WITCHES IN SECRET Large Print

PIP POLLINGER IN PRINT Pollinger Limited 9 Staple Inn Holborn LONDON WC1V 7QH www.pollingerltd.com First published by EPB Publishers Pte Ltd 1992 This edition published by Pollinger in Print 2007 Copyright © Val Thame 1992 All rights reserved The moral right of the author has been asserted A CIP catalogue record is available from the British Library ISBN 978-1-905665-26-6 No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without prior written permission from Pollinger Limited.

Chapter 1

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ell, I wouldn’t want to live there. It’s an awful place. They have bathrooms in every house, soap in every room and they wash every day. Every day, whether they need it or not!” Evilyn spoke from the depths of the wardrobe where she was hanging upside down, her long thin legs hooked over the clothes rail, her arms folded across her chest and her red hair trailing. She was talking to Goodrun, her elder sister by two years, who was busy packing a suitcase. “And don’t expect me to visit you,” said Evilyn. “It’s bad enough having a sister that’s only half-witch, without having to explain to my friends that she’s gone to live 1

in the mortal world, and with a batty old aunt who doesn’t know a good spell from a plate of cabbage.” “I wish you’d stop moaning and do something useful,” said Goodrun. “Like what?” asked Evilyn, who thought being useful was about as boring as being sensible. “Like helping me pack,” said an exasperated Goodrun, suddenly throwing a pile of clothes into the air. “I’ll never get all this in.” She punched her hips. “I’m fed-up with packing.” “I don’t know why you’re bothering.” Evilyn sniffed. “Only a mortal would pack things.” “All right!” Goodrun’s patience was thinning rapidly, “Since you’re so clever, what do you suggest?” Evilyn shrugged her shoulders. “I’d just go as I am and conjure up what I wanted when I got there. NOT,” she added with great emphasis, “that I intend coming with you, in spite of what Mother says.” Goodrun sighed. “But I can’t rely on my powers. They don’t always work properly. I was never good at magic.” “Unlike your brilliant sister,” crowed Evilyn, “who got her witches’ diploma with double-black honours. Mother and Father were extremely pleased with me.” 2

“You don’t have to show off to me. I’m your sister, remember?” “Half-sister. And one who failed her final exams. Who was it who flooded out the Academy? Who destroyed hundreds of years of research into evil, and got herself expelled?” “Me. OK? Satisfied now?” “No. I’m enjoying myself.” Evilyn began to swing to and fro on the clothes rail. “And,” she continued, “you’ve been expelled from the witch world, too. You know, of course, that you’ll never be able to come back.” “You can be really nasty at times,” said Goodrun, stuffing a load of socks into a corner of her case. “Yes, I can. I’m pleased to say. Your trouble is that you aren’t nasty enough. Do you realize you’re the first member of the Badmanners family to be nice and it’s not something I’m proud of.” “But I’m not a Badmanners,” said Goodrun. “Blackheart Badmanners is your father, not mine. My father was Cornelius Smith and I shall use his name from now on.” “I’d like to forget about Mother’s first husband,” said Evilyn. “Can’t imagine why she married a mortal. She couldn’t have been feeling well at the time. How on earth did she meet him?” “He was doing a magic act . . .” “Magic? A mortal? I don’t believe it.” 3

“Well, he was a furniture salesman really, but he did a magic act in his spare time. He called himself Marvo the Magnificent.” Evilyn laughed so much she nearly fell off the clothes rail. “Oh, how terrible — and I bet he was too.” “No, he wasn’t. If he impressed Mother he couldn’t have been that bad.” “Bet he was,” said Evilyn. “Actually, when I think about it, I’m glad we’ve got different names. I wouldn’t want anybody to muddle us up.” “Huh! Hardly likely,” thought Goodrun. And she was right. For although the sisters were of similar size and had the same startling red hair and dark green eyes, there were differences. Evilyn had a long witchy nose and thin, mean eyes, but Goodrun’s nose was small and her eyes wide and large. Goodrun was also pleasant and polite, always knew where her temper was, and rarely lost it. Evilyn frequently lost hers, did not care, and never bothered to find it. Being all witch, and proud of it, Evilyn had a naturally nasty streak in her nature but Goodrun had inherited much of her father’s kind and compassionate nature. “What happened to him?” asked Evilyn, as if she had been reading her sister’s thoughts. “He died just before I was born. Mother said he was moving some furniture and a 4

particularly heavy chest of drawers fell on him.” “That’s not what I heard,” sneered Evilyn. “Oh? And what did you hear?” “I heard he turned himself into a bottle of lemonade,” Evilyn began to cackle, it was a spiteful, grating sound, “and — and somebody drank him before he could turn back again.” Evilyn’s ghastly laughter filled the bedroom. “Oh, very funny,” said Goodrun. “I think you’re horrible.” Evilyn sighed happily, “I know, I’m so lucky.” Then a pink cloud wafted into the bedroom and a voice from its fluffy depths said, “Are you ready for the journey, my witchlings?” The cloud gradually faded and the girls’ mother, the beautiful Witch Hayzell appeared. Evilyn, who had no intention of going anywhere, zapped herself into an old raincoat as soon as she heard her mother’s voice. “Have you got everything?” asked Hayzell. “I suppose so,” said Goodrun. “I really don’t know what to take.” Her mother opened the wardrobe door. “Well, you’d better take this,” she said, yanking the raincoat off its hanger and stuffing it into the suitcase. “You may need it.” 5

But the raincoat did not want to be packed. As fast as Hayzell pushed one sleeve into the case so the other one fell out. Hayzell’s beautiful brow creased into a frown as she struggled to close the suitcase. “And where’s Evilyn? She was supposed to be helping you pack.” “She was here a moment ago.” Hayzell sat on the case and snapped the case locks. “Well, we can’t wait about. Nettle’s expecting us.” Goodrun was so excited she could hardly breathe. This was it. “No more trying to be nasty, no more struggling with spells that go wrong, I shall be an ordinary person, well — almost.” She added “almost” because she knew there was nothing she could do about the witchy bits inherited from her mother. Some of her powers would always be with her. She took a last look round the room. Goodbye Badmanners Mansion. Goodbye witch world. Goodbye to all her friends, although, if she were truthful, she had not made many. She had never really fitted in at the Academy of Black Art, not like Evilyn, who had been a hideous success. But Goodrun wanted to forget about all that. She was going to start a new life without witches and magic. Ever since her mother had told her she was half-mortal, Goodrun had dreamed 6

about this moment of leaving Badmanners Mansion and going to live in the ordinary world with her dear old aunt. Nobody knew quite how old Nettle Patch was, but it was well into the hundreds in witch years. Her powers had faded dismally and she made so many mistakes that the Witches Council had been forced to retire her. Knowing that Goodrun could never be a successful witch, her mother thought it would be best if Goodrun went to live with her retired aunt. One was really too young to live alone and the other too old, so the suggestion that they look after each other seemed a good one. “Stop dreaming and grab that suitcase,” said Hayzell. “I can’t be sure where we might end up if you do the zapping, so shut your eyes, hold on tight, and leave the travel arrangements to me.” And in the ticking of a tock, or the flicking of a tail, they had both disappeared. A breeze blew in the window, dusting the empty bedroom with its summer sighs and rattling the doors of the empty wardrobe where a single hanger swung gently to and fro.

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Chapter 2

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nly seconds after closing her eyes Goodrun felt strangely light-headed and light-bodied, fragile, as if her skin was made of eggshell. It was very odd. Then she began to tingle, a feeling which started in her toes and rushed through her body up to her scalp. She was sure every hair was standing on end. “It must be the zap rising,” she thought. She had no idea where she was or how long the strange feeling lasted. It could have been seconds or minutes, or no time at all, until Hayzell said, “Well, you won’t see much with your eyes shut.” Goodrun opened her eyes. She and her mother were standing in a small unkempt 8

garden full of weeds, thistles and nettles. “Is this it?” “Yes,” said Hayzell. “Not bad, is it?” In her dreams Goodrun had seen this cottage a hundred times. She had seen a pretty black and white beamed building with a thatched roof, roses growing round the front door and a garden full of sweetsmelling herbs and country flowers. Inside she saw painted white walls, polished wooden floors, russet rugs, china ornaments and chintz curtains. She saw a red-brick fireplace and an assortment of old and comfortable chairs full of squashy cushions. She also saw dear old Nettle, whom she could just about remember, welcoming her at the door, tea and toasted teacakes readylaid on the table, and the smell of freshly baked bread wafting in from the kitchen. “Yukky, yuk-yuk!” said Evilyn, when Goodrun had foolishly confided in her. “That’s mortal enough to make me sick! No proper witch would live like that. Not even silly old Aunt Nettle.” Goodrun was reminded of Evilyn’s words as she made her way along the overgrown path towards the very ordinary brick-built cottage wrapped in an overcoat of rampant ivy. It had a grey slate roof and a small chipped chimney struggling to support a lopsided aerial. No beams and no thatch. It 9

had two dirty square windows upstairs and another, equally dirty, beside the front door. There was a porch but it was covered in bindweed, not roses. There was no welcoming smell of home cooking and nobody waiting to greet them. The cottage looked cold and empty. Goodrun stared in dismay at the rain-spotted windows, at the decaying bricks, at the broken lionhead knocker on the door, and all her happiness disappeared in one gulp. “It’s a bit smaller than Badmanners Mansion,” said Hayzell, cheerfully, “but you’ll soon get used to it.” She rapped on the door. “Mother? Are you sure this is the right place?” “Oh yes. Quite sure.” She knocked again. “Where is she?” Hayzell bent down and called through the letterbox. “Auntie? We’re here.” “I thought I heard something,” said Goodrun. Both stood with their ears to the door. “Silent as the grave,” said Hayzell. “Something’s wrong. I’m going in.” And with a flick of her elegant fingers she disappeared. “I wish I could do that,” thought Goodrun, admiringly. But it was a trick, among many others, that she had never perfected. She 10

picked up her case, which she had dropped on the path when they arrived, and dragged it towards the front door. It was very heavy. “Ouch! Do you mind!” Startled, Goodrun dropped the case in the porch. “Who said that?” “I did. Get me out of here, can’t you?” “Get who? Out of where?” There was nobody there. Then she had a thought. Perhaps her elderly aunt had fallen over and lay injured somewhere under the weeds? Or perhaps there was a well and she’d fallen down it? “Is that you, Aunt Nettle? Where are you?” “Festering pimples! Don’t keep asking silly questions. Get me out.” Although difficult to believe, Goodrun thought the voice was coming from her suitcase. Very cautiously she undid the locks and, to her amazement, a crushed and crumpled, creased and crochety Evilyn flew out. She was in a terrible rage. Surrounded by her own darksome cloud of fury she stamped and cursed and fretted and fumed. “How would you like it?” she shouted. “Squashed in there with your smelly old clothes.” “I wouldn’t and they’re not smelly. But, if it’s not a silly question, what were you doing in my case in the first place?” 12

