The Moon Spun Round (5 page)

‘My goodness, who are you?’

‘I’m a witch and I’m going to change you into a toad.’ The witch struggles through a narrow gap between the shelves, her pink anorak and Barbie trainers
comically at odds with the grotesque features.

‘Now, Gemma, that’s not a polite thing to say, especially to someone you don’t know. What will the lady think?’

‘She’ll think I’m a real witch and give me lots of sweets.’

‘Yes, well Halloween’s not till this evening. And if you want to go trick or treating you’d better mind your manners. Sorry about that.’ The mother gives Sally a look that’s a mixture of long-suffering and loving indulgence. Young Gemma removes the mask and drops it into the wire shopping basket. ‘Moving into the village, are you?’

‘Yes, Wicker Lane.’

‘What, old Stonewater Cottage? That’s been empty for ages. Lovely old place, it needs someone to live in it.’ She turns to Ruth. ‘Wasn’t that the place where that woman was staying? You know, the one whose husband got killed in that accident?’

There’s a heartbeat of frozen silence, then, as if on cue, Ruth starts clattering the contents of the basket and bashing the till keys while Abbie frantically pulls faces at the mother from behind Sally’s back.

‘Oh, God, have I said something wrong?’

‘No, it’s all right,’ says Sally. ‘People are bound to find out if they don’t know already. Better to deal with it up-front. Anyway, I only came in for some milk. I’m dying for a cup of tea. No: bad choice of words. Are you busy, Abbie? Perhaps you could join me? Help me eat this cream cake?’

‘Now that’s an offer I can’t refuse. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.’

The three village women watch Sally fumble her way out of the shop while Gemma gazes hopefully at the pile of pointed black hats.

‘That was her then, was it? Me and my big mouth. I hope I haven’t upset her, first day here and everything.’

‘You weren’t to know,’ says Ruth. ‘In any case, as she said, everyone is bound to find out; and the sooner the subject is aired, the sooner it can be put away.’

‘Well, fancy her moving here, though. It’s the last place you’d think she’d want to be.’

‘I’m sure she has her reasons. It does seem strange, I grant you, her wanting to live so close to where her husband died. But no stranger than staying in that place where they lived in London, every corner full of memories. That’ll be eight pounds and fifty pence. Unless Gemma wants the hat as well.’

‘Oh, I suppose so. Might as well let the kids enjoy themselves. Though there wouldn’t be any trick or treating if that vicar had anything to do with it. Miserable old sod.’

‘Oh, you don’t want to take any notice of him, he does that every year. Going
on about witchcraft and devil worship. Not that he knows the first thing about it. He’s all hot air and ignorance.’

‘But I suppose in a way he’s right,’ Abbie points out. ‘Halloween’s not about celebrating evil. Originally it was supposed to be a festival to honour the dead. Surely that must include the poor women who were persecuted for their beliefs? Doesn’t do them much honour, does it, to set them up as evil old hags?’

‘Yes, I’ve heard there were witches in this village at one time,’ says Gemma’s mum. ‘Got burned at the stake, didn’t they?’

‘Hanged,’ responds Ruth. ‘Witches in England were hanged, not burned.’

‘Were they real witches?’

‘There’s not much known about the Hallowfield women. But a lot of people accused of practising witchcraft were just old, maybe a bit daft or demented.’ Abbie touches one of the skeleton faces. ‘There was no Social Security in those days, so the poor relied on the Church. Witch hunts were a good way of ridding the parish of a burden. Although some of them, no doubt, were troublemakers, women who could think for themselves, had the audacity to stand up to the menfolk.’

‘So there weren’t any real witches then?’

‘Oh yes, there have always been witches,’ Ruth glances at Abbie. ‘Women who knew things about nature and herbs.’

‘Women who can look into a crystal ball and see further than the end of their nose.’ Abbie winks at Ruth.

