Androshorts: The Village Witch

Again, he dreamed of Ella, dark hair, full lips, perfect figure and he saw her curtsey to him again, this time dressed as a maid from the 18th century.

He woke next morning, showered and after a great breakfast of 'overnight oats' denied him at the pub in favour of a full English or other cereal, he walked to school passing her shop, now dark and without 'Rumours' playing at full blast.

The day started as it normally did and he told the head he was now into the accounts system and wouldn't be falling over himself to start sounding the death knell of this great little school. At lunch he decided that he needed a walk to clear his head and found himself at Holborrow Park and walked to the stream.

"Aahah!" said a loud strident voice, "the new teacher!"

Steve looked around and saw a rather eccentrically dressed, Donnish looking individual in tweeds with a matching but battered flat cap and an even more battered notebook, 'the professor' that Ella had spoken of no doubt.

"Good afternoon," said Steve stepping across to him, "guilty as charged. Steve Clements, the new deputy head."

"And as one of probably half dozen graduates between here and county hall I trust you have complained about that abomination at Traitor's Lane?"

Steve knew who he was talking to for sure now, "Indeed I have sir," he said; this was an outright lie but promised himself he would do it on his return, "at present I am unable to ascertain if it is the lane of one traitor, many traitors or lane for people to be traitorous in."

The man in tweed smiled and stepped forward, happy that he was in like-minded company at last, "Professor William Proctor, charmed," he extended a hand and raised his mangled hat at the same time, "in less difficult times I would prefer to reference my doctorate, but I work in a damned Further Educational college and 'Doctor Proctor' would be too hard to live with."

"Totally understand Professor," said Steve with a grin.

"So how do you find our adoptive village?"

"It's eccentrically lovely..." said Steve.

"Beautifully so!" said the professor.

Steve moved closer to the interpretation board, "So you're interested in local history as well as English?"

"Its intrigue and shame Steven," said the professor conspiratorially. He stepped closer, "may I call you Steven?" the teacher nodded, "this village makes claims about the Holborrow tragedy and the death of the lamented Squire and his children," he swung his arm around dramatically to include the remnants of the building, "murdered by the Vine Cottage Witch, daughter of the traitor our beloved lane commemorates, BUT!" he all but spat, "there is local word that the sainted squire buried in such Catholic grandeur within our local church was nothing but a rapist, thief and general vagabond!"

"Really?" said Steve intrigued at the professor's passion.

"Really;" said the professor with raised eyebrows, "there exists several Scripts that outline his misdeeds and blame him for FRAMING the alleged traitor to get his hands on Vine Cottage, one of the few houses he didn't own, and his having some part in the disappearance of the traitor's daughter Rose, after having her decried as a witch and trying to rape her!"

"Rape?" said Steve, further intrigued.

"Indeed," said the professor, "she disappeared the night before her execution and his demise, fighting in vain to rescue his three daughters from the flames, flames set by the Witch herself! Legend has it the noise of the wind in the yew trees is the tortured souls of the traitor and Witch Rose trying to get back into the church for absolution to escape from the grasp of Satan himself!"

"Bloody hell," said Steve.

"A fair surmise Steven," said the Professor. "a long story no doubt, but I have found over many years of teaching and researching local histories, the longer they are the larger the grains of truth involved."

"I'll be sure to check out the grave yard next time I'm passing late one evening, when the forces of darkness are exalted."

"Precisely!" said the professor, assured of their kindred spirit. "Steven, I am on an short sabbatical break and should you wish to join me in yonder public house this very evening, I would be most pleased to buy you a pint or two of Dan's finest or partake of an exalted spirit as well."

"Professor, I would be pleased to and will extend the same compliment." They shook hands again, but in the distance Steve could hear the clanging of the lunchtime bell calling him back. "I must back to the Treadmill but look forward to further discussion of local history!"

The Professor raised his hat again, "Until later Steven."

Steve walked back to the square and saw her, kneeling by the war memorial now cleared of wreaths and poppies in time for the next Sunday`s remembrance parade and service. He stopped and watched as she dropped to one knee and withdrew a small poppy cross from her jacket. She held it close with closed eyes, kissed it and placed it to the rear of the small square of earth set aside for them. She stood, looked around and upon seeing no one bowed slightly and walked back to her shop. A parent lost in the military? Boyfriend? Despite his inquisitiveness the bell`s insistent clang drew him back to school and the day job.

