The Witch's Daughter

by Nina Bawden

  ‘A helicopter?’ Tim said. ‘A helicopter …?’ For a moment he forgot his father in a rush of lovely, hot excitement. ‘Where will it land, Mum?’

  ‘At the back of the hotel. There’s a flat field. You’ll be able to see it land and take off. That’ll be fun, won’t it, Janey darling?’

  Janey loved the sound of aeroplanes: sometimes, on Sunday mornings, Mr Hoggart drove to London Airport, just so she could stand on the waving base and listen.

  Janey said, ‘Aren’t we all going in the helicopter? I want to go in the helicopter.’

  Mrs Hoggart took her hand. ‘I’m sorry, darling, there just isn’t room. I’m going with Dad, but you and Tim will have to stay here. You’ll be all right. Mrs Tarbutt says she’ll look after you. She’s very nice, you like her, don’t you?’

  ‘I do not,’ Janey said. ‘She called me a poor little thing. I heard her.’

  Mrs Hoggart looked helplessly at Tim who shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing much you could do about stupid grown-ups who were sorry for Janey—except, he thought, suddenly grinning, make them look after her for a bit!

  ‘She won’t be calling you that by the time Mum comes back,’ he said. ‘She’ll be calling you a ghastly little horror. When’s the helicopter coming, Mum?’

  ‘Any minute.’ Mrs Hoggart went to the window. ‘You should get a grand view from here.’

  Janey slid off the bed. ‘It’s coming,’ she cried, ‘I can hear it.’

  Mrs Hoggart kissed them goodbye and left them at the open window, one listening, one watching, while the helicopter came whirring in, bumping its wheels gingerly on the rough field and their unconscious father was carried out of the hotel and loaded into the flying ambulance like … like a long parcel, Tim told Janey, who laughed and began to wave excitedly, as if her father was going off on holiday, instead of to hospital. ‘Is he waving back?’ she asked Tim. He didn’t answer, and she said, suddenly frowning, ‘Why didn’t he say goodbye to me?’

  ‘He … well … he wasn’t feeling very well,’ Tim said awkwardly, and then all the excitement left him and he stood silent and apprehensive while the helicopter took off, looking, as it grew smaller and smaller, like some strange, prehistoric insect, whirring up into the yellow and scarlet sunset.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THERE WAS SOMEONE ELSE IN THE ROOM

  MRS TARBUTT WAS a kindly, sentimental woman. There were tears of pity in her eyes as she entered the room and saw the two children standing forlornly by the window. ‘Oh, you poor lambs‚’ she cried, and would have taken Janey in her arms if Tim had not got in her way. He knew how Janey reacted to what she called ‘Sloppy hugging and kissing.’

  Mrs Tarbutt brushed the back of her hand across her eyes and said, trying hard to sound cheerful, ‘Well, beddy-byes in a minute, I suppose. But perhaps you’d like to come downstairs first and have a hot drink by the fire in the lounge. Something nice and milky, to settle you.’

  ‘I don’t like milk‚’ Janey said.

  ‘Oh. Well …’

  ‘I’d like a Coke‚’ Janey said. ‘And some cheese and pickled onions. But I don’t want it in the lounge. I want to have it in the bar.’

  She smiled to herself, and Tim knew why. Janey knew children were not allowed in the bar. She also knew that at this moment Mrs Tarbutt would not deny her anything.

  ‘Well … perhaps just this once‚’ Mrs Tarbutt said. She smiled rather weakly at Tim, and took Janey’s hand. ‘We’ll go down to the bar then, my lamb.’

  Politely but firmly, Janey removed her hand. ‘I can go myself.’

  ‘She’ll be all right‚’ Tim said quickly. ‘Once she’s been shown round, she can always find her way after.’

  Mrs Tarbutt was sensible enough to believe him. As she preceded them down the stairs, she glanced back nervously at Janey, but made no attempt to help her. Downstairs, Janey let Tim guide her into the bar, because this room was strange to her, and help her on to a high stool at the counter. She sat, perched, her long hair flowing over her nightdress. ‘Two Cokes, I think‚’ Mrs Tarbutt said.

  ‘And cheese and pickled onions‚’ Janey added.

  Behind the counter, Mr Tarbutt raised his eyebrows, but he turned to the plastic dome, under which the cheese was kept.

  ‘Cheese lies heavy on the stomach at night‚’ Toffee Papers said. ‘And pickles are poison.’ He was sitting at a table with another man: apart from the Tarbutts and the children, there was no one else in the room.

