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Authors: Sarah Painter
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was an ornately carved fish mounted on the roof.
‘The bridge is thirteenth century, but the roundhouse was added in the eighteenth. It was used as a lock-up for drunkards and criminals.’
‘There’s a fish on the roof,’ Gwen said. She was working on automatic pilot, her voice handling conversation while her brain concentrated on ignoring the river rushing under the bridge.
Lily nodded. ‘A gudgeon. Round here we still say “over the water and under the fish” when we mean in jail.’
‘That’s colourful.’
‘Oh yes. We’ve got colour coming out of our arses round here,’ Lily said and walked onwards, her heels clicking on the pavement.
Gwen stamped down on her rising panic. She’d spent so long squashing all thoughts of Stephen Knight that she wasn’t prepared for the assault of memories. He’d been a funny-looking boy. One of those awkward teens that look both younger and older than their age all at once. A baby face that somehow carried the gruff, sun-burned features of his farming parents at the same time. Until they fished him out of the river, of course. Then he’d looked exactly, tragically, his sixteen years.
They reached the main shopping street. A steeply sloping affair, lined with self-consciously pretty painted wooden fronts and chichi window displays. It was all much more upmarket than Gwen remembered.
‘What do you need to do?’ Lily was showing no signs of leaving and Gwen couldn’t think of a polite way to extricate herself.
‘Um. Post office?’
‘At the bottom of the road, turn left. It’s next to the Co-op.’
Lily paused, a sly look flashed across her face and then disappeared. ‘You should go and see the green. It’s a little further along the river.’
‘Okay.’
‘And the Red Lion does bar meals if you fancy a bite.’
‘Thanks.’ Gwen shifted her weight, preparing to walk away.
‘It’s haunted, mind, but I’m sure that won’t bother you.’
Gwen forced a laugh. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘Quite right. It’s probably dreamed up as a lure for the tourists.’
Despite herself, Gwen asked, ‘What is?’
‘Ghost of Jane Morely. She was tried as a witch on the green outside the pub.’
Lily’s stare had become disturbingly intense and Gwen decided the best policy was a polite smile.
‘It’s in the town records if you don’t believe me. She was executed in 1675. They strangled her and burned her.’
‘Better than the other way around, I suppose.’
Lily looked at her sharply. ‘I would prefer neither, myself.’
‘Well, yes,’ Gwen stumbled. How did she end up in a conversation about preferred methods of execution? ‘Obviously.’ She stepped aside to let a woman laden with shopping bags pass. The woman stopped, turned, and retraced her steps. ‘Excuse me? Aren’t you Gwen Harper?’
‘Um. Yes.’
‘You’ve just moved into the big house, haven’t you?’
‘Sorry?’ Gwen felt panicky, as if she were in the middle of an exam that she hadn’t revised for.
‘Off Bath Road? End House, is it?’ The woman had a thoroughly freckled face topped with a teal beret.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Amanda. I’m in number twelve on the main road. We’re neighbours.’ She shifted her clutch of carrier bags from one hand to the other. ‘I’m so sorry we haven’t been by to welcome you. We’ve all had the sickness bug that’s going around.’
‘Oh don’t worry,’ Gwen said. Then there was a pause, so she added, ‘It’s fine.’
After another, lengthening, silence, Gwen realised that Amanda was waiting for something. With a flash of understanding, Gwen dragged up the words, ‘You’re very welcome to pop by any time. Come for tea.’
Amanda smiled. People were too happy in this place. It was unnerving.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
Gwen stared at Amanda’s wide grey eyes and freckled skin, something tickling the back of her mind, and then it came to her. ‘Biology,’ she said, just as Amanda said, ‘We were in
‘The bridge is thirteenth century, but the roundhouse was added in the eighteenth. It was used as a lock-up for drunkards and criminals.’
‘There’s a fish on the roof,’ Gwen said. She was working on automatic pilot, her voice handling conversation while her brain concentrated on ignoring the river rushing under the bridge.
Lily nodded. ‘A gudgeon. Round here we still say “over the water and under the fish” when we mean in jail.’
‘That’s colourful.’
‘Oh yes. We’ve got colour coming out of our arses round here,’ Lily said and walked onwards, her heels clicking on the pavement.
Gwen stamped down on her rising panic. She’d spent so long squashing all thoughts of Stephen Knight that she wasn’t prepared for the assault of memories. He’d been a funny-looking boy. One of those awkward teens that look both younger and older than their age all at once. A baby face that somehow carried the gruff, sun-burned features of his farming parents at the same time. Until they fished him out of the river, of course. Then he’d looked exactly, tragically, his sixteen years.
They reached the main shopping street. A steeply sloping affair, lined with self-consciously pretty painted wooden fronts and chichi window displays. It was all much more upmarket than Gwen remembered.
‘What do you need to do?’ Lily was showing no signs of leaving and Gwen couldn’t think of a polite way to extricate herself.
‘Um. Post office?’
‘At the bottom of the road, turn left. It’s next to the Co-op.’
Lily paused, a sly look flashed across her face and then disappeared. ‘You should go and see the green. It’s a little further along the river.’
‘Okay.’
‘And the Red Lion does bar meals if you fancy a bite.’
‘Thanks.’ Gwen shifted her weight, preparing to walk away.
‘It’s haunted, mind, but I’m sure that won’t bother you.’
Gwen forced a laugh. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘Quite right. It’s probably dreamed up as a lure for the tourists.’
Despite herself, Gwen asked, ‘What is?’
‘Ghost of Jane Morely. She was tried as a witch on the green outside the pub.’
Lily’s stare had become disturbingly intense and Gwen decided the best policy was a polite smile.
‘It’s in the town records if you don’t believe me. She was executed in 1675. They strangled her and burned her.’
‘Better than the other way around, I suppose.’
Lily looked at her sharply. ‘I would prefer neither, myself.’
‘Well, yes,’ Gwen stumbled. How did she end up in a conversation about preferred methods of execution? ‘Obviously.’ She stepped aside to let a woman laden with shopping bags pass. The woman stopped, turned, and retraced her steps. ‘Excuse me? Aren’t you Gwen Harper?’
‘Um. Yes.’
‘You’ve just moved into the big house, haven’t you?’
‘Sorry?’ Gwen felt panicky, as if she were in the middle of an exam that she hadn’t revised for.
‘Off Bath Road? End House, is it?’ The woman had a thoroughly freckled face topped with a teal beret.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Amanda. I’m in number twelve on the main road. We’re neighbours.’ She shifted her clutch of carrier bags from one hand to the other. ‘I’m so sorry we haven’t been by to welcome you. We’ve all had the sickness bug that’s going around.’
‘Oh don’t worry,’ Gwen said. Then there was a pause, so she added, ‘It’s fine.’
After another, lengthening, silence, Gwen realised that Amanda was waiting for something. With a flash of understanding, Gwen dragged up the words, ‘You’re very welcome to pop by any time. Come for tea.’
Amanda smiled. People were too happy in this place. It was unnerving.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
Gwen stared at Amanda’s wide grey eyes and freckled skin, something tickling the back of her mind, and then it came to her. ‘Biology,’ she said, just as Amanda said, ‘We were in
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