Ten

Morning of Tuesday, 5 December
Full Moon

THE COTTAGE IS WARM, which makes Sally aware of how cold she is. She removes her coat and sleeping gear, the trousers of which are now soaking and covered with mud, and wraps herself in a dressing gown, then goes downstairs again and makes a cup of tea. A glance at the clock tells her it has gone seven, so there’s little point in going back to bed. She feels strangely disorientated and out of rhythm with the time of day. What the hell was she thinking of? Probably catch pneumonia—serve her right. Still shivering, she takes her tea over to the Aga and sits in the rocking chair. She goes over what’s happened since she first woke up. Her going out in the cold, the moon…the whole thing makes no sense. Perhaps she’s suffering from some sort of delayed reaction to Jonathan’s death. What are the standard phases of grieving? I’ve been through disbelief, she thinks, denial, anger. Now I’m into dancing in the moonlight and throwing my wedding rings in a pond. Perhaps I’m going round the twist. Yes, that must be it. Although she doesn’t think so. In fact she feels remarkably stable, despite her inability to comprehend the situation. Also she feels—well, sort of clean, as if she has immersed her whole body in the water. A sort of baptism. Yes, going round the twist, definitely. Yet, when she does stir from the chair with the intention of taking a shower, she changes her mind and simply pulls on some clothes. There’s something about the way she feels that she doesn’t want to be washed away too soon.

The morning moves slowly. A bit of house tidying, breakfast for Cat, and some toast and peanut butter for herself. Then she makes more toast, realizing she’s hungry. Freshly ground coffee and a slice of banana cake—very hungry. Cat also cleans her plate, then curls up on her favourite armchair preparing to sleep until noon as usual. Meanwhile Sally can’t settle to anything. She tries turning on the computer and checking her emails. A few need replies, but they can wait until later. There’s a project she’s working on for a local antique furniture restorer, some house-to-house leaflets, and her old boss has pleaded with her to look after one of her former customers, a national car dealer who particularly requested her services. But she can’t set her mind to anything. Eventually she gives up trying and decides to walk into the village; she might even call in at the shop. Perhaps a little exercise and some normal human contact will put her straight.

The window is framed with strings of coloured lights, the words Merry Xmas written across the glass in sprayed-on snow, along with a stencilled sleigh and reindeer. Inside, the shop is fully geared up for the festive season, shelves laden with Christmas goodies, crackers and cards, puddings and mince pies. Every available inch is crammed with extra stock so that customers are obliged to weave through an obstacle course, while above them red and green streamers criss-cross the ceiling and balloons bounce on their heads. This is obviously the commercial opportunity of the year.

Sally puts a few items in the basket and goes to the till. There are already two customers ahead of her, which for Hallowfield qualifies as a commercial rush. Jack, Ruth’s husband, is serving behind the counter, and he nods to Sally as she joins the end of the queue. He’s not as quick as Ruth, but everyone seems happy to stand around and chat: a visit to the local shop is always more of a social occasion. Sally has been cornered by a member of the Women’s Institute who is sizing her up as a potential new member. She’s trying to think of a polite way to decline. Participating in village life is all well and good, but this, she thinks, is where I draw the line. She’s thankful when Abbie comes up behind her.

‘Hi there. Icing the Christmas cake,’ she indicates her basket, which contains a plastic Father Christmas and a gold cake frill. ‘Made the thing ages ago, of course. Was intending to decorate it this morning, but I can’t find the damn decorations. I know I put them away safely last year, but God knows where. Probably find them on Boxing Day. What are you up to?’

‘Came out for a walk really. But I thought I ought to get some Christmas cards organized.’

Abbie looks at the box of assorted cards in Sally’s basket. ‘Robins and snow scenes, eh? Bad as my plastic Santa. Thought you would have gone for something chic and understated.’

‘I probably would have, but they only seem to stock overstated and retro,’ Sally whispers. ‘I think these are rather kitsch, but they might set a new trend. God, it’s cold out this morning.’

