by Kaye Umansky
“Really? You’re a cat lover, then?”
“Nev’s all right. Well, not to the wolves, obviously. I feed him sometimes, when Mrs. Eckles is away.”
“Mrs. Eckles. What jolly names you forest folk have. Who is this Mrs. Eckles?”
“Our nearest neighbor.”
“And do you see a lot of her?”
“Not really.” Wilf wished she would stop holding his arm so tightly. Her long nails were digging into his wrist.
“Oh? Why is that?”
“She keeps herself to herself. She’s the local Witch.”
“A Witch? Really? I imagine a plump, laughing country woman, with freckles. Mrs. Eckles with jolly freckles, ha ha!”
“Ha ha,” agreed Wilf miserably. To his relief, she saw him wincing and relaxed her grip a little.
“So. What’s she like? This Mrs. Eckles?”
“She’s all right,” said Wilf. “I do a few jobs for her now and then.”
“Like what?”
“I used to chop her logs until she stopped me. I’m not too good around axes.”
“Anything else?”
“Last year I minded her cottage when she went off to the May Fayre at Palsworthy.”
“And will you be doing it again this year? The Fayre is coming up shortly, I believe.”
“I don’t know. She hasn’t asked.”
“No? She’s made other arrangements? Someone to live in? A local, trustworthy girl, perhaps?”
“I doubt it. Most of the girls are afraid of her.”
“If there was such a girl,” mused the stranger, “I expect she’d like cake, don’t you?”
“Maybe,” said Wilf. “I don’t know.” It seemed a weird thing to ask. How was he to know whether girls liked cake? “Anyway,” he added, “Mrs. Eckles is fussy about who she invites over the threshold. She doesn’t trust many people.”
“But she trusts you.”
“Mmm. Sort of. It’s just that it didn’t work out too well last time.”
“No? And why is that?”
“I broke a few things,” admitted Wilf, glumly. “Then there was the flood in the kitchen. And a small fire, though I managed to put that out.”
“Ah well. Accidents do happen.”
“They do to me,” agreed Wilf, adding, “I didn’t let anyone in, though. She can’t blame that on me.”
“Good for you. Mind you, I don’t suppose she gets many callers, living around here. Were there any callers? While she was away?”
“Only one. Some old woman with a basket of tomatoes. Tried to get me to buy one, but I don’t like tomatoes. They remind me of eyeballs.”
“I expect you like cake, though,” said the woman.
“I do,” agreed Wilf. “Especially if it’s got that white stuff on the top.”
“Sugar icing?”
“Yes. And a cherry in the middle. I delivered one once, and a bit sort of accidentally fell in my mouth.”
They had reached the turnoff.
“Oh dear,” said the woman, suddenly stopping and letting go of his arm. “One moment. I think I have a stone in my shoe.”
She bent down and began fiddling with the strap.
“The shack’s this way,” said Wilf, pointing. “Only another few minutes and we’ll be there. It’s a bit rough from now on. Perhaps it would be better if you took your shoes off altogether?”
He turned round. The woman had straightened. To his surprise, she had removed her hat and was now wearing an odd looking pair of dark glasses with green frames and thick lenses.
“Look into the glasses,” said the woman. Her voice had taken on a low, commanding quality. She moved towards him until they were almost nose to nose. “Look deep. What do you see?”
Wilf stared. Deep within the lenses, he could see two little green sparks. They began to revolve.
“Little green sparks,” said Wilf. Or tried to. For some reason, his lips felt heavy and his tongue wouldn’t move properly. “Li’l … gree … spars. Yarp.”
“Are they spinning?”
“Mmmgh,” mumbled Wilf.
They were too. They made him feel dizzy, but for some reason he couldn’t look away. Those madly revolving little green sparks seemed to be sucking all the thoughts from his head. He was feeling tired, too. His eyelids felt really heavy. Incredibly heavy. The only way to stop the sparks spinning was to close his eyes …
From somewhere far away, yet at the same time very close, he could hear the woman’s voice.
“Feeling sleepy?”
“Yarp,” mumbled Wilf, dreamily. “Seepy, yarp.”
“You’re under. Listen carefully. If you stay at the Witch’s cottage again and a cake appears on the doorstep, it is essential that you take it in because you love cake and there is nothing suspicious, repeat, nothing suspicious about it. Do you understand?”
