Green Witch

Chapter 1

The skittering, pounding dance track was thumping right through Delilah. It was stressing her out, but she hadn’t dared ask the cabbie to turn it down. He was clearly already pissed off about loading all her bags into the boot at the train station and now, as they turned down a bumpy, single-track lane, he started swearing about what it was doing to the suspension of his decade-old Merc.

He pulled in alongside some rusty iron gates and Delilah peered through the tangle of ivy and bindweed growing up them. The grey stone manor house beyond looked desolate in its ragged, overgrown gardens, as if it had stood alone for a hundred years. The gable at one end was crumbling, threatening to fall down completely. For a moment, she imagined finding Sleeping Beauty inside. Instead, she would find Great Aunt Edie, who’d developed dementia in the last couple of years. She knew she’d be staying for the summer to help look after her, before sixth-form college began. Beyond that, she had no idea what to expect.

What the heck have you got in here?

Delilah hurried out of the cab to find the driver wrestling her bags out of the boot, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, threatening to drop hot ash over the beautiful leather. She wanted to take over and do it herself, but she didn’t dare say anything. She was trying not to step in the mud; suede high heels probably hadn’t been the best choice, in retrospect. But then, she’d imagined the manor house as more like a country spa hotel than this crumbling old pile surrounded by tangled weeds and oily puddles.

Careful with that one, she ventured as the cabbie wrenched at her pink Louis Vuitton tote. It’s got fragile- She winced as the bag came free, swung in an arc in the air and landed hard on the jagged edge of the tarmac. If her mother’s exquisite vintage perfume bottle – which still held the faintest trace of her scent – was broken, then she’d… What? What will you do? jibed a voice in her head. Nothing, another answered. Why start standing up for yourself now? She was still getting used to the spacious feeling of not having to be on alert all the time for Shayla and her friends. They made sugar-coated comments with a sharp centre and dropped their voices to a whisper when she entered a room at school. Being a boarding school, there had been no getting away from it, but they never overstepped the line enough for it to actually be stopped.

Twenty-two fifty, said the driver gruffly.

Delilah rummaged in her purse, pulled out a twenty and five and handed them to him. Thanks, she said, automatically. He didn’t say it back. Instead, he shut the boot and strode to the driver’s door—to get her change, she assumed.

As she reached down for her pink bag, the cab’s back wheel began moving. As the Merc bumped off down the lane, she stuck her middle finger up at it, then quickly put it down, thinking that the driver might see in the rear-view mirror and come back to start something.

She shouldered her pink bag, inched one of the gates open and wrestled her way through. Putting the bag down carefully on the path, she managed to heave the gate open a little wider, then went back for her cases. She moved her stuff further and further down the path, clicking back and forth in her heels, trying not to let them sink into the mossy gaps between the paving slabs. A jangling, nervy feeling started up in her stomach—what was that about?

It’s only an old house, she told herself. Nothing spooky. And Edie’s inside. And I’ve been here before.

She had stayed with Great Aunt Edie when she was six. A whole decade ago now.

Right after…

"Don’t," she told herself firmly. She shook her head hard, sending her hair whipping around her face, as if that would shake the thoughts away. Even though it had been ten years ago, she still couldn’t bear to think about the accident. Whenever a fleeting thought about it crept into her mind, she tried to push it out before it turned into images of screeching tyres, an echoing smash, cars on fire and bleeding, twisted people sprayed with shattered glass.

Her mother among them.

Sometimes she managed to catch the thought before the images came – quickly putting the rec room TV on loud or dashing out into the grounds for a run. She did that a lot to get away from Shayla too.

Delilah and all her bags had almost reached the front porch. She was surprised to spot a compact red car at the side of the house, parked on a slim gravel driveway. So there was a more sensible way in to the place, then. As she went back up the path a little way for the last bag, she almost slipped on some weird-looking mess on the paving. She couldn’t stop herself from leaning down for a closer look. She stared at it for a few seconds, waiting for her brain to make sense of it. Then she recoiled. It was a dead baby bird. A scrawny scrap of goo with a few sad feathers and a bulging, foetal eye. She clamped her hand over her mouth and walked far around it, over the mulchy grass, sod the suede shoes. She looked up at the manor house again. So this was her new life, for a while anyway. The bird didn’t seem like a good omen.

