Androshorts: The Village Witch

Ah well, perhaps not. The teacher took his glass and finished his beer, stepping up to the bar and looking back of his shoulder. He was taken aback for a moment when the look he got from Ella suggested that perhaps she didn't want him to leave.

"S'cuse me Mr Clements," said the barman moving through with a tray with two coffee's for the policemen and a small pot of tea for Ella.

Steve placed his empty glass on the bar and checked back for 'the look' from Ella but she was now talking with both policemen. He thanked the returning barman for the excellent brunch and great beer and headed for the door and the small village he was still trying to get his head around.

"Sorry 'bout that Mr Clements," said Dan from the bar, "I think there must be some sort of history between them two, whenever they are in a room together, bloody sparks fly, no two ways about it."

"Well if she didn't dress like a tart and make goo-goo eyes at every bloke that comes within sight of 'er, it wouldn't be so bad," came a grumbled comment from the kitchens. It was the lady of the house still warning the teacher about 'her'.

"Now then Dorothy," said Dan, "there's no need for that kind of talk is there."

"T'choh," snapped Dorothy, "bloody men." She breathed out with an over-loud exhalation designed to travel, "someone else under her bloody spell no doubt."

Dan stepped behind the bar and into the kitchen to remonstrate with his wife and teacher Steve was sure he heard Dorothy suggest that 'She' should be banned as they didn't need her sort coming in here and starting fights. Concerned that it might have been for his benefit, the teacher opened the heavy door and stepped out into the chill of Autumn's slow handover to winter, his breath misting before him.

Strange; as he pulled the door closed behind him looking at the still bitching Dorothy he looked down the exposed timbered bar towards the fireplace he reflected that Ella had hardly been dressed like a tart, quite the opposite in fact, and to his certain knowledge hadn't made goo-goo eyes at anyone, especially him.

He walked across the small square centred around the granite war memorial that held names of the village's menfolk that had left to fight for their King and Country and hadn't returned. The central cross had the names of those that had gone off to France and Belgium in the Great War, and a plinth had been added to record those that fought twenty years later in the Second. A brass plate beneath had names of two soldiers of the 'The Glorious Gloucesters' killed in Korea, another in Northern Ireland and a fourth in the Falklands.

He sat on a bench still surrounded with the red wreaths laid there almost a year before and the dozen or so small wooden poppy-surmounted crosses with sun faded writing on them stuck around the edges of the well managed flower bed, there for the purpose.

He thought of the gorgeous woman back in the bar and fought the urge to go back in and see her and ask her out to dinner. He thought about the warnings from his landlady, the derogatory words from the three rugby playing idiots and didn't -- there would be other Saturdays. Instead he decided to go into the local shop, buy another of their wonderful home baked fruit cakes and retire to his laptop, Netflix and several mugs of tea.

In the shop he found that they had 'just sold' the last fruitcake, so he took a pack of fruit shortcake biscuits, a pale imitation of the original but it would have to do. At the counter he met his boss, School headteacher Linda, corralling a group of young boys all wrapped against the cold and getting a selection of snacks to consume while watching the rugby match.

"You coming?" said Linda.

"I wasn't planning to," he said, not wanting to say that a fifth of the team had just been ejected from the pub by the police because of his interest in the local 'good time girl'.

"Come, it'll be fun!" she said, then she looked at him and whispered, "Good chance to meet the community. My son is playing in the opposition, he's wing three quarter for University of Gloucester."

"I just heard some of the local boys in the pub boasting about what they were going to do to the opposition."

"Yeah, that's standard for the village; the Young Farmers Club are good against other young farmers clubs, but I think this might be a bit different. To be honest most of them aren't that young."

So Henry and his giant mates were going to get their arses kicked were they? Steve decided that he would go to the match, that would be good to watch.

"You all know Mr Clements don't you!" said Linda to the boys. More than half of them nodded and he recognised them from school. Steve noted that Linda's children, two rather precocious boys, didn't attend the school she was in charge of.

He followed on, chatting with Linda who talked about her son studying International Politics at UoG and what he hoped to do thereafter. In the Young Farmers Club car park, was an 89 seater coach and it was obvious that the opposition had brought some support.

