Abby the Witch (6 page)

'Careful,
son,' the Sergeant said as he dealt another vicious blow to the
clearly comatose woman, 'sounds like she likes you.'

Pembrake's
face was frozen in shock, hideous, amazed shock. Numbly he turned
away.

The Sergeant
and his guards continued to laugh sadistically behind him as they
dragged the old woman's now lifeless body through the streets.

Ignoring his
friends' ribald comments, Pembrake turned his back on them and
walked back to the ship alone.

He had never
met that woman in his life. What had she wanted from him?

6 months ago, Royal
Blue, docked outside Bridgestock….

'A career in
the Navy is something to be proud of, son,' Captain Jefferson
stared at Pembrake, his eyes grey and steady like a windless
ocean.

Pembrake
nodded. A career that promised him a lifetime away from Bridgestock
was worth all the gold in the world.

'I want you to
know you've earned this. It's been a hard journey for you, I can
appreciate that. But I want you to know that you have become a fine
sailor and an even finer Officer.'

Pembrake's
chest was puffed out about as far as he could push it. It wasn't
everyday that the Captain pulled you into his office to compliment
you.

The Captain
paused for a moment and picked at a stain on the edge of his desk.
'I received a dispatch from Base this morning. It seems they
received your application to the Academy,' the Captain slowly fixed
his eyes on Pembrake and kept his gaze keen and unwavering. 'The
Admiral there is a friend of mine.'

Pembrake
maintained his posture, perfectly straight and stiff like a
newly-carved mast. His belly may have been churning with
excitement, but he wasn't about to let the Captain know that. But
waiting for the Captain to tell him whether his application was
successful or not, was terrifying. If, through some miracle, his
application was granted, then Pembrake could kiss Bridgestock
goodbye and never have to return to this godforsaken place.

'Your
application was successful,' it appeared the Captain had little
interest in drawing the matter on too long. 'You will assume
position at the Royal Naval Academy is seven months.'

Pembrake
couldn't control his mouth any longer, and a huge grin spread
across his face. He felt like jumping for joy; finally he'd be
free.

The Captain
joined in with a more measured smile. 'You have earned this.
Though, I fear perhaps that you are not doing this for the right
reasons, it is still a valuable career move on your part.'

A touch of
cold spread across Pembrake's back. 'Sorry, sir,' he said quickly
before he could contain himself, 'what do you mean, sir, when you
say that I'm not doing it for the right reasons?'

The Captain
did not reprimand him for his insubordination, after all, it was
not Pembrake's place to second guess his Captain. 'I fear that, and
do not take this as an insult – you are running away from
Bridgestock.'

Pembrake tried
to maintain an even, unaffected look, but the Captain's comment
riled him. 'Permission to speak freely, sir?'

The Captain
waved him on.

'I am not
running away, I am simply running towards something more
challenging. There's nothing Bridgestock can offer me anymore.'

The Captain
nodded slowly, as if he agreed, at least in principle, with what
Pembrake was saying. 'The Academy will be good for you, son, I'm
sure of it. But I still fear that you have given up on her, your
home. Just because she has spiralled into a dark depression,
doesn't mean you should turn your back on your homeland.'

Pembrake
fought down the desire to raise his voice. 'Forgive me, sir, but
Bridgestock is a death trap. It speeds further and further towards
destruction every year. Its people are more and more vicious,
bile-filled, and hateful each time I go back. And soon the Colonel
will assume control, I'm sure, and then it really will have reached
the point of no return.' Pembrake's cheeks flushed and he found his
fingers digging hard into his palms.

The Captain,
always unflappable, did not seem to mind the energy crackling
through his First Officer's tone. 'Is not the racist the one who
shows hatred to a group he considers irredeemably different to
himself? You speak of the bile of Bridgestock, yet speak of it
yourself with bile-filled words. You speak of them as hating
others, yet you hate them in response. And worst of all, you think,
you claim, you believe that they can never change.'

Pembrake
recoiled slightly, not at the Captain's delivery, which was soft
and eloquent, but at the realisation his words brought.

