by Sam Short
Veronica laughed. "Ron won't come here anymore, not since they built a new gym in the home. He's always in there, pimping steel."
"Iron," I smiled, managing to swallow a giggle. "Pumping iron."
"Yes, that's it. You should see him though, Penelope. Big and buff, and with a line of muscles that takes the eye from his stomach, right down to his big old —”
"It's good to keep fit!" I interrupted. "Good for Ron."
"Yes, but Ron's not doing it for that reason, he's doing it to keep fresh for me, and to make sure I don't stray. I'm quite the flower amongst weeds in the home, and a lot of the men wouldn't mind walking into the breakfast room with me on their arm, and doesn't Ron know it!" Veronica giggled as my eyes widened. "He threw a pea at Wally during dinner on Tuesday because he looked at me for a little too long. He's got quite the jealous streak, but he's a real man, Penelope, and with his new muscles he struts around like a big old peacock."
Veronica gazed into the distance for a few moments with a twinkle in her eye, and I took the chance to change the subject and make my escape. "Well, it was nice seeing you, Veronica," I said. "But I have to get back to the boat. I rushed over here when I heard the shouting, and I think I...."
"Yes?"
Think Penny. Think. "...left the oven on?"
Veronica put her hand on my back and turned me in the direction of the canal. "Get back then, Penelope, hurry. I've never trusted gas. I've read too many stories about gas explosions. You don't want one of those on your boat. It would probably sink!"
I started my walk across the allotments with unwelcome images of Ron and Veronica imprinted on my mind. "See you soon, Veronica," I said, stepping over an abnormally large cauliflower. Maybe my fertility spell hadn't been gentle enough, there seemed to be some unfeasibly healthy looking vegetables growing everywhere I looked.
"Oh, Penelope!" she called. "Are you open for business?"
"I won't be opening for normal business hours, I need a break after the last four months, but if I'm home and someone stops by, they're welcome to come in."
"Oh good. All that talking about Ron has given me an idea. I need you to make me a special potion. A very special one."
I dodged an overturned wheelbarrow and hopped over a two-foot-long cucumber. "Pop in tomorrow if you like. I'm going into town in the morning, but I'll be home by six."
"Six o'clock it is!" said Veronica, stumbling over dried clods of earth as she headed towards a group of men, pruning her hair as she walked.
With a final farewell, I headed back the way I'd come, and paused halfway down the footpath to appreciate my piece of paradise. The canal sparkled below me, travelling east to west, and my mooring led directly off it at a right angle. It was a tight angle to negotiate in a long boat, but under the tutelage of a friendly fellow boat owner, I’d soon learnt how to make the turn.
My sister had insisted the man had only helped me because I was blocking the canal, but I liked to think it was my first introduction to the legendary community spirit of the people who made the canals their home.
The dead-end channel of water was large enough for two boats, but home only to my canal narrowboat, and grassy slopes rose on all three sides of the cutaway, giving way to the trees which gave me seclusion.
A towpath ran along the opposite bank of the canal, and trees shrouded the side of the waterway my home was cut into, dipping their lower branches in the water.
I shouted as I descended the footpath. “Mabel! Mabel!”
She’d failed to appear when I’d arrived home, but she’d show up soon enough. She wasn’t the type of goose who got on with other members of her species. She preferred human company, and certainly wouldn’t put up with the two swans which were feeding in the margins of my mooring.
Rosie was leaning over the edge of the roof, hissing at them as I climbed back aboard the boat. “Come on,” I said. “It’s dinnertime. It’s tuna Tuesday!”
She leapt down with a happy mewl, and scurried through the open bow doors. Rosie ate tuna flavoured food on most days of the week, but I tried to make it sound more special on a Thursday and a Tuesday.
I ducked as I descended the two steps into the belly of my boat. The shop section of my boat, which had been the saloon lounge when I'd bought it, was packed with various incenses and herbs — along with all the other witchcraft paraphernalia that mortal witches enjoyed trying to make magic with, and the whole boat smelled deliciously herby.
