The Witch of Lagg. Ann Pilling

arms, and that only ever happened when something really frightened her.

      On the other side of the room Colin had made an interesting discovery. Tucked behind a cabinet, as if Grierson wanted nobody to see it, a sampler, worked in coloured wool, hung on a nail. It was the most curious text he’d ever seen on a thing like that. His grandmother had several, and they all went on about virtue and piety. But in large red letters this one stated boldy, “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live: Exodus 22 v. 18”, and the date was embroidered underneath in blue cross-stitch. “May 20th 1865”.

      Oliver was the person to ask about this. His general knowledge was amazing and his mother, who was very religious, had just had him confirmed. She now took him to church twice every Sunday and made him sit through extremely long services. He’d have something to say about this sampler. But when he saw what his cousin was doing Colin didn’t dare call him over in case Mr Grierson suddenly came out of the studio again. The little nosy parker was bent over a large writing desk, where he actually seemed to be looking at Grierson’s private papers.

      What Oliver had under his nose was a diary written up for the day before, and he was busily inspecting it. Well, it couldn’t be very private if the man left it open for all to see, so why not? There was nothing exciting in it anyway, just a very boring account of a very boring day, about six lines, with some additions and subtractions pencilled in the margin. What caught his eye, though, was the bit at the end in red. It was written backwards, in mirror writing, but Oliver had no problem with it. He was left-handed and he often wrote like that, when he was bored in lessons. “Oh God,” he read, “wherefore art Thou absent from us so long? Why is Thy wrath so hot against the sheep of Thy pasture?”

      What on earth was that doing there? It was from one of the Psalms, one of the really miserable ones that went on and on moaning while your neck got stiff and your bottom sore, listening to the choir. Daringly, he turned back a few pages. Each entry was the same, a factual account of his day then these awful back to front bits in red. “Haste Thee, O God, to deliver me; make haste to help me, O Lord.” And, “Save me, O God, for the waters are come in, even unto my soul.”

      At the sound of Grierson’s voice droning on and on about canvases and poses and what he ought to wear for his portrait, Oliver retreated hastily and whipped round. Colin stepped back from the queer sampler and pretended to be inspecting a clock, and Prill came forward into the middle of the room with Alison held in front of her, like a shield. In Grierson’s presence they all lined up automatically, like an army waiting for instructions.

      He came over to the window, pushed past Prill, stood looking out for a minute, then slammed it shut quite violently. It was as if he’d seen or heard something down there that displeased him. He even drew a curtain half-way across and darkened the room. All sense of peace had vanished with his coming, and as soon as she saw him, Alison began to cry bitterly. He clearly wanted them out of the way. An accountant called Robert Guthrie was due, and Dad had been asked to stay for a drink so they could meet each other, and have a look at the portrait together.

      The children were offered nothing, and Mr Grierson was steering them testily towards some cold back stairs.

      “You’ll get down quicker that way,” he said stiffly, almost pushing them through the door. Alison was now crying quite hysterically. She was cold out here and she wanted to stay with her father.

      “Never mind, pet,” Prill said, stroking her cheek. “He’s a horrid man, he doesn’t understand about families. Don’t cry. We can take you down to the beach.”

      “No wonder his daughter married and left home,” Colin whispered to Oliver as they clattered down the icy stone staircase. “No wonder she never comes to see him. Can’t blame her. Can you?”

CHAPTER FOUR

      “You can go,” said Aunt Phyllis, “as long as you’re back by six. No, no, leave Alison with me. Don’t want any disasters. Now about the swimming—”

      “Mother, we aren’t going swimming,” Oliver said impatiently. “I’ve told you, we just want to have a look at the beach, that’s all.”

      “We saw it from Mr Grierson’s room,” added Prill. “It looks beautiful.”

      “All right then.” Aunt Phyllis sounded distinctly put out. She’d decided to make them all tidy up their rooms before the evening meal. The Blakemans didn’t put anything away, and there were books all over Oliver’s bed. Still, it was a fine afternoon, and there may not be too many of those. Let them go to their beach. It’d be quieter anyway, with just the toddler to cope with.

      Prill half ran there, partly because she was trying to keep up with Jessie, partly because she wanted to escape from Lagg’s woodlands and get by the sea. At least Grierson didn’t own that. When the two boys caught up with her she was standing quite still on the edge of the plantation. The trees were small here and many were half buried in fine sand. It was such an exposed stretch of coast Prill wondered how anything could survive for very long. Except on the calmest day the winds rushed across wildly and the currents were highly dangerous, according to Duncan, the tide creeping up quite without warning. There were ugly “No Swimming” notices all along the dunes, at lurching angles, like old gravestones.

      Colin and Oliver came up behind and stared with her. Directly in front of them, stretching for miles on each side, were the most marvellous dunes. The sand was silver-white, so clean you could almost smell it, and moulded into great mounds and hollows by the endless wind that had made holes and dips and craters in it, like the surface of the moon.

      Colin wished he was six again. He wanted to kick his shoes off and roll in those hollows, he wanted to tear away and hide, he wanted to run to the very tops and pelt down the sandy slopes and plop into the bottom like a baby. But Oliver’s eyes saw none of this. They were riveted on the stake.

      “Let’s walk out to it,” he said in an odd, faraway voice. “Let’s get there before the tide comes in. I want to see it properly.”

      “Oh, it’ll be hours before we need to worry about that,” said Colin, clambering down through the dunes and on to the flat of the beach. “It’s not turned yet, surely.”

      “It has, you know, and it comes up quite suddenly just here. Your friend Duncan said so.” Oliver’s voice was sarcastic. He was a bit sick of hearing all about what Duncan Ross said and did. Colin so obviously preferred the Scots boy to him. “Come on Prill,” he called. She was still up on the dunes, throwing sticks to Jessie. “We don’t want to go back without seeing it.”

      Prill came, reluctantly. It was a beautiful beach but the stake spoiled it. Unless you hid in one of the moon craters there was nowhere you could go without your eye catching it. Its knobbled blackness reared up, staining the pure sand, and made strange witchy shadows as the afternoon sun sank lower, and the first chill of the evening crept up on them.

      “It’s much bigger than it looks,” said Oliver, crouching down, “Thicker as well as taller.” They were right up to the stake now, and wandering all round it. “And it’s pine, not oak,” he added, squinting at it.

      “Grierson said it was oak,” Prill muttered, standing away from it. “Best oak from my own woodland,” she repeated. “That’s what he said.”

      “Well, the first one must have been oak in that case,” said Oliver, taking a tape measure from his pocket. “But, if the site’s as old as people think, it must have been replaced several times.”

      “How long has it been here then?” asked Colin.

      “Oh, hundreds of years. I don’t know exactly. I’ve not researched it properly yet,” his cousin said self-importantly, measuring the girth of the trunk. “How tall do you think it is?”

      Colin stood next to it. “Well, I’m five foot six, so I reckon … one … two … about eight feet, say eight and a half. But what’s it