Alex found himself agreeing with his older sister. 'I do, too, I don't know why. And that black Labrador ... I
wish we had a dog like it. I hope they stay. D'you think they will, Amy?'
His sister repeated the strange boy's words. 'Who knows, maybe.'
Alex had been right—all the shops in the market square were closed for the afternoon. It was as if Chapelvale
were taking a long siesta in the summer heat. The worn cobblestone paving, whitewashed walls, and heavy black
beams, combined with blue-grey slate roofing and dark green roller blinds in shop windows, accentuated the lazy
noontide stillness and the absence of folk out shopping.
The boy and his dog crossed the square together and made their way up the big, sloping hill behind the village.
Shops thinned out, and so did the houses after a while. Ned gave Ben a sad look. 'Please tell me we're not looking for
another barn to spend the night in.'
Ben passed his thoughts back to the Labrador. 'We never asked to turn up in this village. I'm sure the angel has
guided us here. Just thank your lucky stars it's a peaceful little country place.'
The dog raised his eyes mournfully. 'Oh, it's peaceful enough.'
Ben tickled his ear fondly. 'Stop grumbling, a barn is better than a dry ditch beneath a hedge. We'll get a good
breakfast tomorrow morning, as soon as everywhere is open. Bacon, sausage, toast, eggs ...'
Ned let his tail droop. 'D'you mind, my tummy's rumbling!'
12.
A FAT PEAR, BROWN WITH ROT, SPLATTERED against the parlor window, causing the black cat inside to
leap down from the sill, where it had been sunning itself. Old Mrs. Winn watched the overripe pulp slide down the
glass, then heard the chanting begin. It came from behind the thick fringe of purple-and-white rhododendron bushes
growing at the bottom of her sloping lawn. 'Winn Winn, Winnie the Witch! Winnie the Witch and her big black cat!
Winn Winn, Winnie the Witch!' This was followed by barely stifled giggling and the hollow boom of a wet earth clod
striking the old lady's front door.
She spoke to the cat, who was her only companion. 'Those children are back again, Horatio. Why do they
persecute us? We've never harmed them, have we?'
Horatio jumped lightly into her lap, staring at his mistress with magnificent amber eyes, meowing faintly as he
stroked his head against her open palm. Mrs. Winn sighed.
'If Captain Winn were still alive, they wouldn't be so quick to bother us then, eh, Horatio?'
She stared sadly at the oval framed portrait hanging above the fireplace mantelpiece. Captain Rodney Winn,
R.N., stood frozen in time there, dapper as a new pin in his number-one dress uniform, complete with medals, braid,
and bars. His peaked cap was tucked under one arm, a strong right hand resting on a table that contained a potted
aspidistra and a Moroccan leather-bound Bible. Not a hair of his white goatee was out of place. Square-jawed and
resolute, the captain had steady blue eyes that commanded all he surveyed, a man among men. Hero of the Sevastopol
blockade and many other naval encounters in the Crimean War of the 1850s. Now sadly deceased.
The parlor window shuddered under the impact of a bloated dead toad, which fell onto the outside sill. Chanting
broke out anew as Mrs. Winn rose stiffly from her chair and made for the door.
'Winnie the Witch with the wrinkly face, come on out and give us a chase!'
She collected her cleaning equipment and opened the door slowly. Horatio slid by her, his tail curling sleekly.
He watched as the old lady placed mop and bucket to one side. Taking a straw-fringed brush, she began sweeping the
broken soil clod from her porch onto the flower bed below.
'Look, Winnie the Witch is going to chase us on her broom. See, I told you she was a real witch!'
Shaking her broom at the rhododendrons, Mrs. Winn called out. 'Don't be so silly, go away and leave us alone,
you naughty children. Have you nothing better to do?'
Derisive laughter hooted out from behind the bushes. 'There's her black cat, all witches have got a black cat!'
Dipping her mop in the bucket of soapy water, Mrs. Winn began cleaning mud smears from her neat green door
with its polished brass knocker and letter box, crying out as she did, 'II you don't go away, I'll fetch a policeman!'
'Haha, fetch the bobbies. We don't care, old pruneface!'
Wearily the old woman carried her cleaning stuff down to the front lawn. Flicking the bloated toad carcass from
the sill, she started in mopping the filth from the parlor windowpanes.
Again a voice challenged her.
'Hurry up, Winnie, fly off and bring the bobby, hah. Fat lot of good that'll do you!'
She knew they were right. Her tormentors would leave the moment she made a move for the police, but once
the constable had come and gone, they would return to renew the persecution. It was an all-too-familiar pattern during
the last months. Her house was isolated, standing alone on the far hill slope outside the village. She had no neighbors
to call upon for help. Clamping her jaw resolutely, she grabbed her pail of soapy water and hurled it at the bushes. It
fell short, splashing on the lawn. This caused great hilarity from the gang in hiding. They rattled the bushes until
several clumps of rhododendron blossoms fell to the ground.
'Hahaha! Silly old witch, you missed! Witchie, witchie!'
Horatio's tail swirled around the doorjamb. He stalked smoothly back into the house. Mrs. Winn watched him
go. She swayed slightly in the hot afternoon sun, wiping a bent wrist across her forehead, then, gathering up her
cleaning implements, she trekked wearily in after the cat. As she closed the front door, a fresh battery of rubbish
