The Witch’s Daughter (3 page)

FEBRUARY 17, 2007—NEW MOON

Clear skies for my first day of trading at Pasbury market. I was up before dawn to load the car with my produce. The vehicle is, by any standard one cares to judge, a mixed blessing. It is an elderly Morris Traveller—small and cheap to run but with a roomy boot and helpful rear doors to allow me to transport my herb teas, oils, lotions, soaps, preserves, and wine hither and thither. It necessitates, however, the most tiresome paperwork. It is impossible to own a car and guard one’s identity at the same time. Every few dozen years I am compelled to reinvent myself, largely to be able to comply with the requirements of traffic laws. Nevertheless, I admit to a certain fondness for the vehicle itself. I rarely travel far, but without the car my market trading would be difficult, and the stall is an essential way of generating income. And of allowing those who need me to find me, of course. Even in this supposedly enlightened Age of Aquarius, I am unable to put a sign on the door saying
WITCH—SPELLS AND POTIONS FOR EVERY OCCASION
. No. I must adjust and adapt and present myself with a more … acceptable face to the outside world. The car was reluctant to start but responded to a spell. I left the engine running while I finished loading and secured the doors with string. I was locking up the house when I heard the motor stall. Without thinking, I focused, made myself still, and repeated my spell. There was a moment’s hesitation, and then the engine sprang into life once more and chugged on happily. It was only when I returned to the vehicle that I noticed Tegan standing at my gate, her expression all too clearly revealing that she had witnessed my remote motor mechanics. She grinned, her eyes bright. I pushed past her and secured the gate.

‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m in rather a hurry,’ I told her.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Pasbury, and if I dally, I shall be late setting up my stall.’

‘In the market? Cool. Can I come?’

‘What?’

‘To Pasbury. With you. I could help.’

‘I manage perfectly well on my own, thank you.’

‘Go on. You don’t have to pay me. Just give me a lift and I’ll help you unload this lot.’ She nodded at the boot of the car before stooping to peer through the rear window. ‘What’s in there, anyway?’

I looked at the girl. As always, she was wearing too few clothes for the chill weather and had about her a lostness that I could not ignore.

‘What are you doing up at this hour?’ I asked.

She shrugged, ‘Mum woke me up coming in off her night shift. Couldn’t get back to sleep. Mum was out like a light.’ She kicked at a small stone. ‘I didn’t feel like staying cooped up in there with no one to talk to.’

‘Won’t your mother wonder where you are?’

‘No.’

I sighed. I would really rather not have had the company of a garrulous adolescent, but she was hard to refuse. ‘Get in. And don’t fiddle with anything, especially the door handle. It keeps coming … there! What did I say?’

‘Sorry.’

‘And put your seat belt on. The last thing I need is the attention of some nosey policeman.’

The town of Pasbury is unremarkable but adequately supplied with shops and services. The market itself is, in truth, a lackluster affair. A mixture of worthy food, antiques of dubious provenance, pet supplies, heavily glazed china, and clothes that have had their labels excised. I had secured for myself a modest pitch, but in a good position at the bottom of the high street, where most shoppers would pass on their way to and from the car park and bus stop. Tegan put herself to good use helping me set up, apparently in no hurry to leave me. She showed an interest in my stock. So much so that I was quickly weary from explaining things to her. I gave her a handful of coins.

‘Go and buy us hot drinks,’ I told her. No sooner had she gone than a young woman parked her stroller at the stall and leaned over to scowl at the oils. There emanated from her such agitation, such anger, that I took a step backward. I noticed purple discoloration where her cheekbone met her hairline. She saw the direction of my gaze and turned to let her hair swing forward, but she knew that I had seen the bruise. Her babe was red-eyed but slept on in his stroller.

‘What’s that for, then?’ the girl demanded, prodding at bags of rosemary leaf.

‘It is helpful for rheumatism. And to ease period pains. The leaves make a tea.’

‘Tea? It smells disgusting. How do you use this?’

‘That is an aloe vera unction. A balm for burns, stings, that sort of thing.’

She dropped the pot back on the table. I pitied the poor creature, so young yet clearly so unhappy. I pointed to a bottle of bergamot oil.

