Maskerade

Gra

Jarge Weaver hesitated. Of course, she were a witch. Peopled told him this sort of thing happened.

He didn't like it. But he didn't like his back, either, especially when his back didn't like him. It came to something when your vertebrae ganged up on you.

He eased himself forward, grimacing, balancing himself on two sticks.

The witch was sitting in a rocking chair, facing away from the door.

Jarge hesitated.

'Come on in, Jarge Weaver,' said Gra

The shock made him try to stand upright, and this made something white‑hot explode somewhere in the region of his belt.

Gra

'No, miss. I can fall over on a chair, though.'

Gra

'You got that all ready for me?' he said.

'Yes,' said Gra

'This is a mixture of rare herbs and suchlike,' she said. 'Including suckrose and akwa.'

'My word,' said Jarge, impressed.

'Take a swig now.'

He obeyed. It tasted faintly of liquorice.

'You got to take another swig last thing at night,' Gra

'...three times round a chestnut tree...'

'An'...an' put a pine board under your mattress. Got to be pine from a twenty‑year‑old tree, mind.'

'...twenty‑year‑old tree...' said Jarge. He felt he should make a contribution. 'So's the knots in me back end up in the pine?' he hazarded.

Gra

'You got it exactly right,' she said.

'And that's it?'

'You wanted more?'

'I... thought there were dancin' and chantin' and stuff.'

'Did that before you got here,' said Gra

'My word. Yes. Er... about payin'...'

'Oh, I don't want payin',' said Gra

'Oh. Right.' Jarge brightened up.

'But maybe... if your wife's got any old clothes, p'raps, I'm a size 12, black for preference, or bakes the odd cake, no plums, they gives me wind, or got a bit of old mead put by, could be, or p'raps you'll be killing a hog about now, best back's my favourite, maybe some ham, a few pig knuckles... anything you can spare, really. No obligation. I wouldn't go around puttin' anyone under obligation, just 'cos I'm a witch. Everyone all right in your house, are they? Blessed with good health, I hope?'

She watched this sink in.

'And now let me help you out of the door,' she added.

Weaver was never quite certain about what happened next. Gra

'Aargh!'

'Sorry!'

'Me back! Me back!'

Still, Jarge reasoned later, she was an old woman. And she might be getting clumsy and she'd always been daft, but she made good potions. They worked damn' fast, too. He was carrying his sticks by the time he got home.

Gra

People were so blind, she reflected. They preferred to believe in gibberish rather than chiropracty.

Of course, it was just as well this was so. She'd much rather they went 'oo' when she seemed to know who was approaching her cottage than work out that it conveniently overlooked a bend in the track, and as for the door‑latch and the trick with the length of black thread...

But what had she done? She'd just tricked a rather dim old man.

She'd faced wizards, monsters and elves... and now she was feeling pleased with herself because she'd fooled Jarge Weaver, a man who'd twice failed to become Village Idiot through being overqualified.

It was the slippery slope. Next thing it'd be cackling and gibbering and luring children into the oven. And it wasn't as if she even liked children.

For years Gra

She looked around at the kitchen. It needed sweeping. The washing‑up needed doing. The walls had grown grubby. There seemed to be so much to do that she couldn't bring herself to do any of it.

There was a honking far above, and a ragged V of geese sped over the clearing.

They were heading for warmer weather in places Gra

It was tempting.

The selection committee sat around the table in the office of Mr Seldom Bucket, the Opera House's new owner. He'd been joined by Salzella, the musical director, and Dr Undershaft, the chorus master.

'And so,' said Mr Bucket, 'we come to... let's see... yes, Christine... Marvellous stage presence, eh? Good figure, too.' He winked at Dr Undershaft.

'Yes. Very pretty,' said Dr Undershaft flatly. 'Can't sing, though.'

'What you artistic types don't realize is this is the Century of the Fruitbat,' said Bucket. 'Opera is a production, not just a lot of songs.'

'So you say. But...'

'The idea that a soprano should be fifteen acres of bosom in a horned helmet belongs to the past, like.'

Salzella and Undershaft exchanged glances. So he was going to be that kind of owner...

'Unfortunately,' said Salzella sourly, 'the idea that a soprano should have a reasonable singing voice does not belong to the past. She has a good figure, yes. She certainly has a... sparkle. But she can't sing.'

'You can train her, can't you?' said Bucket. 'A few years in the chorus...'

'Yes, maybe after a few years, if I persevere, she will be merely very bad,' said Undershaft.

'Er, gentlemen,' said Mr Bucket. 'Ahem. All right. Cards on the table, eh? I'm a simple man, me. No beating about the bush, speak as you find, call a spade a spade–'

'Do give us your forthright views,' said Salzella. Definitely that kind of owner, he thought. Self‑made man proud of his handiwork. Confuses bluffness and honesty with merely being rude. I wouldn't mind betting a dollar that he thinks he can tell a man's character by testing the firmness of his handshake and looking deeply into his eyes.

'I've been through the mill, I have,' Bucket began, 'and I made myself what I am today–'

Self‑raising flour? thought Salzella.

'–but I have to, er, declare a bit of a financial interest. Her dad did, er, in fact, er, lend me a fair whack of money to help me buy this place, and he made a heartfelt fatherly request in regard to his daughter. If I bring it to mind correctly, his exact words, er, were: "Don't make me have to break your legs." I don't expect you artistes to understand. It's a business thing. The gods help those who help themselves, that's my motto.'

Salzella stuck his hands in his waistcoat pockets, leaned back and started to whistle softly.

'I see,' said Undershaft. 'Well, it's not the first time it's happened. Normally it's a ballerina, of course.'

'Oh, it's nothing like that,' said Bucket hurriedly.

'It's just that with the money comes this girl Christine. And you have to admit, she does look good.'