‘Not as bad as it was at six o’clock. This time of year I wonder why I ever took up horse riding. I envy you—tucked up in your bed until after eight, I bet’

‘Well, no, actually I was outside early too. Have you got a minute?’

‘Yes, sure. You look worried.’

‘Not really, it’s just—I feel like a chat’

‘Right Let’s get this lot paid for, then go next door for coffee.’

Suddenly Sally finds herself at the front of the queue and Jack is smiling at her. ‘Morning, Mrs Crawford.’ As he speaks her name, it jars through her head like a knife scraping on china.

‘No, it’s Lavender. Sally Lavender.’ As the words come out, Sally is as surprised as Jack and Abbie. ‘I…I’ve decided to revert to my maiden name. But, Jack, please call me Sally. It feels friendlier.’

‘Certainly, Mrs…er, Sally. Do you need some stamps for these?’

‘That would be great. About twenty should do it. No Ruth today?’

‘She’s next door,’ Jack smiles at Abbie, winks and taps the side of his nose, ‘serving tea.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Abbie, in turn, gives him a knowing look. ‘Well, we’re going in for a coffee, but we won’t disturb her if she’s busy.’

Most of the tables in the teashop are taken, but they find one that’s unoccupied, probably because it’s set apart, tucked in a corner to one side of the counter. Almost immediately a girl with spiky hair and a metal ring through her eyebrow comes over to say hello to Abbie and take their order. That done, Abbie turns her attention back to Sally.

‘What’s all this about you changing your name?’

‘Not changing it really, just going back to who I was.’

‘Sally Lavender? It’s unusual. I like it, although…Only, well I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but women often revert to their maiden name after a divorce. It’s not customary for widows to drop their husband’s name.’

‘Bit of an impulse, really. But to be honest I never felt comfortable with Mrs Crawford. Sounds very starchy. Whereas Sally Lavender sounds…’

‘Like something out of a storybook?’

‘Yes, I suppose it does. But it’s easy to remember, so I think it’s a good move professionally.’

The girl returns, bringing them coffee and apple strudel.

‘So, what’s Ruth up to, if I’m allowed to ask?’ Sally tucks into the pastry as if she hasn’t eaten for a week.

‘She’s over there with a client.’ Abbie nods to the far corner where, seated at a small table, Ruth is deep in conversation with a middle-aged woman. ‘We’d better not interrupt her.’

‘A client? What sort of client?’

‘Oh, you probably don’t know, do you? Ruth is a clairvoyant. She reads tea leaves.’

‘She does what?’

‘Reads tea leaves. Well, of course she doesn’t actually read the leaves, they’re only a prop. Ruth’s exceptionally gifted. But you know how strange people are: women who wouldn’t dream of going to a psychic counsellor think nothing of having their tea leaves read. I suppose it’s because if they don’t like what they hear they can persuade themselves it was just a bit of fun.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sally puts down her fork, ‘but you’re going to have to run all that past me again. You say Ruth is a clairvoyant?’

‘That’s right. Do you know anything about clairvoyance?’

‘Sort of. Fortune telling, isn’t it? Palmistry, crystal balls, all that sort of thing.’

‘More or less. Only, most of those things are just a means of focusing the mind. Usually a good clairvoyant doesn’t really need them, but somehow it helps the client to feel more comfortable with the reading. People who are new to this get really spooked if the reader suddenly starts relaying information out of thin air. But, for some strange reason, the idea of their Mr Right appearing in the bottom of a teacup seems perfectly acceptable. I know that’s not logical, but most people aren’t, are they? Logical, I mean.’

‘And she gives readings to the customers? Here in the café?’

‘Not always. She does take private appointments, but some people find that a bit daunting. It’s easier to call in casually for a cup of tea and ask her to do a reading.’

‘So, the performance with the teacup is just to impress the customers?’

