O Caledonia

“Quick!” said Janet. “Quick! There’s a wee lost kitten crying up in the loft. It will die up there. We’ve got to get it before Miss Mackie sees.” The boys were off in a flash, racing up the path and across the grass. Janet followed more slowly, feeling a tiny twinge of compunction at their trusting rush into danger. She stationed herself behind a flowering currant bush, redolent of tomcats, and watched. Up the steps they sprang, two at a time, James just in the lead; for a second they paused at the top and looked around to wave to her; then they were gone into the black gulf. Immediately there was a rending crash and a dreadful scream, a moment’s silence, and then howls and shrieks. Janet flung herself face-down on the grass; she dug her nails into the earth and, holding on to the slippery grass, shut her eyes while the world spun and rocked about her and the screaming went on. She heard Miss Mackie hurtle past her making gasping noises; the yelling stopped, there was only Miss Mackie’s voice. She raised her head a fraction of an inch and saw them coming out of a door at the side of the barn; Miss Mackie led them by the hand. James was limping and Bobby’s face was covered in blood, blood which poured from his nose, saturating his Fair Isle jersey, splattering the white crocuses. Janet started to scream. “Come out of there at once, Janet,” yelled Miss Mackie. “I’ll deal with you later. And stop that ridiculous noise.” Janet stayed where she was, screaming and hanging on to the ground. Nanny came and walloped her and marched her into the school. Miss Mackie was sliding a great black iron key down the back of Bobby’s shirt to stop his nosebleed. Mothers and nannies stood by in pregnant silence. His nose stopped bleeding. His bloodstained jersey was removed and replaced by a spare and girlish cardigan. His face was washed. James’s knee was bandaged. Only the crocuses bore witness to the horror that had been.

“Now,” announced Miss Mackie, “it’s time to ask some questions. And about time too.” Janet found a voice, unusually high and staccato: “Where’s the witch gone?” “That’s quite enough, Janet. We’ll hear from the boys first. Come along, James, tell us the truth.” The moon face of James’s large and masterful mother hung above him. “We were only trying to fetch the wee cat for Janet.” “What wee cat?” “She said there was a wee lost cat there.” James sobbed anew. “She said it was going to die,” Bobby mumbled, clutching his mother’s hand, tears pumping down his cheeks. “So what’s this cat, Janet?” Janet wept silently; she shook her head about and wept. “You’ve just been up to your tricks, haven’t you? There was never a cat up there; you were teasing the boys. And now look what’s happened. It’s a lucky thing they fell on the straw. It’s a lucky thing for you there’s not a broken leg. All those rotten floorboards. You know fine none of you can go up there. I’m ashamed of you, Janet, you’re the oldest in the school. I thought I could trust you.” Janet had a dim memory of hearing these words before, then she remembered; it was after Rhona had risen from her tomb. Anger and outrage welled within her: she would speak the truth. “It was because of the witch. I wanted them to see if the witch was there,” she wailed. “Don’t talk such nonsense; you know as well as I do that witches are only in fairy stories; and you read far too many of those, if you’d like my opinion.” The mothers exchanged satisfied glances: they all thought Vera went too far in her choice of children’s reading; and she smoked cigarettes and wore slacks. “So if you sent them to look for a witch, why did you say it was a wee lost cat?” demanded manly Mrs. Marriot, her faint but dark moustache moistly atremble, her eyes beadily accusing. Janet put her thumb in her mouth; she saw the mothers in their circle around her and each face was stiff with distaste, anger, scorn. They were like a whole coven of witches, but she did not feel afraid of them, only cold and angry; there was no point in telling them the truth. She had tried; a waste of time.