The Well (18 page)

“I’m sorry,” said Abby. “Sammy’s stopping you reading. Come on Sam, let’s find another table.”

“Awwww,” said Sammy, pulling a cartoon glum face.

“No it’s OK,” said Helen, closing her book. “I’m glad of the company. I still don’t know anyone around here.”

So they sat together, chatting for around an hour. The conversation was easy. Every now and then Sammy chipped in with a comment or question and Abby couldn’t help noticing how well Sammy and Helen got on.

Helen, Abby noted, was one of those rare naturally upbeat people who are a pleasure to be around. She was petite and pretty, her long black hair pulled tightly back and held in place by a butterfly hair comb. She made Abby feel ungainly, angular and ever so slightly unkempt.

“She’s great,” said Helen. “You must be really proud.”

“I am,” said Abby.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” said Helen, “but I noticed you’re not wearing a ring?”

“I’m not married,” said Abby.

“Divorced? Separated?”

Abby looked a little uncomfortable and subconsciously pulled at her lower lip with her fingers. She lowered her voice a little, checking if Sammy was listening. “Her Dad died. Before she was born.”

“Oh, I’m really sorry,” said Helen. She meant it, Abby could tell.

There was an awkward silence, the first since Abby sat down. She considered whether it was time to leave, but Helen ordered some more tea and then deftly changed the subject, asking about the shop, what she sold and how good business was. Abby couldn’t help but like her and sensed the beginning of a genuine friendship.

“Do you like the books?” asked Abby, indicating the book on the table, which Helen had bought from her shop. “We don’t sell that many of those, to be honest.”

“I do,” replied Helen. “Although I’ve been reading up a bit at the library on some more colourful local legends. And my landlord likes to tell me stuff too.”

“Ah,” said Abby, smiling. “You mean the stories about our local witch.”

Helen nodded. “I didn’t see any books about that in your shop.”

“A waste of shelf space, to be honest,” said Abby. “Populist crap, most of it. I used to carry the odd title, but I don’t now.”

Abby sipped her tea and decided to change the subject. “How’s the job?”

“It’s good. Great, actually. I’m seriously thinking of staying on if they offer me a permanent job.”

They chatted for another half an hour or so before Helen glanced at her watch and realised the time. “I’m sorry, Abby,” she said. “I need to get going. I’ve got to prep for school next week.” Despite Abby’s protestations, Helen paid the bill before gathering up her things, saying her goodbyes and leaving.

Abby sat with Sammy, reflecting on the meeting. Despite living in Bankside most of her life, she didn’t really have many close friends. Just as she drained the last of her tea, Helen came back in.

“Forget something?”

Helen looked a little awkward. “No. I just wondered, since I don’t know anyone, if you’d fancy going for a drink sometime?”

Abby smiled. “Yes,” she said. “That would be great.”

They went out several times, getting on better and better each time. Before long, they were meeting regularly. It wasn’t easy for Abby, who didn’t have a family, to find a babysitter she trusted. On top of that, the shop only just about made money, so she didn’t have much spare cash for either a babysitter or an active social life. When she raised this with her new friend, Helen was deeply embarrassed. “I didn’t think,” Helen said. “I’m sorry.”

Abby felt embarrassed too. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

“Look. We don’t have to go out. I’ll just grab a bottle of wine and come around to yours. That way, we solve both problems
and
I get to see Sammy.”

So it was that they had dinner for the first time at the flat. Helen had come around early enough to play with Sammy, while Abby prepared the meal. Once Sammy was asleep, they ate, drank and chatted. After they cleared the dishes, they sat on the sofa.

When Helen reached to stroke her arm, Abby honestly hadn’t expected it – but it didn’t feel unnatural either. Her tummy fluttered and she hoped that she didn’t look nervous.

Abby took a sip of wine and said carefully, “Helen. I’m really sorry. I haven’t meant to lead you on or send the wrong signals. But I’m not gay.”

There was a moment’s silence. “That’s OK,” said Helen. “I don’t think I am either. At least, I’ve only ever had boyfriends. But you haven’t stopped me stroking your arm.”

There was a pause. Abby smiled. “That’s because it feels nice.”