‘Not entirely, no. I think, to some extent, it must help Ruth to sort of tune into the client’s wavelength. You’ll have to ask her about it.’

‘But Ruth knows everything about everyone. She’s the biggest gossip in the village.’

Abbie smiles. ‘Yes, that’s what she likes everyone to think. It’s all an act, of course.’

Sally shakes her head in disbelief. ‘The first time I walked in here I was met by a barrage of questions. She knew all about me within five minutes.’

‘Yes, but did you actually answer any of those questions? In fact, have you ever told her anything about yourself? No, I bet you haven’t. Ruth talks a lot, she knows a lot, but she asks questions, then answers them herself. And she never listens to gossip. It’s very clever, the way she does it.’

Sally has to think about this. While she sips her coffee she takes surreptitious glances at Ruth, who is turning the teacup in her hands while her client nods her head. A thought occurs to her.

‘Abbie, you know the spring and the pool in my garden? You said that several of the village women go there. I know about Naomi, that she takes the water and what she uses it for. She said that Ruth goes there, too. Why does Ruth need the water? What does she use it for?’

‘As I think I told you, the water seems to have healing properties, for the mind at least—maybe for the body as well. People usually go for psychic counselling when they’re troubled. That’s what the water’s for. She uses it to make the tea.’

‘Oh.’ Sally looks down into her cup.

‘It’s OK, there’s nothing mystic in there. That’s just everyday coffee. But it’s not too bad, is it? Would you like another?’

‘Abbie, what is it about you women? Why are you here? Why am I here?’

Abbie puts down her cup and looks directly at Sally. For a moment she’s silent, then she takes a deep breath.

‘I can’t tell you because I honestly don’t know. But you’re right. There’s something about the women of Hallowfield. Some of us, at least. It’s as if there’s a purpose to us being here. Oh, I know I was born here, but I’ve never wanted to leave. In fact the very thought of leaving sends me into a panic. There are particular women, newcomers, who say they’re drawn to the place. And I know this sounds crazy, but I seem to recognize them as they come to the village. It’s as if I’ve known them before.’

‘What, in a past life or something? Oh, come on now, surely you don’t believe in that sort of thing? Or do you?’

‘I don’t know what I believe. Maybe it’s that we have certain ideas and beliefs in common, so we naturally seek each other out. Could be as simple as that.’

‘Let me guess who this group might be. There’s Ruth of course, the clairvoyant. I bet she reads palms as well, does she?’

‘Yes, she does. I remember her and Jack arriving when I was, oh, must have been about eleven or twelve. She used to work at the local dairy—that was before they bought the shop. I remember her children being very young then. In fact the youngest was born here. I used to babysit for her when I was older. I loved spending time with her and her family.’

‘Who else is there?’

‘Well, there’s Fran. Edward, her husband, was the new vicar. Still is. They came up from London. Apparently he’d been running some sort of refuge in the East End. Eventually the stress got to him and he was advised by the church superiors to take up the position in Hallowfield. She’s a bit forthright, as you may have gathered, not quite what the parish was expecting, but they got used to her after a while. Fran gets involved in everything, would have made a wonderful social worker. I think he just wants a quiet life.’

‘And there’s Naomi, of course.’

‘Yes, Naomi. She turned up about ten years ago, bought that house and set up her workshop. She made no effort to hide her beliefs. That raised a few eyebrows, I can tell you.’

‘I imagine the Women’s Institute were up in arms.’

‘You’re not kidding. To say nothing of our Reverend Edward Cunningham. He really got on his high horse, persuaded some of the church people to get up a petition. Then out of the blue, the vicar’s wife flew to her defence. Fran’s quite a force to be reckoned with.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘She reminded them about the history of Hallowfield, the witch hunts and the atrocities the community committed in the name of religion. Naomi just let it all wash over her. Anyway, she’s such a dear, no one could dislike her for long. Strange sort of friendship, but Fran and Naomi have became very close, almost like mother and daughter. The last thing anyone expected.’