“Yarp.”
“Say it.”
“Nu‘in’ spishus ’bout cay.”
“Correct. I will count backwards from ten. When I snap my fingers, you will open your eyes, go straight home, and forget everything about this meeting. You never saw me. Ten—nine—eight—”
Five minutes later, Wilf arrived home. He was rather surprised to find it considerably later than he thought. Grampy had the stew ready. It was turnip and it was a bit burnt. No surprises there. Rather like his day.
Chapter Six
So, What’s It Like in There?
It was the following morning, and Clover was standing on one of the rickety chairs, leaning over the sink washing the window, which overlooked the sunny back garden.
“You’re early,” said a voice from behind her. Mrs. Eckles stood at the foot of the stairs wrapped in an ancient dressing gown, feet stuffed into a pair of old carpet slippers, evidently just out of bed.
“It’s almost noon,” said Clover. “I’ve been here for hours.”
“No problems with the gate?”
“Nope. It’s gone all grovelly. Said it hoped I’d have a nice day.”
“Aye. I oiled it. Gave it a drop too much, I reckon.”
“Anyway,” said Clover, “the back door was open, so I just came in and got started.”
“So I see. You’re gettin’ on well.”
“I know,” said Clover, cheerfully. “I like a challenge.”
She had done a good job, she knew it. The kitchen was gleaming. She had scrubbed shelves, lined drawers, de-cobwebbed rafters, scraped out the cauldron, and relaid the fire with fresh kindling. She had washed the curtains and hung them out to dry. She had cleared out the pantry, throwing anything away that looked inedible, which was pretty much everything. She had scrubbed the flagstones, filled the oil lamps, and replaced the wicks.She had set a jar of lavender in the middle of the table. And then she had made some biscuits, washing up as she went along.
She had thoroughly enjoyed herself. It was satisfying, bringing order out of chaos.
“I see you threw out me cherry jam.” Mrs. Eckles pointed at the big sack of rubbish standing by the door.
“I certainly did. It was all moldy.”
“What am I s’posed to have for breakfast?”
“I’ve got some biscuits in the oven. They’ll be ready in a minute.”
“Thought I smelled somethin’. Get the tea brewin’ then. I could do with a cup.”
Clover gave the window a last brisk rub, jumped down, and began setting out cups and saucers.
“Ooh,” said Mrs. Eckles. “‘Avin’ it at the table, are we, in a proper manner? With the milk in a milk jug? There’s fancy! And paper napkins! Didn’t know I ’ad any.”
“Buried under the old newspapers,” said Clover. “They now live in the bottom drawer, with the clothes pegs and the candles.”
“Forgot I ’ad a bottom drawer,” admitted Mrs. Eckles. “Can’t stoop that far these days. With me knees.”
She hobbled to her armchair, on which was dumped two knitting needles and a ball of lurid green wool knitting. She picked up the knitting, looke
d at it for a moment, sighed, then threw it on the floor.
“Not in the mood?” asked Clover.
“Not really. It’s a new blanket for Neville.” Mrs. Eckles cast a doleful look at the empty basket. “I been out searchin’ the woods half the night. Left the back door open thinkin’ he’d come in, but he ain’t. You ain’t seen him, I s’pose? On yer way over?”
“No. Of course, I don’t know what he looks like.” Clover took the hissing kettle from the stove.
“‘Andsome,” said Mrs. Eckles, fondly. “Black an’ exceedin’ ’andsome, with yeller eyes. Long whiskers. Bit missin’ from one of his ears from a run-in with a wolf.”
“Sorry,” said Clover, pouring boiling water into the teapot.
“So was the wolf.”
“I mean, I’m sorry I haven’t seen him. Sit down then, tea’s made.”
“No signs?” persisted Mrs. Eckles, flopping down.
“He likes to leave a trail, let folks know he’s been around. No dead rats? Bits o’ mice? Scattered feathers? Dismembered fox?”
“No.”
A little silence fell while Clover poured the tea. She opened the sugar pot, which contained a solitary lump, and popped it in Mrs. Eckles’s cup.
“I likes four,” grumbled Mrs. Eckles. “I gotta sweet tooth.”
“I know. Sorry. We’re out.”
