Wilde

by Eloise Williams

  Through the kissing gate and over the lane, using all my willpower to keep walking. Bats flitting. Owls crying. Down the rickety path home where Mrs Danvers welcomes me by turning her bum in my direction.

  ‘Charming.’ I’m so happy to have made it back in one piece I almost hug her.

  I don’t want to go back to the treehouse. I want to be close to the ground. The hallway is a sickly blue. I creep into one of the Sleepy Hollow chairs in the drawing room and curl up tight. I must not sleep again until I’ve solved this. I try telling lies to sting me awake.

  ‘I’m not worried.’

  Lie.

  ‘I’m not afraid that there is something wrong with me.’

  Lie.

  ‘I am not a witch because witches don’t exist and so it’s simply impossible.’

  Lie. Lie. Lie.

  Alone, I watch the milky sunlight pink into yellow as Witch Point and its people come to life.

  9

  I didn’t go to school today. When Mae came down for breakfast, she took one look at the dark circles under my eyes and pronounced me ill. I was glad to go along with her. I’ve spent most of the day sitting around in my pyjamas, playing with the duck called Elvis and patting Duran Duran the donkey while she crunches carrots. I plink a piano key and wish I’d stuck with my lessons. I crash out a tune anyway. It’s dramatic and powerful.

  ‘Sounds like a cat dying.’ Mae is putting on a sun visor in the hall. ‘Did you take that remedy I made for you?’

  ‘Yes.’ I actually did. It was a rosewater something or other. It tasted surprisingly nice.

  ‘Well, you look like you’ve perked up a bit now you’ve been given a day off school.’

  I immediately act extra ill to a ‘harrumph’ from her.

  ‘I’m just going out to get some shopping. Do you need anything?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘No particular requests?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘OK. Well, good chatting.’ She leaves a wake of sarcasm rippling behind her.

  I go to the kitchen and look for something interesting to eat. Hear a loud miaow from upstairs. I ignore it but it soon turns into a howl and even if I can’t quite get on with Mrs Danvers, I would never let her be hurt.

  At the top of the stairs is an open hatch I’ve never noticed before. Mrs Danvers is prowling the perimeter. She scowls at me. She is good at climbing up things but not at climbing down apparently.

  ‘OK. OK. Your slave is coming.’ I’m not keen on attics. I don’t like dark, enclosed spaces. They give me the heebie-jeebies, but I can’t just leave her up there stranded.

  There’s nothing to be scared of.

  I start up the ladder. Mrs Danvers watches me. I know who is top dog in this house and it’s a cat.

  She disappears as I get to the top. Typical. I put my head through the opening. While it’s not pitch black, it is dark enough to be scary. Something swings right in front of my face and I jolt and have to grab the ladder tighter with sweaty hands.

  It’s just a light cord. Jumpy, much?

  I reach forward to pull it. The attic floods with light. ‘Wow!’

  ‘I know. Right?’ Mrs Danvers doesn’t actually voice these words out loud, but her expression says it all. She looks well pleased with herself and I’m not surprised. This is no ordinary attic.

  ‘I expected a couple of suitcases and a few broken boxes.’

  She purr-laughs and I do too.

  There are trunks everywhere. A spinning wheel with gold thread on a bobbin. An old Singer sewing machine with a peddle. Boxes upon boxes tied with chiffon scarves or string. Hats of every shape and colour. Fear forgotten, I clamber up to investigate.

  The temperature is at sauna level, but there’s an oval window I squeak open on its hinges. A vague draught struggles in. Looking down, I can see the flowers we rescued from the conservatory. Mrs Danvers wanders out through the porthole across the roof. I guess she must be able to get down? I’ll leave the window open anyway.

  Pictures of birds of all sorts – some ink drawings, some oil paintings, all museum-old. A galleon in a bottle. Satin ballet shoes, pale blue and moth-eaten. A ship’s wheel, which is heavier than I expected. Stars dangle from the ceiling, made of something silver and flimsy, so they flitter and swirl. Swathes of materials make billowing seas. I sift jewel-coloured buttons through my fingers. A chorus of marionettes dangle from hooks. I find a mirror and wrap taffeta around my head, so I look like a pink palm tree.