‘I see. And I haven’t met Claire yet, but I think we can count her in. What’s her specialty?’

‘Yes, she does have a special gift. A form of psychic ability, like Ruth in a way, but…Well, you’ll find out when you meet her.’

‘But she does use the spring water?’

Abbie nods.

‘So that’s Ruth, who makes magic tea, and Claire—both psychics. Naomi who uses it to do magic spells and stuff like that. There’s you, using the water for your healing potions. What about Fran? I know she’s into astrology, but what the hell does she use the water for?’

‘The font.’

‘The what?’

‘It goes into the church font. For the past fifteen years, every girl child in Hallowfield has been christened or baptized with the spring water.’

‘But why?’

‘She says it’s her stand against patriarchal domination in religion.’ Abbie struggles to control the smile that grows around her eyes. ‘Fran says we ought to even up the score. She says the established Church is welcome to all the boy babies, but,’ the smile escapes into a laugh, ‘she insists that, by substituting water that comes from the holy well, all girls anointed with it are initiated as daughters of the Goddess.’

Sally gasps, then catches Abbie’s laughter. It’s a while before they both wipe their eyes and settle back to their coffee. When they do, they are both silent. It’s Sally who speaks first.

‘So that’s you Abbie, Ruth, Claire, Fran and Naomi. Anyone else?’

‘Yes. There’s you.’

‘Me? Where do I fit in? Or do I?’

‘Of course you do. You’re the Guardian of the Spring.’

‘Oh.’

While Sally is still stunned into silence, the street door opens again and Fran sweeps through in a flurry of greetings. She drags a spare chair up to their table.

‘Sally, just the girl I was looking for.’ She sits down and untangles herself from a huge hand-knitted poncho. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Course not. Coffee?’ Abbie calls the waitress over and orders another round.

‘You were looking for me?’ asks Sally.

‘It’s the season of goodwill, so you won’t mind volunteering, will you? There’s a brave girl. Knew I could rely on you. Got a large car, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, but hang on a minute. What have I volunteered for?’

‘Help the aged. Food parcels. Got them all made up, but we need about ten drivers to deliver them.’

‘Good God, how many parcels are there?’

‘Not that many. Brainwave idea. Each driver only delivers four. Gives plenty of time to stop and chat to the old dears. That way you get to know each other so they won’t mind you chauffeuring them to the Cambridge panto. They’re doing Aladdin this year. Managed to talk the theatre into giving us forty tickets at half price. Local businesses paid for the other half. Course the oldies won’t all want to go, but we can always find someone else for you to take.’

‘So I’m actually volunteering to take a group of elderly people into the city for a theatre trip?’

‘That, too? Great! I’ll put your name down. Sally Crawford, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. No. I mean, let me get my head around this. Has she got you down for this, too?’ Abbie admits her involvement with a shrug of defeat. ‘Oh, all right then, yes to the parcels and theatre. Only put me down as Sally Lavender.’

‘Sally Lavender? What a fantastic name.’

‘Not at school. I used to hate it then, but I think I might have grown into it now.’

Coffee arrives and they’re joined by Ruth.

‘Good morning, ladies.’ Greetings and hugs all round, then Ruth also brings up a chair. ‘Is my granddaughter looking after you?’

‘Is that the girl who served us?’ asks Sally.

‘One of them. I’ve got several. Not all mine, though. My daughter keeps changing husbands and they bring kids from their previous marriages to add to the collection.’

‘Now, you’re just the person I wanted to see.’ Fran homes in on Ruth. ‘Can I put you down for—’

‘No, you can’t. I’m far too busy this time of year. Besides, you’ve already conned me out of half my stock for those blessed hampers. I bet she’s got you signed up for the theatre trip.’ Ruth turns to Sally. ‘You have to be firm with her, you know, or she’ll run you ragged.’

‘Too late, I’m afraid. I’ve been conscripted.’

