Short story That magic touch

Leanne didn’t know how to help her little boy – or so she thought…

Does a witch live there?’ Oscar asks me, as we walk past the black house surrounded by a high stone wall. ‘Of course not,’ I reply. I’m just tall enough to see part of the garden, where the branches and trunks of shrubs and small trees are intricately twisted and interlocked.

‘It’s dark and scary,’ Oscar says.

I smile and give his hand a little squeeze. ‘People like different colours for their houses, that’s all,’ I reply, although I understand why, to sevenyear-old Oscar, the house looks creepy.

When we get to the school gates, I give him a kiss, remind him I’m working late this week and his gran will pick him up. I’ve recently sold our city flat on a busy road and moved into a house nearer Mum. The area is quiet and she’s delighted to help out.

After work that evening, I pass the black house and, through the wroughtiron gate, see a lady with frizzy white hair and wearing a long grey skirt, sweeping her path – not, I note, with a broomstick. But I do a double take when a fat black cat darts out from under a bush and weaves between her legs.

The woman catches my eye. ‘You’re new round here,’ she calls.

I hope my smile camouflages the awkwardness I feel for staring. ‘Yes, Sweetpea Drive, although our garden definitely needs some TLC. From what I can see, yours is very unusual.’

She laughs. I intend to tell Oscar it’s nothing like a cackle. ‘Some people think it’s peculiar but I’ve never been one for neat borders,’ she says. ‘I like to think of myself as creating living sculptures, and seeing how the garden’s progressed over the years is such a joy.’

Her comment causes a little stab of envy. My family fills me with joy but I don’t have any hobbies. Recreation is usually an occasional evening out with friends or watching a film on a Saturday night with a glass of wine. I glance at my watch and say I need to collect my son.

‘Nice to meet you,’ she says. ‘I’m Cassie, by the way.’

‘Leanne,’ I reply. ‘Good to meet you too.’ And I head to Mum’s.

*********

My mum, who moved to the area two years ago after Dad passed away, says she doesn’t know much about the ‘eccentric lady’ in ‘that gloomy house’, except she has a reputation for sometimes being brusque and not joining in. ‘With what?’ I ask.

‘You know...’ she says, helping Oscar on with his coat, ‘the residents’ association meetings and keep-fit in the church hall, that sort of thing.’

‘Maybe she’s not interested in that sort of thing,’ I say.

She shrugs. ‘It’s how I got to know people. You can come with me any time.’

It’s not my sort of thing either but I smile and kiss her cheek, inhaling the floral perfume she has always worn, since Dad bought her a bottle one Christmas many years ago.

When we get home, Oscar hands me a letter from his school wallet. I read aloud the request that pupils make an Easter decoration for the classroom. While help can be given, it would be preferable if the child did the majority of work and please, no sweets or chocolates to be included. Oscar pouts. ‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’

‘We haven’t got any making stuff.’ ‘I can get some.’

‘But what can we make?’

‘An Easter hat, maybe?’ I rack my brains to try and remember where I put my straw sun hat.

‘That’s something to wear, not a decoration for the classroom,’ he says, folding his chubby arms.

‘OK, I’ll check out what we can buy online. Now get your reading book and let’s see what that dragon is up to.’

The following day, when I walk past Cassie’s house after work, hanging on the front door is a wreath of plaited twigs, decorated with mini speckled eggs, birds’ feathers and moss.

Before I lose my nerve, I open the gate, hurry up the path and ring the bell. Now I’m on the doorstep, I can see the garden properly. The lawn undulates like a miniature hilly landscape and is scattered with purple crocuses and tiny daffodils. Different shades of dark and yellow-green foliage are startlingly vivid. There’s no denying, all the colours pop against the black walls of the house.

Cassie answers the door and raises her eyebrows. ‘Hello, Leanne.’

‘I’m sorry to disturb you...’

She waves a dismissive hand. ‘You’re not,’ she says.

I take a breath. ‘I was wondering. Did you make the wreath on your door?’ ‘I did,’ she says.

‘It’s lovely and, you see, my son, Oscar…’ I explain about the school project. ‘Perhaps he and I could try to make one if you’d tell me how you did it.’

‘Hmmm,’ she says, and a frown crosses

her face. ‘It takes a lot of time and skill. Don’t you think it would be better for Oscar to come up with something himself? With encouragement and guidance, of course.’

I prickle. ‘Of course… I just thought…’ What had I thought? That Cassie would sit us down and show Oscar how to produce a professional-looking wreath? The annoyance I felt is replaced by awkwardness. I force a smile. ‘Thanks for the suggestion,’ I say and turn to go. ‘You said you’ve got a garden?’