She lived in the house of the witch the village cultivated, her included, her shop was 'Rosies', she was Ella, Rosella Mary in fact, same as the woman that had lived there since Victoria was on the throne.

What the fuck?

He took a class for PT on the sports pitch and all thoughts of apostrophes, squires, traitors, witches paying their rates and fallen soldiers left him as he looked around, guessing that all of this land the children were racing across in such delight could soon have executive weekend homes built on it if he did shut the place down.

He went home at the end of the day, worked on a lesson plan, and checked his house phone, no message there either. He checked his recent calls log and rang the shop again, still to answer machine, and he spoke again.

"...Hi Ella... it's me... Steve," he added, almost for want of saying anything, "guessing you deleted my first message about being outside your shop after waiting at your house... your cat is very sweet by the way... listen, if you did delete my call, then this is a chance to delete another one... call me... or not. Your life is very complicated I guess and with that I don't help. If you ever want to talk, you know where I'll be five days a week, thirty eight weeks of the year, bye..."

He disconnected the call, put on his Barbour and headed for the pub to continue his education in local history.

As he came level with the war memorial he decided to check out the cross she had laid, now joined by two more. Hers was still at the back, so he reached down and pulled it from the ground turning it to catch the light from the church.

In dark blue pen it was inscribed, `to Davey, never forgotten, love from Rosie`. He bent and replaced it in the same divot and stood, checking the memorial for a recent Davey, or David, even Dave but there was nothing since the soldier killed during the Falklands War of the early eighties, and that lad (a sailor) was called Mark and would have been old enough to be her father... Perhaps that was it?

He saw the church, across the square from him and thought that might have more information about more recent losses. Lit as if for an evening service he walked across to it. There were the yew trees and they did look very old indeed as church yew trees so often do.

He stepped inside the empty entrance and there in the north transept was the large family tomb, with 'Holborrow' inscribed on the stone and a just less than life-sized statue of a seventeenth century gentleman holding a cross high as if to strike something down with it while holding a book, the bible he guessed, in defence.

There was nothing to suggest a more recent loss of life within the military or out of it so he left and headed for the pub and was greeted by the warm conviviality of the place and soon the strength and amount of beer drunk limited the historical conversation but he did remember the professor suggesting that the Devine Ella that currently lived in Vine Cottage and sold `all that holistic bollocks` was treated badly because of some 'overhanging papist resentment at any single woman living in the lane of the traitor'.

He left the Professor entertaining the rest of the pub after his fourth pint and walked unsteadily home, waking next morning with enough of a head to remind him not to do real ales on a school night in future, even if it was a Thursday. He had faint memories of a dream about Ella, this time back in the black lace and stripping out of her stockings.

He made it to school and drank enough fluids to steady his body and cure his mind and by mid-morning break was fighting fit again - mostly. At lunch he checked Twitter and his own non-work emails and saw he had missed calls from Ella from the night before and two messages, both when he was the worst for wear after his second pint of ale.

He listened to the first message, a simple, "Hi Steve, really sorry, I'm at home, call me?"

The second was a more worried voice, "Oh Stevie, I... I'm so sorry... I... I didn't think y..." she stopped talking and he could hear her breathing in the background as she tried to compose herself, "I have no excuse Stevie, I promised you dinner and after suggesting that people always let me down and that's precisely what I did to you." Her laboured breathing now suggested tears but she fought them off. "please, if you still have the tiniest amount of faith in me, come this evening, or tomorrow... I'll try and explain..."

So at eight that night, Merlot in hand, he walked back to Vine Cottage; down the Lane of a singular or indeed a number of traitors he walked, stopping at the tall rough stone wall where he could see her cat. He reached up and stroked it and it jumped and landed on the shoulder of his waxed cotton jacket, just as his Granny's cat had, and it stayed perched there until he reached the house.

He knocked the door, and heard her voice, "What's the secret ingredient?"

"Jeyes fluid," he said quietly.

