Settling In

Brogan and Ursula search for more information on the Hagger's Hill witches

Back in bed, Ursula was struck by the memories her aunt’s flat brought back. There in Brogan’s room would be the bed she slept in as a child. There would be the big wooden lamp on the bedside table that was so difficult to turn on and off. She remembered waking sweating and shaking within static sheets which stuck to her arms and legs; the pitch blackness a world away from her London bedroom. She remembered reaching out; desperately clawing into the blackness to locate the lamp and when she did so it would take another few minutes of panic to finally push the switch in only to reveal the room was exactly as she’d left it before she went to sleep.

There was a reason she’d given Brogan her old bedroom. She didn’t want the memories. She didn’t want to remember the calendar ticking down the days until she’d have to leave. Would her stay be temporary this time? How long would it take her to find out what happened to the Hagger’s Hill witches? She wondered if there was any real chance of her making a go of the shop. More importantly, could she ever find it in herself to swallow the guilt she’d need to in order to make it back to Simon and her old life? She laughed ruefully; as if her old life even existed anymore, as if there was a way to turn the clock back.

As Ursula awoke to the bird song the next morning she realised Brogan had been true to his word and moved both his car and hers. He must have moved them very early, possibly before sunrise even. Although Ursula was grateful she worried about the great importance she felt Brogan had attached to the action when they’d discussed it the night before. Her stomach was heavy and churning, as though a litter of kittens were bouncing around within it. Was it really just Simon that Brogan was protecting her from? Ursula wondered if something else had happened, something that meant she was now in even more trouble. The real world seemed far away and alien to her; she pushed it away and focused on Hagger’s Hill and her new life as patron of the village shop.

*****

In the sitting room Brogan had settled into one of the big leather chairs and was eating a Pot Noodle. He weighed up the situation. Ursula wasn’t her usual self, but he had to admit there was a big improvement from the last time he’d seen her. On that day she’d sat in the corner of the sofa in her house wearing two dressing gowns with a duvet thrown over her. It was a cold day, but her face was glowing red and prickled with sweat.

“Is she ill?” he’d asked Simon.

“No. Not physically,” had been the answer. He’d said nothing more than that. Under her layers Ursula sat with her knees pulled up to her chest like a child. She’d said nothing at all, hadn’t even looked at him.

“She’s too hot Simon,” Brogan had pointed out.

“Just go,” he said.

“But I can’t leave her like this. I can’t leave you like this.”

“You being here is making everything worse.”

Brogan had started to argue, but then the crying started. Simon had enough to deal with. So he’d left. Just like that, turned and walked out the door and left them to it. Maybe things would have been different if he’d stayed.

Ursula entered the sitting room. He smiled and gestured to the pickled fish table where a second Pot Noodle sat waiting.

“Breakfast?” he announced.

“That’s breakfast?” Ursula laughed remembering her student days.

“It’s hot, it’s ready, and it’s still in date,” Brogan smiled. “I found it in the shop downstairs, enjoy.” He was relieved to see Ursula pick up the Pot Noodle and after pushing the fork in and out of it a few times start eating. The sauce dribbled onto her chin and she brushed it away with a slightly shaking hand. Ursula looked over at Brogan, his eyebrows furrowed and an anxious look in his eye.

*****

“You have your worried look,” Ursula told him.

He shrugged. “It’s a scary house. I continually feel as though I’m being watched.”

“You probably are!” laughed Ursula. “Apart from the hidden CCTV cameras, anyone in the church tower can see right in this window. You know that’s where the witches live.”

“Oh yes!” said Brogan.“There’s one in the church, one in the pub, and one in the shop.”

Ursula laughed remembering the old folklore about the area. “I guess I’m in the shop now but I’m afraid I forgot to pack my wand.”

They exchanged a smile. Ever since Ursula was a teenager she’d identified as a witch. She certainly wasn’t the only teenager in the world to do so but she was perhaps the only one in her school. She might not have understood the realities of the title but she knew in her heart this was what she considered herself to want to be. As she got older the internet became more widely used and as a result she met with ‘real’ witches.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me when you first got into Wicca,” Brogan laughed.

“I guess I was a bit embarrassed really,” she explained. “It’s not every day you go into a housing estate in East London to meet someone who advertised in a newsletter for witches for their coven.”

That’s how Ursula had discovered the pagan religion of Wicca.

“It was a big risk,” Brogan said as though he’d never taken any himself, “didn’t you think you might be killed and eaten or something?”

Ursula sighed looking up at the ceiling. “Well it was the only risk I ever took as a teenager and all my friends were getting in far more trouble so I didn’t really think of it like that. And anyway, I had my trusty Swiss Army Knife hidden away in my sock. You know, just in case.”

Brogan laughed, “Oh my god you were prepared.”

