The Witch Maker (17 page)

‘Aye, they're gettin' married in October,' Tom Dimdyke said.

Why had his father brought this girl to the barn? Wilf wondered. Didn't he realize that was this was a crucial stage of the process – that the trap being almost finished, it would soon be time to lure the spirit of Meg into it?

‘Aye, October,' Tom said. ‘That's only four months away, you know.'

‘I can count,' Wilf told him, sounding surly – and not caring.

‘It'll be gone before we realize it.'

Wilf looked down at the Witch and stretched his free hand so that his fingers were brushing against the mallet.

‘I've got work to do,' he said.

‘We know that, lad,' his father said understandingly. He turned to Lizzie. ‘Well, I expect you've got things you should be gettin' on with yourself, lass.'

Lizzie blinked. ‘What?'

‘With gettin' married in only a few months, you'll have a lot to do.'

‘Oh, yes, I have,' Lizzie said, unconvincingly. ‘I've got
a lot
to do.' She fell silent for a moment, then said, ‘Well, it was nice talkin' to you, Wilf.'

‘An' I'm sure he found it nice talkin' to you,' Tom Dimdyke said. ‘Didn't you, lad?'

Wilf made a grunt which may have passed as a ‘yes', and Lizzie, nodding nervously, turned and almost
fled
the barn.

‘What's the matter with you, son?' Tom Dimdyke asked when the girl had gone.

‘Nothin',' Wilf replied.

‘She's a nice lass, you know,' his father persisted. ‘A good lass from good stock.'

‘I'm sure she is – if you say so.'

‘Then why weren't you nicer to her? Is it that you don't fancy her? Are her legs too skinny for your taste? Does she not have enough bosom for your liking?'

‘Why are you askin' me all these questions now?' Wilf demanded. ‘Look at this.' He pointed down to his workbench. ‘This is
my
Witch! My moment! She has to be perfect. That's what you've always told me, isn't it? So I've no time for anythin' else at the moment.'

Tom nodded sympathetically. ‘You're right,' he agreed. ‘You're the Witch Maker, an', of course, you're right. We can leave most things till after Sunday. But there's one matter we have to deal with before then.'

‘An' what's that?'

‘The bobby from Whitebridge. He's pokin' his nose into things that are no concern of his.'

‘Is that what he's doin'? I thought he was tryin' to find out who killed my Uncle Harry.'

‘An' so he is. An' I'll be very glad if he does.'

‘Glad!' Wilf repeated. ‘You'll be
glad
!
Is that all?'

Tom sighed. ‘I want the killer caught. Of course I do. But let's face it, your Uncle Harry should never have been the Witch Maker in the first place.'

‘Then who should have been?' Wilf demanded. ‘
You?
'

‘I wasn't chosen, an' I played the part that was given me with no regrets an' to the best of my ability,' Tom said. ‘But yes, I think I'd have made a better Witch Maker. Your Uncle Harry had a wilful nature. He could have destroyed everythin'. He very nearly did. An' even now he's dead, we still have to live with his legacy. But you'll be different. You'll be a fine Witch Maker. They'll be holdin' you up as an example two hundred years from now.'

‘An' supposin' I don't want to be held up as an example two hundred years from now?'

Tom laughed. ‘What a lot of nonsense you talk sometimes. Don't want to be held up as an example! Of course you do. It's every Witch Maker's dream.' His face grew more serious again. ‘But to get back to the matter of this bobby. He's been to the funfair. He's been askin' questions about that feller who got killed the last time it was here. Somethin' has to be done about him.'

‘Like what?'

‘That's what I'm here to ask you.'

‘Kill him, then!'

Tom Dimdyke looked thoughtful for a second. ‘Is that what you really want?' he asked.

‘Of course it's not what I want!' his son said exasperatedly. ‘Only a lunatic would want that. An' only another lunatic would take the suggestion seriously.' Then he saw the look of hurt which had come to his father's face, and felt instant regret. ‘Look, Dad,' he continued, ‘I don't
know
what to do. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not much more than a kid. I shouldn't be makin' big decisions.'