  ‘I like cheese and pickled onions‚’ Janey said, turning round on her stool and frowning in the direction of the voice.

  ‘Dad says she can digest iron nails‚’ Tim said.

  Toffee Papers said no more. But his eyes bulged as he saw Janey with a bowl of onions before her. She ate twelve very large ones, one after the other.

  Tim drank his Coke. He said, to Mr Tarbutt, ‘Will they ring up from the hospital, about Dad?’

  ‘In the morning, I daresay.’ Mr Tarbutt smiled at Tim. ‘Don’t you worry. He’s in good hands, he’ll be all right.’

  ‘I still can’t figure out how it happened‚’ Mrs Tarbutt said.

  Her husband winked at Tim. ‘Too much polish on the floors, Mother.’

  Mrs Tarbutt bridled. ‘I keep a clean house, I hope. But not dangerous—no polish under the rugs. I don’t know how he came to slip.’

  ‘Someone knows.’ Janey said. She dipped a searching finger into the empty onion bowl and withdrew it with a sigh. ‘There was someone in the room.’

  Tim said, ‘That was Dad. I expect you …’

  ‘Not Dad‚’ Janey said, very loudly and clearly. ‘Someone else, first.’

  There was silence in the bar. Tim looked round. Toffee Papers and the man with him were watching Janey intently.

  ‘Oh, the poor lassie‚’ Mrs Tarbutt cried. ‘She must have had a terrible fright, waking up like that.’ She spoke to Janey very gently. ‘There wasn’t anyone else, dear. Who could there have been? Mr Tarbutt and I were in the kitchen, washing the dishes …’

  Toffee Papers cleared his throat. ‘And we were in the bar all the time. Me and Mr Campbell. No one else here. No one came in, either, or we’d have seen them pass the door. Isn’t that right, Campbell?’

  Campbell nodded. He was a thin man with a thin, bearded face.

  ‘There was someone else in the room‚’ Janey said. ‘I heard.’

  Her face had gone red and stubborn and Tim was embarrassed. Janey’s hearing was sharp and quick. She was not often mistaken, but in this case, she must be. Except the people in this room now, there was no one else in the hotel. And they had all been together, the Tarbutts in the kitchen and Toffee Papers and this other man in the bar. Even if they hadn’t been, what reason could any of them have had for going up to Janey’s bedroom? No—she had had a nightmare, that was all. She often had nightmares about people in her room, and, waking up as she must have done when her father slipped and fell, the nightmare had got confused with reality.

  He said, ‘It was a bad dream, Janey. Just a bad dream.’

  Mrs Tarbutt looked relieved. ‘Of course it was, poor love. Who’d want to come, creeping into your room and frightening you?’

  ‘A burglar might‚’ Janey said.

  Toffee Papers laughed merrily. ‘Your sister’s got a lively imagination, young man‚’ he said, to Tim. ‘Mind you, I’m not surprised.’ Broadly smiling, he addressed the rest of the company. ‘Got a couple of girls myself—I know all about it, I can tell you. The things they make up! You’d be surprised!’ He laughed again and slapped his short, fat thigh. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, girlie. I’ll bet my bottom dollar there’s no burglars on Skua. Nothing to steal, that’s why!’

  ‘It certainly would not be a very lucrative profession on this island,’ Mr Tarbutt said.

  His wife gave a half sigh. ‘Indeed no …’ She smiled rather sadly at Janey. ‘People are poor and honest round here. So you can stop worrying, my lamb.’

  Janey said nothin
g. She scowled and scowled. Embarrassed, Tim slipped off his stool. ‘I think she should go to bed now, Mrs Tarbutt.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Mr Jones said, picking at his bottom teeth with his thumb nail. ‘Bed’s the best place.’

  Janey went up, stumping angrily on every stair. When Tim got into bed beside her, she turned her back on him, pulling the bedclothes over her head. ‘Pig. Unbeliever,’ she said in a muffled voice.

  Tim sighed and switched off the bedside light.

  A little later, he heard her chuckle.

  ‘He’ll believe it,’ she said.

  ‘Who’ll believe what?’ Tim asked, yawning.

  ‘Dad’ll believe in the burglar. Because he must’ve seen him, mustn’t he?’