The door opened and their she was, dressed in her usual dark linens and cottons flowing around her, she had red eyes this time.

"Thanks for coming Stevie," she said, "take your coat?"

"Please," he said and they both laughed as he removed his rather old Barbour while trying not to dislodge the cat. She took it and hung it across the Newell post, "seriously," she said brushing at the brown corduroy collar, "thanks for my second chance."

"You're welcome, glass of wine perhaps?" he waved the bottle as if it was the answer to all their problems.

"That would be nice," she said with a smile that eased the pain from her features for a time. He'd pulled a corkscrew from his pocket and she looked impressed.

"Just in case," he said pulling the cork free with a pop as she collected two glasses from the kitchen of the well decorated, homely house that had to be hundreds of years old. "We should let it breath really but I reckon you could do with a slurp right now."

"Well spotted," she said holding out both glasses for him to fill.

She took a long draught of hers, "Oh I say, that is nice, too nice to knock back at least. Thank you for your compliments about my cat," she pointed to the pet still curled around his shoulder, "reckon he likes you as well." She put a hand on Steve's shoulder and stroked the cat, electric again, "this is Charlie, my oldest friend..." She looked at the cat wistfully and Steve guessed that she was holding back on something. She indicted he should sit down on the large leather sofa, taking a matching armchair directly opposite. He sipped his wine and felt the cat purr at his neck.

"So Ella,"

"Stevie..."

"You are a mystery wrapped up in an enigma with a suggestion of confusion, and at least two computer errors."

"I am? Do tell," she sipped more of her wine.

"I've researched you Ella, quite by accident I must say, and it seems that according to council records you are actually Rosella Mary Pendall and you have lived here in Vine Cottage in Traitor's Lane for nearly 150 years." He smiled, "that or their records are all to shit, I know what my first suspicion would be."

Now he was sat there mind you his brain suddenly considered that something untoward was going on that he should report; fraud, tax evasion, money laundering or some other associated wrong doing from the sexy shopkeeper. Suddenly the thought stuck him... Drug dealing? She had two Post Office vehicles per day at her place that was for sure, but he decided to park that thought for the time being.

"and besides extremely well-organised, organised crime, I absolutely cannot get my head around you. You run a successful business across the world but never seem to leave town or even own a car, you are without question the most beautiful woman in the county yet still single and it seems everyone dislikes you for it." He raised his wine glass for another sip, "unless you have really lived here for one hundred and fifty years of course."

Ella stood up and moved to her fireplace, a fat tear running down her pretty face. She sniffed and tried to smile.

"You're wrong," she said with a chuckle, "I've actually lived here in Vine Cottage in Traitor's Lane for almost three hundred and fifty years not one hundred and fifty."

"YOU'VE lived here for three hundred and fifty years?" he looked almost disappointed at her response, "not Rosella Mary..."

"Yes; and I AM Rosella Mary."

"Really?"

"Really..."

"How... how?" said Steve, after all, what else do you say to that kind of claim.

"This is rural Gloucestershire," she said with a grin, "it's amazing what you can get away with - if you keep yourself to yourself of course." She stood, extended a hand and he stood and took it, and she pulled him towards the stairs. He wondered what was going to happen next. Not... not her bedroom surely. The house had exposed beams and white washed plaster that most of the older places did, even his.

At the top of the stairs she indicated a low crooked doorway with a matching off-shaped door, he stayed on the outside, just in case she actually was a drug dealer and was going to lock him in. Inside she opened a large wardrobe and there, neatly stacked on shelves were tall, thin books -- floor to ceiling, hundreds of them -- all the same size and similarly bound.

She took one seemingly at random from the second shelf, "Look," she said, "Read the date."

He looked; it was clear, well written manuscript in black ink on very old paper, with a quill pen he guessed. The first date he stopped at was May 1776 and the entry talked of problems in the American colonies. He flicked through to the end of the book where it talked of recent successes with steam engines.

"Interesting," he said simply, still at a loss as to its import.

"Now this one," she gave him another book, "Check the hand writing and more importantly the date."