Helen beamed, taking the tension from the room; then she took a deep breath. “Abby, I’m not thinking about being straight or gay. I’m thinking about how I feel. I know you feel like I do.” She leaned forwards to kiss Abby, but she had lowered her head.

“I don’t know,” whispered Abby. “I mean – I do feel like that. I know we’re more than friends and probably more than soul mates – but I don’t want to spoil what we have.”

“I don’t think we’ll spoil it,” said Helen. “That’s not what my heart tells me.”

Helen gently lifted Abby’s chin. Their eyes met. “What does your heart tell you?” she asked.

Without waiting for a reply, Helen leaned towards Abby and kissed her lightly on the lips.

Abby hesitantly, almost fearfully, allowed Helen’s lips to kiss hers. With that first touch, all of her apprehension melted. The kiss was so – right. So perfect. It was a place she wanted to be, a place she belonged. She hadn’t expected it, but Abby found it easy and natural to respond to Helen’s kiss.

It was that easy; that fast; that natural. That night, they made love for the first time. It was the closest that Abby had ever felt to anyone; a closeness that was deeper than she could have imagined. Their lovemaking was warm and soft, as if love were a blanket in which you could wrap yourself. Although Abby had previously only slept with one person (and would herself admit that she was hardly experienced), for the first time she truly appreciated the difference between having sex and making love.

Afterwards they lay together – Helen lay on her back, with Abby on her side, her leg wrapped around Helen’s middle. Abby ran her hand up Helen’s forearm, then slowly, the palms of their hands were together, their fingers entwined, Abby entranced by the rich, dark coffee colour of Helen’s skin.

Helen said, “I think you’re a bit more gay than you thought.”

“I’m not the only one,” said Abby. “Do you still claim it’s your first time?”

“I’m afraid so. But I’m sure I’ll improve.”

“
That
I can’t imagine. But it will be fun trying.”

Their relationship quickly grew deeper. Over the next few months, Helen would stay over once or twice a week, sometimes more. They spent more and more time together, and with Sammy.

One night, they were lying in bed, Helen curled up under Abby’s arm, her free hand lazily stroking Abby’s chest.

“You were late tonight,” said Abby. “Busy at school?”

“No, I was reading up on a really fascinating local legend. You know me. I got distracted and lost track of time.”

“Not the witch?”

“Got it in one.”

Abby sighed, and Helen, whose head was resting against Abby’s chest, could feel that her heart rate had jumped. “Go on,” said Abby. “Tell me all.”

“There’s not that much to tell,” said Helen. “It’s not like one of those rich stories – like Old Demdike, the Lancashire witch, where there’s lots of detail. But basically, there used to be an old woman who lived in the woods at the edge of the old estate.”

“The Whitaker estate,” interjected Abby.

“Right. She was poor, this woman, so she created herbal medicine to barter. Unfortunately, this took trade away from the apothecary in the village. The apothecary’s wife accused the woman of witchcraft and of stealing children – since more than one had gone missing around that time. The villagers strung her up over the well near her cottage and hanged her. But not before she cursed the surrounding land. That’s the short version. It’s not that different from a lot of witch legends – more likely a scorned woman getting revenge than anything supernatural.”

As Helen got to the end of the short tale, she realised that Abby had tensed up. Now, as she finished, Abby disentangled herself from Helen and sat up, pulling the quilt over her breasts. Helen sat up next to her. “Abby?”

Abby said, in a low voice, “You know who I am, don’t you?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Helen almost felt the room chill. “No,” she said, carefully.

“Please don’t lie to me.” If Abby was angry, she hid it well. Her voice remained even, if cool. “What are you, some kind of witchcraft groupie? Doesn’t our relationship mean
anything
to you?” Abby pulled the quilt closer to herself.

Helen could see that tears were forming in Abby’s eyes and she desperately wished she could have turned time back ten minutes.

“Abby, I’m not lying. Well, OK – it seems a bit odd that you sell local history books but don’t sell books about the local witch, especially when you have an obvious Wiccan bent.” Abby’s eyebrows raised. “Come on, Abby. Your homeopathic remedies are mainly pagan – but I just assumed you had, well, a bit of an interest in witchcraft and maybe didn’t like the people of a small town tittle-tattling about it, nothing else.”

Abby was silent.