  Tim stared into the darkness. Outside, the wind was up and rattling the window his mother had bolted earlier. Indoors, the hotel seemed full of small, creaky sounds. He said, ‘If there was a burglar. If, if, if …’ There was no response from beside him and he went on, suddenly exasperated, ‘You’re always making things up. Like that girl on the beach …’

  *

  Up at Luinpool, the witch’s daughter stirred in her sleep as the Land Rover stopped outside the yard gate, dropped its passenger and drove off again. She opened her eyes for a brief second when the handful of stones rattled against Mr Smith’s window, but closed them again almost at once and smiled to herself, half asleep, half awake, dreaming of Janey. The wind, approaching gale force now, whipped the waves on the loch and howled down the chimney of Perdita’s bedroom, drowning the sound of the men’s voices in the room beneath.

  *

  ‘No one saw you?’

  ‘Only the blind child, but she …’

  ‘He’ll know, though. When he comes round …’

  ‘If he comes round.’

  ‘If he doesn’t,’—Mr Smith’s voice was grim—‘then you’re for it, anyway. Campbell won’t stand for murder. You’ll have to clear out.’

  ‘How? There’s no steamer for days.’

  ‘Campbell will take you off. Tomorrow, with luck. He won’t question that. And as long as Hoggart recovers, he’ll keep his mouth shut.’

  ‘What did you tell Campbell?’

  ‘Just that the boy had picked up something of yours that you might like to get back. Privately, without fuss.’

  ‘Oh—for God’s sake. Couldn’t the kid have kept the stone?’

  ‘It was a risk.’

  ‘This has turned out a bigger one.’

  ‘It needn’t have been. If you hadn’t bungled it …’

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt him, Smithie …’ Mr Jones’s voice was suddenly despairing. ‘But he came blundering in … I only pushed him out of my way …’

  ‘If it was an accident, you should have stood your ground.’

  ‘The kid screamed and I—I lost my nerve. Ducked out and hid in the bathroom till the coast was clear and I could get back to the bar. Easy enough, no one suspected anything.’

  ‘They will tomorrow. When he comes round and they get onto the police …’

  Mr Jones made a low, groaning sound.

  ‘There’s only one thing now,’ Mr Smith said. ‘Lie low—disappear.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘People do disappear. They fall off cliff edges, drown … With luck, maybe they’ll think you’re dead.’ He paused a minute, then added softly, ‘As long as there’s nothing to connect this little trouble with … with our other business.’

  ‘Connect me with you, that’s what you mean, isn’t it, Smithie?’

  ‘If you like,’ Mr Smith said evenly.

  There was a silence. Then Mr Jones said, ‘I suppose you’d like me to clear off now? Walk into a bog—over a cliff—that would suit you nicely, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe it would.’ Mr Smith sounded apologetic. ‘But I won’t drive you out—not tonight. You can kip down here. There are rooms kept locked upstairs.’

  ‘What about the kid and the old woman?’

  ‘As long as you’re quiet, it’ll be safe enough. Annie only goes upstairs to sleep, and the child doesn’t pry,’ Mr Smith said.

  *

  Perdita cried out as they reached the top of the stairs. Mr Smith motioned the other man to stay still, and opened her door.

  She was sitting up, blinking, rosy with sleep.

  ‘I heard someone,’ she said.

  ‘Only me.’ Mr Smith closed the door with his foot. He stood, candle in hand, looking down at her. ‘Been awake long?’ he asked casually.

  ‘I don’t know. On and off.’ She frowned. ‘I think I heard a car,’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘Will Campbell,’ Mr Smith said. ‘The wind’s high and he came to tell me he’d changed my mooring.’

  She nodded: this satisfied her. Mr Smith kept a small ketch in the bay where Will Campbell pitched his tent. ‘Will you take me out in your boat one day?’ she asked, yawning.

  ‘Maybe. If you go to sleep now.’

  ‘Where will we go?’

  ‘Round the islands.’ A board on the landing creaked as Mr Jones shifted his position. Mr Smith coughed and sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Perhaps we’ll go further,’ he said.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Lie down and shut your eyes and I’ll tell you,’ Mr Smith said.

  Perdita snuggled down. Mr Smith looked at her rather helplessly. He was not accustomed to telling bed-time stories. ‘Well …’ he began, ‘well …’

  ‘Go on,’ Perdita said.

  He sighed. ‘Well … we’ll get provisions and charts and we’ll sail south. Yes, south. We’ll sail south for a year and a day until we get to a tropical island.’

  ‘Like Skua?’