As there wasn’t a bell, she rapped hard with the iron knocker, but no one came. She waited way past the polite amount of time then knocked again. Nothing. She turned the latch and pushed at the heavy, weathered door, which—to her surprise—swung open.

She stepped tentatively inside. Edie?

When there was no reply, she made her way up the hallway, her heels echoing on the flagstone floor. It smelt like the boot room at school. She passed aged photographs on a side table and paused, noticing one of herself as a child, with her mum. Quickly, automatically, she put up a block in her mind against images of the accident. It didn’t always work but this time it held. The edge of the photo was ragged in its gilt frame—someone had been torn out. She noticed a couple of other pictures of her with Miranda, and one of Great Aunt Edie with them both. They’d all had the tearing-out treatment too. It served him right.

Just then, the sound of two singing voices carried down from upstairs. Delilah followed them, up the grand staircase, taking care not to trip on the frayed edges of the carpet. Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream. The voices were coming from a room off the upstairs landing. As Delilah put her head round the doorframe she found it was a bathroom. Containing a bath. With her great aunt in it.

Fortunately, there were a lot of bubbles. Edie looked a lot older than Delilah remembered, and, obviously, far more naked. A large, cheerful woman in a carer’s uniform sat beside the bath, a towel on her lap. Neither of the women had noticed Delilah yet, so, before she spoke, she tried to wipe the surprise off her face and look like it was no big deal for her to walk in on a—what, eighty-year-old?—in the bath.

I did ring the bell, but—

The carer glanced round and smiled warmly. Delilah! Lovely to meet you, honey. I’m Jane. I’ve heard all about you, haven’t I, Edie? Edie told me that when you were a little girl you came to stay. Didn’t she, Edie? And now she’s back, all grown up!

As Jane spoke, Great Aunt Edie continued to poke a sponge around in the water, not registering Delilah at all. Then suddenly she looked up and smiled. Hello, my dear! she said. Gosh, how rude of me, I must— She made a sudden move to stand up, dislodging her bubbles.

No, no, you stay there! cried Delilah, alarmed.

Luckily Jane was quick to steady Edie back down again. You’d think you were twenty, leaping around like that! Now, if you’re ready to get out, we’ll get you out sensibly. She got to her feet, holding up the towel.

Oh, no, please, don’t rush for me. It’s fine, I’m fine. I’ll wait downstairs. I’ll get the kettle on…

If you’re sure— Jane began.

Sure, I’m sure, Delilah insisted, backing out of the room. As she made her way back down the hall, she couldn’t help but hear their conversation.

Who was that? asked Edie.

Jane laughed gently. She’s your great niece, remember? Miranda’s daughter. God rest her soul. Delilah’s going to stay for a while. Keep you company.

Oh, that does sound nice, said Edie. But who’s Miranda?

Delilah’s heart skipped a beat, and she stopped dead at the top of the stairs. Edie didn’t remember her mother? How could that be? She understood about dementia, of course, well, she’d read a little bit about it, but still, how? How could anyone forget beautiful, laughing, chaotic, creative Miranda?

* * *

About half an hour later, Jane appeared in the kitchen, to find Delilah fiddling with her phone, a glass of water within reach. There didn’t seem to be any 4G coverage here, or even 3G, so she was offline and just scrolling through photos – but at least there was a bit of signal. Didn’t you find the tea things? Jane asked.

Oh, I’m okay with water, thanks. In fact, she’d been gasping for a cup of tea, but one look at the grimy, battered tins and ancient pot with its cracked spout, and she’d decided against it. Jane put a saucepan on the stove, turned on the gas and lit it with a match. Edie’s tucked up in bed. I’ll take her cocoa up and then I’ll get going—

You’re leaving? cried Delilah, panic rising in her chest. But what about Edie? She didn’t even know me. I don’t think I should be in charge of her. I mean, I’m not qualified or anything—

You’ll be fine, Jane told her. She’s not always so confused.

I won’t have to do her bath, will I? She instantly felt unkind, and railed at herself, but Jane chuckled. Not unless she puts yogurt on her head again, no.