“It is a silly question and Mother put me there.” “Mother? Why?” “Because she thought you wanted a raincoat.” “What?” “Well, I didn’t want to come on this trip,” said Evilyn grumpily, “and when Mother came up to fetch you I zapped myself into a raincoat, the same one that she insisted on stuffing into your suitcase.” “I see,” said Goodrun. “That’ll teach you.” “It will.” Evilyn’s eyes flashed angrily. “It’ll teach me to disappear completely next time. Which is what I intend to do now.” And she did, fizzing off into the sky like a demented rocket. “Oh, bats!” thought Goodrun. “She could have zapped me inside the cottage.” She repacked and locked the case, then leaned back against the door to wait for her mother. But, as if the old wooden door had suddenly melted away, she found herself falling helplessly backwards and the next thing she knew, she was lying flat on her back. Stunned and surprised she lay there for quite a few seconds looking up at a dusty, cobwebby ceiling. Soft fronds of grey, velvet stalactites shivered in the unexpected breeze. The front door had been open all the time, and Goodrun had fallen into the living room. 13

She scrambled to her feet, just as her mother came down the stairs. “I’ve found her,” said Hayzell. “Nettle’s in her bedroom but she can’t come down.” “Why not? Is she ill?” “No, she’s . . . well, she’s a bit up in the air, poor thing.” “You mean, angry?” “No. You’d better come and see for yourself.” Hayzell led the way up the narrow stairs, which led off the sitting room up to a small landing. She marched into one of the bedrooms. “See!” she said. The room was small but the furniture was large. There was a huge and lumpy brass bed covered with a brilliantly-coloured patchwork quilt, a desk covered with books under the window, an armchair, and a large, wooden wardrobe, but no aunt. “Is she invisible?” asked Goodrun, wondering what it was she was supposed to see. “No. She can’t do things like that any more. She’s too old.” “Oh. Has she gone back to the witch world?” “No, no,” Hayzell tutted impatiently. “She can’t do that, either. She’s earthbound, or she was.” Hayzell jabbed a thumb towards the ceiling. “I’m afraid she’s up there now.” 14

Goodrun gasped. “Oh, Mother. You don’t mean she’s — dead?” Goodrun swallowed hard to push down the tears. Hayzell shook her head, irritably, and wondered how a child of hers could be so stupid. “Of course not, silly! She’s stuck to the ceiling. Under that carpet.” Goodrun had not noticed the carpet but even if she had she would not have thought it unusual to see one on the ceiling. Her mother was always changing the furniture round in Badmanners Mansion and sometimes everything was on the ceiling. Then, to her horror, a corner of the carpet fell away and a thin hand sprang out and waved frantically.

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Chapter 3

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his must be one of Drab’s tricks,” said Hayzell. “She’s the only one of the aunts who visits, and Nettle couldn’t have done that herself.There isn’t a scrap of magic left in that moth-eaten old mat of hers.” Goodrun was worried. “Can’t we do something? She’ll suffocate up there.” “Mmm. Yes, we could.” Hayzell had discovered Nettle’s wardrobe mirror and was admiring her beautiful reflection. “But it would take the power of three to get her down.” She shook her rich, red hair which sparkled in the light. “And even though I am worth two of any witch, you, Goodrun dear, are only half a witch, and two and a half does not make three.”

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“What about Evilyn?” “Yes. She should have been here anyway. Evilyn? This is your mother calling. Come here at once!” Evilyn materialized on top of the wardrobe. “I was coming anyway,” she lied. “Fog on the motorway.” “Rubbish,” said Hayzell. “But a good try. Now, your aunt is stuck to the ceiling.” “Aawh!” yawned Evilyn. “Is that all? She’ll come down when the spell wears off.” “But we can’t wait. I want to speak to her.” Only because Goodrun insisted, they moved the heavy brass bed so that Nettle had something soft to land on. Then they held hands and began to chant: Rule of three, scrit-scrat-scree. Rule of three, scrit-scrat-scree. They repeated it over and over, and the room popped and pinked with magic. Then, released from its spell, the carpet dropped onto the bed with a thwunk, and a small and wrinkled old lady tumbled down on top of it. Her thin legs waggled in the air as she struggled to pull down her skirt and sit up at the same time. “Podulations!” she cried. “I’ll squidge that mean sister of mine. I’ll give her spots. I’ll make her hair fall out. She only did this 17

because I said her warts were fading. You’d think she’d be pleased, wouldn’t you?” Hayzell tutted sympathetically. Nettle sat on the edge of the bed smoothing her creased clothes and tucking into a knot the stray wisps of white hair. Then she saw Hayzell, Evilyn and Goodrun. “Oh, my socks!” she cried, “How did you get in here? Who are you? What do you want? Don’t say I left my front door open again? I’m always doing that.” She wriggled off the bed and ushered them towards the door. “You must have the wrong house. You’ll have to go.” Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. “You didn’t see anything. You didn’t hear anything. Understand? Nothing at all. You imagined it. I was just having a nap on my bed.” “Auntie,” cried Hayzell, trying to stop herself from being pushed down the stairs. “It’s us.” Nettle screwed up her eyes and looked at Hayzell. “Hmm. That red hair looks familiar. There’s only one person with fiery hair like that. It’s my great, great, great, great niece Hayzell.” Hayzell loved compliments, especially about her unusually red hair “Yes,” she said, “and this is my eldest daughter Goodrun, who is coming to live with you. Remember? And her sister Evilyn . . .” 19

“Who is not coming to live with you,” growled Evilyn. Nettle peered intently into each of their faces. “My eyesight isn’t so good. So you’re Evilyn. You’ve grown.” “I haven’t!” said Evilyn, rudely. “You’ve shrunk!” Although Nettle smiled, Goodrun could tell there was no warmth behind it. She raised her right foot and looked for a moment as though she was going to stamp on Evilyn’s toe, but she did not. “And you must be Goodrun.” Nettle extended a thin, crinkly hand. It looked too fragile to shake. “I shall be pleased to have you. The family don’t visit now that I’m retired. Too dull, I suppose. My sister Drab pops in sometimes but she’s getting very cranky in her old age.” Evilyn snorted. “Like somebody else I know. Ouch!” This time Nettle’s foot connected with Evilyn’s. “So sorry,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I thought I saw a rare toe-nibbling ant! My mistake.” Evilyn scowled. “Well, now that you’re here, I expect you’d like some tea,” said Nettle. And all three followed the old lady down to the kitchen. 20

“She’s worse than I thought,” whispered Hayzell, watching impatiently while Nettle fussed and fiddled with kettles and teabags. “I could zap a cup of tea in two ticks. Old age has turned her completely mortal. It’s so sad.” “Daft as a doughnut,” said Evilyn, lying flat on her back on the kitchen table. “Silly old egg, can’t even do a simple tea spell.” She rolled over onto her tummy, her sneering face right in front of Goodrun’s. “That’s what you’ll be like one day.” “Oh, get off!” The little seed of irritation planted by Evilyn made Goodrun push harder than she intended and Evilyn slid off the end of the table and smacked onto the floor. Floors were dangerous places for witches. A witch could get trodden on a floor. Evilyn scrabbled to her feet. “You frog! You did that on purpose.” “Frog yourself!” “Toad!” “You don’t have to stay for tea, Evilyn dear,” said Hayzell, calmly studying the length and smoothness of her bright orange fingernails. “Haven’t you got something awfully mean to do?” Evilyn stabbed a finger at Goodrun. “You wait,” she said. “I’ll pay you back for this.” And she disappeared, leaving behind the distinct and sour odour of bad feeling. 21

Nettle, advancing at last with the tea tray, sniffed the teapot. “What a funny smell! I hope it isn’t my tea.” She poured out four cups, unaware that Evilyn had gone. “Do your neighbours know you’re a retired witch?” asked Goodrun. Nettle smiled. “Of course not. And they wouldn’t believe me if I told them. Everybody thinks I am an ordinary old lady.” “How ghastly for you,” said Hayzell, “I hope nobody ever thinks I’m ordinary.” She stood up and smoothed her glowing red hair. “But tempis fugit, Aunt, and so must I.” She brushed Goodrun’s brow with the lightest of kisses. “I have to catch a whirlwind in Kansas. Don’t you just love bad weather? Call me anytime, if you need me. Byeeee darlings!” And Goodrun’s mother, the magnificent Witch Hayzell, gradually faded into nothingness, disappearing finally in a fragrantly perfumed puff of pink. Nettle peered shortsightedly into the cups and then at the two empty chairs. “They haven’t drunk their tea. Where’ve they gone?” “Home,” said Goodrun. And suddenly she felt very alone.

