Chapter 6
Six
We spend the rest of the evening looking through my grandmother’s many photo albums of her mother and her mother’s mother while Aradia teaches her yoga class at the village hall.
Cerci shows me diaries of ancestors she has kept and they’re different accounts of being a witch and what that meant to them.
She shows me her painting studio in a summer house at the end of the garden.
Turns out my grandmother has made quite a name for herself in the art world with her realism paintings of nature.
She even has a piece on display in a gallery back in London.
She gives me a tour of the rest of the house including a beautiful bedroom for me.
Its iron-framed bed is dressed in cotton linen and the mismatched furniture looks perfectly at home in the countryside cottage.
We sit cosied in the front room with the open fire blaring its heat over us.
Aradia comes home and opens a bottle of red wine which we both finish and open another.
My grandmother and aunt tell story after story.
We laugh and cry and dance on the living room rug to Aradia’s Fleetwood Mac vinyls while my grandmother sits in her chair laughing.
It’s as if we have been here forever with no time apart at all, but all the time apart means there’s so much to catch up on.
But the wine definitely helps me forget Greg and also accept my weird witchy family.
I quickly become tipsy so when the fire needs more logs adding to it I don’t know if it is the wine or witchcraft when my grandmother clicks her fingers and the fire roars once more.
I look at her through half-drunk squinted eyes. “I thought you said…”
“A little bit of magic here and there maybe.” She smiles a cheeky smile.
Anyone in their right mind would run. But I finally feel at home. And surely a bit of magic isn’t the craziest thing in the world?
We don’t delve more into any more of the fairytale stories of magic. I feel like I have had enough of that for the day and just want to get to know my family as people. Even if they are batshit, they are the kindest souls I have ever met.
I finally pass out around 2 am after a lot of wine.
I sleep through the night with no dreams which is welcome. My dreams are often so real I wake up more exhausted than when I went to sleep. But this sleep felt safe.
When I wake, the morning sun shines through the net curtains. I actually feel rested for the first time in forever it seems, even with a belly full of cheese and a head filled with whatever we ended up drinking.
I can hear the clatter of pans downstairs and the smell of cooking. It pulls my hungover head from my pillow. I creep down the creaky corridor and down the old oak steps to find my grandmother cooking on the Aga.
“How did you sleep, sweetie?” She smiles.
“Good, thank you!” I reply, as I rub my sleepy eyes and take in the wholesome scene of a warm family kitchen.
“I’m making you some breakfast. Something to soak up all that wine you drank last night.” She chuckles to herself and turns over the eggs in the iron skillet.
The table has been laid with plates and cutlery. Fresh juice and herbal teas sit in the middle. A toast rack holds six slices of buttery sourdough, and the fruit bowl is filled with plenty to choose from.
“Can I help?” I ask, still feeling a little awkward in a home that I know is family but is still new.
She shoos me to the table. “Sit, sit, sit. Let me make breakfast for my granddaughter.” Her warm smile is so infectious that I can’t help but beam back.
I sit down and look outside to see Aradia feeding some chickens at the back of the garden.
“You have chickens?” I ask. Surprisingly it’s not something you see in the back yards of the city.
“They’re Aradia’s. Her babies: Omelette, Quiche and Cluck Norris. Don’t ask about the names.” She laughs. “But they make fantastic eggs.”
She brings over a plate of scrambled eggs made with peppers and tomatoes from their garden. I pour myself and my grandmother a cup of herbal tea and she sits to join me.
“You still feel overwhelmed by all of this, huh?” She sips her tea from the pretty china teacup.
“Kind of. I feel relaxed, like I know you, but I don’t really, do I? God, that sounded rude, sorry! This whole thing. It’s a bit wild.” I’m overexplaining because I’m nervous. But she just keeps her calm and kind energy which helps me relax my shoulders.
“Totally wild. Just take some time to rest. Now, this boy. Gregory? I can sense you still have feelings there.” She actively listens to what I have to say.
“I do.” It feels weird that she’s reading my feelings, but I guess that’s what witches do, right? “But he’s hurt me, really hurt me, and I feel we are just different people.”
“Mmm, I can feel the pain, my love. It’s fresh raw pain. It’ll take some time to heal that, but you’ve come to the right place.” She smiles and pours us some juice.
