Witch Hunt

“Mrs. Catchpole is not a witch.”

“But mummy she is…”

“… Just because she wears black dresses and has a cat doesn’t mean… Hang on a minute,” she says shaking her head. “I’m not arguing with you Millie. I’m telling you.”

I throw myself back in the chair and fold my arms. I’m about to kick the table leg when mummy raises one eyebrow and gives me ‘The Look’.

“… Anyway, here she is,” says Mummy peeking through the curtain. “I don’t want to hear another word about witches.”

I spin round and watch Mrs. Catchpole shuffle along our path. She pauses to stroke next door’s spiteful tabby cat, Big Mac, before glancing over her shoulder and clicking her fingers. The gate closes by itself. By itself.

“Mummy, mummy did you see that?”

“See what?”

“The gate. Mrs. Catchpole closed the gate by magic.”

Mummy sighs and scrunches her forehead: “Millie, what did I just say?”

I collapse onto the arm of the sofa and bash my feet against the cushions. Typical she doesn’t believe me. I guess it’s down to me to keep an eye on Mrs. Catchpole.

“Serafina, thank you so much,” says mummy stepping to one side and pulling the front door open. “I’m sorry it’s all last minute, but Jasper surprised me with tickets to…”

She trails off when she catches me sticking my fingers in my mouth and pretending to be sick.

“Millie.”

I dart behind the sofa. Mummy smiles at Mrs. Catchpole before whipping round and hissing ‘you’re in Big Trouble’. Oh no. I don’t like the look of her fiery red cheeks one bit.

“He’s here,” I huff, pointing out of the window. Mr. Cunningham-Smythe strolls past our hedge, whistling and carrying a huge bunch of flowers.

Another bunch. That’s the third lot this week. I don’t know why he thinks mummy needs any more. There are now more flowers inside our house than in the park across the road.

“Oh Jasper, they’re beautiful,” giggles mummy, touching the spot on her cheek where Mr. Cunningham-Smythe kissed it.

Yuck.

“Right, we’re off,” says Mrs. Catchpole, scooping up my backpack and reaching for my hand. “I’ll bring Millie home in the morning.”

Mr. Cunningham-Smythe wraps his arm round mummy’s shoulders and scratches his chin: “You look familiar,” he says, jabbing his finger at Mrs. Catchpole. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

Mrs. Catchpole shoves me towards the front door: “Probably on the FBI’s most wanted list. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Mummy waves and calls out ‘be good’. I ignore her because Mr. Cunningham Smythe is watching, and I don’t want him to think I’m waving at him too.

He might act all nice when mummy is around but when she disappeared into the kitchen the other night, he told me to ‘buzz off’ and muttered something about children being seen and not heard. I didn’t really understand what he was talking about. Anyway, when mummy came back, he smiled at her, ruffled my hair and said I was adorable. Mummy clasped her hands together and beamed at him.

Yuck.

So, I guess it’s no surprise she hasn’t noticed that Mrs. Catchpole is a witch if she can’t see what a toad Mr. Cunningham-Smythe is. I really don’t like him, and I hope he…

“You’re very quiet,” says Mrs. Catchpole.

“No, not really,” I say, skipping over the crack in the pavement. “I’m just excited to see your house. I can’t believe I haven’t been there before.”

***

Mrs. Catchpole’s house clings to the top of Darkwood Hill surrounded by creaking trees and a howling wind. There are no streetlights up here and the clouds have pushed the moon out of the way making it even darker.

What’s that.

The hairs on the back of my neck tingle and I grip Mrs. Catchpole’s hand even tighter. I squeal when a pair of eyes blink in the gloom.

“Here we are,” says Mrs. Catchpole, pushing the door open. “Oh, don’t worry, that’s just my cat Hex. She likes children. I think.”

We step into an enormous kitchen with a huge fire blazing in the corner. I rush over and wiggle my fingers in front of the flames. Hanging over the mantelpiece is a picture with squiggly writing that says, ‘my broomstick runs on wine’.

Now maybe mummy will believe…

“Let me introduce you to everyone,” says Mrs. Catchpole tapping my arm and making me jump. I hang on to her flowing black coat and follow her into the lounge.

“Everyone, this is Millie.”

Mrs. Catchpole propels me into the center of the room and introduces me to everyone. I really do try to remember who’s who, but there’s so many names and they’re all wearing the same black cloak as Mrs. Catchpole.

“… And that’s Phyllis, next to her is Maud and over there is Constance…”

The lady blowing dust off one of the books and sneezing looks familiar though. In fact, she looks very much like Miss Twelvetrees from the library next to my school.