Through the gate and a two pound entrance fee, and there was the rugby pitch with several of the home team stretching and running on the spot, with more appearing from the changing rooms including the three from the pub not half an hour before. They were all big lads, perhaps slightly overweight and Steve did feel for the opposition as they trotted out of the 'away team' door and onto the pitch.

They had their own selection of big lads to be fair, but quite a few much smaller lighter lads that Henry and his mates were planning to take their revenge on. The crowd cheered for both teams and Steve hoped that this wasn't going to get unpleasant just because of him and his lunch companion.

He needn't have worried.

What the University Students lacked in age, bulk and maturity they made up for in speed and agility. Within thirty minutes of the first whistle, the young farmers were working hard to catch up with their younger opponents and were three tries, two conversions and a drop goal behind, not having a single point on the score card yet. To make it worse eight very pretty, curvy, uniformed university cheerleaders were bouncing about on the touchline doing a victory dance for every score. The young farmers gave of their best and minutes before the half time whistle eventually made it onto the scorecard with an excellent drop goal from the village's full-back that had run forward with the ball like an angry express train, driven by his raging goal-line impotence at his colleagues lack of success.

During half-time the teacher got teas for himself and Linda and chatted with more villagers and some of the University fans. It was extremely good natured and this continued into the second half and a couple more tries and conversions from the UoG and a further drop goal, then a try and conversion from the young farmers obviously re-invigorated by the fifteen minute break and, Steve guessed, an almighty bollocking from the team coach now running the touchline and howling advice at his big heavy lads, outclassed by their sprite, spirited 18 -- 22 year old opponents.

The final whistle blew and thirty men stopped running and watched as the referee pointed to University end indicating they had won. The applause was unanimous and big, tired but smiley faced players shook hands, patted backs and congratulated each other on a great match. The crowd moved onto the pitch to greet their own loved ones among the teams and this included Linda hugging her nineteen year old son Simon that had one try and one drop goal to his name.

He saw big Henry grinning and shaking hands with his opposite number and complemented him on his play. There was none of the aggression and 'they're gonna get it' the pre-drinks in the pub had suggested and it was a very pleasant, positive bonhomie that Steve had always associated with rugby over the stroppy, bad tempered, 'ungracious in defeat' soccer players he'd seen so many times.

So much so that when Henry appeared and took the slim Simon in his arms and gave him a bear hug, he thought he should step back in case there was bad feeling, but Linda wouldn't let him.

"This is Henry, he used to babysit Simon when he was younger!" she said.

"Taught me everything I know!" said Simon.

"And now you use it against me you little hooligan!" he grinned, turning to take Steve's hand, "I met Steve in the pub, not that he could see much of me over Dorothy's full English he was working his way through." They all laughed.

No mention of Ella, the two policemen and the words and the standoff that they'd shared, and not a suggestion of bad feeling. Ah well, just 'village life' he supposed.

Next they were all into the Young Farmers Club and tea and sandwiches, except for many of the young girls who were outside on the field and an impromptu cheerleading lesson from all the highly animated young university women. The various players reappeared, showered and changed into more reasonable clothes and the party started and Steve was picked up and swept into it, the three men from this morning were more than nice but not overly so, and it was almost as if the events in the pub had never happened. He eventually made it to his bed slightly bleary eyed, for eleven thirty that night.

He slept well, his dreams disturbed by visions of the beauty he'd shared a beer with. When he woke he still had clear visions of her in his head dressed in black underwear - lacy, underwired, suspendered and he masturbated away his morning erection as he showered. He walked downstairs to the pub but was disappointed that his brunch guest from yesterday wasn't there. He had the huge Sunday dinner, piled high with roasted potatoes, veggies, three kinds of meat disappearing under the kind of gravy he had only previously dreamed of.

Since living in the pub for four weeks, his work trousers and jeans had started to feel tighter so he decided that he should at least attempt to walk off his vast lunch, especially the two helpings of golden syrup sponge and custard he had demolished. He crossed the square and saw that all of the shops were closed except for the tiny grocery come newsagents that never seemed to close ever.