“Grandmother?” The word feels alien in my mouth.
“Granny sounds a little more relaxed, don’t you think? But it’s entirely your choice! I just find Grandmother rather formal.” She does a little chuckle.
“Sorry, Granny, why did my mother keep me from you?” I ask.
My granny narrows her eyes and takes a sip of juice. She clears her throat.
“Your mother felt it was best to bring you up in a place that gave you more opportunities than we could offer. This house has been passed down through generations. We didn’t have much when the girls were small.
I only started making more as they got older and I had more time to paint, and Aradia grew into the fantastic yoga instructor and garden extraordinaire.
Plus, we make a pretty penny at the fairs we visit. ”
“But couldn’t she have done that, and you still be around?” I can’t help but feel resentful of my mother for keeping me from this life.
“She felt best to cut that tie, and as much as it pained me, as your mother I had to respect her wish.” Her eyes look sad, as if the pain of losing me and my mother is still very new to her.
But I feel a bit deflated by her answer. Surely, she could have just turned up and been there regardless of what my mother had decided. I feel like my granny isn’t telling me everything.
“I can see that isn’t what you wanted to hear. And I understand if you’re cross with me. It’s true, I could have done more,” she says softly.
I wish she would just stop reading my mind.
“Yeah, maybe.” It feels awkward, so I decide to change the direction of the conversation to the fire which I have a vague memory of being lit by the click of her fingers. “So, the fire last night, did you…?”
“Did I what, dear?”
“Use magic?”
She sits back in her chair and smiles. “Yes, Harriet.”
My eyes light up like a child’s on Christmas morning. “So, you guys can do magic?”
She smiles at my expression. “A little, yes. It depends on the witch…” She says it so casually like it’s common knowledge.
I can’t help but wonder. “Could I?” I ask quietly.
“Most definitely.” She grins at me.
I sit there in my chair thinking about what she has just said. That I could do magic. Me? Harriet Montgomery? I feel totally out of my depth.
Aradia interrupts our conversation by coming in from the garden. She helps herself to a piece of toast and a sip of Granny’s orange juice.
“Aradia…” Granny tuts.
Aradia smiles sweetly at her then turns her attention to me. “I thought we could take a walk into the village. I need to drop some carrots off to Gloria in the cafe. Oh, Harri, Gloria’s carrot muffins are the sole reason I will never leave Brindlewood. You’ll love them!”
“That sounds nice.” I smile, still thinking about the magic that exists somewhere in my body.
Granny is still grinning at me from her chair. “You guys go get ready. Me and Nettle will clean this up.” The large fluffy cat lifts his head off the kitchen table then sinks it back down in protest to cleaning.
I finish my breakfast and go back upstairs to get changed.
I pop my hair in a loose bun and slip on my favourite woollen jumper and a pair of jeans.
I catch myself in the mirror on the back of the bedroom door.
My face looks fresh and clear. I am loving this no makeup life.
Nobody to impress. Not worrying if my hair is messy or my mascara looks good.
Just pop on a jumper and go. It’s so refreshing to be around those who don’t care what you look like or if your roots are showing. They’re simply happy to see you.
I borrow a pair of my granny’s wellies, and one of Aradia’s many scarves. I pick a bright pink fluffy one that stands out from my thick cream jumper.
We walk down the dirt driveway to the main road, sticking to the side of the road near the never-ending thicket.
Autumn has well and truly started to settle in.
The leaves on the trees have just started to turn the colours of a warm African sunset mixed in with the few green ones left.
The breeze has the taste of winter blowing through it.
As we walk not a single car passes us. The quiet mid-morning is quite different to central London.
Aradia chats about yoga and her chickens.
She loves to chat and makes it easy to just listen to her stories.
We soon see the village hall and church in the distance along with the beautiful little cottages that line the main road and stream. We follow it until we reach the green. The green is empty today. The little boys are probably at the school in the town a few miles from Brindlewood.
We make our way over the green towards the cafe.
A little wooden sign saying “The Wandering Wisp Cafe” hangs just over the front door, the large bay window dressed in faux autumn leaves and pumpkins.
Fairy lights weave around them lighting them up in that soft warm glow you see at Christmas time.
Aradia opens the large cafe door ringing a bell above us.