The Witch of Cromer

not continue in uncertainty, both wanting and suspecting the woman he adored. He could not be content, he could not relax into her love until he was sure of the foundation of it. He made a swift decision: a surprise getaway to the coast. She acquiesced, of course— she doted on anything he cared to suggest, so long as she could be with him, constantly, inseparably, forever. She had kissed him when he told her, and for the thousandth time he had wondered at her kiss, wondered what it meant, what inspired it. Surely the witch could reassure him.

  And if it was all illusion, madness, deceitful magic, what then? Then, at least, he would be justified in mixing contempt with his passion, despising her delusion while he gained by it. But if her love was real, the witch a mere fraud, he was at a loss whether to rejoice or despair. If Bridget had finally and truly realised his superiority to his brother, then she deserved his devotion; but for callously shrugging off her fiancé, that same brother, his detestation. Perhaps the witch could make him as crazy as her: he would rather be thoughtless and happy than wise and wretched.

  So he had brought her to Cromer, and contrived to slip away to seek out the witch, with no success. Now, as he emerged into the street again and looked over the dark shop-front uncertainly, he heard a bright voice behind him and started.

  ‘Stevie! You naughty runaway, where have you been hiding? You shouldn’t have left me alone so long, you know I can’t resist shopping when you’re not around to stop me! But I bought you a present— where is it? Here, now. Open it up— it’s just a little something. See? Isn’t it clever? A little galleon made out of shells! Stevie, don’t pretend, I can tell you hate it— but you’re supposed to admire it in an ironic, kiss-me-quick kind of way. Well if you won’t give me a kiss to say thank you, I’ll kiss you! There. What’s the time? I’ve another surprise for you— don’t look like that! It’s much better, but we’ll have to hurry. This way, I think. Come on, slow coach! Can you believe the heat? I’m sure it’s going to thunder— we can watch the lightning over the sea. Round this bend if I remember rightly— yes, and down the steps. No dawdling, Stevie, or I’ll trip you up and you can roll to the bottom!’

  With more such banter Bridget cajoled him down the steep cliff stairs to the pier, and led him into the café inside the gates.

  ‘Do you remember this?’ she prodded him excitedly. ‘It’s where we ate last time. Was it a year ago? It seems like yesterday. Let’s take the same table— no, no, not outside, I’m sure I felt a raindrop as we came in. Didn’t you? This will do nicely, just like before— except we’ve swapped places. Can you guess what’s next? Surprise! Crab, of course— the famous Cromer crab! Don’t you remember you caught one yourself? So delicious, I’ll never forget it. Well, I’m afraid I’m not as clever as you, Stevie, I didn’t catch it personally— but I whistled, and it came scuttling out of the sea into the pot. Honestly, I’ve such a way with crustaceans! Apparently they scream when they go into the boiling water. Here it comes— the speciality of the house. Tuck in, tuck in! I’m famished!’

  Steven did not tuck in as he was bidden. He stared at Bridget while she began busily eating. He was appalled, confused. What was she doing? What did she mean by it? What was she trying to say? She was inscrutably blithe, merrily ignorant as she scooped a portion of meat onto his plate.

  ‘Don’t stand on ceremony, eat up! How can you resist? Here, take a forkful. If you pout like a baby, Stevie, I’ll feed you like a baby!’

  He submitted and opened his mouth. The crab tasted exquisite. Was it possible that she was completely unaware of its significance, the significance of re-creating this scene? He looked down at the table and noticed the shell of the crab for the first time— broad and rich red, but crossed with bars of white. He dropped his fork with a clang. Bridget raised her brows in surprise.

  ‘Stevie, what’s the matter? It’s not like you to be so clumsy.’

  ‘What’s the matter? Bridget, how can you ask me that? What are we doing here? Do you realise it’s a year today since John went missing? And here we are, just like before.’

  ‘Well, you suggested coming to Cromer,’ she replied, crestfallen by his manner. ‘I thought it would be romantic to eat here again. A surprise for your surprise.’

  ‘Romantic? Bridget—.’ He reached out and clutched her hand. ‘Do you ever wonder what happened to John?’

  ‘John, John and John! I hardly need to, Stevie, you’re always wondering for me.’

  ‘So you don’t. But why, Bridget? Why don’t you wonder?’

  ‘Darling, we can’t live in the past,’ she said, squeezing his hand in return. ‘I’m too happy to dwell on it.’

  He sat back, and shook his head. ‘Sometimes you feel like a stranger.’

  ‘I’m a stranger to myself!’ she replied eagerly. ‘And all because of you, Stevie— your love has made a new woman of me. Shall I let you into a little secret? I wasn’t going to tell, but we’re so happy together, I shouldn’t conceal anything. I’ve loved you from the very first day I met you. I always have. But I didn’t dare think myself good enough to deserve you. I tried all sorts of tricks to make you like me, I was desperate. The worst of them was John— I’m not proud of it, but I wanted to make you jealous. I wanted you to watch me throwing myself away on him, to spur you to rescue me. It was cruel, I suppose— but I wanted you so badly!’

  Her eyes were starting to glisten. He reached out and touched her soft cheek. ‘Bridget— is this true?’

  She pressed his hand against her more firmly. ‘Nothing’s truer. I’ve wanted you right from that first day, when I was locked out and you helped me find my key.’