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Chapter 4

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fter tea Nettle demonstrated the wonders of the mortal world: the dishwasher, the vacuum cleaner and the electric kettle. Goodrun had never seen such amazing, unmagical things. The pop-up toaster, the microwave oven, the tumble drier, the food mixer, the washing machine and the incredible television, which could zap perfect images of people right into the living room. Goodrun was beginning to feel better already. “Who needs magic when you can have electricity,” she thought. But the demonstration tired her aunt. She sank, exhausted, into an armchair. “One thing you must always remember,” she said, her eyelids beginning to droop. 23

Goodrun waited for a while and then prompted. “What’s that, Aunt?” “What’s what?” Nettle’s eyes screwed back. “Oh yes. People. They are completely useless. Can’t zap, can’t spell and they can’t fly. Well, they can. They invented a huge thing called an aeroplane. Noisy, dirty objects. Knocked many a witch off a broomstick, they have.” “You mean they don’t know about beezum brooms?” asked Goodrun. “No. They use them for sweeping up leaves. Silly, isn’t it?” And there the conversation ended because Great-aunt Nettle fell asleep. Goodrun wanted to hear more about this strange new world but Nettle’s head had slumped forward onto her chest and she was snoring contentedly. The sitting room was small and untidy. Newspapers and knitting rested on every chair and balls of wool lay in disorderly pyramids on the floor. Obviously Nettle loved knitting. The furniture was old and worn and the dusty shelves filled with equally dusty books. In spite of Nettle’s pleasure at owning a vacuum cleaner, Goodrun doubted if she ever used it. Her little old aunt, who had slipped right down into the armchair, looked likely to be asleep for some time so Goodrun decided to unpack. 24

Her bedroom, next door to Nettle’s, was only a fraction the size of her old bedroom at the mansion and the furniture was plain. A single wardrobe, a chest of drawers with a set of mirrors on top, a rickety bookcase, a chair, a small table and a bed covered in another multi-coloured, Nettle-knitted quilt. She put some clothes in the chest of drawers, and others in the wardrobe but her graduation robe — the black, billowing gown and tall hat, which she had never worn because she had been expelled before she could graduate — she left in the case. “And I shan’t need them any more,” she thought, “except perhaps on Halloween. I wonder what mortals do on Halloween? Evilyn said they dress up as witches but I don’t believe that.” She stacked her books in alphabetical order on the shelves but her beezum broomstick (given to her by her mother as a going-away present) she put at the back of the wardrobe with her case of witchy clothes. She looked longingly at the broomstick. Flying had been Goodrun’s best subject. Zooming silently through the air, catching the soft breezes, rising up above the clouds and swooping down through the mists — seeing the world from the sky. 25

“But I don’t suppose I shall ever do that again,” she said wistfully, as she shut the wardrobe door. She put everything away except a certain envelope containing a certain savings certificate which her mother had given to her at her naming ceremony. It had once belonged to her father and it was all she had to remind her of Marvo the Magnificent. “Marvo the Magnificent,” she whis-pered, dreamily. She wondered what would have happened if her father had not met with such an unfortunate accident. She supposed she would have always lived with mortals and her mother would have been the odd one out. She quite liked her eccentric and witchy aunts, and loved her beautiful mother. She even had a soft spot for halfsister Evilyn, who was not the nicest of people, and her stepfather, Blackheart Badmanners, could have been a lot worse, but the thought of having another ordinary family gave her a wonderful, warm feeling. “I wonder what he looked like?” She had no idea, because none of her witch relations would ever talk about Hayzell’s first husband. Not even her mother, except to say that she had loved him dearly. “If my father had any brothers or sisters, then I would have an aunt or an 26

uncle. And if they had children, I would have cousins.” But these were just daydreams. All she really had was an envelope. She turned it over thoughtfully. Did it offer any clues? Perhaps there was a postmark. There was, but it was too faded to read. She had carried that envelope everywhere, in and out of bags, even under her pillow and any marks that might have been helpful had long since rubbed away. But, and she had never noticed this before, there were a few scratchy marks on the front. Handwriting, but so faint it was unreadable. Could it be an address? Hardly daring to hope, or breathe, she took the envelope over to the window where the light was better. “Mr Corn-e-lius Smith,” she read, her heart thumping, “24, Something Road. Oh, I can’t read it.” The next line was also faint. “Brooms, Broomshaw or Broomshill?” It was just a guess and the last line she could not read at all. But it was a start. “Somebody will know where this Brooms place is. Then I can ask about my family.” She felt a wild thrill of excitement. But, as quickly as her spirits had risen so they sank again. Her common sense, which she knew she inherited from her father, told her that even if she found out where Brooms whatever-it-was was, it could be miles away. It might even be in another country. She 27

would have no chance of finding it. She put the envelope away in the top drawer under her socks. She knew it was a chance in a million that she would be able to find her other family even if, and she knew it was a big “if”, there was one to find. Her aunt was watching television when Goodrun went down again. “I watch everything up to the ten o’clock news,” she said. “Then I make some supper and go to bed.” Her awful supper, some kind of tasteless, lumpy porridge, lay heavy in Goodrun’s stomach that night. She found it hard enough to sleep in a new bed in a strange room, without having indigestion as well. She had been so tired when she came up to bed that she did not even bother to undress but lay on top of the loopy, knitted quilt. She stared up at the ceiling, speckled and lacy in patches where moonlight had pierced the net curtain, and tried to make the little room seem like home. At the Academy she had shared a cold attic dormitory with three other witches all nastier and cleverer than she was. Greasey Puddle, Murky Pondwater and sister Evilyn, who was the nastiest and cleverest of them all. The beds were hard and the food was horrible. She had been scared of the teachers and terrified of the Head, Madame 28

Necromancy. And her room at Blackheart’s creepy old mansion had been huge and horrible with lots of grey shadows. The old house itself was draughty and cold with mysterious corridors. Too many skeletons in fits cupboards, bats in its attics and ghosts in its secret passages. By comparison her cottage bedroom was much, much better. She wondered what her mother was doing. Had she found the whirlwind? The time ticked by and the moon moved round, leaving the ceiling plain and the room dark. She heard the clock downstairs chime twelve times and she was still awake. “Midnight. The be-witching hour. But nothing will happen here. Not like at home.” But, as the last chime died away, Goodrun felt something, or somebody, moving around at the bottom of her bed. She lay perfectly still, but could not stop an ;icecold chill rushing through her body, freezing her blood. Then slowly, so slowly she was hardly moving, she lifted her head off the pillow, just a centimetre, and trained her muscle to see. Something touched her foot and she screamed. She jumped out of bed, then immediately wished she had not because her bedroom door flew open and something white and ghostly appeared in the doorway. Goodrun 29

was positively petrified. She wanted to scream again but nothing would come out. Unable to move or speak she stood by her. bed, staring wide-mouthed in horror at the floating apparition in the doorway.

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Chapter 5

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he apparition drew a thin sleeve across its eyes. “What in the name of Boiling Cauldron is going on?” it said. Then the light went on and Aunt Nettle, in a long, flowing nightgown, was illuminated in the doorway. “Auntie,” gasped Goodrun, flinging her arms around Nettle’s thin body. “It’s you.” Nettle peeled her off. “Of course it’s me. I live here, don’t I? What’s all the shouting about?” “My room. It’s haunted.” “Nonsense,” said Nettle, briskly, “I’d be the first to know if it was.” But even as she spoke the covers on Goodrun’s bed rippled from one end to the 32

other as if being plucked by some ghostly, invisible hand. “Stand back,” said Nettle. “I’ll get rid of it.” And pointing three fingers at the bed, she began chanting an old-fashioned, doublepurpose spell for the removal of bedbugs and demons. She was about halfway through when the covers lifted and a small, black kitten wriggled out onto the pillow. Goodrun was so relieved. “Oh, a cat. I didn’t know you had a cat.” “And I haven’t. That one’s a stray — only it doesn’t seem to want to.” “Doesn’t want to what?” “Doesn’t want to stray. It’s always here. Shoo!” said Nettle, waving at the kitchen. “Couldn’t we keep it?” “If you look after it,” said Nettle. “It’ll be your responsibility. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going back to bed and I suggest you do the same.” Goodrun did go back to bed but under the covers this time. The kitten snuggled down beside her. “You are very black,” she said, stroking its fur. “Inky black.” The kitten pressed its small head against her shoulder. “Inky Black. That’s a good name. Mine’s Goodrun Smith. I’ve always wanted a cat. 33

Mother says cats are good for poor spellers like me.” The kitten looked up and smiled. Goodrun was sure it did. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep but her head was so full of thoughts. Gradually, her thoughts muddled into dreams. Dreams of relatives, aunts, Greatuncles, second-cousins-twice-removed, and they were all crowding into her bedroom. “What’s your name?” “Badmanners,” she heard herself saying and everybody laughed. “What a silly name.” Then they were outside, pressing their strange faces against the windows. “We’re all Smiths,” they said. “Can’t find us!” And, swoosh, they disappeared. Then a witch came in and began tickling Goodrun’s nose with a feather duster and she woke up. It was daylight and Inky was licking her face and tickling her nose. When she got out of bed she was surprised to find she was fully dressed. Aunt Nettle was already in the kitchen and looking very smart in a blue knitted suit, over which she wore six or seven rows of dangling beads. “Watch this,” she said. “I think I can still do it.” She clasped her hands together under her chin and shut her eyes. Goodrun waited patiently. Her aunt appeared to be in some kind of trance. Nothing happened for ages 34