  Mr Smith pulled a face. ‘A bit warmer, I hope. It’s hot in the tropics, the sun shines all the time and it hardly ever rains. Only at night, sometimes, to wash everything clean. There are coral reefs and palm trees and—er—parrots.’

  ‘What are parrots?’ she murmured.

  ‘Birds. Beautiful birds, all colours of the rainbow, pink, green, purple … Some of them have crests on their heads like little crowns. All sailors have parrots …’ He paused. ‘Are you asleep, Perdita?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, very sleepily.

  Mr Smith smiled to himself and went on in a soft, monotonous voice until she really was asleep, and then, to please himself, he went on talking a little longer about this tropical island where the sun shone and the cold wind never blew, where they would ride at anchor inside a coral reef and live on coconuts.

  Outside on the landing, Mr Jones got cramp in his foot from waiting.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE GIRL ON THE BEACH

  THINGS ALWAYS LOOK different in the morning. That dark shape behind the bedroom door, so frightening at night, is just a hanging coat when daylight comes. When Tim woke, the bright, morning sunlight was falling through the window and Janey’s burglar seemed no more than a wild, improbable dream …

  And to make it even more improbable, even more dream-like, there was Mrs Tarbutt at the door, plump and ordinary and beaming with good news. Mrs Hoggart had telephoned early, while the children were still asleep, to say their father was much better. He had recovered consciousness and was now sleeping normally, under sedation. ‘That was a nasty old bang he gave his head, apparently,’ Mrs Tarbutt said, stooping to pick up Tim’s clothes, scattered untidily on the floor. ‘But nothing serious, praise the Lord. Just a bit of concussion. He’ll be right as rain in a day or two, though he’s got to be kept quiet, of course. Your Mummy’s going to find a nice hotel in Oban and she’ll be over to fetch you on the steamer, in five day’s time. Now … Mrs Tarbutt smiled. ‘What about breakfast? Porridge and eggs?’

  ‘Two eggs,’ Janey said. ‘I like two eggs, hard on the outside and runny in the middle.’

  ‘Please,’ Tim prompted her.

  ‘Please. Mrs Tarbutt, did Dad say about the …’

  Tim kicked her under the bedclothes and she gave a little yelp that made Mrs Tarbutt look at him in a shocked way
. He said quickly, ‘She wants to know if Dad remembers how he banged his head.’

  ‘Oh, no, dear, he’s not well enough to talk yet.’ Mrs Tarbutt looked at Janey who was rubbing her leg and scowling. Her expression was pitying, and Tim’s heart sank: he knew what her voice would sound like to Janey as she said tenderly, ‘Shall I help you get dressed, my lamb?’

  Tim felt Janey go stiff beside him. ‘I can manage perfectly well, thank you,’ she said. Her voice was icy and Tim knew there was no danger, now, that she would ask Mrs Tarbutt any more questions about the burglar—or, indeed, say anything to her at all that was not absolutely necessary. Once someone had insulted Janey by offering to dress her, or cut up her food, or do any of the things that she had struggled so hard to learn to do for herself, she became cold and silent with them. And although, when Mrs Tarbutt looked hurt, Tim was sorry—because after all, she had only meant to be kind—he was relieved, too. If Janey persisted in her ridiculous story about the burglar, Mrs Tarbutt would only laugh. And Tim hated anyone to laugh at Janey.

  *

  After breakfast, they went to the bay where Janey had looked for shells the day before. It was some way from the hotel but Janey was a good walker, Tim assured Mrs Tarbutt, who seemed doubtful about letting them go alone and was only persuaded to make sandwiches for their lunch after Tim had coaxed for a good half hour. Even then she felt impelled to extract a number of promises from Tim before she let them go. He was to look after Janey, not to wander too far, not to climb any mountains or cliffs, to keep an eye on his watch and not to come back too late for tea …

  ‘I’m surprised she didn’t tell me not to breathe,’ he said glumly, when they finally got away. ‘How old does she think I am? Five?’

  They crossed the stream by the broken bridge and climbed upwards. Sheep lifted their heads to watch them pass, and, from the top of the ridge, someone else was watching too. When they had breasted the ridge and were walking down hill, across the peat bog to the bay, she came out from behind a rock and ran after them. She ran as a hare runs, stopping and freezing still from time to time, so that her brown skirt and green scarf merged into the colours of the hill side. If Tim had looked back, he would not have known someone was following them.