A Very Singular Guild

by Catherine Jinks

  When they finally arrived at Trent Station, some three hours after leaving St Pancras, they found themselves in the middle of nowhere. Though very large and handsome, with lavatories and refreshment rooms and glass canopies over both platforms, the station was surrounded by fields and woods as far as the eye could see. Once the London express had rolled away, and the smoke and steam had cleared, Ned was confronted by a vast expanse of leafless treetops.

  ‘There ain’t no town,’ he murmured, awestruck. He’d never in his life set foot outside London – and the fresh, scented breeze that blew in his face was a revelation.

  ‘Trent Station’s nowt but an interchange,’ a passing guard informed him. ‘All tha can do here is switch lines.’

  ‘’Tis new since I were last in the neighbourhood,’ Alfred confessed. ‘Where must we go to catch the train to Long Eaton?’

  ‘Ower that way.’ The guard directed Alfred to a connecting train, which was almost empty of passengers. As a result, Alfred and Ned had a whole carriage to themselves. And since there was no one else around to overhear them, Ned finally found the courage to ask, ‘Is this where you was raised, Mr Bunce?’

  Alfred shook his head. ‘Nay,’ he said, staring out the window as the engine gathered speed. ‘I were born in Derby. Daniel Piggin brought me to Long Eaton nobbut two or three times, to visit his sister. She worked on a farm just out o’ town.’

  Surprised to hear Alfred so chatty, Ned tried another question. ‘So where did yer master do his bogling, then?’

  ‘In London, chiefly. I weren’t five years old when I moved there. But sometimes we was hired to do jobs up this way, by folk as knew us.’ All of a sudden Alfred’s pensive gaze shifted back to Ned. ‘Daniel Piggin trained me up to take his place. There was other boys as came and went, but I allus stayed close, even when carting loads to make ends meet.’ Pausing for a moment, Alfred seemed to expect some kind of comment. But Ned was confused. He didn’t know what to say.

  So Alfred continued.

  ‘I weren’t twenty when Dan passed. A fever took him quick and clean. He left me his pipe and his spear, which I still have.’ After briefly surveying Ned from top to toe, the bogler finally said, ‘I bin a-thinking I might give ’em to you, in time.’

  Ned blinked.

  ‘Jem’s found another path for hisself, and I’m glad of it, for he ain’t steady,’ Alfred went on. ‘He’s quick and brave, so he made a good ’prentice. But it takes more’n that to be a bogler. A bogler needs to have a clear head and a firm hand.’ As Ned shifted uneasily, Alfred finished, ‘I ain’t never had no other ’prentice kill a bogle – and you done it twice, lad. Seems to me you was born to the job.’

  Still Ned didn’t know what to say. He should have been honoured; that was clear. Yet his heart sank like a stone at the thought of becoming Alfred’s successor.

  ‘Y-you ain’t ill, Mr Bunce?’ he stammered.

  ‘Nay, lad. I’m tiring, though. And coming back here don’t make me feel no younger.’ Alfred frowned as his gaze drifted back to the window. ‘Wait,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘What’s this? This ain’t Long Eaton.’

  But it was. To Alfred’s dismay, a new railway station had been built since his previous visit. What’s more, it was in a completely different part of the town, so when at last he emerged onto the platform, he didn’t know where he was. He had to ask one of the guards for directions to Coffee Pot Farm, while Ned stood waiting in a light drizzle, wondering uneasily if they had come all this way for nothing.

  If Long Eaton had uprooted its whole railway station, what were the chances that May Piggin still lived at her old address?

  ‘The other station were on Toton Lane, just down the road from Mother May’s house,’ Alfred observed, when they finally set off. ‘Now we must go up Station Street, which used to be Tithe Barn Lane.’ They were heading east, across a footbridge suspended over the railway tracks, when he stopped suddenly. ‘Look there,’ he said, nodding at a cluttered vista of factory chimneys and railway sheds that lay to the west. ‘Most o’ them mills is new, since I were a lad. It’s changed, right enough.’

  ‘It’s a big station,’ Ned observed.

  ‘It is. And less’n ten years old, that guard said.’

  ‘Will Mother May be living here still, Mr Bunce?’

  Alfred shrugged. ‘She weren’t one for shifting about,’ he replied, ‘and the farm seems to be where I left it.’