'You've given
up on them,' the Captain said clearly, 'and you have no right to.
You figure, perhaps rightly, that there is no way
that you can change this situation, that you alone cannot
heal the wound that poisons your city. But, Pembrake, unless you
try, then you will only be right.'

Pembrake
straightened his back, pulled himself up as tall as he could, but
did not say a word.

'Take your
position. But remember, don't turn your back on Bridgestock. Don't
become bitter, don't become twisted, and if you see an opportunity
to fix your city – then take it.'

Bridgestock, 6 months
ago….

He took off
his new, crisp white hat and hid it under one arm. He knocked
again.

Finally he
heard several quick footsteps behind the door.

He took a deep
breath. He didn't know why. He wasn't nervous.

The door
opened a crack and his mother sighed. 'Pembrake.'

'Mother.' He
couldn't pretend not to notice the wariness cloud over her eyes
like fog over the bay.

'Please come
in.' She opened the door fully and stepped backwards courteously.
It was as if she were greeting an esteemed dignitary, not her own
son.

She had grown
formal, more so on every visit he bothered to make. It was like
every rank he climbed in the Navy was a notch he lost in her
heart.

He didn't
care; she didn't have to be proud.

'I wasn't
expecting you,' for a second her smooth façade broke and she
blinked quickly, 'is everything alright?'

Though it
showed she was still alive somewhere under those fancy white
clothes and pearls, he couldn't ignore the cold annoyance that
built in his gut. That she would show such obvious
concern after she'd offered her cold greeting was hardly
reassuring. 'Fine.' He tried to calm his mind, to gain full control
of his voice. He'd practiced this several times on the way over, it
should be easy. 'I have some news actually.'

His mother's
eyes widened slightly and she put an aged but manicured hand to her
chest.

She thinks I'm
getting married, doesn't she? She couldn't come out and say it of
course, but that's what she's thinking.

Let her
stew.

'Oh…
that's… really?' she stammered.

Only he could
seem to do this to her, make her stammer her words like a common
servant, not the dignified leader of the community she was supposed
to be.

‘Well I guess
I'd best make us both a cup of tea.' She turned and retreated
quickly down the wide corridor and into the kitchen.

He walked
behind slowly, casting his eyes over his once-familiar house.
House, not home, his picture of home had been replaced with a small
cabin with nothing but a hammock and desk for decorations.

His mother's
house wasn't quite so austere; bedecked, as it was, in sandstone,
wrought iron and stained glass. It had ivy climbing up the walls
and a sun room where she grew orchids and read in the winter. It
was huge, far too large for an old lady living on her own, but she
still had the windows open to all the rooms in summer and beat out
the rugs regularly, as if she were preparing for planned guests
that never came.

He walked past
the ornate dresser as he turned towards the kitchen, but he
purposely did not look down at the photos that sat there in their
intricate gilded frames.

The kitchen
had changed slightly; his keen eyes noticed the small differences
automatically. His mother had moved the bread basket and changed
the order the pots were hanging from the rack on the ceiling and…
he frowned at the little bowl of milk that sat next to the patio
doors. 'Do you have a cat?' The oddity broke through his mental
blockade of polite conversation and came out sounding harsher than
he'd meant it to.

'Oh,' she
looked up from filling the kettle, 'no, I had guests.' She put down
the kettle and bustled over to collect the bowl and two empty cups
from off the table.

'Really? Who?'
He couldn't imagine his mother entertaining guests anymore. What
with Mr Hunter dead, there didn't seem to be any more reason for
her to pretend she liked the people in this town. Pembrake had
always suspected she'd just grow old alone in this house, pining
for the son that would never return.

'Oh,' she
didn't make eye contact, just ran her hand nervously over her
pearls, 'just the window cleaner, dear.'

'The window cleaner?' he asked incredulously. 'And she brought
her cat? What kind of a window cleaner-?'

'She's very
nice, dear. You should meet her some, d-' his mother stopped and
swallowed.