Delilah didn’t know how to take that. Was it meant to be a joke?

Look, honestly, don’t worry. I come in the mornings and evenings, well, me or one of the other ladies, and you can call me if you need anything. You can book extra time via the agency if you’re going to be out.

Like babysitting, Delilah thought.

To start with, just do what you’re comfortable with and let’s see how we go, Jane continued. If you want someone else here more of the time, we’ll arrange that and add it to the account. You’re here mainly for company, and you shouldn’t feel that you have to be on hand twenty-four seven. We’re all aware that the situation isn’t ideal, with Edie still living here, but her condition has deteriorated very suddenly in the last couple of months, and we’re still catching up. Arrangements are being made for her longer-term care in a specialist residential home, and that should all be sorted out by the end of the summer. She gave Delilah a smile and turned to the stove, stirring the cocoa.

Delilah felt like she should say something mature, informed and insightful, but only one stupid thought would come into her mind, over and over. Jane, she began. I know this is silly, but…

Jane turned, wooden spoon in hand, eyes twinkling with amusement. She can go to the toilet on her own.

Delilah studied the table. Right. Good.

Are you okay for money? Jane asked then. For shopping and things?

Oh yes, got Daddy’s credit card, she mumbled, embarrassed. "I’m one of those."

You’re a good girl, said Jane firmly. Good on you for coming. I don’t like seeing my oldies with no family around them.

Delilah smiled at this. Now this is something I can do, she thought wryly. Just be related to Edie. She couldn’t fuck that up, at least. Jane picked up the steaming cocoa, which was in a delicate, flower-patterned cup and saucer. She must have noticed Delilah looking at the chipped rim, because she said, I know, but she won’t have any other cup. This one’s her favourite.

Another thing I didn’t know, said Delilah flatly.

You’ll soon get the hang of the place. Right, well, the keys are in this drawer. My number’s on the fridge.

Thanks. Oh, but- Where do I find the code for the Wi-Fi?

This seemed to amuse Jane. Honey, your great aunt only had a land line put in a year ago, and that was because social services insisted.

Delilah tried to hide her shock, not wanting to look like a total Gen-Z cliché.

Maybe you can talk some sense into her, Jane said.

Maybe… If she ever remembers who I am.

Jane gave her a sympathetic smile. She’s a bit better in the mornings. Really, you’ll be fine. It’s great that you’re here. This is going to work out really well for both of you, I’m sure.

Delilah was far from sure, but she didn’t really know what else she could say. She couldn’t exactly turn around and leave. It looked like she and Edie were stuck with each other – and at this point it was clear who had the worse deal. Yes, she was stuck looking after a person who didn’t appear to know who she was, but Edie was stuck being looked after by someone with no clue about dementia. Or life in general.

Delilah was suddenly flooded with panicky thoughts—what if Edie wandered out of bed at night and fell down the stairs? What if she ate the wrong thing and choked? What if she walked up onto the main road and got hit by a car? Suddenly it seemed like there were a hundred ways that Edie could get hurt, or die, on her watch.

She’d never seen a dead body.

Well, apart from her mother’s. Don’t think about it. But she hadn’t understood that Miranda was dead, in the car. Don’t think about it. And it had been a closed coffin, of course. Her father had told her this a few years later, because she had no memory of Miranda’s funeral. None at all. When the fact that she didn’t remember it came up, during one of their infrequent, brief and strangely formal lunches, he’d said she must have blanked it all out.

Delilah glanced up to see Jane blowing on the cocoa and testing the temperature with her little finger, as if for a child. Jane seemed to have no inkling of the huge personal freak-out she’d just been through in her head. Just right, Jane said, of the cocoa. I’ll take this up and then I’ll be off.

Delilah wanted to throw herself across the room, hang onto Jane’s ankles and beg her to stay. Or at least to sit down with her and have a sensible discussion regarding her misgivings about being left in charge. But instead all she could manage was a small, Okay then.

Pathetic, she told herself scornfully. Then she pulled on a smile for Jane, which faded the second the carer had bustled out of the room.

