The Witch Maker by Sally Spencer Page A

and slackers, they knew just how hard their lives could be.
    It sometimes puzzled Hettie that she should muse and contemplate in this way. Where did these strange thoughts which seemed to fill her mind come from? Why did she alone – of all those involved with the fair – seem to think them?
    She searched her own past – not for the first time – for some clue as to her singularity.
    She had been born on the road. But that, in itself, was not unusual. Half the folk working on the fairground had come into the world that way, for though nature imposed its own timetable on pregnant women, the carnival season put in place an even more demanding one.
    Then there was the fact that she was illegitimate. She’d once heard one of the men refer to her as ‘Zelda Todd’s bastard’, but she hadn’t really taken offence. ‘Bastard’, within the world of the carnival, was no more than a descriptive term. There were, as everyone was well aware, plenty of other bastards working on the fair.
    Nor had her upbringing been radically different to anyone else’s. During the season, she and all the other kids had worked all the hours that the god of carnivals had sent. Out of season, they’d all camped on whatever piece of land some local council had grudgingly set aside for them, and attended whichever of the local schools could come up with the least plausible excuse for refusing to admit them.
    Had it been this schooling which had made her different? Again, she didn’t think so. She had quite enjoyed her snippets of education – certainly more than most of the carnival children, who had no desire to be thought of as ‘scholars’ – but she had felt no more of a sense of loss than the others did when the time came to get on the road again.
    So what
was
the reason she was so odd? She wished she knew. She really wished she knew!
    It was as these thoughts ran through her mind she saw – with a sinking heart – that her mother was standing by the Caterpillar, and was in deep conversation with Pat Calhoun.
    She had no doubt what the conversation was about. Her mother wanted her married. Or at least – since carnival folk did not set much store by bits of paper – Zelda wanted her
attached
.
    â€˜You’re gettin’ old,’ her mother never tired of telling her.
    â€˜I’m not old at all, Mam!’
    â€˜When I was your age—’
    â€˜I was already on the way. I know that! But it doesn’t make any difference. I’m not ready!’
    But would she
ever
be ready?
    True, Pat Calhoun was her
mother’s
choice, but she had to admit that he wasn’t a
bad
choice.
    He was tall.
    He was well built.
    He could be called handsome, in a sandy-Irish sort of way.
    Though he could get violent when he’d had a few drinks, which of the carnival men couldn’t? And unlike a few of the other men, he had never turned his violence on a woman.
    So all in all, her mother had not made a bad choice for her. And yet ... and yet ... somehow it didn’t feel right.
    She had been expecting her mother and Pat to turn and look towards the caravan, as they usually did when they were talking about her. But they didn’t. Instead they were gazing intently in the other direction – towards the village. And now she considered it more carefully, they didn’t have their normal time-to-discuss-the-Hettie-problem-again faces on, either.
    There was none of Zelda’s usual persuasive cajoling in her expression – ‘
Hettie knows, deep down, that it’s you she really wants, Pat. All you have to do is let her know that you’re serious
.’
    Nor was there any of Pat’s diffidence in his – ‘
Hettie’s a free spirit, Zelda. You should know that. All I can do is wait. If she makes her mind up that she wants me, she knows where I am
.’
    No, there was none of that at all. Neither looked exasperated with the other,