“I felt like a complete idiot when I met them. The big round smiling face of the High Priestess and the white bearded face of the High Priest were nothing to fear. Seriously, they were like the sweetest nanas you could imagine.”

“You didn’t need the knife!”

“Well you say that”, Ursula laughed, “but it was late when I was leaving and it was really rough on that estate. The knife certainly meant I felt safer walking through all the gangs of drinking teenagers on the way back to the tube!”

She smiled indulgently at the memory. Like having a weapon ever made you safer, it was just something else an attacker could use to hurt you.

Brogan cut into her thoughts. “Two in the shop,” he said pointedly. “I’m not going anywhere right now. It’s you and me in the shop.”

Ursula smiled her eyes crinkling. “You know that’s not the plan,” she teased. “Why don’t you think about becoming a vicar instead?”

Brogan was a few years younger than Ursula and in terms of modern pagan witchcraft these years made a lot of difference.

“Well I didn’t have it as easy as you.” Ursula argued. “I didn’t get to just go to open rituals and chat to people afterwards.”

By the time Brogan had got into Wicca it had become a lot more socially acceptable. The teen witch craze was at its height. The seasonal rites he’d attended were open for all, if Ursula had been Brogan’s age she’d have had the same opportunities. She remembered the day he’d come to her, eagerly declaring his new dalliance with the tradition. How surprised he’d been to hear she was already initiated.

Ursula considered the significance of Brogan’s statement. Two in the shop, he’d said. He wasn’t planning on going anywhere either. She rolled his words over and over in her mind whilst she stared at him. She’d been dreading the loneliness of her new beginning but it was something she’d decided she could deal with in order to begin the next chapter of her life. The last thing she expected was for Brogan to decide to stay as well. It made sense; his life had got pretty complicated over the last few months too. Maybe, thought Ursula, he isn’t hiding me he’s hiding himself. In reality that made a lot of sense and explained why he was questioning whether or not anyone knew she owned the shop. He obviously didn’t want to be found either. Yet did he also have another motive in coming to Hagger’s Hill? Brogan had spent his whole life obsessed by the quiet little town and its many stories and secrets. Hagger’s Hill didn’t encourage visitors although the local pub did make them quite welcome. This was Brogan’s chance to stay in Hagger’s Hill too; if Ursula wasn’t here he would be unlikely to have another chance. Hagger’s Hill wasn’t the place for outsiders.

A knock at the door shook Ursula from her thoughts. She felt her heart leap as she worried about whom else could possibly find her but looking out of the window she was relieved to see Ivy rather than anyone from her old life.

“Who’s that?” hissed Brogan hiding behind the curtain.

“Good morning,” Ivy trilled up to the window, “I’m here to meet your friend.”

“It’s Ivy,” Ursula explained, “Aunt Hilda’s best friend. How did she know you were here?”

It must have been a good hour or so after midnight she’d been awoken from her sleep, she thought. No one would have been awake to have seen him arrive. He’d also moved his car at first light; no one would have seen the car outside or had any clues to suggest anyone else was there. As Ursula considered this she realised she could hear footsteps on the stairs.

“Brogan!” she hissed eyes wide, “you left the door open.”

“No I didn’t. You did, not me. It’s your house”

But Ursula was sure she hadn’t. She was sure no one had left the door open. Wasn’t she? The way her memory was lately, maybe she wasn’t. But she hadn’t been the last in. The two of them rushed to the landing to see Ivy had already made her way to the top of the stairs already. She pushed passed Brogan and Ursula and into the sitting room taking the seat Brogan had just vacated. The chair let out a small squeak as she sat on it, as though it too was complaining about her interruption.

“Make yourself at home” Ursula said before feeling embarrassed for harbouring such unkind feelings to what for all intent and purpose was a harmless old woman.

Brogan showed no such sign of embarrassment. “How did you know I was here?” he snapped.

“The wind told me”, Ivy answered. She stared at Brogan, who had one hand on his hip and was running his other hand through the front of his hair. “Look at you,” she said her eyes unfocused and her face softening. “All grown up, you grew into a handsome man. And you’re still so fair; it’s unusual you know, such beautiful hair, still such an unusual colour.”

Brogan looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. He shivered. “What do you want?” he snapped again.

Ursula stared at him as he shifted uncomfortably. She recognised the confusion in his crinkling forward. Her skin crawled too. Why was Ivy talking to Brogan as though she knew him? There was no way he could have met her before.

“I just wanted to see you,” Ivy replied the pout forming on her red lips sending her red lipstick bleeding into the wrinkles around her mouth. She turned to Ursula. “Can I get you anything?”

Ursula shook her head. Brogan was still glaring. Along with Ursula’s stunned silence the lack of conversation gave the room an uncomfortable feel.

Ivy stood and smoothed down her long skirt. “I’m at number five,” she said which of course Ursula knew as she’d watched her go home the other day. “Please don’t hesitate to call on me.”

