The Silver Witch

Thistle stands on her stringy legs, head on one side, watching Tilda quizzically.

‘Okay, maybe you will need proper food. Later on I’ll have a look on the Internet to see if there’s a supermarket that delivers around here, okay? Later. Now, we need heat.’

Tilda opens the door of the Rayburn and pokes at the smoldering fire inside. She takes a log from the basket and feeds it in. There is a great deal of smoke, but very little warmth. Shutting the stove door, she pulls a cushion from one of the kitchen chairs and calls the dog to lie on it. But the cushion is small, and however tightly Thistle tries to curl herself up onto it, her legs still dangle over the edges onto the cold kitchen floor.

‘Now you’re making me feel like a bad dog owner. Don’t you know how lucky you are? I haven’t time to fuss over you. I have work to do. A studio to set up. Orders to fill.’ The dog regards her with a woeful expression.

With a sigh Tilda drags the electric fan heater out from the corner of the room and positions it close to the dog’s bed. She switches it on, expecting a cheerful light and a gentle puffing of heat. Instead there is a nerve-jarring bang and all the lights go off.

‘Damn!’

In the gloom of the hallway, she squints at the ancient fuse box. It is a tangle of wires and dusty fitments, but she is eventually able to find the master switch. She flicks it down, and light is restored.

Feeling quite pleased with herself, Tilda returns to the kitchen.

‘Right,’ she tells the dog, ‘I’ve got to get into the studio. You’ll just have to make do with the Rayburn. I’m not risking switching that heater on again.’ As she heads for the door she is painfully aware of a pair of beady brown eyes following her.

Will it be lonely? Should I take it with me? Oh, this is ridiculous.

‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours,’ she calls to Thistle, her hand on the latch of the door. She is just about to go out when there is a second loud bang and the power goes off once more.

‘Damn it! Again?’ She turns and strides through the kitchen. Not seeing that Thistle has got up from her cushion she stumbles into the dog, tripping, her knee connecting with the edge of a wooden chair. ‘Stay in your bed! Ouch, for pity’s sake.’ Cursing further, she sits heavily on the floor, clutching her knee. The dog is back on its cushion, making itself as flat and small as it can. Tilda is filled with remorse at having spoken harshly. She swallows a sob and closes her eyes tight. She knows if she lets herself cry–properly cry—grief will claim her again.

You are a self-pitying fool, Tilda Fordwells. Get up, girl. Get up and get on!

She wipes her face with her sleeve and stands up, allowing herself two deep breaths before she opens her eyes again. Thistle is peering up at her from beneath shaggy brows. Immediately, Tilda is swamped by pity for the dog. Slowly she moves close to the scruffy hound, crouching beside it, stroking the animal’s head and ears gently.

‘I’m sorry. You poor old thing. And your mouth is still bleeding. Tell you what, I’ll put the kettle on the stove, make me a cup of tea and you some warm water so I can bathe your face. Then we’ll phone an electrician. The cell phone might not work up here, but at least the landline does. Upside of keeping the old telephones that don’t need to be plugged in to the main power supply. What d’you say, sound like a good idea? Might even be a biscuit or two to go with the tea. You could help me with those.’

Thistle replies with a feeble but friendly wagging of her tail, the movement sending up little clouds of dust to swirl and dance in the narrow beam of sunlight that falls through the window.

‘Who needs electric lights anyhow, eh? Not me. And certainly not you,’ Tilda decides, noticing how soothing the feel of the dog’s fur is beneath her fingers. She sets about her tasks and begins to achieve the sense of calm that comes from gently restoring order; from attending to the small details of life that ease the passage of time. When at last the dog is tended to and settled and the electrician called, she slips out of the house and into her ceramics studio.





SEREN