saggy and too exhausted to wish I’d had girls. No-one will believe I ever had a waist in the whole course of my life!’
She gathered together the last forkful of succulent white flesh and ate it up with pleasure. ‘Delicious! Next time you catch a crab, be sure to invite me to lunch again! You’ll never be short of a hungry mouth to feed while I have anything to do with it— I could eat that every day! Oh, but what time is it? I’ll never get to see the witch if Jonny doesn’t hurry up. Where can he be? When will he be back, do you know?’
Steven did not venture to guess— and I will not venture to tell you.
What I will say is that the following year, almost to the day, the lunching couple were back in Cromer. The weather was not so blustery as before— in fact, for the most part it was still and rather humid. The town stifled under an oppressive bank of cloud, and the breezes wafting occasionally off the sea stirred without dispelling the atmosphere. The little cobbled side-lanes were empty and quiet, and the shop-keepers all over town leaned idly on their counters, wondering listlessly when the season would really begin to begin.
The Witch of Cromer’s shop, hidden around the obscure curve of an alley, seemed quite withdrawn and asleep, with its small windows shuttered and fly posters plastered over the cracks of the doorway. No murmur within, no prying tourist without, disturbed its repose— until suddenly, running feet turning the corner, a figure darting into view, a rattle of the door handle, hammering knocks, thumps and cries. It was a violent uproar after such silence, and a first-floor sash above the shop-front sprang up as though startled.
A surprised, curious old face poked out. ‘What’s that? What’s going on? Who are you?’
The person in the street below looked up, demanding: ‘Where is she? Where is she?’ without interrupting his assault on the door.
‘Where is who? Where is who?’ gasped the roused old dear, intrigued by the urgency.
‘The witch! The witch, of course! Where is she? Where?’ —more juddering, frenzied blows on the door— ‘Where is the goddamn Witch of Cromer?’
‘Oh!’ cried the other, extremely interested. ‘Well! Just a moment!’
She withdrew her head, closed the sash and retreated into the room. Then, shortly afterwards, another door, adjoining the frontage of the witch’s shop, opened carefully, and the inquisitive little lady appeared again.
‘So! You’re looking for the witch! Well! You won’t find her here, I’m afraid. But whatever’s the matter? What a scene!’
‘Where is she? Can you tell me? Do you know?’ pressed the other, towering over her with clenched fists and gritted teeth. It was Steven again, but the nervous agitation of his former visit a year ago was now transformed into outright despair. He seemed ready to kick the shop door from its hinges.
‘Dear me! You’re shaking from head to foot! Well I never did! You’d better come in.’
‘Just tell me where she is! Just tell me!’
The old lady pretended to be shocked by his shouting passion, but secretly fluttered with curiosity to discover why this handsome young fellow was making such a fuss.
‘Well! Oh! You’d better come in, you better had! Oh! Yes, come in and sit down!’ —and without waiting for him to protest further, she scurried back indoors.
He pursued, exasperated, into her small, quaint kitchen, and she had him sat down and accepting a cup of over-sweet tea before he knew where he was.
‘You won’t find the witch here,’ confided the lady at last, sliding a plate of Battenberg towards him. ‘Oh! Goodness, no! No-one’s seen her since Christmas!’
‘Christmas!’ The word, or the notion of it, seemed to shake him. His angry energy suddenly relapsed into daunted, apprehensive doubt. He had trouble catching his breath, and his eyes dropped, unfocussed, as though reading over his thoughts.
‘Not a peep all year!’ she confirmed. ‘Slipped away in the middle of the night, no-one knows where. Well! What do you think of that?’
‘Do you remember—’ he murmured, studying intently the pattern on the saucer before him, ‘—the date?’
‘Oh! Well! Let me see. It was just before Christmas— yes, a couple of days before Christmas. I didn’t think anything of it, of course, her going away at that time of year, but I did notice. Where do you think she went?’
‘It was the twenty-second,’ he intoned.
‘Oh! Yes! Well, it would have been. Yes, that’s right! The twenty-second.’
‘That was the day. The same day.’ He shook his head slowly.
‘Well, goodness! Well I never did! The same day as what, my dear?’
‘Their wedding day.’ He looked at her with a grim expression. ‘It was supposed to have been their wedding day. What does it mean?’
The lady tutted sympathetically, as if she understood it all, and dropped a few more mild exclamations, before pursuing: ‘But whose wedding? Do you mean the witch?’
‘No, no— it’s a long story— long, long.’
‘Oh! Goodness! Well!’ She introduced another sugar cube into his cup.
‘My brother was due to be married on the twenty-second of December,’ he began, ‘but it didn’t happen. Last spring— a year ago— he disappeared. He was driving back to Norwich, but he never arrived. The next morning a farmer found his car on a little remote track off the main road. It was parked under a huge tree, the driver door open, the engine still running— but he was gone. There’s nothing for miles around, just empty fields— we searched them, every hedge and ditch, family, friends, the police— but no trace, not a single hint of him. Vanished.’
The lady was too wise to interrupt, but only nodded and shook her head by turns.