“Abby, it’s the truth. I promise.” Abby looked down, then wiped a tear away. Helen took Abby’s hands and waited until they had both made eye contact. There was no anger in Abby’s eyes, only sadness.

“Abby. Listen. I was drawn to you because of
you
. Nothing else. Abby: I would never want to hurt you. Abby, I love you.”

Abby exclaimed, “You
love
me?” She looked into Helen’s eyes and Helen squeezed her hands.

“Don’t you know it?” Helen asked.

There was a brief pause. Abby nodded. “I know it,” she said, pulling Helen back to her.

They held each other for long minutes, Helen not daring to speak but not understanding Abby’s emotional response to a story she must have heard so many times.

Eventually, Abby said, quietly, “The real story’s not quite like that. Very few people know it.”

Helen waited.

“The witch was no hag or crone,” continued Abby. She spoke slowly and carefully. “In fact, she was said to be young – perhaps 16 or 17, maybe less – and very beautiful. She came from what I suppose is now Eastern Europe. I don’t know where. Romania, Hungary, maybe the Ukraine. Europe was different then – and I don’t know exactly when
then
was. There wasn’t really a proper town here, just a few close villages. She came with a bunch of travellers. They’d picked up both her and her mother some time before and they’d travelled with them. The mother made medicine, it’s said that the girl sold her body. They camped on the edge of one of the villages. The local landowner slept with the girl many times and when the time came for the travellers to leave, he asked her to stay on, professing his love – which must have been a bit annoying for his wife. But it wasn’t just about love, if at all. The girl was pregnant and the landowner’s only children were girls. He wanted an heir, even an illegitimate one. Anyhow, the girl stayed, along with her mother. They lived in a cottage at the edge of the estate – it’s still there, just about. It’s a ruin. Anyway, the child would have been a boy, but the girl lost it in childbirth.”

Abby paused, as if thinking. After several seconds, she carried on.

“The two women stayed for years. It’s said that they never aged. Stories grew up around them. It didn’t help that, every so often, a child from one of the villages would go missing. They weren’t trusted, but the mother’s medicine was good, possibly as good as her daughter’s skills in bed. Or whatever passed for a bed back then.”

Abby hesitated.

Helen squeezed her hand, wondering where the story was going but captivated. “You OK?”

Abby nodded. “Rivalry grew up between the local apothecary’s family and the two women and – not without good cause. The old woman was taking trade from the apothecary, but it was deeper than that. Remember, these were dark times and people kept any differences hidden. But the apothecary and the old woman had a sure knowledge of the other’s – erm – skill, I suppose. The apothecary knew for certain that the potions made by the old woman were beyond normal craft. But the old woman knew that the apothecary’s wife had a gift of vision; of
knowing
. Don’t ask me how. Maybe she could just tell. Anyway, the apothecary’s wife dreamt that the old woman was torturing a local boy, one who’d gone missing. She knew that her dream would be the truth, but couldn’t tell anyone for fear of being exposed as a witch. So, the next night, she crept to the cottage. Inside, the old woman had a naked child tied to stakes on the floor. She was reciting spells around him, drawing blood, while her daughter looked on. The apothecary’s wife went home and told her husband. She claimed that she was jealous that her husband was losing custom and had gone to the cottage during curfew, perhaps hoping to steal some secrets. Her husband told the parish constable, who called a hue and cry. He and the men of the village made their way to the cottage, where they found the boy – dead.”

Helen caught her breath.

“Oh, that’s not the worst of it,” said Abby. “There wasn’t really much of a process for a fair trial in those days, not that it would have helped. The old woman was tied to her chair and the mob burned the house, with her in it. Then, they took turns to rape the young woman before they hung her above the well. There were perhaps fifteen or twenty men in the mob.”

“Wow,” whistled Helen, “they certainly took any hint of witchcraft seriously in those days.”

“Well, it’s not as if they were lacking evidence. But, before she died, she cursed the family that had betrayed her and the village itself. She said that, from that day, the apothecary’s family would only ever consist of women who bore women – and that any man who sired a child for them would die before the child was born. The curse of the village was that it would continue to lose children to her even after she died – and when she claimed a child, the village had to let her have it – if they didn’t, she would take tenfold.”