As Ursula heard the front door open and close, she tiptoed over to the window and watched for Ivy to make her way home. The bright orange halo of henna dyed hair was soon visible and Ursula watched the figure walk down the road and up the pathway of what she supposed was number five.

“So fair… you are still so fair…” parodied Brogan his voice mimicking the gentle trill in Ivy’s voice. He rolled his eyes, “Nutty old bag.” Ursula glared at him for being so rude. But she could see his shoulders hunched and the wince forming across his face so she tried not to be too hard on him. Ivy had been positively strange; overly affectionate. She’d treated him like a puppy; or a baby.

“I guess she used to just wander in and out to see Aunt Hilda,” Ursula said shrugging, feeling as though she should justify Ivy’s interruption even if it was just to try and make Brogan feel more secure.

Brogan bit his lip, “Hilda was blonde wasn’t she?”

“Until the day she died it was said,” replied Ursula. “Not that I saw her in the years before she died of course.”

Her mouth dropped at the corners and her cheeks grew hot. Aunt Hilda had generously taken her in when she had no one. And year after year she’d done the same. But Ursula had been so wrapped up in her own life; in her adolescence and then in her own career and relationships, she hadn’t had the time for Aunt Hilda. If she was honest she’d hardly even thought about her. A lump formed in her throat as she thought about all the things she could have told Aunt Hilda about her life. How proud Aunt Hilda would have been. But she hadn’t given her that chance.

“And you too!” exclaimed Brogan cutting into her thoughts, “hair the colour of wheat. I bet you look so much like she did when she first arrived in Hagger’s Hill.”

“I guess I do,” Ursula replied. “Maybe being blond is just too obvious.” She let out a giggle. “If I want to blend in and hide maybe I need to dye my hair. And you too” she gestured to Brogan’s blond halo.

“Wow!” said Brogan, “I never thought I would hear you ever suggest that.”

“I might look good as a brunette,” Ursula laughed. Brogan pulled a face; he couldn’t imagine Ursula’s pale face and pink cheeks with darker hair. It would be like looking into the face of a stranger.

“Never!” he said, “how about a nice auburn?”

“Or copper,” Ursula was grinning hard now, dimples forming in her cheeks.

“No!” Brogan shrieked. “If we’re going to both have the same colour hair we need to do something dramatic. Let’s go for the same hair dye that Ivy uses. Do you think bright orange would suit you, hey Ursula?”

Ursula smiled; relieved to see Brogan’s anxiety waning. But whilst she knew Brogan was feeling calmer she knew nothing could relieve her anxiety. Brogan was trying to lighten her spirit but a joking exchange about disguise was only going to enhance the fear welling up in the pit of her stomach, threatening to become hysteria at any second.

*****

After the events of the day Ursula and Brogan decided to take their evening meal in the local pub. Urban myth suggested this was where the second of the Hagger’s Hill witches was supposed to live. The Wheatsheaf was traditional. It had low ceilings and a large sprawling beer garden to the rear. The paintwork was peeling, the sofas were faded, and there were horse brasses and old farming photographs on the walls. The dark décor, low ceilings, and lack of natural light gave it a dramatic feel. If you were asked to describe the kind of pub you’d expect to find sitting in a village in the English countryside you would almost certainly describe something like The Wheatsheaf. It was obvious things hadn’t changed in many years and it was only the brightly coloured bottles of Smirnoff Ice and J20 which showed you hadn’t stepped back in time.

Behind the bar was a large woman with light brown curly hair piled on top of her head. Ursula studied her trying to work out how old she must be and whether or not she might recognise her from when she’d visited Hagger’s Hill as a child. The woman had a low cut top which highlighted the significant gap between her low slung breasts. There was laughter lines around her eyes which made Ursula think she was possibly in her mid to late forties. There wasn’t anything about the woman Ursula recognised and therefore she assumed she must have moved to the area after the last time she’d visited.

Brogan’s eye had been drawn to something else. On the shelf behind the bar there sat a witch’s hat. The black felt looked dusty and the conical tip had a slight bend to it. All across it were sticky taped photographs or labels from various drinks.

The jolly woman, who was the landlady, followed Brogan’s line of vision and remarked, “That’s the sorting hat.”

“Oh yes,” Brogan laughed the tone of his voice making his statement a question.

The landlady chuckled, “As in the Harry Potter books. We use it to sort the men from the boys, as in sorting the lager drinkers from the ale drinkers.”

“Oh,” said Brogan with a teasing note to his voice, “you aren’t a witch then?”

The landlady laughed again her extra chins shaking as she did so. “If I was do you think I would still be here now? I’d be on a beach somewhere enjoying myself.”

“You’d certainly be here,” said Brogan. “The Wheatsheaf always needs a witch!”

“So they say,” grinned the landlady, “so they say.”