Stepping past the tiny sales counter, I breezed through the purple curtain that acted as a door, and made my way into the middle section of the sixty-foot narrowboat, the part that customers never saw. Unless they were of the nosy variety — the type of person that would scare you half to death as you looked up from reading a book, or stirring a stew, and saw them peering in through one of the large rectangle windows that ran along either side of the steel hull.
The living quarters and galley kitchen area was compact, but cosy and comfortable nonetheless. With ample seating, a fully functioning kitchen, and minimally decorated in a way that I hoped said modern and traditional, it was my idea of perfect. The coal and wood burner stood in the corner, unused since winter, and the space on the wall where I had intended on hanging a TV was still bare.
Beyond the living area was my bathroom, and past that, my bedroom, which was accessed by a narrow corridor. The bedroom was large enough for a compact double bed, and a pair of doors opened onto the stern decking, allowing me the pleasure of a breeze on my face as I slept on a warm summer's night. With a fire burning in the living area stove and the stern doors closed, the bedroom became a toasty warm haven on a cold winter's night.
The bathroom was small, but contained everything I needed. With white tiled walls, it boasted a full-sized shower, a sink, and a toilet. I'd decided to keep quiet about my composting toilet in the future. I'd almost been chased away from a village I'd moored up in, when I'd used it as a unique selling point to sell more of the potted herbs that dotted the flat roof of my boat. I'd never been back to the village, and I was beginning to understand how snake oil salesmen had felt.
I loved the Water Witch, and I loved living between walls that were just under seven-feet apart. Who needed acres of floor space? Especially floor space that you couldn't move from scenic village to bustling town, or even busy city at the drop of a hat. No, living in a house or apartment was not for me. I liked to imagine myself as a nomadic witch, like those of the past.
With Rosie’s bowls filled, and the radio switched on and placed next to an open window, I reclaimed my position on the roof. After fishing the suicidal and drunk flies from my wine glass, I took a long gulp, closed my eyes, and lay back beneath the last of the evening sun.
An hour later, and with a warm tipsiness coursing through my veins, I climbed off the roof as the sun began setting over the canal, and went inside the boat. Rosie leapt onto me as I sat down, and with her curled up on my lap, I made a few phone calls to let people know I was home, and to arrange some meet ups for the following day.
It was good to be back in Wickford, and I looked forward to not having to negotiate canal locks or worry about finding a mooring spot in a busy town on market day. With the sound of water lapping against the hull competing with Rosie's snoring, I drifted off to sleep on the sofa, to intrusive thoughts of Ron and Veronica sneaking around the nursing home in just their underwear.
Chapter Two
Rosie woke me up at precisely eight o'clock in the morning by massaging my face and mewling in my ear. "Okay," I said, gently pushing her away, and promising myself for the fiftieth time that I wouldn't fall asleep on the sofa fully clothed again. "I know. It's breakfast time."
After topping Rosie's water and food bowls up, I put some coffee on, took a shower, and dressed in a short purple dress over leggings, with my favourite oxblood Dr Martens on my feet. The short boots were years old and beginning to show their age, but shoes and clothes shopping was almost at the top of my 'things I don't enjoy in life' list —
directly beneath public flatulence — but a few spots above sporks. Whoever had come up with the idea for sporks was certainly not a fan of soup or a meaty steak. Too shallow for soup, and not strong enough for a nice piece of rump, a spork was just not fit for purpose.
With a mug of black coffee in my hand, and Rosie rubbing against my legs, I tossed some stale bread to the noisy congregation of ducks and swans that had gathered around my boat. They'd soon disperse when Mabel the goose made an appearance, but for the time being they were welcome to share my mooring with me. Several of them looked up at me sullenly as I threw the last piece of dry bread to a particularly shy looking duck on the edge of the group, and set about unstrapping my bike from the front of the boat. The red bike clattered as I threw it ashore, but I'd long ago stopped worrying about scratching it, and after locking the boat up and making sure Rosie's cat flap was open, I headed off up the footpath towards town to meet my best friend.
