The Garden Of Magic

‘Oh, go on. I haven’t seen you in ages.’

‘I saw you Sunday,’ Bex said, mildly insulted that Nicola had forgotten.

‘I want to meet Jon.’

Bex gripped the handle of the vegetable knife. ‘Jon?’ Her stomach flipped at the sound of his name spoken aloud.

‘Yeah. I know he’s your friend, but you must have noticed the hotness.’

‘We’re just friends,’ Bex said automatically. She began dicing one of the carrot sticks.

‘I know,’ Nicola said, sounding impatient. ‘That’s why I’m asking you to introduce us.’

‘Sure,’ Bex forced out. And I’ll just stab myself with this vegetable knife while I’m about it. ‘No worries.’

Today just got better and better.

***

After Martin’s visit, Iris had taken a bath in the claw-footed tub, hoping to ease the dull ache in her back. Now, however, she was having difficulty getting back onto dry land. When she’d stood up, the room had swayed treacherously, and she felt light-headed. Her sense told her that she’d stood up too quickly, had lain in water that was perhaps a touch too hot for too long, but her animal instinct screamed ‘danger’. Weakness!

Iris steadied herself with both hands on the side of the tub and concentrated on breathing deeply until her vision cleared and her head stopped swimming. That was when the real problems started. Her back decided to spasm, running an electric pain across her pelvis and down her legs. Muscles clenched unhelpfully, trapping nerves and causing the excruciating feeling she was experiencing. In between panting breaths, Iris reminded herself that there was nothing seriously wrong. That, while it may feel as though her vertebrae had dislocated, she would be fine. Just as soon as she could get out of the damn tub.

For the first time in about an ice age, Iris wished that she didn’t live alone. A month or so after her eightieth birthday, she had been visited by a cheery man from the council who wondered whether she would like to join the meals on wheels scheme, or go to the seniors’ bingo on the special bus on a Friday morning. He had been new to the area and hadn’t heard of Iris. She imagined he had come in for some gentle leg-pulling when his colleagues realised he’d visited the witch and offered her leaflets. If Iris hadn’t been concentrating on not passing out from the pain in her back, she’d have snorted at the memory. He’d left a panic button thingy-ma-jig, though, which would’ve come in handy right about now. Iris had her pride, but she wasn’t an idiot. You had to play the cards you were dealt, after all.

The button, however, was downstairs on the hall table. She was supposed to wear it around her neck on the cord supplied, like one of those children’s purses, but she never had. Not that she’d have been wearing it in the bath, Iris reasoned. No, she had no reason to feel silly or humiliated as a result of this predicament.

Logical though this thought was, it didn’t help. It didn’t help her out of the bath, either. That took half an hour of minute movements, followed by an undignified, hunched-back crab-walk before she had a towel wrapped around her body and the cork tiles of the bathroom beneath her feet.

If only she had been a fairytale witch, Iris thought, as she edged her way across the landing. Then she could’ve waved her hands and removed her pain. She could have killed a lamb at full moon, eating its still-twitching heart to stay young. She could have captured small children with her gingerbread cottage and put them to work. If she’d been a storybook witch, she wouldn’t be creeping sideways, bent-double, to get the extra-strength painkillers in her bedside drawer.

Just as she had made it to the bedroom and into her dressing gown, she heard the unmistakable sound of someone knocking on the back door. She slipped the tablets into her pocket and began the slow, painful descent, for the second time that day. That was another problem with being a real witch as opposed to a made-up one. When someone came knocking you had to answer. Damn and blast the rules.

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