‘This is very good for lifting the spirits.’

‘Huh! Give me a rum and Coke any day.’

‘And this gets rid of negative energy.’

‘Have you got one for getting rid of cheating bastard husbands?’

Now I understood. I fetched a small blue glass bottle from the box I kept on my side of the table. The label bore only the picture of a half moon.

‘You might like to try a few drops of this.’ I handed it to her, and she peered at it suspiciously. ‘It makes a person more …
considerate
,’ I explained.

She laughed, then caught my eye.

‘How much?’

‘See if it works first. You can pay for the next one if you’re happy with the results.’

My first day of trading in Pasbury went slowly, but I detected a certain interest. I have found it often takes time for people new to my wares to pluck up the courage to buy them. No matter. Time is something I have in abundance. Tegan stayed with me the whole morning, only reluctantly agreeing to catch the bus home after I insisted she do so. I do not want to attract her mother’s disapproval, and I was aware the girl had not asked permission to leave the village. I paid for a pie for her lunch and gave her the busfare back to Matravers. She claims to be keen to accompany me every Saturday. We shall see.

FEBRUARY 24, 2007—FIRST QUARTER

The holly saplings I ordered were delivered this morning, and the ground is at last soft enough to work on. I spent a productive hour planting in the gaps I had cleared and am pleased with the results. I have long reconciled myself to being able only to garden in the short and mid term, as I know I will not be able to stay anywhere long enough for more than this. Still, slow growing as they are, the feisty holly bushes will knit well with the rest of the hedge in a few months. And I have the satisfaction of knowing they will survive long after I have moved on. Holly is one of the most protective plants to set about a garden, and I would not be without it. Whilst not sufficient on its own to guarantee safety, it forms a powerful part of my Wicca arsenal. Later, I unpacked my supply of herbal sachets and hung sweet herbs inside the doors and windows of the cottage.

FEBRUARY 26, 2007—FIRST QUARTER

The weather has turned unseasonably mild, sending bulbs into frantic activity, which they may regret when the frost returns. I have seized the moment and dug over the kitchen garden. The steady toil required to turn such a large area of patchy lawn into beds lifted my spirits. Impossibly ancient I may be, yet I am sufficiently blessed to retain youthful health and vigor. After a morning’s effort, I had stripped to my shirtsleeves, and my skirt was hemmed with mud. The soil here is good—loamy and free draining but not so much so as to have difficulty retaining water. I must resist the temptation to plant too early. This is but a false spring. It is curious how my long march through the years on this planet has done nothing to teach me patience. My mother used to chide me for my lack of it, and I still fret and fidget when compelled to wait longer than seems reasonable.

It was while I was leaning on my fork that Tegan arrived at my side. I was startled by her sudden appearance but far more disconcerted that I had not heard her approach. I saw she had abandoned her silly boots and was wearing trainers instead.

She noticed me jump.

‘Sorry. I rang the doorbell; then I heard you digging. Wow, have you done all this yourself? You must be exhausted.’

Despite myself, she made me smile.

‘I enjoy a little hard work now and again,’ I said. ‘Do you like gardening?’

She shrugged, ‘Never done any, really. Unless you count growing cress on the kitchen windowsill.’

‘It’s a start, I suppose.’

Again, the girl seemed to be waiting for something. She certainly must be a friendless soul to come looking for the company of a stranger on a mild afternoon, when other teenagers would no doubt be in a gaggle somewhere. I held out my fork.

‘Here, you try.’

She grinned, then took it from me. She stabbed ineffectually at the earth, her face registering surprise at how little impact she made. She tried again.

‘Lean your weight onto the fork. Look, like this,’ I leaned over and repositioned her hands, showing her how to use her body to drive the tines into the ground. She giggled, that indomitably cheerful sound again, and did as I instructed. It was clear she was a quick learner, and soon she had picked up a rhythm and was making slow but steady progress through the sward.

‘Keep it up,’ I told her and went into the house. From the window I watched her work. She tired quickly but did not give up. I filled two glasses with hot fruit tea and then went to stand at the door.

‘Would you like to come in for a warm drink?’

She did not need to be asked a second time. She followed me back into the kitchen and took the tea from me, sniffing the steam warily.