The young mother feels she’s in the cross-current of a private joke. ‘Well, there’ll certainly be a few around tonight, won’t there, Gemma? Despite anything old Reverend Cunningham says about it. Right, we’d better be off before she finds something else I’ll have to pay for.’

‘Here, don’t forget your change.’

The shop door closes and Abbie and Ruth are left alone. There’s a silent moment before Abbie speaks. ‘Do you think she’s doing the right thing?’

‘Oh yes, I think Sally belongs here. I saw it the first time she came through the door. And that cottage needs a woman. It will make her welcome, and so will the cat.’

‘She’s been more concerned about that cat than anything these past few weeks.’

‘You’ve been looking after it for her, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, she made me promise to feed it regularly. Brought in stacks of cat food when she visited at the weekends. Even rang me up during the week to see if it was OK.’

‘Well, there you are, then. That cat wouldn’t let her near the place if she wasn’t right’

Cat is there to meet her, sitting by the gate as if Sally were expected. Not that she makes any great show of welcome, just sits patiently, tolerating Sally’s strokes and fuss. Then she turns and walks at a dignified pace along the path that leads to the front door.

Sally turns the key. Although this isn’t the first time she has opened this door, it’s the first time she has done so as the owner of the house. She feels there should be some ritual for this occasion, like a bride being carried over the threshold. Cat darts in ahead of her and Sally follows cautiously, expecting the room to look somehow different.

When she drew up outside there was a moment of irrational fear that her intervention would have caused things to change. But everything is as she remembers, except for the transformation that autumn has worked on the landscape. The colours of the garden have become subdued, the shrubs and hedges bare and spiky. The earth has turned a richer shade of brown and, beyond the rooftop, trees stretch their branches, stark against a metallic sky.

The kitchen, too, is as it was the first time: the quarry-tiled floor, the big scrubbed pine table, the ticking clock and the rocking chair. For a moment her mind slips back to that morning. Not that she can remember much of it. But there was something important about that rocking chair. And the clock. Nothing is clear. It’s as if whole chunks of time have been cut out of that day, like pieces missing from a jigsaw. Of course this room holds memories of Jonathan: that telephone call, the spilled wine and the lame excuse. It has all become entwined.

She will always remember what he did, no matter how far she runs, but it can never be as bad in Hallowfield as it was in London. It seemed like everyone there knew him. They were all ready to tell her how she should feel, how heartbroken she should be, what he was like—wonderful husband, brilliant mind, so insightful, so sympathetic. And every time she forced herself to listen, it was like a knife twisting in her stomach, the betrayal all over again. She had told no one; she wouldn’t dare. None of their friends would want to hear those things about their beloved Jonathan. You mustn’t speak ill of the dead, as her father would say. So she had been careful to play the grieving widow—but the truth was there, all the time ready to blurt from her bitten tongue. And the strain of keeping it in check was sapping the life from her. No, there is no way to escape Jonathan in London.

He had never actually reached the cottage, never contaminated its walls with his lies. This is her place alone. Yes, there are memories here—every time she looks from that window she will see the pall of black smoke—yet, oddly, what she remembers most is the sense of peace that had infused her at that moment. And something else, something that hovers on the edge of her mind but refuses to come into focus. She pushes her hand through her hair. Don’t think about it now.

And then there’s Cat, rubbing up against her legs.

‘Right, Puss, I’m in residence again. Only this time it’s for keeps. We’ll celebrate with tea and milk. Abbie will be along in a minute, but from now on I’ll be doing the catering.’ She bends down to give Cat a stroke. ‘She’s right, you do look well. She’s obviously been feeding you properly.’ Cat’s coat is definitely sleeker, her body fuller despite the lean bones. Even her ears look less ragged, and some of the old scars on her nose seem to have healed over. Her eyes are as bright as Sally remembers.

Unlike that first time, the kettle light goes on straight away, and when Sally throws the switch for the Aga it booms into action immediately. It isn’t long before the radiators are ticking gently as hot water moves through the pipes.

