case.
Tiffany grabbed the pail, spat on her hand and rubbed out the chalked
HELP ME
– tried to rub it out. But her hand gripped the edge of the table and held it firmly,
no matter how much she pulled. She flailed with her left hand, managing to knock
over a pail of milk, which washed across the letters . .. and her right hand let go
suddenly
The door was pushed open. Both of Miss Level was there. When she pulled herself
together like that, standing side by side, it was because she felt she had
something important to say.
‘I have to say, Tiffany, that I think -‘
‘- you were very nasty to Petulia just -‘
‘- now. She went off crying.’
She stared at Tiffany’s face. ‘Are you all right, child?’
Tiffany shuddered. ‘Er . . . yes. Fine. Feel a bit odd. Heard a voice in my head. Gone
now.’
Miss Level looked at her with her heads on one side, right and left in different
directions.
‘If you’re sure, then. I’ll get changed. We’d better leave soon. There’s a lot to do
today.’
‘A lot to do,’ said Tiffany weakly.
‘Well, yes. There’s Slapwick’s leg, and I’ve got to see to the sick Grimly baby, and
it’s been a week since I’ve visited Surleigh Bottom, and, let’s see, Mr Plover’s got Gnats
again, and I’d better just find a moment to have a word with Mistress Slopes . . . then
there’s Mr Weavall’s lunch to cook, I think I’ll have to do that here and run down with it for him, and of course Mrs Fanlight is near her time and,’ she sighed, ‘so is Miss
Hobblow, again . . . It’s going to be a full day. It’s really hard to fit it all in, really it is.’
Tiffany thought: You stupid woman, standing there looking worried because you
just haven’t got time to give people everything they demand! Do you think you could
ever give them enough help? Greedy, lazy, dumb people, always wanting all the time!
The Grimly baby? Mrs Grimly’s got eleven children! Who’d miss one?
Mr Weavall’s dead already! He just won’t go! You think they’re grateful, but all they
are doing is making sure you come round again! That’s not gratitude, that’s just
insurance!
The thought horrified part of her, but it had turned up and it flamed there in her head,
just itching to escape from her mouth.
‘Things need tidying up here,’ she muttered.
‘Oh, I can do that while we’re gone,’ said Miss Level cheerfully. ‘Come on, let’s
have a smile! There’s lots to do!’
There was always lots to do, Tiffany growled in her head as she trailed after Miss Level
to the first village. Lots and lots. And it never made any difference. There was no end
to the wanting.
They went from one grubby, smelly cottage to another, ministering to people too stupid
to use soap, drinking tea from cracked cups, gossiping with old women with fewer teeth
than toes. It made her feel ill.
It was a bright day, but it seemed dark as they walked on. The feeling was like a
thunderstorm inside her head.
Then the daydreams began. She was helping to splint the arm of some dull child
who’d broken it when she glanced up and saw her reflection in the glass of the cottage
window.
She was a tiger, with huge fangs.
She yelped, and stood up.
‘Oh, do be careful,’ said Miss Level, and then saw her face. ‘Is there something
wrong?’ she said.
‘I . . . I . . . something bit me!’ lied Tiffany. That was a safe bet in these places. The fleas bit the rats and the rats bit the children.
She managed to get out into the daylight, her head spinning. Miss Level came out a
few minutes later and found her leaning against the wall, shaking.
‘You look dreadful,’ she said.
‘Ferns!’ said Tiffany. ‘Everywhere! Big ferns! And big things, like cows made out of
lizards!’ She turned a wide, mirthless smile onto Miss Level, who took a step back. ‘You
can eat them!’ She blinked. ‘What’s happening?’ she whispered.
‘I don’t know but I’m coming right down here this minute to fetch you,’ said Miss
Level. ‘I’m on the broomstick right now!’
‘They laughed at me when I said I could trap one. Well, who’s laughing now, tell me
that, eh?’
