Read Online The Silver Witch by Paula Brackston - Free Book Online Page B

thing supported by stout wooden stilts. Standing on the decked and railed area that encircles the hut, Tilda has the curious sense she is above and yet upon the water. She can hear ripples lapping against the wood. Coots and moorhens scoot about below her, bobbing on the gentle waves the light breeze has stirred up, or hurrying into the cover of the reeded area of the shore. Thistle creeps nearer the edge and peers into the water, ears alert, following the progress of a water vole as it gathers weeds for its nest. Looking across the lake, Tilda can make out St. Cynog’s Church and the Old School House on the farside, and the bird blind a little farther around. This enables her to pinpoint where she must have been standing when she saw the people in the boat. The air is clear today, visibility excellent, and all there is to see is the reedy shore, the path, the fields with cows grazing peacefully, and the small area of woodland to the right.
    A sightseer comes to stand next to her, scanning the water with expensive-looking binoculars. Tilda makes a mental note to rummage through the as-yet unpacked boxes back at the cottage to find her own pair. Following the visitor’s line of vision, she sees what it is that has caught his attention. To the west of the lake, a hundred yards or so from the shoreline, are a minibus and a van and a cluster of people; a small knot of activity on a usually empty part of the landscape. It is not a campsite, yet she can just about make out a large tent pitched beside two portable toilets. She does not feel bold enough to ask the man if she might borrow his binoculars, so instead she forces herself to speak.
    â€˜What’s going on over there?’ she asks. ‘Can you tell?’
    Without lowering his glasses the man replies, ‘Archeologists. Some sort of dig, according to the bloke hiring out the boats.’ Only now does he look at Tilda.
    Look. Look away. Look again. Standard reaction number three.
    Into the awkward silence comes a woman—the man’s wife, Tilda thinks—holding a small girl by the hand. While the adults seek refuge in talking about nothing, the child stares openly from beneath a floral sou’wester. Tilda holds her gaze, waiting. She has her contact lenses in place, but she had not bothered with mascara or any sort of makeup for weeks now, so that her white lashes and brows are clearly visible. At last the girl, swinging her mother’s hand, asks loudly, ‘Why is that dog on a belt? Haven’t you got a proper lead? And why are your eyes funny? Are you blind?’ The mortified parents hasten to smooth over their daughter’s inadvertent rudeness.
    â€˜I’m so sorry,’ says the woman, reflexively pulling her child back a pace.
    â€˜It’s all right,’ Tilda says.
    â€˜She shouldn’t ask questions like that.’
    â€˜Really, it’s fine.’
    The girl frowns deeply, causing her rainhat to drop a little lower on her brow. ‘But, Mummy, why does she look like that? And why hasn’t the dog got a proper lead and a proper collar?’
    Tilda glances at Thistle’s makeshift leash, and has to agree that the belt buckle looks uncomfortable on the dog’s slender neck. She crouches down in front of the child. ‘You know, you’re right. She does need a proper collar. And a lead. I’m going to go and buy her one right now. What color do you think I should get?’
    The girl gives the question serious consideration and then says firmly, ‘Pink.’
    â€˜Right. Pink it is. I’ll see what I can do.’
    â€˜Can I stroke her?’
    â€˜I think she’d like that,’ Tilda says.
    The child moves closer, her nose only just higher than Thistle’s shoulder. She gives the animal a gentle pat. Both dog and child appear to enjoy the experience.
    Tilda straightens up, smiling a practiced smile.
    The parents breathe again. The moment of embarrassment has passed. The