* * *

When Jane had gone home, Delilah ate a lonely supper of random cold food from the fridge, while trying to watch the flickering black and white TV on the counter. By nine o’clock, she’d washed up her few dishes and made herself a cup of tea in the least chipped and stained mug she could find. She drank it while staring out of the window at the gathering dusk.

The kitchen looked onto the side of the house, where Jane’s little red car had been parked. She thought for the hundredth time how much easier things would have been if the taxi had pulled into the drive, if she’d known about it.

Then she wished she didn’t have the kind of mind that obsessed over silly little things when it was too late to change them. It would be so lovely to be one of those robust, jolly people who just got up in the morning and cracked on with living. Sometimes her whirring mind felt like a prison she couldn’t escape from.

She tried to think positive—that was what you were supposed to do, right? At least the perfume bottle hadn’t been broken in the end. When she’d checked it, after finding Edie in the bath, she’d actually sobbed with relief. Things are not the people they remind us of, she told herself sternly. But there were so few things of Miranda’s. Fewer stories. Hardly any memories at all.

When the tea was finished, there wasn’t really much else to do. She didn’t fancy staying in the cavernous kitchen as it grew dark, especially as the blind was stuck open – now, that really would send her mind into overdrive. Woodland flanked the house to the back and sides, and as the trees became black silhouettes and the sky turned an inky indigo, she made her way upstairs.

Looking at the stack of bags by the front door, she realised that they contained everything she owned in the world. Her father hadn’t kept any of her things—he liked steel and glass and strange spiky sculptures. It hadn’t been until a brief visit to his apartment in the school holidays that Delilah had thought to ask about Miranda’s belongings. But she’d been too late. They’d gone. She didn’t know where. And he’d been angry—there was a new pink mountain bike in the hall with a bow on it, wasn’t that enough? She hadn’t asked again. Ever. She assumed most of it had gone to the charity shop.

As she passed Great Aunt Edie’s door, she had a sudden panic that perhaps she’d been supposed to look in on her every half an hour or something (is that what carers did? She had no idea.). She peered around the doorframe, braced for something awful. But Edie was sitting up in bed, not lying in a cold bone-broken heap on the floor. And she was laughing at a TV show, not lolling lifelessly, having somehow been electrocuted by the remote control. Delilah smiled a little, but then, Don’t relax just yet, she told herself sternly. If she survives the night then, okay, you can congratulate yourself.

Only then did she realise that she didn’t know which room she was staying in. Hi, Edie, where do you want me to sleep? she asked brightly from the doorway, in the same cheerful tone Jane had used with her great aunt. But Edie didn’t take her eyes from the TV – she was completely absorbed, open-faced, like a child.

Delilah thought for a moment about going right in, standing in front of her and asking again, but she held back. What if Edie still didn’t remember who she was, or had forgotten she was even there at all, and completely freaked out? Instead, she crept past the doorway – she’d have to work things out for herself.

Further down the hall, one of the doors was half open and she stepped through tentatively. She found herself in a pretty but faded and dust-ridden bedroom, with little antique tables on either side of a double bed. The room also held a chest of drawers and a large wardrobe, and there were faded pressed flower pictures on the walls, their colour almost completely gone. It was stuffy in there, so she crossed over to the little casement window and opened it wide.

The room was at the back of the manor house and looked out onto the overgrown gardens and the woods beyond. Delilah heard an owl hoot in the distance and the trees rustled faintly as a light wind blew through the wood. Apart from that, there was no sound at all. She couldn’t even hear the cars speeding up the main road into town from this side of the manor.

She began to draw the curtains but that disturbed so much dust that she decided to leave them alone, at least until she could take them down and give them a good shake outside. Then, just as she was about to turn away from the window, something caught her eye. She gasped as a stunning white owl swooped low right outside it. Admiring its beauty, she craned her neck to watch it for as long as she could, until it disappeared into the wood.

She flicked the switch of the bedside lamp nearest the window, expecting it to be broken, but the bulb leapt into life. She put the other lamp on too and took off her shoes. Feeling the grittiness of the floor under her bare feet, she instantly put them back on again.

Bracing herself for a mouse corpse or something, she pulled back the bedcover and sheets. They smelt stale and, pressing a hand on them, she felt a slight dampness. She pulled them back up, deciding that she’d rather lay on top with her dressing gown on. And that she’d have a spring clean in the morning.