  Ned grunted. Though he had begun to doubt that May Piggin was even alive, he obediently followed Alfred up Station Street, which had a strangely patchy appearance at first, as if it couldn’t make up its mind whether it belonged to the town or the country. Grand new houses were springing up on brand new streets, but here and there a chunk of old hedgerow or a tumbledown barn remained. The road was macadam for a while, then degenerated into muddy ruts, scattered with puddles.

  After about twenty minutes, Ned began to feel as if he was trudging through proper countryside. There were overgrown paddocks and tilled fields, and a horse stood all alone behind a stone fence. Alfred kept muttering under his breath (‘Where’s Grange Farm? This don’t look right. The old tithe barn’s gone . . .’), as water slowly dripped from his nose and hat-brim. Ned soon realised that country walking was more difficult than city walking. The road was so dirty and uneven, and the rain was so relentless, that he didn’t say another word until they came within sight of their destination.

  ‘There,’ said Alfred, pointing at a row of gritstone houses sitting forlornly on an otherwise deserted stretch of road. ‘There it is. The one at the end.’

  Ned was puzzled. ‘That’s the farm?’ he queried, wondering where the barns were.

  ‘Nay, the farm’s up yonder. This here is where the farmhands live. Or used to live.’ Alfred struck out for the closest cottage, which was a two-storeyed structure attached to another, identical house.

  Ned thought it very grim-looking, with its grey walls and tiny windows. The small garden plot in front was full of mud and brown stalks. A leafless vine was growing over the front door, which was set quite low. The smoke oozing from the chimney drifted downwards, as if the damp air weighed on it.

  Alfred hesitated for a moment before knocking. Ned thought he was paler than usual, though that might have been because of the cold.

  ‘Hello?’ said Alfred. ‘Mrs Blewett?’

  There was no reply. The only sounds were the trickle of water and the sighing of the wind. Ned couldn’t get over the lack of noise; London was never this quiet, not even at two o’clock in the morning.

  ‘Hello?’ Alfred repeated. ‘Is anyone there?’

  Suddenly Ned heard shuffling footsteps, followed by the scrape of a bolt and the creak of hinges. Next thing he knew, he was staring at a little old lady wrapped in a grey shawl. Her hair was grey too, as were her eyes, which were buried deep in two nests of wrinkles. She wore a rather limp white cap on her silvery hair, and carried a wooden cane.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she cawed, blinking at Ned – who was taller than she was. ‘Dost ah know thee?’

  ‘Mrs Blewett?’ said Alfred. ‘Mrs May Blewett?’

  ‘Aye.’ All at once she seemed to get her bearings. Turning to Alfred, she croaked, ‘And th’art?’

  ‘Alfred Bunce. I used to work for yer brother Daniel.’ As the old woman peered at him, silent and motionless, Alfred cleared his throat and shifted his weight. ‘I came here from London, Mother May. There’s summat I need to know, and I thought as how you might have the answer.’

  ‘Fred Bunce?’ The old woman’s face suddenly brightened. ‘T’ Derby lad?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well, ah’ll be . . .’ Smiling a gap-toothed smile, Mother May began to edge backwards into the gloom of her cottage. ‘Come in! Come in, tha must be clammed! Ah’ve some oatcakes for thee, and a drap o’ cider . . .’

  15

  THE BLASTING ROD

  Mother May’s oatcakes were as dry as dust, but her cider was good. One sip was all it took to warm N
ed on the inside. And her fire warmed the rest of him, slowly thawing out his wet feet, his chilled hands and his frozen ears.

  The fire was built in a brazier, which occupied one corner of the old woman’s huge inglenook fireplace. This fireplace was so big that it seemed to take up half her kitchen. The rest of the low, dark, sooty room was crammed with furniture: a table, a dresser, a chest, a barrel, a sink, a bed, several mismatched chairs, and piles of domestic junk.

  Looking at the clothes and pots and tools that covered every available surface, Ned realised that Mother May was actually living in her kitchen. He guessed that the rest of the house was probably unused, except for storing firewood.

  As someone who lived in a tiny London garret with two other people, he found such a waste of space hard to comprehend.

  ‘So tha’rt a bogler,’ the old woman said to Alfred, in a voice that crackled like the fire. She had lowered herself into a well-worn rocking chair beside the hearth, having placed Ned and Alfred on a rickety settle opposite her. ‘And this bonny lad – is he yorn?’

  ‘Nay,’ Alfred rumbled. He sounded almost sheepish, Ned thought, and quite unlike himself. ‘Ned Roach is me ’prentice.’