and then, the most delicious and tempting smells began wafting past. Waffles, maple syrup, hot doughnuts, fried eggs, toast and marmalade. But where were they coming from? Nettle, her eyes still closed, was swaying to and fro. Then she flung her arms above her head and snatched out of nowhere a packet of Bang, Shatter and Splat-flakes. She looked disappointed. “I wanted waffles,” she said, “not cereal.” But Goodrun was impressed. “I thought you’d lost all your powers.” “Not quite,” chuckled Nettle, tapping the side of her nose. “Don’t tell anybody but it’s surprising what a good night’s rest will do. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last.” For her own breakfast Goodrun made some ordinary toast and boiled an ordinary egg. At home she would have been expected to zap the whole lot and she was glad she did not have to do that any more. In the past her tea spells had tasted more like pea spells and once she used gunpowder instead of bunpowder and nearly blew up the kitchen. “I am cataloguing my spells this morning,” said Nettle, when she had finished eating her explosive cereal. “It will take years so I do a little each day. Everything must be in pumpkin order for my bestowal.” “Of course,” said Goodrun, who knew all about bestowals. They were very important 35

occasions when the extremely ancient witches gave away all their spells, potions and magic elixirs; all their treasured volumes of witchcraft handed down through the centuries; all their boxes of bits and packets of pieces; all their phials and philtres, their curious knick-knacks and horrible nak-niks. They bestowed them upon a chosen member of their own family, one which they thought most deserving of this magnificent inheritance. In this way their magic was handed down from witch to witch, to witch, making whoever received the bestowal immensely powerful. To gain favour with an old witch was, therefore, very important among younger members of the family. But none of this mattered any more to Good run. She was out of the witch business. “Don’t tell anyone what I’m doing,” said Nettle. “Otherwise all the young witches will be turning up and trying to be nice to me and I know they won’t mean it. I’ll be in my room till lunchtime and try not to bother me. I hate being disturbed when I’m working.” “Before you go, Aunt . . .” “Mmm?” Nettle was sorting through the books on the kitchen dresser. “Where do I change a savings certificate?” 37

“A certificate?” “Yes. Mother gave it to me at my naming ceremony.” “Ah yes,” said Nettle, dreamily. “I remember that well. You were such a peculiar baby. Not like other witchlings. You were always smiling. Very odd. I chose your name. Did you know that?” “No, I thought all the aunts chose names.” “So they do, but Goodrun was my idea. You should have heard some of the other suggestions. Spiderlegs, Muddikins, Drizzle.” “‘Drizzle’? Ugh. I’m glad you chose ‘Goodrun’,” said Goodrun. “My pleasure!” said Nettle. “As for your certificate, I should try the post office. There’s one on the corner. And scooping up two armfuls of books, Nettle and her beads went jangling upstairs. Before following her aunt upstairs, Goodrun loaded the breakfast things into the amazing dishwasher and switched it on. It swashed and swooshed noisily. Then she ran upstairs to get the certificate. Not only was she excited about cashing it, there was also the chance that somebody in the post office might have some records about her father. She wanted to whoop, so she did. “Whooop! Whooop!” Nettle called out, “What’s going on?” “I’m going out,” said Goodrun. 38

She heard Nettle mumbling about “terrible noise” and “people not listening to what they were told” and “a spare key downstairs”. She found the key on a hook by the front door. Goodrun put it in her pocket with her father’s certificate. Then she opened the front door and, for the first time in her life, stepped out into the real world.

39

Chapter 6

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he sun was shining and the air smelled clean and fresh outside. Cottages, much like Nettle’s, lined both sides of the road but most were in better condition than Nettle’s and all of them had better gardens. Goodrun passed gardens with neatly-clipped hedges, smooth, green lawns and borders of bright flowers. She began to daydream, imagining her aunt’s cottage as it might look with the weeds cleared, the windows sparkling, and the garden dug over. In her mind she had already cut back the ivy and repaired the porch. She was even thinking about what colour to paint the front door. She wondered what her sister was doing this fine morning. Probably something 40

dreadful because Evilyn hated sunshine. The sky was a beautiful rich blue, except for one flat, grey rain cloud hovering over the church steeple. Goodrun hoped it had nothing to do with Evilyn. It did not take more than ten minutes to reach the village centre. The post office was easy to find because it was, as Nettle said, on the corner and had a big red “Post Office” sign hanging outside. Inside, it was divided into half shop and half post office. The shop half sold all sorts of things — chocolate bars, birthday cards, sticky tape, batteries, books, soft drinks, pencils and purses. It reminded Goodrun of the confiscation cupboard at the Academy. This was a large, locked and bolted cupboard where the ugly crone, Witch Pickings, kept all the things she had confiscated from the girls. Only Pickings had the key to the cupboard and, every so often, when she felt like a good gloat, she would sit in the cupboard and drool over the treasures she had “picked” up. A young man with a silly grin and a mop of black curly hair was sitting on a stool behind the counter. His brisk voice cut through Goodrun’s thoughts. “Do you want something? There’re other people waiting, you know.” “Yes. I’d like to cash this, please.” 41

She handed over the certificate. She was sorry to see it go after all this time. It made her feel sad. She had nothing left of her father’s except the brown envelope. She put that back in her pocket. The young man read the paper very carefully. “It’s very old,” he said. “Does that matter?” “Could do. A few more weeks and it would be out of date.” Then the young man seemed to take a sudden dislike to the certificate because he banged it several times with a fat rubber stamp. After that he took some notes from a drawer and counted them at great speed. He put the notes in a plastic bag and prodded it under the glass screen. Goodrun took the packet of money and tucked it well down into her other pocket. “Next, please!” he said, staring past her. “But I wanted something else,” said Goodrun. “Stamps?” said the man, opening his big book of stamps. “How many?” “No, I don’t want any stamps. I’m trying to trace my father’s family. I wondered if you could help.” He slammed the book shut. “Look. This is a post office, not an Information Bureau.” 42

“Do you know a place called Brooms?” asked Goodrun. The young man laughed. “Brooms? Never heard of it. What about you, Elsie?” He turned to the woman sitting next to him. She smiled and shook her head. “Well, it might be Brooms something else,” said Goodrun. “I’m not sure.” “Nothing like that round here,” said the man. “What’s your name? That might help.” “Smith.” The post office man and the post office lady began to laugh. Goodrun thought it was very rude of them. “What’s so funny?” she said, sharply. “I’ll tell you,” said the young man. “There are hundreds and thousands and millions of Smiths. Millions of them. Cor! Talk about finding a needle in a haystack!” And he sniggered noisily. “What did your father do?” said the lady, grinning, but friendly. “He was a magician,” said Goodrun. Both rocked on their stools. They seemed to find this even funnier than being a Smith. “Oh well, that’s easy then,” said the man, smoothing his fat curls of which he was obviously very proud. “There aren’t many of them about. Here!” he addressed the queue of people behind Goodrun. “Anybody got a magician called Smith living next door?” 43

His last remark sent Elsie into near hysterics. Goodrun’s happy feeling was wiped away by the cruel laughter and replaced by a little bubble of anger. “Now, move along, dear,” said the young man, “can’t you see we’re busy?” Goodrun could feel the bubble growing until it was near bursting. “How rude. How dare they laugh at my father,” she thought angrily. Before she left the post office she gave the man on the stool a long, hard look. He was counting out some stamps. “Sticky fingers, three-legged stool, now let’s see who looks the fool,” she said. And zap! The spell was on him. The first thing that happened was all the stamps stuck together. He could not even open the book. Then with a queue of customers watching, the tall stools began to wobble. Both the curly-haired man and the giggling woman began to sway to the left, then to the right. Then the man’s stool toppled over completely. When he stood up again, surprised but unhurt, his thick black curls had gone. He was completely bald. Even from outside the shop Goodrun could hear the shrieks of laughter. “And I don’t care,” she thought. “ I shall find my family. And the next time anybody asks, I shan’t say he was a Smith, I’ll say he 44

was Marvo the Magnificent. There can’t be hundreds and thousands of them.” Evilyn, sitting on a rain cloud which had drifted over from the church, watched her sister stomping home angrily, and she smiled her evil smile.

45

Chapter 7

N

ettle’s garden was a riot of disorder and stood out in sharp contrast with the tidy gardens on either side. Weeds as high as the fence jostled and fought each other for space, columbines strangling grasses, nettles stinging columbines, thistles scratching poppies and wild, angry briars clawing at them all. Only the white dandelion seed had the good sense to drift over the fence and escape into the quiet calm of a neighbour’s well-tended border. Goodrun was ashamed of the raggletaggle garden and sorry for Nettle who was clearly unable to look after it so she decided she would make herself useful and tidy it up for her. 46

She let herself in with the key, not so much fun as zapping but safer, and went straight upstairs to put her money and envelope back in the drawer. But before she started on the garden, Goodrun thought she would make herself a cup of coffee. Nettle’s cupboard was well stocked. She had ground coffee, decaffeinated coffee and instant coffee. “Instant. How clever,” thought Goodrun. She put a spoonful of coffee granules into a cup and waited — and waited — and waited. But nothing happened. She read the instructions again. “Oh! Pour on boiling water. What a swiz!” After the disappointing not-so-instant coffee she went to find some gardening tools. The back garden was just as bad as the front. Weeds, weeds and even more weeds. The back of the kitchen jutted out from the cottage, like a separate room, and joined to it were several other small buildings. One, she discovered, was an outside toilet, very useful for gardeners; a second was the coal cellar and beyond that a wooden shed. Inside the shed, among the old sacks, boxes and rubbish, she found some shears, some clippers, a fork, a wheelbarrow and a spade. She put the tools in the wheelbarrow and trundled it round to the front gate where she started work. It 47

was slow and painful work. Painful because the nettles stung and the briars scratched, and slow because each time she filled the wheelbarrow she had to take it round the back to empty it. By midday her back ached, her knees were sore, her fingernails were broken and she was so stiff she could hardly move. But she was satisfied. The path was clear and the weeds cut down to stubble on one side. If she screwed up her eyes she could almost pretend it was a lawn. She was doing just that when somebody said, “Hello? Do you live here?” A girl, about her own age, was watching her from the next garden. “Yes,” said Goodrun, pushing her damp hair off her face. She felt so hot and sweaty. She was sure she looked awful. “Oh, great. I live next door to you. My name’s Daisy Blazer. What’s yours?” “Goodrun Smith.” “That’s a pity. I hoped it might be Poppy.” “Why?” “Because you’re tall and thin and you’ve got all that red hair. Then I’d be a Daisy and you’d be a Poppy.” Goodrun laughed. She liked Daisy Blazer straightaway. She was a cheerful looking girl with short dark hair, cut in a shiny straight bob which bounced up and down as she talked. 48