  ‘Hello?’ Dorcas’s head pops up through the hatch before I can rip the taffeta off. School must have finished. ‘It’s a good look for you.’

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘No one answered, so I let myself in. I hope you don’t mind?’

  I don’t.

  ‘You missed precisely nothing at school.’

  I’m glad. I wouldn’t like to have missed anything important.

  ‘Yowzers. This place is awesome to the maximum.’

  ‘I know. I only just found it, but it’s unbelievable, isn’t it?’

  Dorcas picks up the ship’s wheel and steers it, proving she is stronger than me, then grabs a gold-and-silver turban and puts it on. ‘A real collection of curios. Your family are way cool.’

  My chest bursts with pride.

  Dorcas scoots about, gasping at everything. She kneels down, opens a big trunk full of clothes and starts rummaging through.

  Dad said some of my mum’s things are stored in this house. I go back to the cold smoothness of the multi-coloured buttons, let them giggle and jingle through my fingers into the jar.

  She finds a pair of frilly bathers and shakes them at me. ‘Just the thing for our current weather.’

  ‘Have you been to the waterfall the others have been talking about?’

  Dorcas looks at me through an iridescent purple sari. ‘Yes. The Seven Sisters and the Falls of Snow. Beautiful. We should definitely go. You’d love it.’

  ‘I have been there before. When I was a baby. There’s a photo of me and my mum…’

  ‘It would be so lovely and cool there right now. Wild swimming is the absolute best. I went in a lake in Cardiff once and a seriously Baltic one in Snowdonia in the snow. The waterfall would be perfect in this sweltering heat. Sure you don’t want to change your mind and put these on?’ She shakes the bathers at me again.

  ‘No chance.’

  She’s having so much fun going through the trunk I decide to brave one myself. I find a donkey’s head on the top. It’s made of felt and the ears used to have wires to hold them up, but the material has slipped so the ears flop forward and cover the eye holes.

  Inside, there are wands painted gold, part of a cardboard wall, and an elaborate moon on a stick. I know what this is. It’s the costumes for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The production where my dad saw my mum and fell in love with her. I handle each one with care, laying them down gently next to another. Puck. Oberon. A lion’s head, that I guess must be one of the players’.

  It’s there, inside a cotton cover-all. The costume I’ve seen photos of my mother in. Hermia’s dress. It’s so beautiful. A shimmering moss-green with leaves around the neckline and a brocade skirt. Tiny gold threads run through the material and it has silver spiderwebs embroidered all over it. I’ve heard so many stories about it. It doesn’t feel real to hold it and know she once wore it. I feel a tear roll down my nose and plop on to the bodice. Then another. I have to sit back from the material or I’ll spoil it.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Dorcas kneels in front of me. She has an eye patch and a toy seagull clipped to her shoulder.

  ‘It’s my mother’s. It was my mum’s.’ I rub my tears away with my palms, but they just keep on flowing. ‘They used to put on plays in the garden. This was one of her costumes.’

  ‘That’s amazing. It’s so beautiful.’

  Dorcas is the very best friend I will ever have.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m crying. It was so long ago that she died that I can’t even really remem
ber her.’ I’m trying to stop the tears, but it’s no good. ‘I think I’m crying for the … I don’t know, I think it’s the space she left behind. Her absence. Does that make sense?’

  I rub more roughly at the tears.

  ‘Of course, it does.’ Dorcas moves closer and puts her arm around my shoulders. ‘And don’t stop crying. It’s a moment of joy and sadness and it deserves tears. That’s what my nan always said to me when I was upset.’

  I cry hard then. Really, properly cry for everything that isn’t. Soon, the tears start to subside, as if I’ve cried so hard and so fast, they’ve run out.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Much.’

