said. ‘It’s like a lot of things. When you start off, you think it’s going to be glamorous and exciting and fun, and after you’ve been doing it a bit, you find out that all work is basically just work - on balance, better than being dead, but it really cuts into your free time. Is that what it’s like in the ball-bearing industry?’
‘Precision casting and hydraulic fittings,’ Colin corrected her. ‘Yes, pretty much. Except I always knew it wasn’t going to be glamorous and what you just said. But I was brought up with it from when I was a kid - family business, see - so there wasn’t the disappointment.’
‘Probably better that way,’ she said. ‘Changing the subject completely, is there a Boots around here anywhere?’
‘Ah.’ Colin smiled. ‘That’s actually a very good question. There always used to be, about six doors down on your left, next to the baker’s, but it suddenly disappeared - can only have been a few weeks ago, but now it’s a John Menzies.’
‘Oh’ She frowned. ‘Well, not to worry. All I wanted was some nail varnish remover - it’s not urgent or anything.’
Pause. Her introduction of the Boots motif had sounded like a well-I-must-be-going line, but she made no effort to move. It was almost as if she was being held there against her will.
Come to think of it, that was how Colin felt. Not a chained-to-a-dungeon-wall feeling or anything like that, it was more a case of waiting politely while someone you don’t want to risk offending finishes telling a long and boring story. Something like that, but not quite. It was as though both of them knew that there was something expected of them; you can’t go and play till you’ve finished your nice greens. On the other hand, it also had the feel of that first ghastly, small-talk-ridden interview that always has to be got through in between the first lightning-bolt meeting of eyes and the headlong fumble for bra straps. Kxcept
‘Other than that,’ he heard himself say, ‘I think the nearest one’s in Richmond.’
‘What?’
‘Boots.’
She stared at him. ‘Boots? Oh, right, Boots. Sorry. Really, it doesn’t matter.’
‘There might be one in Kew, I suppose, but’
‘Really,’ she said firmly, ‘it’s not important.’
‘There’s a Superdrug in’ Colin forced himself to shut up.
There was an almost desperate look in her eyes now; it seemed to say, I don’t know what to do next, help me. No good looking at him like that. He felt like he was in the school play again, and had forgotten all his lines.
Then - it was as though the unseen puppet-master had said, ‘The hell with it’ and let them both go. They stood up simultaneously, like sprinters out of the blocks.
‘Well,’ Colin said, ‘nice to see you again.’
‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘You haven’t eaten your pastry thing.’
‘What? Oh, not hungry.’
‘I’ll be seeing your father tomorrow, then. I’m really sorry about the mix-up today.’
‘Maybe you’re not feeling too good.’
‘I - I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘Bye.’
At the door they parted; the full one hundred and eighty degrees, no hesitating, quick march, no surreptitious backwards glances. Colin hadn’t paid much attention to GCSE physics, but he could dimly recall something about opposite poles repelling. It was that sort of thing. Maybe, he thought as he marched briskly down the street, all witches are like that
My God, he thought. She’s a witch.
Somehow, when Dad had been trotting out all that utterly weird stuff, he’d - he’d believed it, but with a subconscious reservation that came of the knowledge that Dad was always up to something and therefore wasn’t to be trusted; a deeply buried awareness of the points he’d been rehearsing to himself just before he bumped into her, about lies and expediency and Father Christmas. Hearing it from her, on the other hand, was something quite other. If she said that she was a witch and magic really existed,
‘Precision casting and hydraulic fittings,’ Colin corrected her. ‘Yes, pretty much. Except I always knew it wasn’t going to be glamorous and what you just said. But I was brought up with it from when I was a kid - family business, see - so there wasn’t the disappointment.’
‘Probably better that way,’ she said. ‘Changing the subject completely, is there a Boots around here anywhere?’
‘Ah.’ Colin smiled. ‘That’s actually a very good question. There always used to be, about six doors down on your left, next to the baker’s, but it suddenly disappeared - can only have been a few weeks ago, but now it’s a John Menzies.’
‘Oh’ She frowned. ‘Well, not to worry. All I wanted was some nail varnish remover - it’s not urgent or anything.’
Pause. Her introduction of the Boots motif had sounded like a well-I-must-be-going line, but she made no effort to move. It was almost as if she was being held there against her will.
Come to think of it, that was how Colin felt. Not a chained-to-a-dungeon-wall feeling or anything like that, it was more a case of waiting politely while someone you don’t want to risk offending finishes telling a long and boring story. Something like that, but not quite. It was as though both of them knew that there was something expected of them; you can’t go and play till you’ve finished your nice greens. On the other hand, it also had the feel of that first ghastly, small-talk-ridden interview that always has to be got through in between the first lightning-bolt meeting of eyes and the headlong fumble for bra straps. Kxcept
‘Other than that,’ he heard himself say, ‘I think the nearest one’s in Richmond.’
‘What?’
‘Boots.’
She stared at him. ‘Boots? Oh, right, Boots. Sorry. Really, it doesn’t matter.’
‘There might be one in Kew, I suppose, but’
‘Really,’ she said firmly, ‘it’s not important.’
‘There’s a Superdrug in’ Colin forced himself to shut up.
There was an almost desperate look in her eyes now; it seemed to say, I don’t know what to do next, help me. No good looking at him like that. He felt like he was in the school play again, and had forgotten all his lines.
Then - it was as though the unseen puppet-master had said, ‘The hell with it’ and let them both go. They stood up simultaneously, like sprinters out of the blocks.
‘Well,’ Colin said, ‘nice to see you again.’
‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘You haven’t eaten your pastry thing.’
‘What? Oh, not hungry.’
‘I’ll be seeing your father tomorrow, then. I’m really sorry about the mix-up today.’
‘Maybe you’re not feeling too good.’
‘I - I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘Bye.’
At the door they parted; the full one hundred and eighty degrees, no hesitating, quick march, no surreptitious backwards glances. Colin hadn’t paid much attention to GCSE physics, but he could dimly recall something about opposite poles repelling. It was that sort of thing. Maybe, he thought as he marched briskly down the street, all witches are like that
My God, he thought. She’s a witch.
Somehow, when Dad had been trotting out all that utterly weird stuff, he’d - he’d believed it, but with a subconscious reservation that came of the knowledge that Dad was always up to something and therefore wasn’t to be trusted; a deeply buried awareness of the points he’d been rehearsing to himself just before he bumped into her, about lies and expediency and Father Christmas. Hearing it from her, on the other hand, was something quite other. If she said that she was a witch and magic really existed,
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