“How long have you lived here?” asked Daisy. “Only since yesterday,” said Goodrun. “I live with my aunt.” “Oh yes. Miz Patch. She’s a nice old lady, isn’t she? We’ve only just moved here, too. Me and my mum and dad. Where are your parents?” “My father’s dead and my mother . . .” Goodrun hesitated. As Nettle said, nobody would believe her if she said “my mother’s a witch”. So she said, “My mother travels a lot. She’s hardly ever at home so . . .” Daisy nodded understandingly. “My parents used to travel. I went to a boarding school before we came here.” “So did I!” said Goodrun. “Snap!” The girls laughed. “I’m glad you’re here,” said Daisy. “There aren’t many children in this road. But I’d better go. Mum’ll have my lunch ready. Shall I see you later on? After school?” Goodrun nodded but she was puzzled. Surely, Daisy was not still at school? She looked about the same age and she seemed very intelligent. “Thank goodness, I’ve finished,” thought Goodrun. “Perhaps Daisy is a slow learner.” She was feeling cooler now and very dirty. She remembered she had not washed that 50

morning, nor had she changed her clothes since yesterday. She hoped Daisy Blazer had not noticed. Not a good way to start a friendship. She threw the tools into the wheelbarrow and took them back to the shed. “Aaaah!” she said, stretching her aching muscles, “What I’d really like is a nice, warm bath. Nettle had finished her cataloguing work for the day and was dozing in a rocking chair in the kitchen. The radio was on, an empty cup was hooked onto her thumb and there was a bundle of half-finished knitting on the floor. Goodrun took the cup away before it fell. “Auntie?” she said, tapping her gently on the shoulder. “Are you asleep?” Nettle opened one eye. “I was,” she said, grumpily, “and enjoying it. What do you want?” “Do you have any hot water?” Nettle opened both eyes, very wide, very suddenly. Then she sat up and clasped her crinkled throat. “Water?” she croaked. “What do you want it for?” “Well,” Goodrun hesitated. She knew how witches hated water, even very old and retired ones. “I’d like a bath,” she said. “Oh! For one awful moment I thought you said ‘water’. Yes, I’ve got a bath. It’s upstairs. Came with the house. I keep spiders in it.” 51

“Does that mean I can’t use it?” “Of course you can’t!” said Nettle. “It’s occupied. And what do you want it for? There’s a perfectly good bed in your room.” Goodrun could not be bothered to explain that she did not want to sleep in the bath, only to wash in it. “Anyway, I’ve got a surprise for you, Aunt. Come and see.” Nettle was wide awake now. “Cracking smacking! I love surprises.” Goodrun led her to the front door. The little old lady was hopping and twitching with excitement, her beads rattling, and her white wispy head bobbing up and down. “What is it?” she kept squeaking. “Look,” said Goodrun, flinging back the door. Nettle looked. “Oh, you beastly child! What have you done? Where are my giant thistles, my hogsbane, my poison ivy, my strangleweed? It’s taken me years to grow them. You’ve ruined my garden.” Aunt Nettle was hopping again, but this time she was hopping mad.

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Chapter 8

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oodrun was surprised by her aunt’s reaction. “I thought you’d be pleased,” she said, miserably. “I thought you’d like a nice garden.” “I had a nice garden — once!” snapped Nettle. “A wild one.” “I’m sorry,” said Goodrun. “I should have asked first.” “Yes, you should,” grumbled Nettle. “But now you’ve started messing with it, you’d better finish it off properly.” “Oh, I will,” said Goodrun, eagerly. “And look after it,” said Nettle. “I’m too old to mow lawns and prune roses.” She sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?” She sniffed Goodrun’s shirt. “Pooh! It’s you . . .” 53

Goodrun suddenly remembered her bath. She excused herself and ran upstairs, tugging off her dirty clothes as she went. She threw them onto her bed. As she passed the door and was about to go into the bathroom, she remembered the spiders. She was quite used to the odd spider sharing a corner of her room but she did not fancy sharing with a bathful. “What shall I do? Dare I zap them away? If I want a wash I suppose I’ll have to.” She placed her fingertips on the door, closed her eyes and said, “Bath of spiders, get you gone by the count of three, two, one.” Then she took a deep breath, “Three. Two. One.” And opened the door. Surprisingly, it was a nice bathroom. Much nicer than she had expected. Pretty blue flowers on the wallpaper and blue curtains at the window. The tiles and washbasin were white and she supposed the bath would have been except — there was no bath! Just a dusty, empty space with two dripping, broken water pipes sticking out of the plaster. “Oh no!” Goodrun’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no! I only meant to zap away the spiders. How stupid. How stupid.” She tried reversing the spell to see if the bath would rematerialize, but it didn’t. Then she called on all the power she had to conjure up a new bath, but she couldn’t. The 54

ugly blank space where a bath should have been remained an ugly blank space where a bath should have been. “Ow!” she wailed. “Nettle will be boiling angry when she finds out. She’ll probably send me back to Mother. Oh, what am I going to doooooo?” Evilyn, riding about on a rain cloud, suddenly felt very happy. She did not know why but she was always in good spirits when somebody else was miserable. It was the way of witches. She was peering over the edge of the cloud looking for someone, or something, to empty the rain on, when something large and white collided with her and she nearly fell out of the sky. “Hey!” she cried, scrambling back into the middle of the cloud. “Mind where you’re going, can’t you?” The white, boat-shaped object pushed on, breaking up the cloud into pieces of wet, grey sponge. Evilyn just managed to grab hold of the side of the boat before the cloud evaporated altogether. Panting and puffing, she heaved herself over the top and slipped inside. It was a strange craft, the like [ of which she had never seen before. It was shaped like the hull of a ship, but an empty hull without any deck. Or like a rowing boat with the seats missing. Evilyn was 55

suspicious. It could be a trick. Some of her witchy friends, like Murky Pondwater and Greasey Puddle, were very good at playing nasty tricks. Hooking her feet round the two knobs at one end, she leaned over the side and looked underneath. It had four small feet. “Landing pods,” she thought. “Good.” She slid back and sat down as the unidentified flying object continued on its way. But it puzzled Evilyn. What was this thing doing floating about on its own, and where did it get its power? “But it’s more comfortable than a broomstick,” she thought. “No draughts and a good speed. So, if nobody wants it — I claim it.” And content to think that she had got something for nothing Evilyn shot off into space. While she was washing, at the sink, Goodrun was racking her brains trying to think how she could get hold of another bath. And if she did, how could she get it upstairs and plumbed in without Aunt Nettle knowing? Impossible. She had two alternatives. She could own up to her mistake and risk being sent home in disgrace (for the second time), or she could try magic. It was a risk but she decided on magic. 57

Dressed in clean clothes, and smelling much sweeter, she crept downstairs. Aunt Nettle was banging about in the kitchen, cooking what smelled like beans on toast. Goodrun’s tummy rumbled. She would have loved beans on toast but that would have to wait. First things first. She pulled the belt on her jeans another notch tighter. Most of Nettle’s spell books were in her bedroom but there were lots more in the sitting room. Goodrun found a really fat one called The Universal Encyclopaedia of Magic. She thumbed through the index until she came to “Incantations for the return of objects, various. See sub-section X, ‘Mystical Powers’, page 897.” She found an incantation on page 897 that looked just right. All she had to do was add the last line: Skies that are dark and winds that are strong, Snails that are short and worms that are long, Bread that is dry and cakes that are stale, Smallness of midge and largeness of whale, Mystical, magical powers that be . . .” Then, she closed her eyes and added: 58

Bring Nettle’s bath back, and bring it to me. She stood there for what felt like ten minutes but was probably only ten seconds, then a huge clap of thunder exploded overhead. Goodrun opened her eyes. It could be a coincidence. It was the sort of summer’s day that might produce a thunderstorm but she hoped it was her magic working. She said the last line over again and when she said it the tenth time, something large and white crashed into the sitting room, leaving a gaping hole where the window should have been. The large, white object wobbled for a bit, then toppled over onto its side and, to Goodrun’s astonishment, Evilyn, her face mottled with rage, fell out of the bath and rolled onto the carpet.