  Mother May clicked her tongue. ‘Ah thought he must be kin, what with t’ big, brown eyes that’s on ’im. Hast tha no children, Freddie?’

  Alfred shook his head.

  ‘Eh, now, that’s a shame,’ the old women lamented. ‘But poor Dan had t’ same problem, travelling about as he did. He couldn’t settle long enough to find hissen a wife.’

  ‘I don’t travel much,’ said Alfred. ‘I don’t need to. There’s bogles enough in London to keep me busy.’

  ‘All in t’ one place?’ Mother May kept dipping her oatcake into her cider, and Ned wondered if she did this because she didn’t have many teeth. ‘Well, ah never. What a wicked town it must be!’

  ‘’Tain’t the wickedness as draws the bogles, Mrs Blewett. ’Tis the number o’ children living there.’ Before Mother May could respond, Alfred leaned forward and said quietly, ‘Yer brother gave me all he had when he died. His pipe, his baccy pouch, his boots . . . and his spear, ma’am. Do you remember his spear?’

  The old woman nodded as she masticated her oatcake. ‘That ah do,’ she replied, spraying crumbs.

  ‘He told me it were Finn MacCool’s spear. Did he ever tell you that?’

  ‘Finn MacCool’s spear?’ She began to cough. ‘Gerron with thee!’

  Alfred frowned.

  ‘’Twas nowt but a blasting rod!’ Mother May continued, still coughing. She didn’t find her voice again until she’d drained her cup of cider. Then she smiled at Alfred. ‘Dan was telling thee tales, ah expect, tha being a little laddie. But he cut that spear hissen, and ah was t’one that hexed it.’

  Alfred stiffened, his eyes widening. Ned asked, ‘What’s a blasting rod?’

  ‘Why, ’tis a witch’s staff, me duck. Made o’ blackthorn and used for cursing, though we piggled away at it till we had a bogling spear. Mam taught me how ’twas done, for she was a cunning woman, like her own mam—’

  ‘Blackthorn, you say?’ Alfred interrupted. ‘That spear is made o’ blackthorn?’

  ‘With a head cut by the stonemason down the lane, from a cross blessed by t’ owd priest at Duffield,’ said Mother May. She looked quite pleased with herself for remembering this. ‘Ten shillings, it cost, but Dan knew ’twould pay for issen.’

  ‘So the spear is just a stick o’ blackthorn with a consecrated point on it?’ Alfred seemed taken aback. ‘That’s all it is?’

  ‘Nay, lad, ’twould be rammel without herbs!’ the old woman exclaimed, balancing her empty cup on an overturned bucket. ‘Tha canna cast a bane without herbs, Freddie, else tha’d like to come a cropper.’

  ‘Which herbs did you use?’ Ned chimed in. He was genuinely interested – and he sensed that Mother May liked him. But instead of answering his question, she smirked and bridled and said, ‘Well now, tha may well ask.’

  Ned was surprised. Why was she being so coy, all of a sudden? He glanced at Alfred, who was studying the old woman gravely, an untouched piece of oatcake in one hand and a full cup of cider in the other.

  ‘You’re still in business, Mrs Blewett?’ the bogler queried.

  ‘Ah am that,’ she replied with a cackle. ‘For there’ll allus be lassies in love, and lads with grudges. Not to mention owd men with sore teggies.’

  Ned still didn’t understand. ‘What’s a teggy?’ he asked, bewildered.

  Mother May grinned and tapped one of the last teeth in her gums with a crooked finger. ‘This is a teggy,’ she said, ‘and tha may be thankful there’s a full set of ’em in that fine head o’ yorn.’

  ‘Mrs Blewett, I ain’t about to take none o’ your potions without paying a fair price,’ Alfred cut in – and all at once it dawned on Ned that Mother May’s ‘business’ had to be her magic. She was earning money with charms and cures and curses, and although Mr Harewood had referred to her as a ‘folk healer’, she was clearly more than that.

  Put simply, she was a witch.

  Ned stared at her in amazement. So this was what a witch looked like! He should have known it; there was something about her dim, damp, untidy kitchen that unnerved him.

  ‘The boy and I – we ain’t alone in this,’ Alfred was saying. ‘We’re on a committee, see, as is charged with ridding London of all its bogles—’

  ‘A what?’ Mother May cut him off, looking perplexed. ‘What’s a committee?’

  ‘A kind o’ guild,’ Alfred explained. ‘Like a boglers’ guild.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ The old woman nodded.

