Trisha Ashley - Every Woman For Herself

‘I don’t think that would particularly impress academic circles,’ I said.

‘Perhaps not. I’ve asked them to phone me if he doesn’t calm down in a day or two, and Rob can set off.’

Rob knew Bran’s little ways and was always quite happy to drive down to Bran’s ancient and hallowed university (which had proved surprisingly accepting of his eccentricity) and transport him back without mishap.

‘Well, I suppose you couldn’t put Bran in the Summer Cottage,’ I said, though it still rankled that I’d been the one ejected for the mistress.

‘I had one of my visions – about Anne,’ Em said, reading my mind too. ‘She’s in difficulty, and she’ll be coming home soon, for healing.’

‘Spiritual or otherwise? She hasn’t been shot, has she? I thought you said she couldn’t be shot?’

‘I don’t think it’s that sort of wound,’ Em said doubtfully. ‘But I can’t tell clearly – my predictions are getting more and more fuzzy: I think the vertical hold’s gone. Really, what’s the point of hanging on to my virginity in order to retain my powers, when all I ever see is the boring and mundane? I’ve never clearly seen anything wildly exciting. I really think I might as well explore the darker side of witchcraft.’

‘Well, don’t do anything hasty,’ I begged her. ‘Especially anything … Aleister Crowley.’

‘That poseur! Certainly not. No, I’m thinking more of joining the local coven and fully embracing the Ancient Arts – and perhaps a suitable man. Lilith’s running one.’

‘What, a suitable man?’

‘No, a coven.’

‘And just what do you mean by a suitable man?’

‘Big, strong, silent and malleable.’

She could add ‘courageous’ to that list of qualifications. I’ve seen strong men turn and run when they see Em coming.

‘That actor’s quite dishy, up at the cottage,’ she mused. ‘And Gloria said his reputation with women stinks, so he’d be terribly suitable.’

‘Em! You wouldn’t really.’

‘What time are you arriving tomorrow?’ she asked, changing the subject.

‘Early afternoon, I hope, but snow’s forecast, which will make negotiating Ramshaw Heights and Blackdog Moor tricky. I don’t know why, but that’s the only way I can come back.’

‘It’s because you left that way the first time with Matt, and so you must describe the full Circle of Return,’ Em said.

‘It’ll be dicey if it snows heavily.’

‘You’ll make it – the 2CV will glide over the top. Wrap Flossie up well, though. These little spaniels are inbred; she catches cold too easily.’

‘Yes, and the plants, too. They’re all a bit tropical for a winter spin on the moors with the roof down.’

‘You’ll arrive safely. I’d at least know if that were otherwise,’ Em said deeply, then added more prosaically, ‘See you then. Drive straight down to the cottage. The key is in the frog, and Walter will unpack your stuff for you while we catch up with things.’

When I came over Ramshaw Heights I could see Blackdog Moor – transformed into Whitedog Moor – glittering like quartz below me. I felt inwardly cleansed by the bright light bouncing off the vast whiteness.

I was a bit of a dog at that moment: a complete mongrel. Cropped white head and black clothes hanging long and loose … more Uncle Fester than Morticia.

And speaking of dogs, bubbling snores were coming from the depths of Flossie’s fake-fur-lined igloo, which was on the floor at the front passenger side. The passenger seat itself, and all the rest of the car, was jammed with all my favourite huge plants – figs and lemons, palms and bananas – wrapped in newspaper and layers of bubble wrap, and sticking up out of the open top of the car like so many extras from Invasion of the Body Snatchers . My driving visibility was almost nil.

We’d received some strange looks when we set out on our journey, but the closer to home we got the less notice anyone took. West Yorkshire folk can absorb every last detail without looking directly at you.

Externally I was freezing, my hands stuck to the wheel. Inside, too, was still the feeling that all my organs had turned to ice, which I’d had since the moment Greg died, only now there was just the faintest tinge of warm hope.

‘You’re nearly home, Charlie: everything will be all right now,’ I encouraged myself as we slid down Edge Bank.

But the Snow Queen whispered in Angie’s voice: ‘Nothing will ever be right again.’

‘Maybe it won’t, Angie,’ I said aloud. ‘But at least it will be all wrong in the right place.’

Skint Old Crafts: Stick It, Stitch It, and Stuff It

Hint One: for those of you living south of Luton, I suggest you shred this magazine and reassemble it in a different order with Sellotape, since it will give you hours of fun and make just as much sense afterwards.

I turned down the snowy track behind the Parsonage and slid to a halt, more by luck than judgement, next to the wall of the unseasonably named Summer Cottage.

It’s more of a Hobbit hole in the hillside than anything, with the heavy bulk of the Parsonage threateningly poised above, ready to toboggan down the hill sweeping all before it.

The front of the cottage now sported a ramshackle, half-glazed appendage, painted a vivid shade of Mediterranean blue. The door was in need of a second coat, for the word ‘Ladies’ could still faintly be seen, although I thought the heart-shaped cut-out very tasteful.

Walter had excelled himself.

I was just sniffling a few sentimental tears away when a voice as mellow and melodious as a cello suddenly addressed me from behind, making me jump and whirl around like a Dervish.

‘Are you responsible for that excrescence on the beautiful face of Upvale?’

Icy fingers of Arctic wind undulated my numerous layers of loose black drapery, and I had to claw a web-fine woollen scarf out of my eyes before I could see the man who’d spoken.

He was very tall, even taller than Em, and his dark, heavy-lidded eyes regarded me with a sort of weary wariness, as though I was a surprise gift he didn’t want. He was also carrying a giant teddy bear.

‘I don’t think a man who walks about wearing a red duvet and a jester’s hat has any right to criticise my cottage,’ I informed him coldly, although his strange garments didn’t actually look quite as ludicrous on him as they might sound, while my veranda, as Walter would call it, certainly did.

I didn’t mention the teddy bear in case he was sensitive about it. Bran always takes his soft toy, Mr Froggy, everywhere in his pocket with him, but at least it’s small.

‘It’s ski-wear,’ he said, looking down his remarkably straight nose at me.

‘Not in Upvale it isn’t. You might as well have “Oft-Comed Un” stamped across your back; but I suppose you’re the actor – Em said we’d got one in the cottage down the track,’ I said, making him sound like a disease. ‘I don’t think she mentioned your name.’

And the bit of him I could see, between upturned collar and pulled-down hat – high sculptured cheekbones and slightly slanting, droopy-lidded eyes – did look vaguely familiar, even to someone who rarely watched TV or films.

‘I’m incognito.’

‘It’s all right with me. I don’t expect the urge will come upon me to boast about meeting you. Or your teddy bear,’ I added, throwing caution to the winds.

‘My teddy bear?’ he echoed, looking at me strangely, but that might have been because my knitted coat was flying up behind me like black bat wings.

‘Am I not supposed to mention the teddy bear? It’s moving,’ I added, fascinated.