I was due to meet Susie at nine o'clock sharp, and when Susie said sharp, she meant samurai sword sharp. Just being half a minute late would have elicited a soul wilting stare from her — even if she hadn't seen me for months. It was a quick cycle into town, and I waved at the few people who recognised me as I negotiated the almost traffic free streets of Wickford. The morning sun was already warming my face, and the older building's light coloured stonework glowed in the golden light, like the crust on a particularly good clotted cream. The scent of the freshly watered flowers that bulged from the hanging baskets beneath every wrought iron street light made me strangely happy, and I even looked forward to visiting my mother later in the day.
The imaginatively named Coffee Pot Café stood on the corner of Church Street and High Street, and after leaning my bike against the post-box outside, I went inside to a friendly welcome from Mrs Patterson, the long-term owner and baker of some of finest pastries in town.
"Penelope!" she said, "Susie said you were coming! It's great to see you."
"It's great to be back," I said, looking over the heads of the other diners for my friend.
"She's over there," said Mrs Patterson, pointing. "At the table in the corner. She's tucked away behind the Colonel and his massive newspaper. She's ordered a drink and some toast for you."
Susie was huddled at the table with a pot of tea for two, and two slices of hot buttered toast for each of us. She was well hidden by Colonel Bradshaw's newspaper, and her face lit up when she took her eyes off her phone and saw me. "Penny!" she squealed, standing up as I approached the table. "You're early! I was just about to phone you."
I gave her a wide grin and returned the bearhug she locked me in. "Pleased to see you too, Susie," I said, raising my eyebrows.
"Of course I'm pleased to see you, Penny. I just wasn't expecting you to be early."
After knowing Susie for as many years as I had, it was easy to let her obsessive time keeping go straight over my head with a smile. I sat down opposite her, wondering why I always got a seat that had one leg shorter than the others, and bit into the crispy crust of my toast while Susie poured us a cup of tea.
"So," said Susie. "How's tricks?"
It was a private joke we'd shared since we were eleven years old, when Susie had discovered my family were witches. Everyone had been using the trendy question at the time, but to me and Susie it had always had a greater meaning.
"Things are magic," I said, delivering the punchline, much to Susie's delight.
"I've missed you, Penny," she said, tucking into her toast. "Please tell me you're staying for good."
I narrowed my eyes and stared at her. "You've been talking to my mother, haven't you? She's recruited you into the 'get Penny to stop her ridiculous floating shop fantasy, and live a normal life' team, hasn't she?"
Susie flicked a stray strand of blonde hair from her eye and tried to stifle a giggle. "Did you use magic to work that out, Penelope Weaver?" she said, keeping her voice low, as we always did when we spoke about witchy things in public.
I added another sugar to my tea. "I wish I could do mind reading magic, but as we all know, especially if you listen to my mother..." Susie laughed as I put on a voice, not a million miles away from my mother's high pitched whine, but closer to the sound a boy makes when he traps himself in his trouser zipper, "...I'm a witch who has absolutely no pride in her heritage, and has absolutely no chance of ascending if she continues to only focus on the element of water. A witch needs to feel the earth between her toes, just as much as she needs to be near water."
Susie did very well not to spit her tea across the table. "That's exactly what she says!"
I took another bite of toast, savouring the melted butter. Mrs Patterson sourced all her ingredients locally, and the butter was from the dairy on the outskirts of town, produced from Farmer Bill's errant cows. "Does my mother not know that a canal has banks? And occasionally I venture onto the aforementioned banks and walk around on dry land?" I said, smiling as I chewed.
"She just misses you," she said, "and Willow does. Speaking of Willow — you won't believe how tall she's got. It's like she went on a massive growth spurt the day she turned eighteen."