‘God, this place is freezing.’ Abbie comes through the door, making Sally jump. She is wearing a beaten-up old raincoat over the habitual jodhpurs. ‘I thought you wouldn’t arrive till after lunch. I was intending to come round and turn the heating on before you got here. Still, it won’t take long to warm the place up.’

‘It’s certainly a lot colder than the first time I stayed here. What on earth’s it going to be like in winter?’

‘Oh, it’ll be fine. These stone cottages retain the heat once they’re warm. Not like our place, which is old
and
big. Right draught box. And they
are
predicting a hard winter, though you should be cosy enough.’

‘Tea?’

‘Wonderful. But I’ll keep my coat on, if you don’t mind.’ She pulls out a chair and sits at the table, stuffing her hands into her pockets and hunching her shoulders.

‘I gather your house is a lot older than this one,’ says Sally. ‘My solicitor had me look through the deeds and all that stuff. Apparently this place was built in the 1600s, but it’s been altered and extended a lot since then. He reckoned the plot of land has been recorded for a lot longer, though, so there could have been an even older building here before this one.’

‘Oh, quite likely. Our house and stables goes right back to the late 1500s. The ownership of the land is older still, but even on the oldest maps of the area this
plot is separate, like a square patch of land that has been cut out of ours.’

‘Really? Wow, I own a piece of history. And it’s much larger than I first thought. It seems I own some of that clump of trees, too.’

‘Yes, you do. The boundary between our properties runs through the copse. There’s no fence, but a stream marks the division. Easy to jump over if you want a shortcut. You must come over whenever you want. I’ve been looking forward to having a neighbour.’

‘Yes, I will. Might even take you up on some riding lessons. I’ve caught sight of your horses in the field at the back. Is the land on the other side yours, too?’

‘I’m afraid so—you’re completely surrounded by our fields. But a public footpath runs along that boundary. It goes right along the edge of our field and on through the woods to the river. Nice walk.’

‘Yes, I went for a walk along there that afternoon…while I was…Cat was with me, she led the way. We stood on the bridge and watched the river. At least…I think…When I came back I found the police car waiting for me.’

‘It must have been awful for you.’

‘They were very kind. A policewoman drove me all the way home, then called some friends. She waited with me until they turned up.’

‘How did the police know where to find you?’

‘Apparently he’d been caught on a speed camera, so they traced the car number. The security man at our block of flats told them where we were staying. Luckily we’d left this address in case…in case of…They didn’t know it was him, only that it was his car. I was afraid they were going to ask me to identify the body. But they said it wasn’t necessary, they could do some tests.’

‘Oh, Sally, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring all that up now, not on your first day. I promise I won’t mention it again. Not unless you want to, of course. I’m always ready to listen.’

Sally is suddenly aware of the kettle steaming away. ‘Oh, I was supposed to be making tea, wasn’t I?’ She opens a cupboard, clinking china. ‘You don’t mind a mug, do you? Shall we have some of that cake?’

‘Go on, persuade me. Ruth’s right, you have lost some weight. But I like the new hairstyle.’

‘Yes, it’s…I felt like something different, easier to manage.’ She occupies herself with the kettle and teabags. Hearing the fridge door open, Cat springs up on the worktop and nudges Sally’s arm. ‘All right, I haven’t forgotten you.’ She lays a saucer out. ‘Milk? Sugar?’

‘Me or the cat?’ Abbie laughs. ‘Just milk. And not too much for Cat. I know she’ll drink the cow dry, but milk’s not actually good for cats. They should be given water.’

‘Is that right? She can be very persuasive. Well, maybe just this once, as we’re celebrating. And she does look remarkably well, thanks to you. What was it you gave her?’

‘Oh, just a herbal mix. Something I give the dogs when they’re looking a bit off colour. Amazing what a bit of rest and good food can do. Same goes for people.’ Abbie gives a meaningful look.

‘Yes, well perhaps I can relax now everything’s sorted.’ Sally carries two mugs to the table and attacks the cake with a large knife.