He struck out and decided he would follow the small stream and head out towards the long distance national footpath that the all local road signs seemed fixated with. He walked and came to the local park which an interpretation board announced was the site of Holborrow Hall, once home of the local gentry and destroyed by fire in the late 17th century. As he walked he saw the lumps of stone and wooden stakes that indicated where the boundaries and rooms of the structure that had stood there, with pictures showing what it would have looked like with the stream that was the building's water source and drove the next door mill, also now gone.

The stream carried on and he followed it, getting almost into the countryside proper. The views were exquisite as the rays of the autumnal sun fell across the landscape picking out the last yellows and browns of that dying season.

He followed another national trail sign knowing it would shortcut him back to his village and his bed, some more tea and the fruit shortcake biscuits he had bought the day before that sat untouched in his room.

Fortunately for him the very last sunrays clipped the sign that indicated the route back to his village, but in tiny words, as if the route signer really didn't want anyone to leave the national trail. He found the slightly overgrown track, which seriously needed someone with a brush cutter to pay a visit. Before him the lane opened out and there before him was a street name plate 'Traitors Lane'.

Thanks to his education and both of his professions he was a grammar Nazi, self-confessed, and watched the sign for a few moments mentally abhorring the lack of an apostrophe, debating with his inner vandal over whether he should return the next evening with a permanent marker and add one, but how many traitors and which side of the S?

He giggled but continued his walk just conscious of buildings to his left.

"Surely there's nothing that funny in my sleepy little drove Teacher Steve?"

He looked to his left and there she was, the hot woman of the day before wrapped against the cold weather, the fur of the coat's collar brushing gently against her neck and pink cheeks.

"Ella!" he said trying not to seem too over pleased to see the extremely attractive woman he had actually dreamed of the night before... and then some, "it's the school teacher in me I'm afraid..."

"Aah!" she smiled back at him, "this must be an apostrophe moment?"

"Thank heavens it's not just me!" he slowed his pace and dropped in next to her as she walked towards the village, "I suppose that's a bit of a village talking point."

"You'd think so wouldn't you," she said with a hint of derision in her soft voice, "but sadly no, you'll find you're among a tiny minority that could be counted on the fingers of one hand, a hand with two fingers missing; as we get closer to this end of the lane you'll see to add insult to injury, this sign has one."

And so it did. He stopped and checked it out, running his finger over the shape so he could recreate it with his permanent marker one dark evening.

"Oooooookay..." said the teacher, "that's weird but this is a small village after all."

"The addition to our little trio is a weekender resident that teaches at the college and it drives him potty. He's been nagging the local council so much that the man from the highways department refuses to talk to him anymore. He's called 'the professor' and does actually look like one, completely potty of course but in a nice way."

"I was thinking about coming back with a marker pen..."

"The man from the highways department has thought about that too; the countryside rangers that check the pathway every few months bring special wet wipes and take any little unauthorised additions off."

"But... I'm guessing that this is the lane of THE traitor... singular?"

Ella looked thoughtful for a second, "Indeed it is... or was I suppose," she forced a smile, "I'm a socialist atheist with a streak of anti-monarchist, much like the former resident I suppose, but I deny that makes me ANOTHER traitor therefore making me and him plural."

"Absolutely," he said, "so therefore it needs an apostrophe..."

"The council have said that because of cutbacks they aren't going to replace an expensive sign for the want of a single dash."

"But they'll send a 23 year old environmental science graduate down here in a green Gortex coat and walking boots and on minimum wage, six times a year to make sure no one else does."

Ella beamed a smile at him, "I see you've met the Enviro-Stasi!"

"The type Ella, not the people in question," he returned her smile. This was nice. "I'm heading back to the pub, care to join me?"

She grimaced, "Dorothy has a problem with me,"

"So I saw, would you like to come up to my room?"

She grinned. "Why Steve, I hardly know you!"

He gulped, hearing how he must have sounded, "No!" he spluttered, "just for tea and biscuits! I didn't mean..."