“I had a portrait done of ‘im once,” mused Mrs. Eckles. “A passin’ picture-maker done it.” She raised her cup and took a noisy slurp.
“Where is it?”
“He didn’t like it. Clawed it to shreds and went straight for the picture-maker. Nearly bit ’is ear off. Probably because he came on a horse. Neville don’t like horses, not since he got kicked by one. He’ll be back today, I reckon.”
“Course he will,” said Clover, opening the oven door. “He’ll be missing his huge toy collection by now.”
“Them biscuits smells nice. Got raisins in, ’ave they?”
“Yes. I almost confused them with the mouse droppings. Anyway, I used the last of them. The flour’s all gone, too. We’re pretty well out of everything. I think one of us had better go shopping.”
“You,” said Mrs. Eckles, firmly. “I gotta stay in for Neville.”
“All right,” said Clover. “Will you make the list?”
“You do it. You know what’s needed. Tell ‘im to put it on the bill. Just make sure you get plenty o’ sugar lumps. An’ Neville’s milk. He likes full cream. When you gets back, you can start sortin’ out the loft, where yer sleepin’.”
“All right,” said Clover. She was looking forward to that. “I’ll do it as soon as I’ve finished down here.”
“Looks like it’s all done,” said Mrs. Eckles, staring around.
“Not quite. I haven’t done that cupboard over there yet.”
Clover pointed to a ricketty old cupboard that was fixed to the wall near the fireplace. The latch was secured with a sturdy padlock.
“Oh, you don’t need to bother with that,” said Mrs. Eckles, quickly.
“I don’t?”
“No. That’s me private cupboard. I keeps all me gear in there. Stuff for me remedies. Some of it’s a bit—volatile. Needs careful handlin’. Ain’t been in there meself fer a while. Lost the key. Keeps it on a string round me neck, but it musta dropped off. That’s another thing gone missin’. You ain’t come across it, I s’pose?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Oh well. Don’t need it right now anyway. Not a lot o’ witchin’ work lately. Customers ‘ave been stayin’ away. Dunno why.”
“Perhaps they’re put off by the state of the front garden.” Clover shovelled the hot biscuits onto a plate. “It’s a bit unwelcoming. And that gate can be very rude.”
“It’s supposed to be unwelcoming. I’m a Witch, not the good fairy. Folks expect an air o’ doom an’ gloom.”
“No point if it puts them off coming, though, is there? You should cheer it up. Put in a tub of daffodils. I’ll do it, when I’ve got time. How many biscuits do you want?”
“Four,” said Mrs. Eckles. “Mustn’t be greedy.”
She was, though. She had seven.
Clover’s village was called Tingly Bottom. It lay on the edge of the forest and consisted of a sprinkling of cottages, a tavern, and a tiny shop run by Mr. and Mrs. Trowzer. Mr. Trowzer had a swollen, purple face and moved in excruciatingly slow motion. His wife sat adding up columns of figures at snail-like speed.
It was late morning, and three customers were standing at the shop counter—Mrs. Pluck, Mistress Vittles, and the Widow McFinn. Mrs. Pluck was talking to Mr. Trowzer in a loud voice.
“ … and if it was my girl,” she was saying, “I’d have something to say about it. I don’t care how good the money is, you don’t send your own flesh an’ blood out …”
She broke off with a guilty little gasp as the bell tinkled and Clover entered the shop. Mr. Trowzer’s puffy purple head wobbled slowly in her direction.
“Morning,” said Clover. Mrs. Pluck went pink and fumbled for her purse.
“Good-morn-in-young-lad-y,” intoned Mr. Trowzer, very slowly.
“Morning, Clover,” said Mistress Vittles. “We just seen your pa.”
“Did you now?”
“Yes. Weaving his way home from the pub. Been there best part of the morning, it looks like. I hear you’ve taken the cleanin’ job at Mrs. Eckles’s.”
“Goodness,” said Clover. “Word gets around, doesn’t it?”
“I must say I’m surprised at your ma,” said the Widow McFinn.
“Oh, you are? And why might that be?”
“Well. I mean. Sending you there.”
“She didn’t send me. I chose to go.”
“She means it’s not safe, dear,” explained Mrs. Pluck.
“I can take care of myself.”