Miss Level’s expression of concern turned into something close to panic.
‘That didn’t sound like your voice. That sounded like a man! Do you feel all right?’
‘Feel. . . crowded,’ murmured Tiffany.
‘Crowded?’ said Miss Level.
‘Strange . . . memories… help me…’
Tiffany looked at her arm. It had scales on. Now it had hair on it. Now it was smooth
and brown, and holding-
‘A scorpion sandwich?’ she said.
‘Can you hear me?’ said Miss Tick, her voice a long way away. ‘You’re delirious. Are
you sure you girls
haven’t been playing with potions or anything like that?’
The broomstick dropped out of the sky and the other part of Miss Level nearly fell
off. Without speaking, both of Miss Level got Tiffany onto the stick and part of Miss
Level got on behind her.
It didn’t take long to fly back to the cottage. Tiffany spent the flight with her mind full
of hot cotton-wool and wasn’t at all certain where she was, although her body did know
and threw up again.
Miss Level helped her off the stick and sat her on the garden seat just outside the
cottage door.
‘Now just you wait there,’ said Miss Level, who dealt with emergencies by talking
incessantly and using the word ‘just’ too often because it’s a calming word, ‘and I’ll just
get you a drink and then we’ll just see what the matter is . . .’ There was a pause and
then the stream of words came out of the house again, dragging Miss Level after
them and I’ll just check o n . . . things. Just drink this, please!’
Tiffany drank the water and, out of the corner of her eye, saw Miss Level weaving
string around an egg. She was trying to make a shamble without Tiffany noticing.
Strange images were floating around Tiffany’s mind. There were scraps of voices,
fragments of memories . . . and one little voice that was her own, small and defiant and
getting fainter:
You’re not me. You just think you are! Someone help me!
‘Now, then,’ said Miss Level, ‘let’s just see what we can see-‘
The shamble exploded, not just into pieces but into fire and smoke.
‘Oh, Tiffany,’ said Miss Level, frantically waving smoke away. ‘Are you all right?’
Tiffany stood up slowly. It seemed to Miss Level that she was slightly taller than she
remembered.
‘Yes, I think I am,’ said Tiffany. ‘I think I’ve been all wrong, but now I’m all right.
And I’ve been wasting my time, Miss Level.’
‘What-?’ Miss Level began.
Tiffany pointed a finger at her. ‘I know why you had to leave the circus, Miss Level,’
she said. ‘It was to do with the clown Floppo, the trick ladder and . . . some custard . . .’
Miss Level went pale. ‘How could you possibly know that?’
‘Just by looking at you!’ said Tiffany, pushing past her into the dairy. ‘Watch this, Miss
Level!’
She pointed a finger. A wooden spoon rose an inch from the table. Then it began to spin,
faster and faster until, with a cracking sound, it broke into splinters. They whirled away
across the room.
‘And I can do thisV Tiffany shouted. She grabbed a bowl of curds, tipped them out on the table and waved a hand at them. They turned into a cheese.
‘Now that’s what cheesemaking should be!’ she said. To think that I spent
stupid years learning the hard way! That’s how a real witch
does it! Why do we crawl in the dirt, Miss Level? W h y d o w e a mb l e a r o u n d w i th
h e r b s a nd bandage smelly old men’s legs? Why do we get paid with eggs and
stale cakes? Annagramma is as stupid as a hen but even she can see it’s
wrong. Why don’t we use magic? Why are you so afraid?’
Miss Level tried to smile. “Tiffany, dear, we all go through this,’ she said, and her
voice was shaking. Though not as . . . explosively as you, I have to say. And the answer
is . . . well, it’s dangerous.’
‘Yes, but that’s what people always say to scare children,’ said Tiffany. ‘We get told
stories to frighten us, to keep us scared! Don’t go into the big bad wood help me because
it’s full of scary things, that’s what we’re told. But really, the big bad wood should be