59

Chapter 9

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nky, who had been dozing on the sofa, dreaming of endless fish suppers, shot into the air like a rocket when the bath smashed through the window. He went up at least a metre, his black legs stretched below, his toes pointed and his fur spiked out like a hedgehog’s bristles, and his earsplitting yowl was sharp enough to curdle milk. Before his feet touched the ground he was curving round towards the stairs, the bedrooms and safety. Goodrun, overjoyed at her successful spell and the return of the bath, did not notice Inky’s disappearance nor the broken window. “Jubilations!” she cried. “Oh, joy and jam custard! Where did you find it, Evilyn?” 60

“Find what?” snapped Evilyn, rubbing her bruised elbows. “The bath.” “Bath?” Evilyn’s face paled to a ghastly green. “What bath?” “This one, of course,” said Goodrun, proudly polishing the taps with her sleeve. “I zapped it out and I’ve zapped it back.” “What?” Evilyn’s colour changed from ghastly green to yukky yellow. “Are you telling me that, that . . .” she pointed a trembling finger, “is a BA-A-ATH?” She almost screamed the last word. “But I’ve been sitting in it,” wailed Evilyn. “Wow-ee! Wow-eeeeee!” Her mournful cry, like wind down a cracked drainpipe, echoed round the room. Trembling and twittering, clasping and unclasping her hands, Evilyn stood transfixed before the terrible bath, unable to look away. “So, it was spell power that kept it going. I wondered why I couldn’t control it. And to think I’ve been twiddling with those taps!” She shuddered violently, her bony shoulder blades rattling. “There could have been water in those taps.” Her voice rose higher. “I could have been drowned.” Goodrun had never seen her sister like this before. The amazing and dreadful Evilyn, frightened of a bath. She was about 61

to start wailing again but Goodrun shook her, roughly. “Shut up, for goodness’ sake!” she hissed. “Aunt Nettle’s in the kitchen, so keep your voice down.” Evilyn hated being told what not to do and, just to annoy, started to howl again. But luck was on Goodrun’s side because a sudden gust of wind blew in through the open window and carried Evilyn’s rasping cry out into the countryside, where it mingled unnoticed with the harsh voices of the crows. Then Goodrun noticed the broken glass on the floor and it was her turn to cry out. “Aah! The window.” “Scabs to the window,” cried Evilyn. “What about me? I’ve been sitting in a bath. A bath!” “Will you shut up!” said Goodrun, her temper beginning to wander off. “It’s not as if it had any water in it.” Evilyn was building up to another bellow, but Goodrun smothered it by putting her hand over her mouth. “Mmm! Mmm! Mmm! Mmm-mm!” grunted Evilyn, struggling to free herself. “What?” Goodrun took her hand away. “I said, you know I hate water,” hissed Evilyn. Goodrun sighed. What a hopeless pickle she was in. What a mess she had made of it 62

all. She wished deeply that she had not tried to use her special powers. She should have known they were not special enough. “I must learn to control myself and do things the ordinary way,” she told herself firmly. “But how? How do I mend the window and get the bath upstairs without Nettle knowing and without using magic? It’s impossible.” She paced up and down and round the small sitting room. “Can’t you keep still?” grumbled Evilyn, sitting hunched up and cross-legged on the back of an armchair. “You know I’m not well, and you’re making me feel dizzy.” “I’ve got to think,” said Goodrun. “I’m in hot water . . .” “Don’t say that,” squealed Evilyn. “Sorry. I mean I’m in serious trouble.” “That’s not my fault.” Evilyn began to eel better as her sister felt worse. “Look, can’t we go somewhere else? I don’t like being in the same room as a bath. It makes me feel nervous.” Goodrun stopped pacing. “Does it?” Evilyn’s horror of baths and water had given her an idea. “Evilyn, you always were cleverer than me.” Evilyn preened. “That’s true.” “So, would you zap the bath back and fix the window for me?” 63

“Why should I?” “Because,” said Goodrun, holding both arms of the chair and leaning towards Evilyn, a menacing look in her eyes, “if you don’t, I shall tell Mother, and Blackheart and Murky Pondwater and Greasey Puddle, and a few others whose names I shan’t mention, that my clever sister spent all morning in a bath. And I shall say it had water in it. And soap. And bubbles!” Evilyn gasped. “You wouldn’t dare!” “Oh yes, I would.” Evilyn, looking as black as a storm at midnight, said nothing. She stared resentfully into her sister’s eyes with a look as deep and as dark as a bottomless pit. Although surprised by the amount of evil in those smouldering eyes, Goodrun did not look away. She was used to Evilyn’s underhand tactics. Evilyn wanted to win by “staring out”. Staring out was a serious business and the first to look away was the loser. And so the battle of wills began. Two pairs of green eyes fixed unblinkingly on the other. While Evilyn thought of all the wicked things in the world, making her eyes sharp and brittle, Goodrun calmly thought of warm sunshine, spring flowers, butter and fluffy baby rabbits. That was too much for Evilyn. Butter was bad enough, but the idea 64

of a fluffy baby rabbit made her feel sick. She choked and blinked. “Rats!” she countered quickly. “Too late. I’ve won.” Goodrun was gleeful. “But you promise, Witches Word,” said Evilyn, “not to say what happened if I move the bath and fix the window?” “I promise,” said Goodrun, “but on my honour, not on Witches Word.” “OK. That’ll do. Shut your eyes.” “Don’t you dare disappear.” Goodrun did not trust her sister. Evilyn snapped her fingers. They made a sharp, metallic crack. “OK. You can look now. The bath’s gone, the window’s mended and I’m off.” And, with a noise that sounded like the popping of fifty, fizzy lemonade bottles, Evilyn vanished. Goodrun could hardly believe her good fortune. Had she really got her crafty sister to do as she was told? Even under threat? The rain-splashed glass was back in the window. She ran upstairs to check the bathroom. That too was just as she had left it. In fact, exactly as she had left it. Without a bath! Her shoulders drooped. She felt hot tears of frustration, anger and despair stabbing at the back of her eyes. Then she heard a voice, outside and somewhere overhead. “Foo-oo-ooled you.” 65

There was no mistaking whose it was. Goodrun was furious. “Cheat!” she shouted up to the ceiling. “You said you’d put the bath back.” “No, I didn’t! I only said I’d move it. If you want it, you’ll have to find it.” Evilyn’s voice was faint but clear. “Can’t catch me, Goodrun Smith!” She was moving away but her cruel, cackling laughter sneaked back across the rooftops, squeezed under the tiles, and shrieked into the bathroom It bounced off the walls and screamed at Goodrun. “Ha-ha! Ha-ha!” Covering her ears with her hands to block out the awful sound, she shouted up to the ceiling, “You haven’t heard the last of this, Evilyn Badmanners!”

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Chapter 10

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oodrun was in utter despair. Why could she not leave things alone? She wished she had left the spiders alone. She wished she had left the garden alone. She also wished she could go back two days and start again. She was especially annoyed with Evilyn and the misery inside her twisted and wriggled and knotted itself into anger. Unhappiness can do that sometimes. Inky padded into the bathroom and, curious as all cats are, sniffed the space where the bath should have been. Goodrun scooped him up onto her shoulders and took him downstairs. She took him down to the kitchen and held him up to the window. She 67

pointed out the small rain cloud drifting over the trees. “Is that you, Evilyn?” she called out. “Well, I hope you can hear me.” Inky noted the irritation in her voice and struggled to get down, but Goodrun held on tightly. If she ever needed a black cat to help her, she needed one now. She stared angrily at the cloud. “You sent that bath out in the sky, now find it quick, or I’ll know why! Within this spell there is a curse, so find that bath . . . or you’ll feel worse!” As soon as she had finished speaking, Inky leaped out of her arms and dived under the table. It had been ages since Goodrun had been annoyed enough to curse somebody. It was not really like her but Evilyn had asked for it. There was a loud bang outside the back door which made both her and Inky jump. Then a clang. Then another bang. Goodrun swallowed hard. Was this her spell working? No, because the door opened and Nettle bustled in complaining about her dustbin lid. “I must get a new one,” she said. “That one does not fit. Now, I’ve had my lunch, dear, but there’s plenty of fruit and cheese in the fridge. I’m going out knitting with a friend of mine. Will you be all right while I’m gone?” 68

“Of course, Aunt.” Goodrun was delighted. With the cottage to herself she might have a chance to put things right. As soon as Nettle had gone Goodrun started on Plan One. Not that she had a Plan Two, yet. Her aunt had so many mystical and magical books that she felt sure she would be able to find a spell for the recovery of mislaid baths.The dresser shelves were crammed with flour-dusted, finger-greased cookery books, and some very curious and ancient spell books that had pop-up pictures and seep-out smells. She put a pile on the kitchen table, then went through all the indexes for B. There was B for “Backache”, B for “Bandy”, B for “Banish”, “Balmy”, “Battle” and “Bat”. But no “Bath”. She kept on looking. “Baking”, “Bacteria”, “Backbone”, “Bagpipe” and “Bandage”. But no “Bath”. After a while she gave up on the kitchen books. Dare she try looking at the books in Nettle’s bedroom? Yes, but she had no better luck. She found “Babble”, “Backwards”, “Baffle”, “Banana”, “Bamboo” and “Bangkok”, but not “Bath”. The clock downstairs struck four times. Four o’clock? Nettle would be home soon. Goodrun’s eyes and head ached and she still had not found one single reference to a bath. But was she looking in the right place? Witches did not like baths or anything to do 69

with them. They would cringe at the sight of soap and some of the older ones had been known to fade away at the smell of clean water. The Bath House at the Witches Academy had been a place of horror, dread and fearful punishment. It was kept clean and fresh, and smelled of soap and antiseptic. To the witchlings it was worse than the darkest cellar, worse than the deepest dungeon. If a witch upset her teacher, or failed one of her tests, or wore the wrong colour shoes on a Friday, she was sent to the Bath House and washed. The clean smell did not wear off for weeks — so all the other witches knew. Soap and water had never frightened Goodrun but she had been wise enough not to tell anybody. She stretched wearily. She wished she could forget about the wretched bath. But, as old Witch Pickings used to say, “You’ve dug yourself into a hole now, you’ve got to dig yourself out of it.” She put Nettle’s books back as she found them and, once again, went to look at the bathroom. She stared wretchedly at the dusty floorboards and the broken tiles. “If I could stop Nettle coming in here for a day or two it would give me time to think. But how? How could I stop her?” Feeling understandably fretful, Goodrun kicked the door and — clink! A key 71

fell out. “Eureka!” cried Goodrun. Nettle’s old cottage still had old-fashioned doors with old-fashioned locks. “I’ll lock the door and hide the key.” She put the key in her sock drawer underneath the packet of money and the envelope. As she touched the envelope she thought of her father again. “If only . . .” she thought, gazing fondly at the crumpled, brown envelope. It was one of those long, narrow ones which opened at the short end. She looked inside as she had done a hundred times, usually to see the savings bond but this time, of course, it was empty. Or was it? There was something screwed up at the bottom. She squeezed the envelope into a tube. Whatever it was, it must have been there a long time. She tapped the tube on the cupboard top and . . . plap! A crinkled piece of newspaper fell out. It had been flattened and pressed so much it was no bigger than a matchstick. Very carefully Goodrun unfolded the concertinaed newspaper and, with trembling fingers, gently smoothed it flat. It was torn in places and the newsprint was smudged and faded but she could read some of it. “R V O.” She eased the creases out pleat by pleat. The print was hardly readable but in front of the letters RVO were the letters M and A. 72

“MARVO!” she cried. There was a picture too, blurred and fuzzy, but clearly the picture of a man in a top hat. Could this be a photograph of her father? Her legs suddenly felt weak. She had to sit down on her bed and calm down because her heart was racing wildly. There was a caption underneath the photograph: Marvo the Magician put on a fine show when he entertained children at Broomshill Infant School today. Wasn’t it Brooms-something on the envelope? She turned it over. It was so difficult to read, but it could be Broomshill. And if it was, she had a picture, a place name and a school. Gasping, because she realized she had been holding her breath all the time, she clutched the piece of paper to her chest. This must be the clue she had been looking for.

