smith, I’ll say he was Marvo the Magnificent. There can’t be hundreds and thousands of them.”
Evilyn, sitting on a rain cloud which had drifted over from the church, watched her sister stomping home angrily, and she smiled her evil smile.
Chapter 7
Nettle’s garden was a riot of disorder and stood out in sharp contrast with the tidy gardens on either side. Weeds as high as the fence jostled and fought each other for space, columbin
es strangling grasses, nettles stinging columbines, thistles scratching poppies and wild, angry briars clawing at them all. Only the white dandelion seed had the good sense to drift over the fence and escape into the quiet calm of a neighbour’s well-tended border. Goodrun was ashamed of the raggletaggle garden and sorry for Nettle who was clearly unable to look after it so she decided she would make herself useful and tidy it up for her.
She let herself in with the key, not so much fun as zapping but safer, and went straight upstairs to put her money and envelope back in the drawer. But before she started on the garden, Goodrun thought she would make herself a cup of coffee. Nettle’s cupboard was well stocked. She had ground coffee, decaffeinated coffee and instant coffee.
“Instant. How clever,” thought Goodrun. She put a spoonful of coffee granules into a cup and waited — and waited — and waited. But nothing happened. She read the instructions again. “Oh! Pour on boiling water. What a swiz!”
After the disappointing not-so-instant coffee she went to find some gardening tools. The back garden was just as bad as the front. Weeds, weeds and even more weeds. The back of the kitchen jutted out from the cottage, like a separate room, and joined to it were several other small buildings. One, she discovered, was an outside toilet, very useful for gardeners; a second was the coal cellar and beyond that a wooden shed. Inside the shed, among the old sacks, boxes and rubbish, she found some shears, some clippers, a fork, a wheelbarrow and a spade. She put the tools in the wheelbarrow and trundled it round to the front gate where she started work. It was slow and painful work. Painful because the nettles stung and the briars scratched, and slow because each time she filled the wheelbarrow she had to take it round the back to empty it. By midday her back ached, her knees were sore, her fingernails were broken and she was so stiff she could hardly move. But she was satisfied. The path was clear and the weeds cut down to stubble on one side. If she screwed up her eyes she could almost pretend it was a lawn.
She was doing just that when somebody said, “Hello? Do you live here?”
A girl, about her own age, was watching her from the next garden.
“Yes,” said Goodrun, pushing her damp hair off her face. She felt so hot and sweaty. She was sure she looked awful.
“Oh, great. I live next door to you. My name’s Daisy Blazer. What’s yours?”
“Goodrun Smith.”
“That’s a pity. I hoped it might be Poppy.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re tall and thin and you’ve got all that red hair. Then I’d be a Daisy and you’d be a Poppy.”
Goodrun laughed. She liked Daisy Blazer straightaway. She was a cheerful looking girl with short dark hair, cut in a shiny straight bob which bounced up and down as she talked.
“How long have you lived here?” asked Daisy.
“Only since yesterday,” said Goodrun. “I live with my aunt.”
“Oh yes. Miz Patch. She’s a nice old lady, isn’t she? We’ve only just moved here, too. Me and my mum and dad. Where are your parents?”
“My father’s dead and my mother . . .” Goodrun hesitated. As Nettle said, nobody would believe her if she said “my mother’s a witch”. So she said, “My mother travels a lot. She’s hardly ever at home so . . .”
Daisy nodded understandingly. “My parents used to travel. I went to a boarding school before we came here.”
“So did I!” said Goodrun.
“Snap!”
The girls laughed. “I’m glad you’re here,” said Daisy. “There aren’t many children in this road. But I’d better go. Mum’ll have my lunch ready. Shall I see you later on? After school?”
Goodrun nodded but she was puzzled. Surely, Daisy was not still at school? She looked about the same age and she seemed very intelligent.
“Thank goodness, I’ve finished,” thought Goodrun. “Perhaps Daisy is a slow learner.”
She was feeling cooler now and very dirty. She remembered she had not washed that morning, nor had she changed her clothes since yesterday. She hoped Daisy Blazer had not noticed. Not a good way to start a friendship. She threw the tools into the wheelbarrow and took them back to the shed.
“Aaaah!” she said, stretching her aching muscles, “What I’d really like is a nice, warm bath.
Nettle had finished her cataloguing work for the day and was dozing in a rocking chair in the kitchen. The radio was on, an empty cup was hooked onto her thumb and there was a bundle of half-finished knitting on the floor. Goodrun took the cup away before it fell.
“Auntie?” she said, tapping her gently on the shoulder. “Are you asleep?”
