sink, all casting greedy eyes back at their interrupted feast.
The witch picked up a long thin knife and Hat took a step back. But all she did was trim the pecked dome off the loaf then carve a thick slice from the remainder.
“Help yourself to butter and marmalade while I mash a new pot of tea,” she said.
She turned away to place a big blackened kettle on the hotplate of a wood-burning stove. Hat spread the bread thickly with butter and marmalade and sank his teeth into it. God, it was delicious! The best food he’d tasted in weeks. In fact the only food whose taste he’d noticed in weeks. This was a good dream.
One of the tits fluttered down on to the table and eyed him boldly.
“Sorry, Scuttle,” he said. “I’ve waited a long time for this.”
The witch glanced round at him curiously.
“How did you know that one was Scuttle?” she asked.
“Two blue tits and a coal tit, not hard to guess which one’s Scuttle,” he said.
“So, apart from your problem with blackbirds and parrots, you do know something about birds. That what you’re doing out so early? Bird-watching?”
“Not really,” said Hat, thinking, You know exactly what I’m doing!
She turned to face him across the table.
“You’re not an egg collector, are you?” she demanded.
“No way!” he replied indignantly. “I’d lock those sods up and throw away the key.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said. “So if you’re not twitching and you’re not thieving, just what are you doing wandering round my garden so early in the morning? You don’t have to tell me, but unsatisfied curiosity only gets you one slice of bread and marmalade.”
She smiled at him as she spoke and he found himself returning the smile.
He certainly wanted some more bread, but what answer could he give?
He was saved from decision by the sound of a cracked bell.
“Clearly my morning for dawn raids,” she said.
The bell rang again.
“Coming, coming,” she cried, turning to open a door into a shady corridor that ended at another door, this one with a letter box and an upper panel of frosted glass against which pressed a face.
Hat sliced himself some more bread as she moved away. Even in dreams, a young cop had to take his chances. As he sank his teeth into it, he kept a careful eye on the Crunch Witch to see what reinforcements she may have conjured up.
She opened the front door.
A man stood there. He too carried a walking stick, this one ebony with a silver top in the shape of a hawk’s head, and he wore a black trilby which he removed as he said, “Good morning to you, Miss Mac.”
“And to you, Mr W,” said the witch. “Why so formal? You should just have come round the back.”
“I’m sorry, it’s so early, I thought I’d better be sure…”
“That I was decent? How thoughtful. But you know what it’s like at Blacklow Cottage: up with the birds, no choice about it. Come on in, do.”
She led the newcomer into the kitchen. He moved easily enough though with a just perceptible drag of the left leg suggesting that, like the woman’s, his stick was not simply for ornament. He stopped short when he saw Hat.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t realize you had a guest.”
“Me neither till five minutes back,” said the witch. “Mr Waverley, meet… sorry, I don’t think I got your name?”
“Hat,” said Hat. This little rush of names made him uneasy. Not Waverley, that had no resonance. But Blacklow Cottage set up some kind of vibration…
“Mr Hat,” said the witch. “Sit yourself down, Mr W. I’m just making a fresh pot of tea.”
She turned back to the stove. Hat studied Waverley openly and without embarrassment. (Pointless letting yourself be embarrassed in a dream.) Waverley returned the gaze with equal composure. He was in his early sixties, medium height, slim build, with a long narrow face, well-groomed hair, still vigorous though silvery, alert bluey-green eyes, and the sympathetic expression of a
The witch picked up a long thin knife and Hat took a step back. But all she did was trim the pecked dome off the loaf then carve a thick slice from the remainder.
“Help yourself to butter and marmalade while I mash a new pot of tea,” she said.
She turned away to place a big blackened kettle on the hotplate of a wood-burning stove. Hat spread the bread thickly with butter and marmalade and sank his teeth into it. God, it was delicious! The best food he’d tasted in weeks. In fact the only food whose taste he’d noticed in weeks. This was a good dream.
One of the tits fluttered down on to the table and eyed him boldly.
“Sorry, Scuttle,” he said. “I’ve waited a long time for this.”
The witch glanced round at him curiously.
“How did you know that one was Scuttle?” she asked.
“Two blue tits and a coal tit, not hard to guess which one’s Scuttle,” he said.
“So, apart from your problem with blackbirds and parrots, you do know something about birds. That what you’re doing out so early? Bird-watching?”
“Not really,” said Hat, thinking, You know exactly what I’m doing!
She turned to face him across the table.
“You’re not an egg collector, are you?” she demanded.
“No way!” he replied indignantly. “I’d lock those sods up and throw away the key.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said. “So if you’re not twitching and you’re not thieving, just what are you doing wandering round my garden so early in the morning? You don’t have to tell me, but unsatisfied curiosity only gets you one slice of bread and marmalade.”
She smiled at him as she spoke and he found himself returning the smile.
He certainly wanted some more bread, but what answer could he give?
He was saved from decision by the sound of a cracked bell.
“Clearly my morning for dawn raids,” she said.
The bell rang again.
“Coming, coming,” she cried, turning to open a door into a shady corridor that ended at another door, this one with a letter box and an upper panel of frosted glass against which pressed a face.
Hat sliced himself some more bread as she moved away. Even in dreams, a young cop had to take his chances. As he sank his teeth into it, he kept a careful eye on the Crunch Witch to see what reinforcements she may have conjured up.
She opened the front door.
A man stood there. He too carried a walking stick, this one ebony with a silver top in the shape of a hawk’s head, and he wore a black trilby which he removed as he said, “Good morning to you, Miss Mac.”
“And to you, Mr W,” said the witch. “Why so formal? You should just have come round the back.”
“I’m sorry, it’s so early, I thought I’d better be sure…”
“That I was decent? How thoughtful. But you know what it’s like at Blacklow Cottage: up with the birds, no choice about it. Come on in, do.”
She led the newcomer into the kitchen. He moved easily enough though with a just perceptible drag of the left leg suggesting that, like the woman’s, his stick was not simply for ornament. He stopped short when he saw Hat.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t realize you had a guest.”
“Me neither till five minutes back,” said the witch. “Mr Waverley, meet… sorry, I don’t think I got your name?”
“Hat,” said Hat. This little rush of names made him uneasy. Not Waverley, that had no resonance. But Blacklow Cottage set up some kind of vibration…
“Mr Hat,” said the witch. “Sit yourself down, Mr W. I’m just making a fresh pot of tea.”
She turned back to the stove. Hat studied Waverley openly and without embarrassment. (Pointless letting yourself be embarrassed in a dream.) Waverley returned the gaze with equal composure. He was in his early sixties, medium height, slim build, with a long narrow face, well-groomed hair, still vigorous though silvery, alert bluey-green eyes, and the sympathetic expression of a
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