  He froze, his arm outstretched. Her imploring eyes searched his face, earnest, tender. But the shock of her words immobilised him. She had just spoken a lie. An outright lie, and he knew it, because the lie was his own. It was the story he had told the Witch of Cromer a year ago, to justify himself, to make it seem as though his brother had usurped him in Bridget’s affections, had taken advantage of his absence to win her. But it was utterly false. It was John who had met her first, John who had lived next door to her, John who had helped her with her keys. Steven first met Bridget months later, in completely different circumstances, when she was introduced as his brother’s love.

  He felt her warm face beneath his fingers. She was real, really before him, and yet her words were fictions. He moved to withdraw from her grasp, and as he did so, he touched something in her hair. He did not need to lean closer to understand what it was. A comb, a cheap plastic hair comb. The same comb that his brother John had found on Bridget’s path and used as a means to speak to her again; the same comb that Steven had later slipped into his pocket as a token when she left it lying around; the same comb he had given to the Witch of Cromer and never got back.

  He could barely raise his voice above a whisper. ‘Bridget— where did you get that comb?’

  ‘Oh Stevie! I can see you’re upset,’ she said, ignoring his question. ‘I’ve been insensitive. Of course you still miss your brother, it’s only natural. If I could bring him back I would, I’d make amends. But since I can’t, I’ll do whatever it takes to help you. I wish I had a magic wand— I’d use my powers to heal your loss.’

  He pushed back his chair abruptly, gaping at her. ‘I don’t believe in magic,’ he uttered, defiantly.

  ‘Yes you do,’ she said simply. ‘That’s why I’m in love with you now.’

  His face was such a mask of aghast comprehension that she laughed outright.

  ‘But I ought to cry,’ she continued. ‘I’m starting to think you don’t love me nearly as much, despite all your efforts to make me fall for you, like killing your own brother.’

  She calmly resumed eating, and when he made no response, went on: ‘I know all about it, Stevie. You dabbled in witchcraft, didn’t you? What a daring ploy— to turn poor John into a crab and make me eat him with you, so that you could have me all to yourself.’

  He shook his head violently. ‘I did no such thing. No such thing.’

/>   ‘But you did, darling, and it worked. I love you.’

  His attention darted to the dish of dressed crab spread on the table between them. His reeling imagination embellished the image: instead of gleaming white meat, fresh and tempting, he envisaged dark red blood welling up from the cracks in the shell, and pooling onto his plate. With a jerk he launched himself towards the door and staggered out onto the pier, ready to retch. The atmosphere was hot and charged, suffocating to his bewildered senses. He slumped against the railings and tried to calm himself by listening to the persistent rhythm of the waves below.

  Suddenly Bridget was stood beside him.

  ‘You haven’t asked me how it is that I’m so well informed, Stevie,’ she said, smoothing his hair back from his face. ‘It’s quite a story, you’ll be amazed. It happened last year, just before Christmas. No doubt poor John was well digested by then, but I suppose you might say he kept repeating on me. What could I do? Silly John was preventing me from loving you as much as I should. In fact, I couldn’t forget him, my heart was broken. So I ran away, and came here, to Cromer. I came here to find the witch.’

  Steven lifted his eyes to her beautiful face. She gazed benignly back at him. Beyond her, the church bell chimed in the still, electric air.

  ‘You went to her? Why?’

  ‘To find my fiancé of course!’ she retorted. ‘To find the man I was dying for, the man who was snatched away from me! I’d tried everything else— the worst the witch could do was fail, and I’d already done that. So I begged her, I promised her anything, just to bring me back my John. And if that was too much to ask, at the very least I hoped she would save me from John’s pestering brother. John’s besotted, selfish brother, pressing his unwelcome attentions at every opportunity, reminding me every day of the better man I’d lost.’

  The soothing, gentle tone of her voice belied her harsh intent. He was transfixed, incapable of protesting.

  ‘The witch was kind to me, at first,’ Bridget recounted. ‘She said she knew I would come, and took out a little comb that belongs to me. Yes, this one I’m wearing now. I recognised it at once, because John used to make a treasure of it. I asked where she got it from, and she told me. She told me, Stevie, that I’m hexed to love you.’ She smoothed his hair again. ‘Darling, I do love you, just as she foretold. Her powers are absolute. She told me she could bring John back— she could even punish you, Stevie, if she wished. I got onto my knees to persuade her— but she was adamant. I cried and cried like a baby, but the sight of such pathetic wretchedness repulsed her. With great artistry she took out a switch of red rowan and stuck me twice in the face, leaving two scarlet stripes across my white skin— and in that moment, dear Bridget Elveden became a rusty, creeping crab with a white cross upon its shell.’

  Steven struggled to follow her account, struggled to reconcile the colourless, level expression of her eyes with the appealing softness of her beloved features.

  ‘And now the year is concluded, the spell is sealed,’ she cooed. ‘And you have just eaten your lover, as you made your lover eat hers.’

  He dragged himself upright, straining every muscle, fighting the leaden pressure of her gaze. ‘What do you mean?’ he gasped, stirring his dried tongue. ‘Tell me what it means!’

  ‘It means you are fated, Steven,’ she replied, ‘to helplessly adore the Witch of Cromer.’

  He found his strength at last. ‘Enough!’ he raged. ‘Enough! I won’t listen to you! I’m sick of this! I’m done with you, Bridget— I don’t know what you and that charlatan cooked up together— I don’t care! I’m finished with you, do