She had briefly wondered about looking for another room further down the hallway, but it seemed unlikely that there would be a freshly polished one with crisp lavender-scented sheets magically waiting for her. Jane was obviously a lovely lady, but she was a carer not a housekeeper. After a quick wash in the bathroom, and a change into PJs and the dressing gown, Delilah crawled onto the bed, abandoning her shoes at the very last moment. She lay there looking up at the cracked ceiling, trying not to think about spiders. Or moths, gnats, mice, rats. Rats? Oh, God, stop, she told herself firmly.

The canned laughter from Edie’s TV show drifted in from the hallway and the moonlight flooded through the window, sending a stripe of silver right across her body in its fluffy, fabric-conditioner-scented dressing gown. It was the last thing she’d put into the laundry before leaving school. That familiar smell would fade and wear off altogether soon – and be replaced with something else.

Just as school, which had been her home, was now replaced with this. This manor house, and its overgrown garden and an end wall that looked like it might fall down, and the moonlight filling the dusty room, and Great Aunt Edie, and…

She fell asleep thinking of all these things, still steeped in the comforting smell of her dressing gown.

* * *

In the dead of night, the silence of the manor was shattered by screams. Delilah woke and shot upright all at once, her heart pounding, every sense on alert. Her first thought as she leapt off the bed was Edie. But as her initial shock subsided, she understood that the sound was coming from outside the window.

It was a sickening noise, like shrieking, terrified women. She was about to lunge for her phone when she realised—vixens. They screamed when they fought. Thank God for that.

Her heart steadied itself as she walked over to the window, tiptoeing to get as little of the floor-grit on her feet as possible. She looked out. The insistent screams came again, shearing the air. But this time she didn’t react. It was just nature, red in tooth and claw. Foxes, free and wild, roaming the woods, under a glistening moon. There was nothing to be afraid of out there. Nothing at all.

Chapter 2

Delilah spent most of the following morning doing a complicated puzzle with Edie, who still didn’t seem entirely sure who she actually was. She had been too anxious to mention her mother and risk having to hear Edie’s confusion over Miranda again, so she’d settled on saying she was a friend of Jane’s. She pulled the lid of the puzzle box upright to work from the image—a complex fifties seaside scene—when she noticed that there was something written on the inside of it. It was some kind of poem, written in pencil—in Edie’s writing from before she got ill. The inside of a puzzle box lid was a strange place to write a poem. It wasn’t just scribbled there, but neatly scribed, perfectly horizontal despite the lack of guiding lines. It was titled One, and as she turned the box towards Edie, she registered that it had five short stanzas.

Edie, what’s this? Delilah asked, flexing her wrist awkwardly around the side of the box to point to the writing.

Edie peered at it. It looks like a poem, dear, she said. Did you want some paper from the bureau? You shouldn’t have to go writing in puzzle boxes.

This made Delilah smile, and feel sad at the same time. Bless Edie. "I didn’t write it, she said gently. She didn’t insist to Edie that it was her own handwriting. She didn’t want to risk confusing or distressing her. She knew for sure it was, though, because her great aunt used to send her birthday cards to school without fail every year. She felt a rush of affection for Edie and found herself putting her hand on hers and squeezing it gently. It’s lovely to be here, she said. Getting to know you at last."

Yes, said Edie warmly. It is. It’s lovely. But clearly, she didn’t really understand who she was getting to know.

* * *

As it neared lunchtime, Delilah was making her way into town, struggling along the busy, pavement-less main road in skinny jeans and another pair of high heels from her collection of unsuitable footwear. She was also on the phone to her father. His name was Gerrard, but he was known to everyone but Delilah by his surname, Hardcastle.

Daddy, it’s literally the middle of nowhere, she told him. "Like, the actual middle. And Edie’s much worse that you said."

She squealed and staggered backwards as a truck blazed by her, blaring its horn. Her father had said something she didn’t quite hear, but she knew it wasn’t, Oh dear, why don’t you come and stay with me instead?

When she spoke to him on the phone, she always imagined him standing in his shiny, minimal London office,