“Ah, but can you?” asked Mistress Vittles. “There’s a lot o’ strange goings on in that cottage, ’specially after dark.”
“That’s right,” butted in Mrs. Pluck. “My Reggie says only last night he was coming through the woods and he heard her out wailing amongst the trees, rattling a box o’ bones. Shoutin’ for the devil, he said. ‘Devil,’ she said. ‘Come to me, devil!’ Blood curdlin’, it was.”
“She was shouting for Neville,” said Clover. “That’s her cat. And she was rattling his biscuit tin. Have you finished? I’m in rather a hurry.”
“Riiiight-a-way-young-lad-y-riiiight-a-way,” droned Mr. Trowzer, rubbing his hands in leisurely fashion. “Got-yer-list? The-lad-ies-were-just-a-go-ing.”
Clover took out her list. All three women squinted over her shoulder, trying to see what was written on it, probably hoping for eye of newt or a nice snake fillet. They showed no signs of leaving. She slapped it on the counter and stood in front of it, so they couldn’t see.
“So what’s it like in there, dear?” asked Mistress Vittles, her beady little eyes snapping with curiosity. “Magical charms an’ talismans? Mysterious pantygrams drawn on the floor? Stinkin’ brews bubblin’ away—”
“No,” said Clover. “Nothing like that. But it really isn’t any of your business, is it?”
“Well I never!” snapped Mistress Vittles.
“If you’re going to be like that!” sniffed Mrs. Pluck.
“We’ll leave,” announced the Widow McFinn, through tight lips.
All three picked up their baskets and stormed away from the shop with their noses in the air.
Mr. Trowzer moved a finger down Clover’s list.
“Sug-ar,” he intoned. “Miiiilk … floour … pep-percoorns … cheeeeeeese …”
“Will this take long?” asked Clover, trying not to fidget.
“Take-a-fair-while-young-lad-y. Lot-o’-items-’ere. Too-much-to-fit-in-yer-liddle-bas-ket. Tell-you-what-I’ ll-do. I’ll-box-it-up-an’-send-the-boy-round-with-it-later. ’Ow’s-that?”
“Fine. I’ll take the milk now, though, and the sugar. She particularly wants those.”
&nbs
p; “Miiiiiiillllk,” wheezed Mr. Trowzer. “That’ll-becoolin’ -out-the-back. Wait-there-young-lad-y-I’ll-beriiiight-back.” And he crawled off. After what seemed like years, he crawled back to inquire whether that would be full cream. Clover told him it would be. He crawled off again. The sugar took even longer, because he counted it out maddeningly slowly, lump by lump.
Some considerable time later, Clover stepped into the street. It was empty apart from a man leaning against a wall. He had a gold ring in his ear and was chewing on a straw. He removed it from his mouth and said, “You the lass who’s cleaning for old mother Eckles?”
Clover stopped and rolled her eyes in exasperation. Did everybody know her business?
“Yes,” she said, shortly. “What of it?”
“Got a message. Tell her the cart’s ready. I’ll bring it round day after tomorrow. The price has gone up to three pence, tell her.”
“That’s it?”
“Aye.”
And the man turned his back and strolled off down the street. Clover watched him for a moment, then set off in the opposite direction, towards the forest.
Chapter Seven
He’s Back!
Mrs. Eckles was waiting by the gate, face beaming and arms full of what looked like festering carpet.
“Neville!” squealed Mrs. Eckles. “I’ve got ’im! He’s back!”
“That’s all right then,” said Clover. Doubtfully, she eyed the sordid armful of fur. It smelled quite ripe.
“Welcome home, Miss Clover! Allow me,” said the gate. It swung open, the height of smooth efficiency. Clover walked through. It closed behind her with a smart little click.
“I’ll ‘ave to do somethin’ about that gate,” said Mrs. Eckles. “I can’t stand it.”
“Only being pleasant,” said the gate.
“Ah, shut it,” said Mrs. Eckles.
“I am shut,” the gate pointed out.
“I mean shut up talkin’. Enough with the barrier back talk. You’re just a gate with a spell on, so stop puttin’ on airs. Just a silly old stop gap, ain’t it, Neville? Not like you. You’re mummy’s baby, you are. Mummy’s naughty baby who’s been out in the woods fightin’ the foxes again!”