She smiles and waves: “Hello Millie. How are you enjoying that book about wizards?”

“Good, thanks.” I whisper.

“Right Millie, I need you to be a good girl,” says Mrs. Catchpole. “We need to go into the woods for a…. a meeting and I need you to stay here until we get back.”

“Okay,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “Why can’t I come with you?”

“Oh, it’ll be way too boring for you,” she says. “We won’t be long. I’ll leave the television on for you.”

She clicks her fingers, and the television turns on by itself. By itself.

“Ladies,” says Mrs. Catchpole, opening the door. “Shall we?”

***

I wait a few seconds before leaping onto the back of the sofa and ripping the curtains open. I press my nose against the glass. The clouds have wandered off and the moon shines down, illuminating the procession of pointed hats weaving their way into the forest. I stuff my feet into my trainers and race after them, slamming the door shut behind me.

I creep closer to the clearing in the woods, tiptoeing over fallen branches and wincing when a twig snaps under my foot.

Drat.

I sink to the ground, crouching next to a tree, and push the branches out of the way to take a closer look. The women are standing in a circle with a huge black pot in the middle. Mrs. Catchpole waves her arms in the air, barking out instructions until another lady starts to chant.

“Eye of frog, ear of rat, wing of dog and…”

“Wing of dog?” screeches Mrs. Catchpole.

The lady freezes and nibbles on her fingernails, her eyes darting from side to side: “Wing of… sparrow?” she asks, her voice all high and squeaky. She sounds a bit like me when mummy asks if I’ve cleaned my room properly.

“No, Constance,” Mrs. Catchpole sighs. “It’s not wing of dog or sparrow. Are you even trying? No wonder everything’s going so wrong.”

Constance tugs off her hat and lowers her head.

“Okay everyone let’s go home before we discover what happens if Constance finishes her version of the spell.”

“I’m sorry, I really did try and learn that one,” says Constance. “I can’t seem to think straight these days. There’s too much on my mind worrying about what Jasper will do next.”

Jasper? Surely, she can’t mean…

I screech as something furry brushes against my arm, a pair of green eyes glaring at me in the dark. Hex.

“Who’s there,” shouts Mrs. Catchpole. “Show yourself or I’ll turn you into a newt.”

I stumble out of my hiding place, Hex spitting and clawing at my ankles. I will never ever get a cat.

“Sorry Mrs. Catchpole,” I stammer. “It’s me, Millie.”

“Oh, Millie. I should have known it was you dear,” she says, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. “I knew you’d guessed I was a witch. I should have just let you come with us.”

I bury my face in Mrs. Catchpole’s cloak and peep out when the witches file past us towards the house. Mrs. Catchpole strokes my hair which feels nice and tells me I’m not in any trouble.

“Let’s go and get something warm to eat. I believe Violet’s cooking Shepherd’s Pie.”

“Oh yum, that’s one of my favorites,” I say jumping up and down.

“Don’t get too excited. Last time she used whipping cream instead of mashed potato. It’ll take more than magic to improve her cooking.”

***

Mrs. Catchpole pushes her untouched plate to one side and clinks her spoon against the glass. The chattering stops.

She pauses and stares round the table: “Witches. We have a big problem.”

The murmuring starts again, and Mrs. Catchpole coughs and clicks her fingers. I spin round and check the television in the corner.

“We’ve been booted out of the International Confederation of Cauldrons. Unless we can prove our innocence, we’ll have no choice other than to disband the coven.”

Loud gasps and high-pitched shrieks fill the room and the witch sitting opposite me bangs her fist down so hard, she knocks over a glass of wine, the red stain blooming across the tablecloth.

I yank Mrs. Catchpole’s sleeve: “Why were you kicked out? What did you do?”

“That’s just it, Millie,” she says. “We didn’t do anything. All the complaints made against us are false.”

“Can’t you run your coven without belonging to…”

“… There’s no money in witchcraft these days,” interrupts Mrs. Catchpole. “Without our Cauldron membership, we won’t be able to stay afloat. Most of us have already taken on second jobs. I’m a registered childminder and as you know, Mabel works at the library. Jean sitting at the end there is actually a stunt double for Meryl Streep.”

“Oh…”

Mrs. Catchpole cradles her head in her hands, a tear dribbling down her cheek: “No, I hate to say it, but I think we’re done for.”

Hex jumps into her lap, weaving back and forth and purring louder than mummy’s car. I reach across to stroke her but whip my hand back when she hisses at me. I hate cats.

“But who is making the complaints? Can’t you just…”

“I should answer that,” says Constance, breathing heavily and pouring herself another glass of wine. “My son Jasper is the one behind it all.”