‘We all started to give up hope,’ Steven continued. ‘I mean, who could help it? If he’d run away on purpose, he’d certainly covered his tracks well, and meant to leave us all behind. If he’d been— I don’t know, abducted or something, there was no ransom note, and where’s the sense in taking him otherwise? No, we realised he must be dead. Somebody’s murder victim. Who knows why? Who knows. But she wouldn’t believe it— Bridget, his fiancée. She kept on insisting, kept on hunting, scouring every byway, following every will-o’-the-wisp lead, long after everyone else gave up in despair. She cried every day— every frustrating day that led to nothing, she broke down. But the next morning she’d be as determined as ever, and set to it. “I want him back— I must have him back!” she’d say. And she’d go chasing his shadow all over again. But he’s gone— utterly gone.’
‘How dreadful! Dear me, you poor man! How can you bear it?’
‘Bear what?’ he asked sharply.
‘Well! Losing your brother, of course?’
He did not answer that. His eyed strayed to contemplate an uncertain distance again, and he began anew, as if reciting to himself: ‘I was with her every day. I made a point of it. She wasn’t alone. I was there for her, whenever she needed. But she wouldn’t stop looking, she wouldn’t stop— “I must have him back!” over and over. And then, that day came— the twenty-second of December— and I couldn’t find her. I couldn’t find her anywhere.’
‘Goodness! Did she vanish too? Well!’
‘I asked everyone, her friends, her parents, her sister— none of them had the least idea. They began to worry— I began to panic. I went to every haunt, every place she associated with John— even the church where they were meant to be married— no luck. Finally I drove out to that tree in the middle of nowhere, where his car was found. It was bleak— a cold gale blowing, snow on the earth frozen hard, and that great, twisted old tree, bare and gnarled, shivering in the wind. You can see clear to the horizon from every side. Nothing. No-one. No Bridget. I thought I’d lost her.’
He shuddered at the idea, and rubbed his eyes. ‘But the next day she came back. She walked through my door smiling, put her arms around me, kissed my cheek. I thought— oh, God, I thought she’d found him, she was so happy.’
‘Well, well! Had she? What happened?’
‘Sh
e never mentioned him again.’ He chewed on the memory. ‘Of course I asked, everyone asked, we wanted to know how she was coping— but she didn’t seem to care. She’d laugh and change the subject, cheerful and indifferent. It’s as if he was nothing to her.’
‘How terrible for you! Dear me. Well, you know, grief affects people in very strange ways, sometimes.’
He glanced at her shrewdly. ‘Was it grief? Whatever she felt, vanished— as certainly as he vanished himself. Not a trace left. She beamed, she— she sparkled, that day she came back— and she’s sparkled ever since.’
He paused, before adding: ‘And soon afterwards— before New Year— she told me— she told me how much she loves me. How much she’s in love with me.’
He did not relate this as though he was pleased with Bridget’s confession. In spite of his dire need a year before, in spite of his earnest desire for her love, he did not refer to the requital of that desire as if it were gratifying. The old lady could hardly read him— it was as though he were describing something extremely uncertain. Not that she minded how he told it, so long as the interesting details kept coming. Living above the Witch of Cromer’s shop certainly paid dividends of gossip.
‘Goodness me! Well I never did!’ she prompted. ‘Is that what she said?’
‘Yes,’ he replied slowly. ‘She told me she loves me. And she told me the next day as well, and the next, and the next, how much she loves me. She told me yesterday, this morning.’
‘Oh! Fancy that. How awful for you! Your poor brother quite forgotten!’
‘Awful? No— no, not that. I ought to be happy. I ought to be, but I— but— she’s not the same.’
‘Well, a lady’s allowed to change her mind, I suppose. Perhaps all your kind attentions to her made the difference?’
‘But— but the difference is too much! She’s almost unrecognisable! She’s addicted to me— I don’t know her!’
‘No, well. Goodness, no. Maybe it’s just a phase, then? Maybe it will pass? Goodness me, I don’t suppose people really change, I mean really?’
‘Which is it? Do people change, or don’t they?’
The lady had no answer to that retort, but sipped her tea with great meaning.
‘I wish I knew,’ he went on. ‘Does she love me, or— or has she changed? He she been changed? I can’t bear this! I must find her. I must find the witch.’
He stood up, his former resolution returning.
‘Oh! The witch! Well, I’d quite forgotten about her. But my dear, what can the witch do?’
‘Something! Something, surely!’
‘Do you think she could find your poor brother, then? I hear she’s done that sort of thing before.’
‘What?’ He shook his head, irritated. ‘No— no— I don’t know. Where can I find her? Do you have any idea?’
‘Well, I wish I could help you, but— well! She’s disappeared too! Goodness, do you think there’s any connection? Maybe something dreadful has also happened to her?’
‘No. I’m certain of that. Everything dreadful in this situation is her doing, and she’s revelling in the success of it.’
‘Well! But, goodness, how do you know?’
‘Because I recruited her— and yesterday she cashed my cheque.’
With a bitter smile he departed, leaving the refreshments untasted and his hostess intrigued to the last. It was the cheque that brought him back to Cromer. He had completely forgotten about it in the upheavals of the year and his perplexity about Bridget; but when he saw in his account that the money was gone, when he queried with the bank and flicked through his cheque stubs, he suddenly grasped at an explanation. Perhaps Bridget was bewitched? Perhaps that was the reason his sudden joy at the revelation of her love was mixed with revulsion at her abrupt change of heart? Was it possible? Hardly. But was it possible? A chill doubt overcame him.
He could