‘I was, at your age,' his father said reprovingly.

‘Then maybe you were more of a man then than I am now,' Wilf said. ‘Maybe you were more of a man then than I'll ever be. I don't know. It's hard growin' up as I did – with a dark shadow hangin' over you. You can never work out what you're really like as a person – because your eyes are always fixed on what you're intended to be. On what
the village
wants you to be.'

‘You think about things a lot more than your Uncle Harry ever did,' Tom said. ‘He was a fine craftsman – no doubt about that – but that's all he was. That's why I believe you're goin' to be one of the greatest—'

‘Shut up! Bloody well shut up!' Wilf said – and was amazed when his father meekly did as he'd been instructed.

The silence which followed was intolerable for the both of them, but in the end it was Wilf who broke it.

‘What do you want from me, Dad?' he asked.

‘I didn't like it when you said I should kill that bobby, you know.'

‘I know you didn't.'

‘But if you'd told me that's what
you
wanted doin', I'd have done it – because you're the Witch Maker. An' however much you may not want to give me a decision, you must – because it can only come from you.'

It was just as Woodend had explained earlier, Wilf thought. Like the Queen, he had so much power in some areas – and so little in others.

He looked down at the chisel he was holding in his hand. If he decided to attack his father with it, the older man would just stand there and take it – because he was the Witch Maker!

Yet at the same time, he could order Tom to leave the barn and the other man would simply refuse to go until he'd been told what to do about Woodend.

Wilf took a gulp of air.

‘A general back at headquarters can make all the sweepin' decisions in a war,' he said, ‘but the little ones – the ones made in the heat of the moment – have to be taken by the men on the ground. That's what dealin' with this bobby will be – a decision made in the heat of the moment by the men on the ground.'

‘So you're sayin' that you're leavin' it up to me?'

‘I'm sayin' I have no choice,' Wilf replied.

‘You've worked it all out, haven't you?' Tom said, giving his son a nod of what could only be called frank admiration. ‘When I look at things, I can only see what's goin' on close to me. I'm like a worm, peepin' out of the ground. But you – you're like a hawk. Hoverin' above it all. Seein' the whole picture.'

No, no, no!
a voice in Wilf's head screamed.

It's not like that at all, Dad. I've duped you. Can't you see that? I've talked you into makin' choices I was
born
to make. I'm lettin' you do the dirty work because I'm just not brave enough to do it myself.

He wanted to say the words out loud, but he couldn't. Because the only way he could avoid deceiving this good, honest man further would be by admitting that he'd already made a fool of him – that he'd already
betrayed
him.

So he simply said, ‘I have to get back to the Witch, Dad.'

‘Aye, you get back to the Witch, son,' his father agreed. ‘That's the important job, an' it couldn't be in better hands. For the rest, don't give it a moment's thought. I'll do whatever else has to be done.'

Tom Dimdyke turned and left the barn.

Wilf watched him go, his heart almost bursting with love. Tom had been both a father and mother to him. Nothing had ever been too much trouble. Nothing had ever been skimped on.

And
this
was how all his care and attention was to be rewarded! He was being sent out on to the front line because a younger, more able, man didn't have the guts to go there himself.

The chisel dropped from Wilf's hand, and he burst into deep grieving sobs.

W
hen Hettie thought about her childhood, it was usually the conversations she'd have with other funfair brats on the subject of parents which first came to mind.

‘I wish I had a mum like yours,' the kids would say to her.

But what they'd actually meant was: ‘I wish
your
mum was
my
mum instead.'

She hadn't needed the envy of others to make her aware of how lucky she was. She'd always known that if she'd been given the choice of all the mothers in the world, she'd have chosen the mother she already had.