  ‘Tears carry excess stress hormones out of your body, it’s a well-known fact.’

  We both burst out laughing. Our friendship has moved into something new, something more honest and real. It’s never happened to me before, but I can feel the shift so clearly and with my whole heart. I can talk to her about anything. I know it.

  I ask, ‘Who do you think The Witch is?’

  ‘That’s so peculiar. I was just wondering the same thing.’

  ‘It could be anyone, couldn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so but, let’s look at the facts. It has to be someone who has knowledge of people’s histories.’

  I nod eagerly because this rules out any chance that I’ve been sleep-writing.

  ‘But it could be someone who listens to other people’s conversations, or knows someone who has lived here a long time and knows everything about everyone in Witch Point. What do you think?’ She holds various masks in front of her face. Some of them are sinister, some garishly comic.

  ‘I don’t want to point a finger in the wrong direction.’

  ‘Nor me. But it’s fun discussing it, isn’t it? Perhaps we could be detectives like Sherlock and Watson, or Wells and Wong. Let’s try.’ She holds up a moveable jaw, and moves it out of time with her words. ‘What are the possibilities?’

  I actually don’t think it’s much fun, but I trust her. ‘Well. All the letters are written in green ink. Perhaps that’s a clue?’ I can hear the hope in my voice. I know for a fact that I don’t own any pens with green ink. I would have liked one but not now. ‘Most of the pens on reception are green.’

  ‘It’s worth bearing in mind.’ She prances in front of the mirror in a hooped skirt. ‘Any other clues?’

  ‘Well, it’s probably really stupid and it’s just a thought, but do you think Gwyneth could be stirring up all this talk of The Witch to get publicity for her play?’

  Dorcas stops dead still. ‘Genius. You absolute legend. I bet that’s it.’

  ‘Do you think? I mean, I just thought it was a silly idea at first but…’ I think about it. Gwyneth is so ambitious. ‘It’s a possibility.’

  I don’t like to cast aspersions on anyone. It feels wrong. Like bullying.

  ‘I think we must keep a close eye on her. She is definitely our lead suspect.’ Dorcas regretfully puts the costumes back into the trunk. ‘I need to go home now. I have chores to do.’

  ‘I’ll help you.’ I try to stand up, but have to sit down again straight away because I feel woozy. Dorcas rushes over.

  ‘Whoa. Wilde. Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes. I’m fine. It’s the heat. I’m OK, honestly.’ She helps me to stand. The dizziness is lack of sleep and the heat, I’m certain. ‘Dorcas. Can I tell you something?’

  ‘Of course, anything. I’ll take it to the grave.’

  I believe her. ‘I’ve been sleepwalking. At least I think I have. I keep waking up in strange places. On the roof. And even weirder, on top of Witch Point windmill. I don’t know what’s happening to me or what’s causing it, but it’s really scary and I’m worried I’m going to hurt myself.’

  Dorcas looks stunned. ‘Wow. You are lucky to be alive.’

  ‘I know.’

  She mulls it over. ‘I think you’re sleepwalking because of the heat. I’ve definitely read something about that somewhere.’

  ‘How do I stop myself from doing it?’ I battle the crack in my voice. ‘I haven’t slept properly in days.’

  ‘I don’t really know but I can stay over if you like? Tomorrow night? I can ask my mam and then I can watch you while you sleep and, if you try to get out of bed, I can stop you.’

  ‘You’d stay awake all night?’

  ‘I’d do my utmost best.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And tomorrow, in school, let’s keep an eye on Suspect One, Fox-Rutherford, first name Gwyneth, and also on the reception desk to see if there are any green pen stealers.’

  ‘It’s a plan.’

  ‘Partners in crime. Solving, I mean.’

  We shake on it and the world smiles in new colours. I have a real, proper, totally decent friend and I don’t have to be afraid.

  10

  I’ve hardly slept, and I am way too tired for stupid school. I left my tie hanging over the chair in my bedroom. Mr Ricketts asks where it is and makes sure I know I can’t get away with things just because I am the new girl. Mortifying.

