Good Morning, Midnight

As if it too had been offended, the bird spread its wings and sprang straight at Hat’s head. He ducked, felt its beak tug through his hair and then it was gone.

‘Jesus,’ he gasped.

‘Shouldn’t walk around with twigs in your hair,’ said the witch. ‘Crackpot probably thinks you’ve been out scavenging nest materials for him.’

Hat put his hand to his head and realized she was right. There was quite a bit of undergrowth adhering to his hair, but at least he didn’t have a tit nesting there.

‘Crackpot?’ he said.

‘First time he came into the house he tried to perch on the handle of a cream jug. Over it went and broke. So, Crackpot. Now, how can I help you?’

He said, ‘I got a bit lost in the forest …’

‘Forest!’ This seemed to amuse her. ‘Well, if you’d kept on the track which goes around my garden, you’d have arrived at the road in a couple of minutes.’

‘Your garden?’ he said, looking round.

More magic. The clearing was now enclosed by a ragged thorn hedge with a ramshackle osier gate. Most of the ground was covered with rough grass, aglow with tiny daffodils, but alongside a lean-to greenhouse on one side of the cottage were the regular furrows of a small kitchen garden in need of work after the depredations of winter.

The witch said, ‘You don’t look too well, young man. Not had your breakfast, I bet. I’m just having mine. Step inside and let’s see if there’s anything to spare.’

Very cool! Disorientate him with the garden then lure him inside with food.

He said, ‘That would be nice, long as it’s not gingerbread.’

Show her he was on to her game!

She said, ‘Fortunately it’s not my first choice for breakfast either, but if you want a menu, you’d better find yourself another restaurant.’

She turned and went inside, walking rather stiffly and leaning on her stick.

Hat, feeling himself reproved, followed.

He found himself in a shady old-fashioned kitchen entirely free of anachronistic technology. His nose, sensitized by the chill morning air, caught a whiff of something vaguely familiar from his old life, quickly swamped by the delicious odour of new baked bread traceable to a rough-hewn oak table on which three tits were assaulting the dome of a cob loaf while a robin was doing its best to open a marmalade pot.

‘Samson, you little sod, leave that be!’ roared the witch. ‘Impy, Lopside, Scuttle, what do you think you’re playing at?’

The birds fluttered off the table but with little sign of panic. The tits settled on a low beam, the robin perched on the edge of an old pot sink, all casting greedy eyes back at their interrupted feast.

The witch picked up a long thin knife and Hat took a step back. But all she did was trim the pecked dome off the loaf then carve a thick slice from the remainder.

‘Help yourself to butter and marmalade while I mash a new pot of tea,’ she said.

She turned away to place a big blackened kettle on the hotplate of a wood-burning stove. Hat spread the bread thickly with butter and marmalade and sank his teeth into it. God, it was delicious! The best food he’d tasted in weeks. In fact the only food whose taste he’d noticed in weeks. This was a good dream.

One of the tits fluttered down on to the table and eyed him boldly.

‘Sorry, Scuttle,’ he said. ‘I’ve waited a long time for this.’

The witch glanced round at him curiously.

‘How did you know that one was Scuttle?’ she asked.

‘Two blue tits and a coal tit, not hard to guess which one’s Scuttle,’ he said.

‘So, apart from your problem with blackbirds and parrots, you do know something about birds. That what you’re doing out so early? Bird-watching?’

‘Not really,’ said Hat, thinking, You know exactly what I’m doing!

She turned to face him across the table.

‘You’re not an egg collector, are you?’ she demanded.

‘No way!’ he replied indignantly. ‘I’d lock those sods up and throw away the key.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘So if you’re not twitching and you’re not thieving, just what are you doing wandering round my garden so early in the morning? You don’t have to tell me, but unsatisfied curiosity only gets you one slice of bread and marmalade.’

She smiled at him as she spoke and he found himself returning the smile.

He certainly wanted some more bread, but what answer could he give?

He was saved from decision by the sound of a cracked bell.

‘Clearly my morning for dawn raids,’ she said.

The bell rang again.

‘Coming, coming,’ she cried, turning to open a door into a shady corridor that ended at another door, this one with a letter box and an upper panel of frosted glass against which pressed a face.

Hat sliced himself some more bread as she moved away. Even in dreams, a young cop had to take his chances. As he sank his teeth into it, he kept a careful eye on the Crunch Witch to see what reinforcements she may have conjured up.

She opened the front door.

A man stood there. He too carried a walking stick, this one ebony with a silver top in the shape of a hawk’s head, and he wore a black trilby which he removed as he said, ‘Good morning to you, Miss Mac.’

‘And to you, Mr W,’ said the witch. ‘Why so formal? You should just have come round the back.’

‘I’m sorry, it’s so early, I thought I’d better be sure …’

‘That I was decent? How thoughtful. But you know what it’s like at Blacklow Cottage: up with the birds, no choice about it. Come on in, do.’

She led the newcomer into the kitchen. He moved easily enough though with a just perceptible drag of the left leg suggesting that, like the woman’s, his stick was not simply for ornament. He stopped short when he saw Hat.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I didn’t realize you had a guest.’

‘Me neither till five minutes back,’ said the witch. ‘Mr Waverley, meet … sorry, I don’t think I got your name?’

‘Hat,’ said Hat. This little rush of names made him uneasy. Not Waverley, that had no resonance. But Blacklow Cottage set up some kind of vibration …