He tried not
to smile too obviously. She still thought he was getting married,
ha? Who did she think was on the top of his list, he wondered. Miss
Partridge? Annie Suble? The Captain's daughter? She disliked them
all. His mother was not the traditional match maker; she was the
dreaded match breaker. Oh he'd brought girls home in the past
and she had been polite but never very inviting, so he'd wondered
why he'd even bothered. He didn't anymore.

'Would you…
what would you like to drink, Pembrake?'

He frowned
again, leaning back and folding his strong arms across his chest.
He'd always had the same thing to drink, ever since he was a little
boy, but she always had to ask. 'Tea with lemon, no
sugar, no milk.'

'Very
well.'

Was it a game,
or did she always forget? She seemed to have a fantastic memory for
his misdemeanours though. Through asking what he would like to
drink it was as if she were giving him room to change his mind, as
if she really wanted him to say "Actually, I'll have a cup of 'I'm
leaving the navy' if that's alright".

The silence
stretched between them. He could even make out the continuous cry
of the gulls over the bay above the hiss of the kettle. She poured
out the water to the tea and carried two cups over to the
table.

He knew before
he'd tasted a drop that that it would be made to perfection, even
after the little game they always played where she pretended to
have forgotten his specifications. He'd travelled the length and
breadth of the world, but he had yet to have tea made precisely the
way he liked it anywhere other than in this kitchen.

She drank
deeply from her fine tea cup, and he saw that the heat brought a
warmth to her cheeks that his presence after four months away had
failed to raise in her.

He saw her
glance at him a few times and then she got to her feet and pulled
out two perfect gold-leaf plates out of a top cupboard. They were
her favourite plates. There used to be three, a gift from the King
for Mr Hunter's services as an advisor. Pembrake remembered vividly
when, as a five-year old, he'd broken the third in a rage. His
mother hadn't even shouted. She never shouted, just
cried. She would just skirt around a topic or make the tiniest bit
of headway then double back on herself with a stream of
apologies.

This is how he
knew she wouldn't just come out and ask if he was engaged.

'So I suppose
congratulations are in order.'

Pembrake
watched in surprise as, seemingly unperturbed by what his answer
would be, she disappeared under the bench and retrieved something
from a cupboard.

'You could say
that,' he kept his tone as diplomatic as possible. 'As
my mother I'm sure you're very proud.'

'Of course I
am, dear,' she walked out from behind the bench with a cheesecake
on a silver serving tray. It was topped with whipped cream,
raspberries, and shaved chocolate.

He blinked in
surprise; it was his favourite. 'I thought you said you were
surprised to see me?'

'It always
pays to be prepared. And have you had any contact with the lovely
Miss Partridge recently?' She looked at him directly suddenly, not
bothering to track the knife as she cut through the soft cake.

He grimly
played with the edge of his cuff. That had been a
strangely direct question from her. 'I-'

'Because I
heard from Madame Helway that Miss Partridge's father is keen to
have her married.' She put a slice of the cake on one of the gold
plates and pushed it towards him across the table.

'I-'

'And that
Annie, you brought over for tea last time – apparently
she's eloped.' She took a drink from her tea and regarded him
steadily over the rim.

'She has?'

'And
Pearl-'

The Captain's
daughter, he'd always had a thing for Pearl.

'She has gone
back to Pemberly City; apparently she doesn't like the weather
about these parts.' His mother sniffed slightly as she finished off
her list, having ticked or crossed out everyone she could think
of.

'Right,' he
said slowly and tried to hide his surprise by taking a sip of his
burning-hot tea.

'It's very
hot, dear.'

'Yes,' he
mumbled.

This was
strange for his mother. She had always been the meek lady who had
followed around Mr Hunter like a butterfly fluttering her beautiful
wings at his many occasions and gatherings. But more than that, it
was her need to continuously whisper a nervous warning in her son’s
ear before he met with any government official, or hurry him past a
Guard House as if they were common criminals, that had taught the
young Pembrake his mother lacked courage.