It wasn't that her mother was particularly indulgent – other mothers often let their daughters get away with far more than she was ever allowed to. It wasn't that her mother was particularly easy to live with – there were few mothers who tried to steer their daughters' lives in the way Zelda tried to steer hers. Yet those things were merely a minor irritation. What really mattered to her was that, despite their difference in ages, she and her mother were real
friends
. They laughed at the same things, they were serious about the same things – and they could say what they liked to each other without worrying that it might wreck their relationship.

Or at least, that was the way that things
had been
until they'd come to Hallerton!

Now, a fence had suddenly been erected between them – a very high fence with cruel strands of barbed wire running along its top.

Her mother had thoughts she didn't want to share. Her mother had conversations with good-looking fairground workers – and with senior police officers from Whitebridge – which she chose to keep to herself. Well, that state of affairs could not be allowed to continue, Hettie resolved. Which was why, when she saw her mother enter their caravan, she followed her in and closed the door behind her.

Zelda Todd was startled to hear the metal door clang so forcefully, but all she said was, ‘Don't shut out the sunlight, girl. We get little enough of it in this cold wet country.'

‘Sit down, Mum,' Hettie said firmly.

‘Why should I want to—?'

‘Just sit down.'

Zelda lowered herself on to one of narrow benches which pulled out at night to make a bed. Hettie sat down opposite her. There wasn't much space, and their knees touched.

‘Well, isn't this cosy?' Zelda said.

‘I want to know what it was all about, Mam,' Hettie said.

‘What
what
was about?'

‘Why did that bobby come callin' on you this mornin'?'

‘Maybe we're old friends,' Zelda suggested innocently. ‘Maybe he just came to renew our acquaintanceship.'

‘Don't try that line on me,' Hettie warned her.

‘What's the matter? Can't I
have
old friends?'

‘You can have as many friends as you like, Mum. You've got scores of them. But they're all either part of this funfair or part of one of the others. You don't have friends from the outside world. None of us do. That's just the way things are.'

‘There's always an exception to every rule, you know, Hettie.'

‘And even if you
did
have friends from the outside, they wouldn't be bobbies. Bobbies and funfairs just don't mix.'

Zelda reached up to the shelf above her head. Like a blind brown mouse, her hand groped around for her packet of Player's Navy Cut and her box of matches. When she'd located them she pulled them down, extracted a cigarette from the packet, and lit it up. Hettie couldn't be sure, but she thought she saw a slight tremble in her mother's hand.

‘All right,' Zelda conceded, when she'd taken a long drag of her Player's. ‘The bobby wasn't an old friend. He was asking about a murder that happened a long time ago.'

‘Whose murder?'

‘You wouldn't have known him. How could you have? He was killed before you were even born.'

‘But
you
knew him?'

‘There'd have been no point in that bobby asking me about it if I
didn't
, now would there?'

Hettie sighed. The problem was, she thought, that she was trying to
interrogate
her mother – and the other woman was so much better at playing the game than she was.

‘The bobby didn't want to know anything about the murder that happened the other night, by any chance, did he?' she asked.

‘I expect he did. That's probably the main reason he was here. But he didn't ask me about it.'

The words were a little too glib, Hettie thought. A little too casual. It was not often her mother overplayed her hand like this – she must really be feeling under pressure.

‘I want to know what you've been talking so earnestly to Pat Calhoun about,' Hettie said.

Her mother hesitated. ‘Private matters,' she said finally.

‘Private!'

‘Yes, private. Don't look so surprised, Hettie. There are some matters which need to be kept private, even from you.'

‘I can't imagine what they might be,' Hettie said, in a voice which was almost sulky.

‘No, I'm sure you can't,' her mother agreed. ‘And as far as I'm concerned, it's best kept that way.'

‘I need to know,' Hettie insisted.

Her mother reached above her head again, found the ashtray – a souvenir from Scarborough – by touch, and stubbed out her cigarette in it.

‘Pat's not like most men,' she said. ‘He's wise beyond his years. In some ways, he's almost like a woman. I can tell him things, and he'll listen and understand. He so reminds me of ...'