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ettle came home about half past four. Goodrun was watching a cartoon on television. “I thought you were going to finish the gardening,” said Nettle, flinging her knitting bag onto the floor and flopping heavily into an armchair. “Oh! The garden.” Goodrun had forgotten all about it. “I’ve been . . .” she did not want to say what she had really been doing. “I’ve been reading.” “Well, it looks silly only half done,” said Nettle, icily. Goodrun made a mental note to do the other half first thing in the morning. Nettle kicked off her shoes. “Is supper ready yet?” 74

“Supper? No, Aunt.” “I thought you were supposed to be looking after me,” said Nettle. “You won’t be much help if you’re going to sit around reading all day.” Goodrun did not understand her funny old aunt. One moment she was a happy and cheerful old lady and the next a cross and crabby old witch. “My bunions are burning,” said Nettle, rubbing her knobbly feet. “I’m always badtempered when my feet ache. I need my slippers. I think they’re in the bathroom.” She started to drag herself out of the chair. “No, no!” said Goodrun pushing her back into the cushions. “I’ll go. You’re tired.” “How kind,” said Nettle. “You can take my coat up, too!” Goodrun ran up the stairs, threw the coat in Nettle’s bedroom, then ran into her own room to fetch the key to the bathroom. She unlocked the bathroom door, found Nettle’s slippers, locked the door again, put the key back under her socks and then tried to walk calmly downstairs. She had just settled her aunt with a tray of tea and sandwiches when there was a knock at the door. It was Daisy Blazer with an invitation. “It’s my birthday tomorrow,” she said. “I wanted a party but all my old friends live 75

too far away, so it’ll just be us two. Mum thought it would be a good chance for us to get to know each other. She’s made a proper cake. Can you come?” “Yes. Thanks,” said Goodrun. “What time?” “Three o’clock. Dad’s home tomorrow afternoon and he wants to do his party piece. He does it every year. It’s awful really but you’ll have to pretend it isn’t.” Goodrun laughed. “What does he do? Sing? Stand on his head?” “No. Worse than that. All will be revealed, tomorrow. See you.” At six o’clock Nettle made a cheese and spaghetti supper which was heaps better than her awful porridge. Then they both watched television again until the ten o’clock news, when Nettle made some cocoa and they went to bed. As she lay in bed Goodrun could hear Nettle moving about in the next room, opening and shutting drawers and doors. Then she heard her cross the landing towards the bathroom. Goodrun’s heart was in her mouth. She heard Nettle rattle the door, then pad back to her bedroom, tutting and clicking her teeth and muttering about the silly door being stuck. Then Nettle’s bedroom door closed and the house was quiet. Apart from a few mad dreams, she did 76

not remember any more until she woke up next morning. The luminous dial on her clock said half past eight but outside the window it was pitch black. Goodrun shivered. Something was wrong. She could feel it in her bones. She got up, dressed, and went downstairs. Nettle was already up and pottering about in the kitchen in a long, pink woolly cardigan which came down to her ankles. Her cheeks were as pink as her woolly and she looked very excited. “It’s an eclipse,” she said, squeezing a lemon into a glass. “They’ve just announced it on the radio.” She swallowed the sharp fruit juice without batting an eyelid. “But not the usual sort,” she said. “It’s localized.” “What do you mean? Localized?” asked Goodrun. “It has only affected our village, The whole of Hook is in darkness. Tee hee! I’m going to watch it on television.” Goodrun made herself a dish of cornflakes and milk and followed her agitated aunt into the sitting room. It felt so peculiar with the outside darkness pressing up against the windows. Nettle switched the television on and as she did so there was a loud crack, followed by a green explosion and the bitter smell of sulphur. It made Goodrun jump. 77

“What’s happened? Is it broken?” “No,” said Nettle, zapping between the programmes with her remote control. “It’s my horrible sister! Out of the way, Drab!” she cried as a tall, thin witch, with a grim, green and warty face began to materialize. She wore a long black coat with a white fur collar, a small black beret pulled down to her eyebrows, and, with her hands behind her back and chin jutting forward, she stood in front of the television glowering malevolently like a mean and hungry vulture. She looked so horrible she made Goodrun’s blood run cold but Nettle did not seem at all bothered. “Move over!” she said, irritably. “I can’t see.” “How did you do it, you old maggot?” hissed the vulture. “Do what?” said Nettle. “I don’t do anything these days, Drab. Only a bit of knitting now and then.” “Knitting? What’s that?” Drab scratched the warts on the side of her nose. “I don’t know about knitting. Is it wicked? Has it to do with the eclipse?” “No. Be quiet.” She turned up the volume on the television. “An eclipse,” said the newscaster, “is where the moon comes between the sun and the earth, blocking out the natural light 78

from the sun. This is a very rare occurrence and only happens every fifty years or so. But today’s phenomenon is even rarer because it is a localized eclipse. Whatever is blocking the light is causing a shadow and the village of Hook is now in complete darkness.” “Black as your hat!” screeched Drab, who kept fizzing into the air and hopping over the furniture. “The cover of darkness for the darkest of deeds.” Her green face glowed. “Will you shush!” said Nettle. “Several severe cases of bad temper have been admitted to hospital,” said an on-thespot reporter. “There have also been cases of irritation and an outbreak of bad language. A plague of practical jokes and silly pranks has caused several vicars to fall in the canal and an entire school of teachers had their ankles tied together. Visitors are advised to stay away from the area while it is covered in darkness. It is not known how long this eclipse will last since such a phenomenon has never happened before.” “You did it, didn’t you?” cried Drab, bouncing on the sofa and pointing at Nettle. “You sly old crow!” “I had nothing to do with it,” said Nettle. “I’ve retired, as you well know. When I was a young witchling I tried to block out the light and create perpetual darkness, but I was no more successful than anyone else!” 80

“But I’ve checked with the Witches Council,” said Drab, “and they say it’s a spell from down here. You’re the only witch I know down here.” “Pills and pokers!” cried Nettle. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve been saying? It has nothing to do with me.” Drab scratched furiously. Goodrun could see she did not believe her sister at all. Then she said. “Well, if you won’t tell me, you won’t. And I’m not going to miss all the fun. I’m going to enjoy myself while this eclipse lasts.” She flung open the cottage door. “Wait for me!” she cried, and within seconds had merged into the deep dark day. Goodrun breathed a sigh of relief as she shut the door after her. Aunt Drab was an awesome witch. Nettle was still watching television and a well-known astronomer was being interviewed. “. . . and the most interesting thing about this eclipse is its shape,” said the astronomer. “I’ve seen it through my telescope and it looks very much like an old bath!” A bath? If Goodrun had not been holding onto the door handle she might well have fainted away.

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bath?” Nettle screwed up her wrinkled, little eyes. “There must be something wrong with his telescope. In all my years I’ve never heard of an eclipse that looked like a bath.” She switched channels. “And they’re saying the same. It must be a mistake.” Goodrun felt sick. She felt hot. She felt cold. There was no mistake. It was a bath. It was Nettle’s bath but, thankfully, she did not know it — yet. “I’ve done it again,” she thought, miserably. “That bath will be stuck there forever if I don’t do something about it. And the village will be shrouded in darkness forever and nobody will want to live here.” 82

The old witches’ favourite saying pierced her thoughts: “Darkness breeds fear.” Goodrun’s brain was on fire and her mind was ducking and weaving inside her head. “The witches will use the eclipse for mischief, I know they will. And it will be my fault! I’ll have to call Mother. No! I can’t! And I daren’t tell her about the curse. Oh, what am I going to do?” She curled up in an armchair, cuddling one of the cushions, staring without seeing at the television. She had never felt so awful in all her life. Nettle, on the other hand, was laughing and stamping, and smacking her bony hands together at every new announcement. Her eyes never left the screen and her beads dangled noisily as she leaned forward to hear the latest news flash. “. . . traffic has come to a complete halt in the village of Hook. All the traffic lights have failed and the high street is jammed in all directions. Something has also triggered off the burglar alarms, car horns and police sirens. Everybody in Hook is advised to wear earplugs.” “That’s sister Drab’s doing,” she cried, whacking the arm of the chair and sending up a cloud of dust. “The outbreak of bad temper has worsened,” continued the newsreader, “and doctors are working overtime, trying to deal 83

with hundreds of people who are suffering from severe argumentitus. Several fights have broken out, especially among the doctors which has not helped. Reports are coming in of several tragic cases of SFP, Silly Face Pulling, some of which are coupled with rude noise symptoms. Local residents are advised to stay indoors during the crisis. We shall bring you further reports during the morning. As yet we have no indication when the eclipse will pass. Now on to football.” “I almost wish I was there,” sighed Nettle. “But it’s just as good on television, don’t you think, Goodrun?” But Goodrun was not there. Unconcerned, Nettle turned back to the television, flicking from channel to channel, eager to find out more about the crisis, the eclipse and her wicked sister Drab. Meanwhile, Goodrun was pacing about in the kitchen deep in thought. If she could only get to the bath she might be able to bring it back. But then she might not. It was Evilyn who sent it off on its crazy journey but it was she, Goodrun, who had threatened Evilyn to find it, or else. She was sure Evilyn would not have bothered to look until the curse, and then . . . Zoopt! It would have brought them together. So, thought Goodrun, wherever the bath was . . . 84