‘We all learn by our mistakes.’ Ruth looks hard at Sally. ‘You look tired. Anyone would think you’ve been out dancing all night.’

‘What?’ Sally gasps. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘All right, my love,’ Fran lays a hand on her arm, ‘only her idea of a joke. Hey, what’s wrong, Sally? You’re shaking.’

Sally looks at the three women. This is hardly the place to talk about such things, but then no one is paying them any attention. Besides, she has to tell someone and she’s not sure she has any other friends now. And these three women mightn’t think she’s mad—well, no more insane than they are.

‘Ruth’s absolutely right. I am tired. I have been up half the night. I was dancing in the woods.’

So it all comes out: being woken up last month by the moon, then seeing Naomi in her garden with Cat, this month’s early morning venture into the garden, and the dancing in the moonlight. The other three women listen intently, exchanging those knowing looks. Fran puts an arm around Sally’s shoulder as she talks, and then there’s a long silence.

It’s Ruth who eventually speaks. ‘When you first came here, we knew you were right for the cottage.’

‘It’s as I was trying to explain,’ says Abbie. ‘Something seems to be drawing us here.’

‘But what? Why?’

‘God knows,’ says Fran, ‘or at least the Goddess does.’

‘But what does it mean, all this dancing and the things in the pool?’

‘It’s an old custom, leaving a gift for the Goddess,’ says Abbie. ‘We’ve probably all done it at some time—a sort of payment for the water. And I notice you always wear the moonstone now.’

‘Yes, and I keep that opal with me, the one you gave me, Abbie. Look here, it’s in my pocket. But I’m not sure it’s helping me to remember anything.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ says Fran. ‘Seems you know a lot more than you thought you did.’

‘But the dancing,’ says Ruth, ‘that’s more like ritual work. Moon magic. Bit out of our league.’

‘Naomi, that’s who she should talk to.’ Fran looks to the others for support. ‘More in her line of work.’

‘But I’m not a witch.’

‘As far as we know at the moment.’ Fran blunders on, heedless of the look of alarm on Sally’s face. ‘But I shouldn’t rule anything out at this stage.’

‘I think she’s right.’ Abbie’s voice is more gentle and reassuring. ‘Naomi is more likely to be able to explain what’s happening to you. You can trust her. And, don’t worry, she won’t get you into anything you don’t want. However, it’s obvious you’re already involved in some way and you need help to sort it out. What do you think, Ruth?’

‘Yes, Naomi’s best. You’ve met her a few times already, so it won’t be like talking to a stranger. Would it help if I were to talk to her first, sort of pave the way?’

‘Would you? I think I’d find that easier. And you don’t think I’m losing my marbles?’

‘No more than the rest of us. Anyway,’ Fran stands up and retrieves her poncho, ‘I’m going to have to move. Drum up some more transport.’

‘Yes,’ says Ruth, ‘and I’d better get back behind the counter. But I’ll make sure I contact Naomi today.’

Abbie asks Sally if she would like another coffee.

‘No, thanks. I think I’ve had enough stimulation for one morning. I might go home and get my head down for a couple of hours.’

‘Good idea. In fact I think we should both make ourselves scarce before Fran comes back and bullies us into doing something else.’

Philip Hunter-Gordon
28 January 2007

Compared with most of Europe and Scotland, England got off very lightly. About two thousand were accused, of which one thousand were executed.

The first official witch trial in England was at Chelmsford, Essex, in 1566. Three defendants: Elizabeth Francis, Agnes Waterhouse, and her daughter Joan. As was the case in a lot of these trials, the highly imaginative stories of young children were accepted as evidence. Agnes Waterhouse was hanged on 29 July 1566 (possibly the first woman hanged for witchcraft in England). Elizabeth Francis was imprisoned for a year, and then in 1579 she was charged with witchcraft again and hanged. Joan Waterhouse was found not guilty.

Other notable trials include:

But that didn’t put a stop to the persecution.