  We are on our way to Page to Stage. Dorcas is doing a superb impression of Gwyneth and Jemima is doing a vocal warm-up.

  ‘It’s a thing I learned from an opera singer. All you have to do is this, three times, and you are as warmed up as it is humanly possible to be.’ Jemima makes a noise which goes from a belly-deep nightmare note, to a high-pitched untuned organ, then slides her voice back down again. She does it a second time and I move away. Ivy rolls her eyes at me sneakily. There is dissension in the ranks.

  We are in the hall today. It’s first lesson so the floors are pretty clean. Gwyneth is parading about, giving us a pep talk. I zone out and watch a group of Year Threes troop past on their way to yet another trip. I wonder what it would be like if I stuck it out here and went up to Witch Point High. Of course, I’m going back to my yellow flat by the sea with my dad, so I won’t be, but today I can imagine myself having a really good time and almost wish I was staying.

  ‘The witch called Winter had a sixth sense.’

  ‘Lewis hasn’t got a first sense, Miss.’

  Raucous laughter and a dead arm for Branwen from Lewis.

  ‘The witch could talk to animals and…’

  ‘Aww, I wish I could talk to animals. That’s so cute.’ Holly is animal mad. She even has animal badges on her bag.

  ‘Less cute, perhaps, she could trap the spirits of the dead in this world.’ Everyone listens intently. ‘She trapped the seven sisters in the rivers, so that they would fall from the waterfall to their perpetual deaths forever. Imagine that? Always falling and hitting the ground over and over.’

  My stomach is bouncing like a kid on a trampoline. This story is horrible. Why are legends and stories for children always so grim?

  Mr Ricketts appears outside the hall and raps the glass to get Gwyneth’s attention.

  ‘On with rehearsal, my trusty troupe of troupers.’ She leaves with a flourish and we move into our groups.

  Holly opens her animal-badged bag and screams. It’s another curse.

  ‘No!’ Susan Stevens squeals. She looks like she’s been crying all night.

  ‘Read it.’ Rachel Howells pushes her way into their group.

  ‘She don’t have to read it if she don’t want to.’ Lewis sticks up for everyone. I really like him.

  ‘It’s fine. I’ll read it. I have nothing to hide.’ Holly opens the letter and reads it to us. It’s very brave and I admire her for it.

  ‘Dear Holly. A curse for you. We all know you think you are perfect and your sister and friends are perfect too. But do they all know about your nose, Holly? I curse it to grow again until it’s as long as an elephant’s trunk. Yours faithfully, THE WITCH.’

  Ivy’s mouth almost hits the floor. Jemima smiles brightly. I don’t know what to say. Poor Holly. She stands her ground.

  ‘To be honest, yes, I had my nose altered.’

  Ivy rushes towards her.

  ‘
No, it’s fine, Ivy. I was born with my nose out of shape so the doctor fixed it. It was stopping me breathing properly. None of us is perfect. At least I don’t go around being nasty to people.’

  She doesn’t address anyone by name but almost everyone turns to look at Jemima.

  ‘I’ve got one too.’ Branwen takes it out of her bag shakily.

  ‘Read it then.’ Holly scrumples hers in her fist.

  ‘She don’t have to read it if she don’t…’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Lewis.’

  ‘Dear Branwen…’

  I feel sorry for her. She clearly doesn’t want to read it. I’m too shy to say anything to help her, which makes me feel really awful.

  She clears her throat. ‘Dear Branwen. A curse for you. Everyone knows you think you are so clever, but does everyone know you cheated on your exams in October? I don’t think so. I curse you to be as stupid as you really are. THE WITCH.’

  Branwen tries to think of something brave to say, but before she can there’s another gasp as Thomas finds a letter. He opens it, ready to read, and then closes it, his face drained of blood as if he’s been desiccated by a vampire.

  ‘Looks like The Witch is pretty active today. Anyone else?’ Jemima smirks.