Nettle came out to the kitchen twice to make coffee and toast but Goodrun was too nervous to eat or drink. The time ticked slowly by. At one o’clock the sky was as black as ever and Goodrun’s brain was as blank as ever. She needed some fresh air. Outside, the garden, the trees and the sky were covered in heavy shrouds of black velvet. She took a step forward and, ouch! Something hard cracked her shin. She stumbled and fell into a large sharp object that had stomach-punching handles and spinning finger-catching wheels. She fumbled about in the dark trying to untangle her arms and legs from the angry, wobbling bicycle. “Scabs!” she said, crossly. “Stand up, can’t you!” At last she set the bike upright and then something else toppled over and thumped her on the back — an old beezum broom. “Scabs and maggots!” she cried, stamping her foot. “That hurt!” Somewhere above, Aunt Drab squealed with laughter. Goodrun took a deep breath and tried to calm down. “I must not lose my temper.” She stood the broomstick against the wall. Then she had a brainwave. Wasn’t she an expert flyer? Wasn’t it her best subject? Nobody could sit on a broomstick as well as 85

Goodrun Badmanners Smith. She would fly up to the bath and release Evilyn from the curse on condition that she return the bath to its proper place. But she wanted to bring Evilyn back, and one broom could not carry two witches. What about the bike? “Goodrun Smith, you are amazing!” she told herself. “Bike and broom power! Look out, Evilyn, Here we come!” She laid the broomstick across the handlebars and climbed onto the saddle. “Thank goodness it’s dark,” she thought, as she turned the pedals. The front wheel began to lift off the ground. It was a heavy, old-fashioned bike with a basket in the front, and it was hard-going But she kept pedalling. Swiftly and silently she floated up into the sky, relying on muscles for speed and broom power to steer her in the right direction.

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or once, Evilyn was really pleased to see her sister. “I’ll do anything, anything,” she whined, “if you get me out of here.” Goodrun was in no hurry. “If you’d put the bath back in the first place, as I asked you to,” she said, pedalling slowly round the bath, “this wouldn’t have happened. You made me angry and I put a curse on you.” “Take it off then,” said Evilyn, “and I’ll zap the bath back straightaway.” “No.” “Oh, please,” begged Evilyn. “I won’t play any more tricks.” “No.” “Why?” 87

“Because for one thing, I don’t want to travel in daylight and, another, I’m not going to lift my curse until that bath is back in Aunt Nettle’s bathroom. It can stay where it is until we are back home, then you can zap it back, OK?” “OK. Now get me out of this thing.” Goodrun silently released the curse, then back-pedalled alongside, while Evilyn climbed out. “Where do I sit?” she wailed, half in and half out of the bath. “You can sit in front,” said Goodrun, pushing her sister’s skinny bottom into the handlebar basket. “Ouch! Ooh! It’s too small.” Evilyn’s knees were forced up under her chin. With legs dangling and elbows sticking out, she screamed and squealed as Goodrun began the descent. “Don’t go so fast. Hasn’t this thing got any brakes?” Goodrun ignored her and pedalled on. As soon as they landed she tipped Evilyn out of the basket and stood over her. “Now!” she said, firmly, “Zap it back.” Evilyn snapped her fingers and the sky lightened immediately. The sun came out and, once again, it was an ordinary summer’s afternoon. But Goodrun had not finished. She yanked Evilyn onto her feet and dragged her indoors. 88

“Just checking!” she said, as she pushed her into the bathroom. The gleaming white bath, properly fixed in its proper place, grinned back at them. “Thank goodness for that.” “Can I go now?” whined Evilyn. “It’s nearly three o’clock. I’ve been stuck in that thing for hours.” Goodrun gasped. “Three o’clock? I’m supposed to be at a party.” “Lucky you,” moaned Evilyn, arching and rubbing her back. “Newts feet! I ache all over. I can’t wait to get home.” Aunt Nettle hobbled slowly up the stairs. She looked very unhappy. “It’s all over,” she said, miserably. “Everything’s back to normal. You see, it wasn’t perpetual darkness. I knew it wasn’t witches’ work.” Evilyn looked as if she was about to say something, but a long, thin look from Goodrun made her change her mind. Nettle heaved herself onto the landing. “Ah well, I suppose I’d better get on with my bestowal work. Oh, hello Evilyn. I didn’t know you were here.” Evilyn’s green eyes glinted. “Did you say bestowal, Auntie dear?” “Yes. I shall soon be bestowing my spells on one of my nieces.” “Let me help you, Auntie,” said Evilyn. 90

“I thought you were tired,” said Goodrun, elbowing Evilyn in the ribs. “Tired? Whatever gave you that idea? I’m going to help Auntie. Aren’t I, Auntie?” Evilyn ushered the old lady into her bedroom. “And I could make you some tea if you’d like me to.” “Creep!” hissed Goodrun. She looked at her watch. Exactly three o’clock. She was late. She hurriedly washed and changed (she wasn’t going to make that mistake twice) and when she took out her clean socks she also took out the newspaper cutting. “I’ll take that to show Daisy, or Mr and Mrs Blazer. Who knows, they may have heard of Broomshill.” She knocked on Nettle’s door. “I’ll be at the Blazers’ house if you want me, Auntie!” Nettle opened the door a crack. “I don’t expect I will, dear,” she whispered. “Not while Evilyn’s so willing.” And Nettle winked, a huge naughty wink. Daisy was waiting anxiously by the front door. “Come and meet my mum and dad. Wasn’t that eclipse peculiar?” Daisy’s cottage, unlike Nettle’s, was beautiful. Much like the one Goodrun had dreamed of. Mr and Mrs Blazer were nice too. 91

Mrs Blazer had a super tea ready and an iced cake with candles. Goodrun felt comfortable with these nice people and was beginning to feel her new life might work out after all. After tea Daisy said, “Now it’s time for Dad’s party piece. And remember what I said. You’ve got to pretend it’s good.” Mrs Blazer put three chairs in a row and she, Goodrun and Daisy sat down. Mr Blazer went outside for a few minutes. Then he called out, “Are you ready?” “Yes,” said Daisy. The door opened and a man in a black cloak, carrying a silver-topped cane and wearing a silk top hat and white gloves, strode into the room. The audience of three applauded wildly. “Is that it?” asked Goodrun. “No,” said Daisy. “There’s more.” Mr Blazer was an amateur magician, but not a very good one. He pulled cards from the air but everybody could see he already had them tucked in the back of his hand. He conjured a rabbit from his top hat but it was obviously a glove puppet. He had a silver, dancing globe that only did what Mr Blazer told it, but Goodrun could see the elastic. She clapped when Daisy and her mother clapped and laughed at Mr Blazer’s terrible jokes. His final trick was to make his cane disappear. 92

“Hey presto!” he said, throwing it up into the air. It came twanging down in the middle of the birthday cake. Goodrun felt so embarrassed but the Blazers thought it extremely funny. “I won’t be able to do that again,” said Mr Blazer. “I wish he wouldn’t do it at all,” whispered Daisy. “Why does he?” asked Goodrun. “Because he enjoys it. My uncle used to be a conjurer and Dad’s got all his old stuff. This is my uncle, look.” And Daisy took a picture off the piano. Goodrun felt as if the floor had suddenly been taken away. As if her head was full of cotton wool. As if her eyes were stinging. She blinked. She screwed them up tight and opened them again. They were wet, and making the picture misty but she recognized it immediately. It was the same picture as the cutting. The cutting that was in her pocket. The cutting of . . . There was a lump in her throat. “His stage name was Marvo the Magnificent,” said Daisy. “What’s the matter, Goodrun? Oh, you’re crying.” After that everything happened so quickly. Mrs Blazer made her sit down and Goodrun showed her the newspaper cutting. Then Mrs Blazer had to sit down. She too 93

looked as if she were crying. Then Mr Blazer came back in his ordinary clothes, looked at the cutting and the photograph and kept saying, “Would you believe it? Would you believe it?” And Daisy kept hugging Goodrun and calling her cousin! When they had all calmed down, Mrs Blazer explained that many years ago her brother had left Broomshill, where the family used to live, and gone to Australia. They knew he came back to England and started his own business and they knew he married. But that was all they knew. When he died, all his personal belongings, his furniture, his papers, his stage clothes and conjuring equipment had been left to his sister, Amelia Smith. “That’s me!” said Mrs Blazer. “I am Cornelius’ sister. That means you, Goodrun, are my niece and Daisy is your first cousin.” Then there was more hugging and lots of kissing. Mrs Blazer made more tea and they talked and talked and talked until, eventually, Goodrun said she had to go because Aunt Nettle would be wondering where she was, and she had such a lot to tell her. “I suppose if Evilyn’s your half-sister she’s my half-cousin,” said Daisy, at the gate. “I’m looking forward to meeting her.” “Oh, er — she lives hundreds of miles away,” said Goodrun, hastily, and then with 95

her fingers crossed she told a little white lie, “I hardly ever see her.” “Never mind,” said Daisy. “School on Monday. I’m looking forward to it now because we can go together.” Goodrun came down to earth for the second time that day, this time with a bump. School? But she did not need to go to school. She had finished with all that. “I thought everything was going too well,” she sighed. Evilyn had gone when she got back home and Nettle was dozing in an armchair. Before she closed the front door Goodrun looked up at the darkening summer sky. A solitary rain cloud was scudding past at great speed. “Is that you, Evilyn? I hope you haven’t got anything to do with this school business?” And Goodrun was sure she could hear someone cackling — or was it the wind in the trees?

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