  ‘And this committee . . . well, ’tis a government committee, with government money behind it.’ Alfred paused as he allowed this to sink in, then took a deep breath and added, ‘If you tell us which herbs is on yer brother’s spear, Mrs Blewett, we’ll pay you a fair price for the receipt.’

  Mother May narrowed her eyes. ‘How much?’ she croaked.

  ‘Five pounds. In yer hand.’ Before the old woman could respond, Alfred continued, ‘’T’ain’t no use asking for ten, on account of our chairman. He’s the feller with the final say, and he said five. I cannot bargain with you.’

  ‘Dunna wittle, lad. Ah’ll take five pound.’ Mother May held out her hand as Alfred produced several gold coins from one of his pockets. But to Ned’s surprise, he didn’t immediately pass the coins to her.

  ‘Shall I put these in yer chamber pot, Mrs Blewett?’

  ‘Nay!’ Mother May spoke sharply. ‘Ah dun keep t’ money in that no more!’

  ‘Then I’ll lay ’em down here.’ Alfred placed the coins on a low footstool situated between them. ‘And when you’ve told us what’s in yer potion, you may take ’em as you like.’

  ‘Monkshood,’ said Mother May. ‘That’s for deathwork. Also rue and crampweed, which drives away devils. Hag’s taper for protection, peppercorn for attack magic, and henbane mixed with black nightshade for poisoning.’

  The ingredients came tumbling out as if she couldn’t keep them to herself any longer. Ned tried to commit them to memory. Monks ruing their cramps, he thought. Hags and hens, a pinch of peppercorn . . .

  Not for the first time, he wished that he could write.

  ‘Use all of ’em in equal measure,’ the old woman went on, ‘mixed to a paste with holy water, if you have it. Then add a dob o’ goose fat to make it stick.’

  ‘Rue, peppercorn, monkshood, henbane, hag’s taper, crampweed, nightshade, holy water and goose fat,’ Alfred recited. Then he stood up. ‘Thank’ee, ma’am.’

  ‘Tha’ll not be staying a little longer?’ Mother May protested, as Ned joined Alfred. ‘Ah can put the kettle on for tea . . .’

  ‘We’ve a train to catch.’ The bogler reached for his hat, which he’d left hanging from a pot-hook. ‘By the by, have you any blackthorn bushes hereabouts?’

  ‘Any blackthorn?’ the old woman echoed. ‘Why, every blessed hedge in this shire is a blackthorn
hedge! There’s one down the road.’

  ‘Then I’ll take a little, if there ain’t no objection.’ By this time Alfred had donned his hat, and was edging towards the door. ‘Thanks again, Mrs Blewett,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ll have the committee send you a letter. Mebbe you can find someone as’ll read it to you.’

  ‘Thanks for the cake, Mrs Blewett. And the cider,’ Ned murmured. He felt bad about leaving so abruptly, when she seemed so anxious to have them stay. But with a three-hour train journey ahead of them, they couldn’t really linger.

  ‘Art tha bogle-bait, lad?’ she suddenly asked him, as she struggled to rise from her chair. On receiving a cautious nod, she turned to Alfred – who was already opening the door. ‘There’s more’n one way to bait a boggart,’ she announced. ‘Dost tha know that? They can be raised with herbs, like any spirit.’

  Alfred paused to look at her, his dark eyes wary under his hat-brim.

  ‘Elfwort’ll do it. Horesheal. Dogsbane,’ she continued slyly. ‘Tell yer master ah can give thee another recipe for another five pound.’

  Shocked by this unexpected news, Ned glanced at Alfred. But the bogler was still regarding Mother May. At last he said, ‘Why would yer brother take me on, if all he needed were a potion?’

  ‘A bogle summoned is a bogle primed to fight,’ the old woman retorted. ‘Lure it with a tender bit o’ bait, and it willna be ready for thee.’

  She was right. Ned could see that. But Alfred looked unimpressed.

  ‘I’ll ask the chairman,’ he growled. ‘Good day to you, Mrs Blewett.’

  Then he opened the door, tipped his hat, and departed – with his hand clenched firmly around Ned’s arm. They were well away from the cottage before Ned was finally released, in front of a spiky hedge so overgrown it was more like a copse. ‘This here is blackthorn,’ said Alfred. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Are we going to make another spear?’ asked Ned.

  ‘Aye.’ Though it was still drizzling, Alfred took his tobacco knife from his pocket and began to saw at one leafless, thorny branch. Ned stood in the mud, watching, as the silence dragged on.