“Jasper Cunningham-Smythe?” Mummy’s Jasper.

Constance nods. No way.

“But why?”

“It’s a very long story,” she says. “Let’s just say he never recovered from me leaving his dad and becoming a witch. He’s been determined to destroy me and the coven ever since.”

“But that’s not fair,” I say. “You need to tell everyone your side of the story? Maybe you could use social media.”

“We could do Facebook page and call it ‘what’s up witches,’ suggests Maud.

“Bit old hat Facebook,” says Miss Twelvetrees, fiddling with her phone. “Better to do Insta or Tik Tok. That’s what the kids tell me.”

Mrs. Catchpole chuckles and slides Hex off her lap, announcing we need more wine to help us form our battle plan. She pushes her chair back and freezes as the front door cracks open.

***

“I knew I recognized you, says Mr. Cunningham-Smythe looming in the doorway and stabbing his finger at Mrs. Catchpole. “As soon as Tara said where Millie was staying, I knew who you were.”

Everyone recoils and I slide down in my chair, hoping he won’t spot me. He is so scary tonight, his eyes all dark and glittery, his mouth, angry and pinched. I don’t know what mummy sees in him at all.

“Calm down, Jasper,” says Constance, standing up and reaching out to touch his arm. “I need you to listen to me.”

Her words don’t calm Mr. Cunningham-Smythe down at all. If anything, he looks even more cross. He fizzes with anger, his cheeks all puffed out, his eyes bulging.

“I’m going to make sure this place is shut down and you’re all put away. And yes, that includes you too mother,” he spits.

Constance collapses in her seat, flinching as Mr. Cunningham raises his fist. Before he can do anything, Mrs. Catchpole mutters something under her breath and he vanishes, just as mummy appears in the doorway.

“Jasper, Millie, Seraphina,” she calls. “Anybody home?”

“I’m here,” croaks Mr. Cunningham-Smythe.

Mummy takes one look at the talking toad and slides to the floor. Maud and Jean rush over and drag mummy onto the sofa. Her eyes flutter open, and she whispers about the seafood at the after show dinner making her ill. She looks at Mr. Cunningham-Smythe leaping up and down and shouting and passes out again.

“Turn me back, or…”

“Or what?” says Mrs. Catchpole. “I think it’s about time you gave your mum a chance and listened to her side of the story.”

“I know all about her side. Dad told me how she left and never wanted to see me again. He said she hated the pair of us.”

He blinks and sniffs, big fat tears trickling down his warty skin.

“Oh Jasper,” says Constance. “That isn’t true.”

She picks up the toad and places him on the table in front of her, stroking him under his chin. She leans down so she can look into his copper-colored eyes.

“I tried to see you for years, but your dad wouldn’t let me. Didn’t you get any of the cards and presents I sent you?”

The toad shakes his head. “I thought you’d forgotten all about me. I didn’t think you loved me.”

“Oh Jasper. Of course I loved you. Always have. Always will. Nothing will ever change that.”

“I’m sorry for everything I’ve done,” he sobs. “I’ll make everything right. I promise.

“We both will,” says Constance, kissing the top of his head. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

Mrs. Catchpole clicks her fingers and mutters a few words, and Mr. Cunningham-Smythe reappears, sitting in a plate of half-eaten Shepherd’s Pie.

“I’ve got some good news to share with you though,” he says, wiping potato off his trousers. “I asked Tara to marry me tonight and she said yes.”

Oh no. I stare at mummy sprawled out on the sofa, her mouth hanging open. What have you done.

My head flies up as Mr. Cunningham jumps off the table and kneels down in front of me: “And I think I owe you an apology too Millie. I don’t think I’ve been very nice to you either. Do you think you’ll be able to forgive me?”

Mummy sits up and rubs her eyes, smiling when she sees me hugging Mr. Cunningham-Smythe.

“I’ve had the weirdest dream,” she says, yawning. “I thought we were in a witch’s house, and you’d been turned into a toad.”

She giggles, trailing off when she notices the broomsticks in the corner and the hats hanging by the door. Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head. Mr. Cunningham-Smythe and I perch on the sofa on either side of her.

“Time to celebrate,” says Mrs. Catchpole bustling into the room followed by the rest of the witches. “We can road test one of my new potions.” She giggles and winks at mummy.

“Just kidding,” she says popping a cork on a bottle of champagne. “Here’s to Tara and Jasper and a bright future for our coven.”

I clink my glass of orange against mummy’s and point to the broomstick sign above the fireplace: “I told you Mrs. Catchpole was a witch.”