Mrs Glyn’s eyes narrowed. ‘A poultice you say? Would it help with my veins?’
‘It may do Mrs Glyn, but I can’t make you any promises.’
‘I’ll try anything; the pain’s driving me potty.’
Constance had trudged back home in her wellies making her way through the shop oblivious to the trail of mud she was leaving behind. The shelves of A Stitch in Time were still full of cotton reels, zippers, and buttons. They were items that for whatever reason—Constance suspected it could have something to do with the newly opened big supermarket— were rarely required by the general public since her parents passing. This was despite her valiant efforts to keep the business running. She passed through the door at the back of the shop and took the stairs gingerly, thanks to her aching knee. It dawned on her then as she placed the herbs on the kitchen bench that the absence of her parents, who’d gone within six months of each other, was not so sharp today.
The comfrey leaves needed to be chopped, and she set about doing this. The poultice she was going to prepare was a recipe from Molly’s journal. It was for the relief of aches and pains. The knee Constance had twisted as a child tripping down the stairs of the folly as she made to get away from the evil witch, still plagued her on occasion. The comfrey poultice always eased it.
Next, Constance added water to the diced leaves and with her mortar and pestle bashed away until it was the consistency of an unappetizing soup before tipping the green mess into a large bowl. She added a couple of handfuls of flour and mixed it with her hands until it had a gloopy texture. Once she was satisfied it was as it should be, she scrubbed her hands clean and retrieved the swathe of muslin cloth she kept in the cupboard before cutting it into two equal sizes. She split the comfrey poultice evenly between the two and wrapped them parcel like before taking one around to Mrs Glyn’s cottage down the way.
Constance fussed around the older woman affixing the poultice into place over the bothersome vein for her. ‘Have you a clean tea towel, Mrs Glyn?’
‘Of course, me luvvie. In the bottom kitchen drawer.’
Constance reappeared a moment later and wrapped the tea towel around her leg before pulling a piece of cord she’d cut from a reel in the shop and tying it into place. ‘Now then Mrs Glyn. You tell Mr Glyn to get his supper tonight while you kept that leg elevated this evening. If you do that by tomorrow, hopefully, you’ll be good as gold.’
Indeed the following morning Mrs Glyn appeared at A Stitch in Time and announced she felt sprightly enough to dance the cancan. She lifted her skirt as though to give an example before thinking better of it. Word of Constance’s miraculous poultice spread the way the word always spread on Wight. Constance rose from being an eccentric spinster to Constance Downer of Ryde, Healer and when she wasn’t in earshot, it was whispered she was, in fact, a witch. Such was the demand for her services that she decided the time had come to reinvent A Stitch in Time. A sale was had, the shop cleared of all its stock and a new sign declared the premises to be Constance’s Curealls. If you were an islander and if something was ailing you then Constance’s Curealls was your first port of call.
Of course, it was muttered behind her back that it was in her blood by those who were old enough to remember the story. She was descended from Molly Downer now, wasn’t she—the last witch on Wight—so it should be no surprise…
Chapter 12
MOLLY DOWNER, THE WITCH OF BEMBRIDGE
How Molly left everything to the parson.
In Bembridge Town there lived a Dame,
Now Molly Downer was her name,
And she in story has her niche,
Because they say, she was a witch.
All by herself she did reside,
No friend or partner at her side,
In a snug cottage warmed with thatch,
And people called it Witches Hatch.
Miss Molly, who was ne’er a wife,
There lived a lonely life,
And in seclusion passed the hours,
For folk were frightened of her powers,
In fact her most strange husbandry
Truly frightened all and sundry.
She was I fear most happy when
She could bewitch the Customs Men,
Her guiles she used, with every ruse,
To bring in free trade brandy booze.
The Customs Men so runs the tale,
Would, at her name, turn deathly pale.
And should they be inclined to mock her,
She’d threaten Davey Jones Locker,
Now parson, hearing of her way,
Betook upon himself to pray
That Moll should give up charm and spell,
In case she ended up in hell.
Our Molly, who was well past twenty,
Liked the parson good and plenty,
So she spoke the reverend fair,
Carefully dressing up her hair.
But of his words, she took no heed,
And altered neither word nor deed.
And so it was that in the end
He was poor Molly’s only friend.
Now Molly one day feeling ill,
Decided she would make her Will,
And without waiting one more minute,
Bequeathed her house and all things in it.
And being of all kin bereft
Her fortune to her friend she left.
Then Molly dressed her in her best
And laid her down for her last rest.
Stiff on the kitchen table bare,
The parson found her lying there,
Dead as the Dodo, stark and cold,
And in her hand, her Will did hold.
So when he’d had sufficient toddy,
Sexton buried Molly’s body,
Then parson, fearing witchcraft’s seed,
The burning
