“Better bring the umbrellas in as well while you’re out there, Bert,” Christine called out after him as a gust of wind swept in through the open door of the Black Bull, bringing with it a rustling scatter of dead leaves that lay in shades of brown, yellow and scarlet over the polished floorboards.
“Right,” he said, closing the door behind him with an effort. The wind, however, was so strong that it jerked the handle from his hand and once more the door flew open letting in yet more streams of autumn leaves. With a gale like this blowing, he thought, finally managing to shut it, the trees would be stripped bare in no time and it was so cold that he doubted if anyone would be sitting outside to eat any time soon. Halloween or no Halloween, Christine was right. It was definitely time to put the outside furniture into store, umbrellas and all.
Inside the Black Bull, Christine listened to the howl of the wind and shivered suddenly. It was a dull, grey day and without the sun, the inside of the bar had become dark and strangely oppressive. She tried to shrug the feeling off but the underlying malevolence lingered in the air and frightened her considerably although she was loath to admit it.
There was also the uncanny feeling that she was being watched. She looked round nervously. Was there an intruder? She could see no one. Surely, she thought doubtfully, surely it wasn’t her witches who were watching her … for hanging here, there and everywhere, all over the bar and the dining area, was her collection of witches. They were her pride and joy. Some she’d bought herself but over the years, most of the others had been given to her as gifts. Indeed, it was amazing how the number had grown — for now at least thirty witches of all shapes and sizes decorated the bar.
Sitting astride a variety of broomsticks, they were beautifully dressed, their black cloaks stiffened with wire so that they flew out behind them. Some were young and reasonably pretty as witches go, with frothy petticoats and gaily striped stockings relieving the gloom of their outfits but most were repulsive old hags dressed in black with hooked plaster noses, pointed chins and droopy pointed hats.
Christine bit her lip for, witches apart, the place actually looked frighteningly ghoulish. She’d put a lot of work into the Halloween decorations and what with grinning pumpkins, green-eyed black cats and flapping, white ghosts, the room looked … really creepy. Maybe, she thought, maybe they’d gone just a bit over the top with the decorations …
“Christine!” She heard the chef’s voice with an overwhelming sense of relief and turned thankfully to the warmth and brightness of the kitchen, anxious to leave her fears behind.
It was the mirror that hung at the side of the kitchen door that gave them away and, for an instant, her heart stopped beating — for the minute she turned her back on them, they started moving. Her witches! They were real and alive, their cloaks swirling, their eyes gleaming nastily and their frowning, painted faces, masks of evil.
She swung round and they immediately froze. Her eyes strayed to the front door. It was closed. Bert had shut it and there was no draught. Being a down-to-earth, sensible woman, however, she clung obstinately to reason. It was ridiculous, she told herself frantically, how could the witches move?
She looked at her favourite witch, a really wicked-looking old hag with gorgeously made clothes that hung at the end of the bar and its eyes met hers with an evil malevolence that sent her stepping backwards with a cry of fear.
“You all right, Christine?” queried the chef, grabbing her arm. “You nearly tripped on the step, there.”
“It’s the witches,” she whispered, her face as white as a sheet. “I thought … I thought for a moment that they were … alive.”
Chef gave her a funny look. If he hadn’t known that Christine didn’t drink, he’d have sworn she’d been at the brandy. “Don’t be daft,” he said, sounding irritated. He’d just found out that they needed green coriander for the curry, which meant a trip into Berwick and he wasn’t, therefore, in the best of tempers. “Now,” he said, propelling her briskly back into the bar, “what’s the problem?”
She couldn’t believe it. The bar was totally normal, the awful atmosphere had gone and her witches hung innocently on their invisible strings; just as they’d always done. Relief swept through her. “Thanks,” she sniffed, reaching for a tissue and blowing her nose loudly, “I can’t think what got into me!”
“You don’t fancy a trip into Berwick, do you?” he asked hopefully. “We’ve run out of green coriander and there are a few other things I could stock up on …”
“No problem,” Christine seized on the chance to get out of the bar and, remembering a sweater she’d seen in a shop in Marygate the previous week, decided that a bit of retail therapy was decidedly in order. “Make me a list and I’ll get my bag,” she said, feeling a million times more cheerful.
Chef stood in the bar as she went to get her coat and handbag. He didn’t share his employer’s passion for plaster witches any more than her husband did. “Bleedin’ witches!” he said aloud as he turned back to the kitchen.
Then he stopped dead and very slowly turned to look again at the witch that hung near the till; a rather dashing young witch that sported a frothy white petticoat under her striped dress. The witch looked blandly back at him with just a touch of amusement in her black eyes. He swallowed. Just another plaster witch or … was it? Now he was at it, he thought wildly, returning to the kitchen … imagining things …
Nevertheless, as he picked up a meat cleaver and proceeded to attack an inoffensive joint with unaccustomed vigour, he was pretty sure that he hadn’t been mistaken — for as he’d turned, he could have sworn that the witch had winked at him.