Nettle opened one eye. “I was,” she said, grumpily, “and enjoying it. What do you want?”
“Do you have any hot water?”
Nettle opened both eyes, very wide, very suddenly. Then she sat up and clasped her crinkled throat. “Water?” she croaked. “What do you want it for?”
“Well,” Goodrun hesitated. She knew how witches hated water, even very old and retired ones. “I’d like a bath,” she said.
“Oh! For one awful moment I thought you said ‘water’. Yes, I’ve got a bath. It’s upstairs. Came with the house. I keep spiders in it.”
“Does that mean I can’t use it?”
“Of course you can’t!” said Nettle. “It’s occupied. And what do you want it for? There’s a perfectly good bed in your room.”
Goodrun could not be bothered to explain that she did not want to sleep in the bath, only to wash in it.
“Anyway, I’ve got a surprise for you, Aunt. Come and see.”
Nettle was wide awake now. “Cracking smacking! I love surprises.”
Goodrun led her to the front door. The little old lady was hopping and twitching with excitement, her beads rattling, and her white wispy head bobbing up and down.
“What is it?” she kept squeaking.
“Look,” said Goodrun, flinging back the door.
Nettle looked. “Oh, you beastly child! What have you done? Where are my giant thistles, my hogsbane, my poison ivy, my strangleweed? It’s taken me years to grow them. You’ve ruined my garden.”
Aunt Nettle was hopping again, but this time she was hopping mad.
Chapter 8
Goodrun was surprised by her aunt’s reaction. “I thought you’d be pleased,” she said, miserably. “I thought you’d like a nice garden.”
“I had a nice garden — once!” snapped Nettle. “A wild one.”
“I’m sorry,” said Goodrun. “I should have asked first.”
“Yes, you should,” grumbled Nettle. “But now you’ve started messing with it, you’d better finish it off properly.”
“Oh, I will,” said Goodrun, eagerly.
“And look after it,” said Nettle. “I’m too old to mow lawns and prune roses.” She sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?” She sniffed Goodrun’s shirt. “Pooh! It’s you . . .”
Goodrun suddenly remembered her bath. She excused herself and ran upstairs, tugging off her dirty clothes as she went. She threw them onto her bed. As she passed the door and was about to go into the bathroom, she remembered the spiders. She was quite used to the odd spider sharing a corner of her room but she did not fancy sharing with a bathful.
“What shall I do? Dare I zap them away? If I want a wash I suppose I’ll have to.” She placed her fingertips on the door, closed her eyes and said, “Bath of spiders, get you gone by the count of three, two, one.” Then she took a deep breath, “Three. Two. One.” And opened the door.
Surprisingly, it was a nice bathroom. Much nicer than she had expected. Pretty blue flowers on the wallpaper and blue curtains at the window. The tiles and washbasin were white and she supposed the bath would have been except — there was no bath! Just a dusty, empty space with two dripping, broken water pipes sticking out of the plaster.
“Oh no!” Goodrun’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no! I only meant to zap away the spiders. How stupid. How stupid.”
She tried reversing the spell
to see if the bath would rematerialize, but it didn’t. Then she called on all the power she had to conjure up a new bath, but she couldn’t. The ugly blank space where a bath should have been remained an ugly blank space where a bath should have been.
“Ow!” she wailed. “Nettle will be boiling angry when she finds out. She’ll probably send me back to Mother. Oh, what am I going to doooooo?”
Evilyn, riding about on a rain cloud, suddenly felt very happy. She did not know why but she was always in good spirits when somebody else was miserable. It was the way of witches. She was peering over the edge of the cloud looking for someone, or something, to empty the rain on, when something large and white collided with her and she nearly fell out of the sky.
“Hey!” she cried, scrambling back into the middle of the cloud. “Mind where you’re going, can’t you?”
The white, boat-shaped object pushed on, breaking up the cloud into pieces of wet, grey sponge. Evilyn just managed to grab hold of the side of the boat before the cloud evaporated altogether. Panting and puffing, she heaved herself over the top and slipped inside. It was a strange craft, the like of which she had never seen before. It was shaped like the hull of a ship, but an empty hull without any deck. Or like a rowing boat with the seats missing. Evilyn was suspicious. It could be a trick. Some of her witchy friends, like Murky Pondwater and Greasey Puddle, were very good at playing nasty tricks.
Hooking her feet round the two knobs at one end, she leaned over the side and looked underneath. It had four small feet.
“Landing pods,” she thought. “Good.”
She slid back and sat down as the unidentified flying object continued on its way. But it puzzled Evilyn. What was this thing doing floating about on its own, and where did it get its power?