My heart sank. I'd wanted nothing more than to be with my sister on such a landmark birthday, but I'd been miles away, near London, moored up next to a music festival. It had been a great day for trade and I'd practically sold all my stock to the legions of women, and some men, who'd wanted to become witches. They'd have been shocked to know that the dark-haired girl who'd served them was a real witch. Not as shocked as they'd have been to find out that real witches existed, though.
"I'm gutted that I missed her birthday."
"She understands. She's really proud of you."
"I'm going straight there after breakfast to see them," I said. "I wanted to pick some flowers up for mum first."
Susie sipped her tea. "I hope she likes cheap flowers from the convenience store."
"Why?"
"There's a passive aggressive handwritten sign in the florist's window,” said Susie, picking up her phone and showing me the screen. "Look, I took a photo. In my line of work, it pays to keep your finger on the pulse."
I took the phone from Susie and read the sign.
'It is with deep regret that I must inform my customers that this shop is closing down. You can thank the town's most successful businessman and all-round nice person — Mr Sam Hedgewick, for the inconvenience to yourselves, and the life altering change in my circumstances.
He has been kind enough to give me a full three days' notice that he is selling the property, and I must vacate it immediately. Thanks to an exceptionally well written contract, which Mr Hedgewick was kind enough to read aloud to me, I have no legal leg to stand on.
Please show Mr Hedgewick your appreciation when you next pass him in the street, or when he crosses the road in front of your car.'
I passed the phone back to Susie with a frown. "Sam's ruffling a few feathers."
Susie narrowed her eyes. "A few?"
I told her about the incident in the allotments, leaving out my conversation with Veronica. There were better places than at the breakfast table for talking about randy elderly folk.
"I wonder what he's playing at," Susie said. "I'm going to look into it."
I swallowed the toast in my mouth and took another bite. "Investigative journalism. At least some reporters still practice it."
Susie smiled. "I have to, I'm a freelance journalist. Not many newspapers will pay for a story about a vandalised bus stop in Wickford. Between this Sam Hedgewick thing and the car show, I'll probably be able to sell a story to The Herald."
"Car show?" I said.
Susie poured the last of the tea, sharing it between us. It was hardly worth adding sugar to the inch of liquid in my cup.
"You've come back just in time, Penny. It's a vintage car show, you'll see loads of old cars on the roads in the next few days, and the local businesses will make more money this week than they have in months. Some of the cars are real beauties
, even to someone like me who can't tell a Rolls Royce and a Mini apart. They've hired the big camping field next to the canal on the outskirts of town. There's a big marquee too with a bar and live music. I think the whole things just an excuse to get drunk to be honest. You should moor your boat there. You'll make a lot of money."
I shook my head. "No. I'm staying right where I'm moored for now. I need a break."
"Fair enough," said Susie. "It will probably be more of a man thing anyway, maybe not your target customers."
"You'd be surprised," I said. "There's more men into witchcraft than people imagine."
"Probably trying to conjure up a few more inches down there," Susie laughed, her hair falling into her eyes. She waved it away and drank the last of her tea. "Or trying to magic themselves into some tarts underwear while their fiancée is at home planning their wedding."
I raised my eyebrows and gave a theatrical sigh. "I'd have thought an independent woman like you would have been over a waste of skin like him a long time ago."
Susie giggled. "Oh, I'm over Robert. Don't you worry about that. It doesn't hurt to laugh about him now and again though. I mean, what sort of man pays for tablets from China that promise to grow his pride and joy an inch or two overnight? And to think he was taking them to try and impress that tart!"
I laughed hard from my belly, and the table shook, nearly knocking the teapot over the edge. "I shouldn't laugh. It sounds like he was very poorly. God knows what was in those pills."
"Bath salts I imagine. Or some type of acid. He thought he had two heads at one point and tried to drown the imposter in the bath. It's a good job I found him, he was almost out of breath."