‘What is it?’

‘Fruit tea. Rosehip and orange. Drink it while it’s hot.’

She sipped, then smiled, then sipped some more.

‘Hey, this is great. I’ll tell Mum to get some.’

‘I’ll show you how to make it one day,’ I said, surprising myself at the rashness of such a promise.

‘You made it? Wow, cool.’

The girl began roving the room, studying my store of bottles and jars. ‘This is the stuff you were selling on your stall. I never thought you actually made everything. Did you do all this?’

And so we fell to discussing the oils and incense and herb pillows and sachets that I produce. I explained how I sell them at markets or sometimes to shops. She appeared fascinated, running her fingers along a row of blue glass phials, pausing to sniff a basket of drying lavender.

‘These are cool,’ she said. ‘Is that what you’re going to grow out there?’

‘Some herbs, yes, and flowers for the oils, and vegetables, of course.’

A thought occurred to her.

‘I don’t know what to call you. You still haven’t told me your name.’

‘Elizabeth. You can call me Elizabeth.’ I took a sip of my own tea, then asked, ‘Tegan is unusual—is it Cornish, perhaps?’

‘Welsh. My mum used to go there for holidays as a child, that’s all. Another of her whims. To be honest, I think it’s the only thing she really likes about me.’

She held my gaze, and the small silence was full of longing and hurt, so much so that I wanted to take her in my arms as my mother would have done me. Instead, I turned to rinse my glass at the sink.

Tegan noticed my journal on the kitchen table.

‘Oh, is this for your … recipes, and stuff?’ She moved to pick it up.

‘Put that down,’ I said, more sharply than I had intended. The wounded look on her face troubled me, so that I found myself suddenly wishing her gone. I was unused to having anyone inside my home. ‘If you’ve finished your tea, you should run along home. Just because you have no demands on your time, do not assume that is the case for everyone,’ I told her, turning to stoke the stove to avoid her crestfallen expression. After she had left, I felt an irritating regret. Even now, I am not sure whether it was because I let her into the house or because I sent her away.

This evening I spent some hours preparing a new batch of oils. I made a dozen or so bottles of lavender and the same of peppermint. It is light and pleasant work and ordinarily holds my attention, preventing my mind from dwelling on things about which I can do nothing. On this occasion, however, I found my thoughts wandering. I was thinking of Tegan. And of Margaret. I cannot think of one without bringing the other to mind. And try as I might to linger only on happy images of my dear sister, I cannot keep the deathly pallor from her skin when I picture her with my mind’s eye.

FEBRUARY 28, 2007—SECOND QUARTER

The mild spell continues, shedding light rain but nothing else. Tegan has proved herself more resilient than I had bargained for and reappeared the next day as if I had never uttered harsh words. Indeed, she has become a frequent visitor. I cannot pretend I have tried to discourage her. I admit I find her freshness and enthusiasm endearing. She soaks up knowledge like bread dipped in broth. She is possessed of such a keenness to learn and has assisted me in clearing the mess of brambles in the far corner of the garden. I have given her an old pair of boots and equipped her with heavy gloves. The poor child had nothing suitable of her own. I asked her why she did not spend time with her new school friends, and she explained none of them lived in the village and that the bus service is irregular and expensive. I ventured to ask if her mother might object to her being out of the house so much—surely there was homework to be done? It seems her mother is a care worker at a home in Pasbury. She works long hours and varied shifts. She is happy that the girl is occupied. There is no mention of a father or of any siblings.

I confess I am allowing myself to feel at ease here at Willow Cottage. Since that sense of threat the day I encountered Reverend Williamson, I have not had any negative sensations or moments of alarm. Could it be that I have at last found a safe haven? Can I have finally stepped beyond the reach of those ever-outstretched claws? The notion is seductive, and I am loath to taint it with caution and care. When we had finished our work, I had Tegan join me in placing a candle and a small circle of pebbles in the newly cleared area. I explained to her that I believe it will make an excellent sacred space. The heavens alone know what the child made of such a statement, but she happily went along with positioning the stones and helping me choose a candle. I will burn sage oil come the full moon and ask for continued protection.