“And there was me thinking I was going to meet a witch today,” joked Brogan.

“It’s my pub, but I’ve inherited a pub and not special powers.”

“So you aren’t a witch then?” Brogan’s eyes twinkled as he repeated his earlier question once more, as though asking it again would give him a different response.

Ursula was still hooked on the landlady’s earlier statement. “You inherited the pub?”

If she’d inherited the pub surely, Ursula reasoned, she should have recognised her. She tried to cast her mind back to whom had run The Wheatsheaf when she was a child.

“It’s a long story,” the landlady said holding her hand out for Ursula to shake. “I’m Belle. My parents owned the pub in the 1960s but they sold up in the later end of the decade and we all moved to the North of England. Later in his life my dad missed Hagger’s Hill and when he got too old to deal with a busy town pub he was lucky to find the Wheatsheaf back on the market. He remained here until he died and when he did so he left me The Wheatsheaf in his will.”

“So you must have heard the stories about the witches of Hagger’s Hill in the newspapers?” Ursula asked. She wondered again how old Belle was and whether she’d lived in the village with her parents during the 1960s or been born later. Would she have memories of the reporters?

Cutting into her thoughts and answering her unspoken questions Belle replied, “I remember the events little lady, not just the stories. Let me tell you, witches were around and about in Hagger’s Hill that’s for sure.”

“But no more…” Brogan said raising his eyebrows.

Ursula watched him out of the corner of her eye. She knew he was secretly hoping someone who lived in Hagger’s Hill was a witch. She had told him plenty of times there was no Hagger’s Hill coven and although he believed her she always knew secretly he still held out hope.

“Not for a little while, but once upon a time,” Belle replied with a wink. “The village shop, now closed, was run by a witch. Lovely old lady she was. Very kind but completely batty; definitely a witch I’m telling you; for sure.”

Ursula and Brogan looked at each other and burst into laughter.

Belle frowned.

“You and I maybe have more in common than you think,” said Ursula. “I just inherited the shop from my Aunty Hilda!”

Belle looked her up and down. “Of course you did, I should have guessed. You’re the very image of your aunt.”

Ursula smiled. She liked to be told she looked like Aunt Hilda, mostly because Aunt Hilda had been considered attractive in her youth. Ursula’s mother (Aunt Hilda’s sister) had been much shorter and slimmer and had thick chestnut brown hair. All three of them shared the same porcelain skin with a tendency to high colour giving them a healthy flushed rosy cheeked look. Ursula’s mother and aunt had shared a delicate small mouth with full lips and dramatic Cupid’s bow; whereas Ursula’s was wide and full and lit up her face when she smiled.

Belle grinned. “Well it’s lovely to have some new faces in the village.”

Ursula returned her smile feeling thoroughly welcomed. She belonged in Hagger’s Hill, if only it hadn’t taken her until her thirties to realise that.

*****

Ursula was up first the next morning and used the time to sort through Aunt Hilda’s clothes again. The velvets and satins were a world away from her old wardrobe and it felt good to be a whole new person in more ways than one. A knock at the door shook Ursula from her thoughts and she trotted down the stairs to answer it. Her heart sank as she spotted a halo of orange through the glass of the front door. It was Ivy again. Whilst Ursula was deciding whether to answer, Ivy’s hand lifted giving a blur of a wave through the glass. This time when Ursula opened the door she stood pointedly on the threshold making sure Ivy couldn’t enter.

“Good morning!” trilled Ivy. “I brought a present for you.”

Ursula stood staring as Ivy held out a little pot.”What?”

“Henna,” Ivy explained.

Ursula’s forehead wrinkled. “Henna?”

“Yes dear,” Ivy’s eyes twinkled. “It’s a natural plant based hair dye; very popular. It gives the hair a beautiful rich shade of red.”

Ursula knew this. But why did Ivy have it and why was she holding it out ordering Ursula to take it? It was true Ursula had been a little forgetful lately but she couldn’t remember asking Ivy for anything like that; or for anything in fact.

“It is what I use to dye my hair,” Ivy said as she pushed the pot into Ursula’s hand, “you can thank the ears of the wind.” And with that last statement hanging in the air between them and with Ursula’s mouth open with surprise Ivy turned and walked away; her long damson red crushed velvet skirt floating along like a halo around her legs.

 “What does she want now?” Brogan shouted down.

Ursula awkwardly mounted the stairs back to the sitting room. “Not much.” She turned the little pot over in her hands. What a random present, she thought, what a coincidence. They’d only been joking about Ivy’s hair the day before. It was funny how life threw you these little anomalies.

 “Oh god, oh god no,” she muttered stopping mid way up the stairs. She felt queasy as the blood rushed away from her face and her legs wobbled. Ursula’s heart thumped in her chest and her palms started to sweat. How on earth could Ivy have heard them talking?