I turn around. ‘Yes.’ ‘Sometimes, all that’s needed is imagination and the freedom to express it. You don’t need showing, because you already have everything you need.’ Her eyes shift to her garden, her own labour of love.

‘Right,’ I say, as though I know what she means, and with a quick ‘thank you,’ I say goodbye.

*********

I collect Oscar and, when we get home from Mum’s, he asks, ‘Did you get anything for the Easter project?’

I sigh. ‘Not yet.’

I am about to fetch my slippers and scroll through online shopping, when I change my mind. I go into the porch and get our old boots. ‘We’re going in the garden to see if we can find something that might do,’ I tell Oscar.

He screws up his nose. ‘Why? There’s loads of weeds and long grass out there.’

He’s right, but I know there’s also ivy growing up the fence and lots of bushes and shrubs and a couple of trees I don’t know the names of.

From the kitchen drawer, I get the secateurs I bought when we moved in but haven’t yet used, then Oscar and I go into the garden.

‘Look,’ I say to him, as I grab the branch of what I now remember the estate agent saying was a silver birch tree. ‘It’s quite bendy.’

I cut a length and wind it into a circle. I’ve got some string indoors and Oscar can help secure it. ‘What can we find to decorate it with?’

Oscar bites his bottom lip and glances around. Then he runs to the other side of the garden. He’s spotted the ivy and starts to pull it off the fence.

‘Here,’ I say, joining him and, with my hand over his, we cut several long lengths. We continue around the garden, clipping bits of shrubbery in various shades of green.

I get a little leap of joy at my son’s discovery of clumps of rosemary hidden away in a corner. We pick several sprigs, releasing the distinctive pine-like scent, and then I spot what I realise is lavender, almost choked by bindweed. I start to fantasise about clearing some space and creating an aromatic garden – but for now I need Oscar to use his imagination, too.

After tea, he sits at the kitchen table winding the ivy around the circle of silver birch and I help him tie the rosemary, lavender and bits of shrubbery with yellow ribbon I’ve found lurking in my rarely-used needlework box.

He sits back in the chair and his mouth twists one way then the other.

‘How can we make it look more Easter-y?’ he asks.

Instantly, a memory comes, of me sitting with my dad in the kitchen, watching him blow eggs for me to decorate. How could I have forgotten?

A lump forms in my throat, but warmth spreads through me, too, and I open the fridge and take out a box of eggs. I tell Oscar what we have to do, just as Dad told me when I was a child. I wash some eggs, get a toothpick, straw and bowl and start the process of emptying the insides.

‘We’ll have to wash them again and then wait,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll get you some new felt pens tomorrow and a glue gun and then you can decorate them any way you want and fix them to the wreath.’

I’m tempted to suggest some ideas, such as drawing a chick and making an egg look like one of the speckled ones on Cassie’s wreath, but decide to leave the decoration to Oscar’s imagination.

*********

Two days later, when we’re on our way to school with the wreath wrapped in tissue paper in a carrier bag, I stop outside Cassie’s house and lead Oscar up to the front door.

‘What are we doing?’ he asks. ‘We’re going to show the nice lady who lives here your wreath.’

I knock on the door. Although we haven’t spoken again, I’ve glimpsed Cassie through the gate on our way to school, pottering in the garden. I hope she’s up and about this morning.

Cassie opens the front door. ‘Well, Leanne! This is a surprise. And you must be Oscar,’ she says, crouching down to his level.

He nods, his face serious. ‘Pleased to meet you, young man.’ Cassie extends her hand. Oscar takes it and they shake.

‘We’ve come to show you what Oscar’s made,’ I say.

Cassie stands up. I open the carrier bag and carefully remove the tissue paper to reveal the wreath in all its glory. Six zanily coloured-in eggs are haphazardly stuck to it.

Cassie catches her breath. ‘My goodness!’ she says, addressing Oscar. ‘How clever of you. I’m sure your teacher will be delighted.’

Oscar grins broadly and the dimples in his cheeks deepen.

‘We’d better get going, but I just wanted to thank you,’ I say.

She smiles. ‘I just sowed the seed. Without a sprinkling of yours and Oscar’s imaginations, it would never have grown. You must come and see me again soon,’ she says, looking at Oscar. ‘Elvira, my cat, has just had kittens.’

Oscar looks up at me, his eyes wide and I melt, already knowing what the question will be, once we see the kittens. I never wanted to risk having a cat on a busy road. But now... ‘Saturday morning?’ Cassie asks. ‘Perfect,’ I reply, smiling.

We head off and I know that Oscar will already be thinking up a magical name for a kitten.

THE END Claire Buckle, 2021

‘WHAT CAN WE DO TO MAKE IT LOOK MORE EASTER-Y?’