He flicked the book open, the paper was thinner but was now faintly lined, the smoother flow of ink suggesting a fountain pen. The author spoke of their joy that D-Day had finally taken place but sadness about many of the young American boys, especially 'Bill' the combat engineer, that had been camped around the village could have been among the many casualties. So interested was the teacher that he only just noticed the handwriting was the same.

"Here's my last one prior to going electronic," she said, and handed him a hardback journal that talked of ordering a new personal computer from a catalogue.

Again it was the same writing by ballpoint pen, dated eighteen years prior. He took a book at random and checked the writing, this time late eighteenth century and still the same, and then another before putting them on a drawn-out shelf.

"This is all you?"

"Hard as that may be to believe, yes."

"Over three hundred years?"

"Nearly three hundred and fifty," she said simply.

"When did you write them?" he said, thinking this to be a historical record of the village that must have taken her several years of very hard work to complete.

"You read the dates. I learned to write in the late sixteen hundreds, my grandmother taught me." She smiled easily to him, "didn't write a diary then of course, I could write but I couldn't afford pens and paper."

He looked really confused, and quite disbelieving. "I can see that must have been a real problem."

"I was nursing and midwifing by then, and selling my lotions and potions, so could afford to buy it."

"So..."

"Trust me Steve," she said.

"So... what you're saying is you are three hundred and fifty years old?" She made to speak, "NEARLY three hundred and fifty," he corrected himself.

"Yep, and I'm proud to say I don't look a day over two hundred." She was the one trying not to sound cross now.

His face was screwed up in disbelief. This was one hell of an excuse for a missed date, he would have been satisfied with 'I forgot'.

What the Fuck?!

But she was so calm about it and believable, just like his four Star Wars pupils had b...

What the Fuck?! He struggled for a reply so just went with the obvious. "So you're immortal?"

"I don't know, old definitely."

"But surely, most of the little old ladies will have watched you not change since they were babies!?"

"It's all part of my curse," she said.

"Curse? Wha... Curse... What?"

"Curse," she said, "Like in the best horror stories. I go on while all of my neighbours live and work, marry, have families, grow up, grow old and go on their way." She wiped another tear, "This is me."

"Three hundred and fifty years?" he held back the laughter from his voice.

"Almost."

"What curse?"

"Do you have a while, this is rather a long story. Let's go for a walk..."

"Look, I'm not going to end up in the Wicker man here am I?"

Ella grinned, "Stick close to me Stevie, I'll look after you..."

She took him through the quiet Friday night village and she pointed out the large Holborrow Park he'd chatted with the professor in the day before. She pointed out the stone ruins of the old house that had evidently been quite grand once. She stood still at one point where the road passed close by. She looked really upset by this so he walked her back to his place and his newly decorated flat suggesting tea. They walked up the stairs into his large sitting room, and she sat down.

She sat with a mug of tea staring at the rim and the steam tripping over it, her red eyes looking up at him.

"l was born in the year of the great fire of London, I remember the death of King Charles the Second when my father, who had been a drummer boy for Cromwell in the Second Civil War, raised a rather off-colour toast in that pub you bought me a drink in not two weeks ago. Squire Holborrow had him arrested for treason and because of his advancing years he died in prison after he was lashed for refusing to raise a toast to the new King James and to the Pope; all Romans in those days this little village." She took a deep breath.

"Our little Vine Lane became Traitor's Lane from that point on; so to answer your question the apostrophe at my end of the lane is the right one, one traitor, my father, Thomas Pendall." She drew a long breath against the memory, looking almost like she was stealing herself for the next amazing revelation, and she was.

"The Squire got drunk and thought he would come to my house and rape me seeing as my father was gone and I was a buxom attractive 20 year old protestant wench. I kicked him square in the balls for his trouble, pulled a knife on him and ran into the street screaming what he had tried to do to me.

But I was the traitor's daughter and he was Squire Holborrow so I had no friends to call upon. In revenge he had me accused and tried as a witch two days later, and I got the blame for everything from crop failure to my neighbours teenage acne. She already hated me because the local boys liked me better than her so he gave her a crown to denounce me. She even started a story that my Dad's soul was haunting the graveyard to try and get in and repent to the holy Catholic Church." She wiped a hand across her face, "hard faced Protestant my Dad, would sooner have burned in hell."