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the last of these seemed suddenly to recognise that the vertical object at the edge of the copse was not a tree-stump. Paul was convinced that he saw the glistening round eye change shape. He definitely felt the flash of terror, the spasm of released juices that triggered the muscles to send the animal springing forward in a huge leap. Next instant the deer had fled out of sight.
    As Paul was coming back up between the trees he saw that there were figures walking along the path from the boat-house, two women, Mad Molly and her friend. He realised that they must have been what disturbed the deer in the first place, and by concentrating their attention on the danger behind caused them not to notice Paul’s almost-ambush. There wasn’t anyone else around. He didn’t want to meet Mad Molly, not because he was really afraid of her, but because she was obviously a dotty old woman, likely to do or say something embarrassing. So he waited behind a large tree close by the path, preparing to edge round it as the women shuffled past.
    He was standing there, listening for the faint pad of footsteps but partly distracted by studying the pattern of deep, slanting grooves in the chestnut-bark, when a voice close behind his neck said, ‘Boo!’
    He leapt. There may not have been much outward movement, but his heart seemed to bound as the deer had, and he felt the same surge of panic-triggered energies. He managed to turn, cheeks hot, palms sweating. Mad Molly was smiling at him round the tree trunk. She had clear pale blue eyes which sparkled with the fun of it.
    â€˜How did you know I was there?’ he said.
    â€˜Witchcraft, of course.’
    â€˜I’m allowed beyond Painted Trees. I’ve got praes’, er, privileges.’
    â€˜I’m sorry to hear that. I’d much rather you’d been breaking a rule—so much more interesting. What’s your name?’
    â€˜Rogers, ma’am.’
    â€˜Nonsense. You’re no more Rogers than I am ma’am. My name is Mary, but most of my friends call me Molly. Your name is …?’
    â€˜Paul.’
    â€˜That’s more like it. Come and meet my friend Daisy. She’s a bit sad today.’
    Trapped, Paul followed her out on to the path. The other woman was absorbedly moving a chestnut husk to and fro with her stick, but she looked up and stared at Paul.
    There was something awful about her. It wasn’t just that she was rather ugly, with a flat, pale crinkled face with hairs sticking out of it, and a podgy body dressed in a lot of different-coloured fringed shawls. Paul became used to her after that first meeting and ceased to notice the effect, but there in the chestnut grove he was immediately certain that he didn’t want to get any nearer.
    â€˜His name’s Paul,’ said Mad Molly.
    â€˜How old?’ said the Daisy-woman.
    â€˜Twelve, ma’am,’ said Paul.
    â€˜Twelve, ma’am,’ said Mad Molly. It might have been Paul’s own voice.
    â€˜I’ll do that every time you use that stupid word,’ she went on. ‘I’ll come to church on Sunday, see if I don’t, and do it in front of your friends.’
    â€˜Six years still,’ said the Daisy-woman.
    â€˜Before you can fight in this stupid war, she means,’ said Mad Molly. ‘Daisy’s obsessed by the war. Don’t worry, darling. I expect Paul’s father is fighting away like a hero, winning a medal a week.’
    â€˜My father’s dead,’ said Paul.
    â€˜Dead in my war?’ said the Daisy-woman.
    â€˜Don’t be an idiot, darling,’ said Molly.
    â€˜But he did fight in the Great War,’ said Paul. ‘He got the MC.’
    â€˜Ah!’ said the Daisy-woman.
    She took a pace forward and raised her arms as if she was going to hug Paul. He only just managed not to edge away. If he hadn’t already decided she was mad—madder if anything than Mad Molly—he would have