She put a hand to his shoulder laughing, "I'm joking with you mate," she said, "I guessed that's what you meant!" For that briefest moment and through several layers of clothing her touch felt electric.

He wiped a hand across his face dramatically and breathed out. "Phew!"

She paused and seemed to come to a decision, "I'm just heading to my shop, come in - I'm sure I've got a packet of biscuits somewhere!"

"OK!" he said and offered her his arm to take on the uneven surface, even though she had probably walked it every day for most of her life. She smiled and slipped a hand onto his arm; a simple thing but he was surprised by her response -- a beaming smile that altogether lit up her pretty face, already lit by the rising moon. She pushed up close to him, closer than he'd expected at least.

The second he felt the warmth of her body against his the silence was broken by the loud air-horn screeched honk and over-revved growl of a quadbike that appeared from behind them.

Before he knew it he felt something soft on the front of the bike gently pushing into his hip, Annoyed, he eased Ella to one side before turning back and blocking the pathway, the rider revved the engine, "You got a licence for this?"

"What's it gotta do wiv you?"

"Because, my rather excitable friend, this is the public highway and for you to be on that -" he pointed at the bike, "on this path you need to be licensed and insured, and the quad needs an MoT test certificate, you got any of those?"

The rider, his face hidden by the full face crash helmet, still managed to look confused.

"And you see that sign up there?" The teacher pointed up to the end of the sign post and the circular sign outlined in red with a stylised motorcycle above a car, "any ideas? No? Contrary to popular belief it isn't 'beware flying motorbikes' - it's 'no motor vehicles' my old mate and that includes this." He patted the handlebars, "I'd hate for the police that were in town yesterday lunchtime to see you and impound this and crush it before your Dad even realises it's gone..."

The teacher noticed a significant gulp in the faceless young man's throat and the quad had three-point turned and was off back along the track and gone from sight.

"The delights of working with the police on a regular basis!" he grinned at her shocked and pleasantly surprised face. She slipped her hand back around his arm and carried on walking, close again.

She led him to the small parade of shops in what had to be a part of the original architecture and he saw one right in the middle -- Rosie's - and various adverts and slogans that indicated that her business was healthy lifestyle stuff and herbal remedies, vegetarian, vegan and gluten free foods and that sort of thing were available. She took a huge bunch of keys and unlocked the door.

A step inside and his senses were struck by a myriad of different smells none of which he was able to identify.

"Wow!" he said, "that smell is amazing," he breathed in through his nose.

"I should hope so, people pay top dollar for it!"

"What?"

"Our little village is on several coach tour routes and I often get half a coach load of little old ladies and their suffering husbands in here buying something because the smell reminds them of their childhood." She stroked her hand down a shelf load of small brown bottles all with printed labels, 'Rosie's lotions and potions' with space under for the handwritten name of the concoction within. She took down one and handed it across to him; the label said simply 'Scented oil - Grandma's house' and he unscrewed the cap. He took a sniff.

"Well bugger me, it does smell like my Nan's house!"

"Took me years to get it right and it only works with a certain age group, sell less of it each year."

"Target audience dying?"

"Precisely," she grinned, "I do get a bulk order each year for an aerosol version, it's one of those living history museum's with the recreated houses. Do two hundred bottles a year just from their museum shop," he sniffed again, closing his eyes in pleasant recollection, "It's a blend of granny based floral perfume smells, some cooking ingredients." She folded her arms and leaned back against her counter, the edge pushing into a nicely shaped bottom made clear by the tightening of her dress, "see if you can detect my secret ingredient!"

"Challenge accepted!"

He breathed in and closed his eyes again, there were the sorts of things she had already mentioned.

Smells of perfume, baking, something else... he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He breathed out again taking a moment to think about the other sorts of things his Nan would get up to. "You haven't put a Labrador Retriever through a blender have you?" she giggled and shook her head, she really was quite gorgeous and her red, red lips parted slightly as she smiled at him and he had a sudden desire to kiss them. He snapped out of it though, "No, not doggies..." he thought about the other thing his wonderful grandmother would insist on because of her dog. He took a deep breath and there it was again, so he took a final sniff and opened his eyes "got it."