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Authors: Santa Montefiore
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time. When George and Alice were little they used to climb the stacks like mountains, hiding from their parents at bedtime. How innocent life had been back then, she reflected.
It was warm and sheltered out of the wind and smelt of cut grass and smoke from the barbecue. She had set up two long tables that they had improvised with logs and planks, made a tablecloth out of sheets, and borrowed cutlery, plates and glasses from Mrs Megalith who had enough for a banquet. She had offered the use of her garden, which would undoubtedly have been a prettier setting, but Faye had declined. It was George’s homecoming party and nowhere else would do but home. She lit a candle and proceeded to light all the hurricane lamps on the tables. It felt surreal that he was home, that the war had ended. She tried not to think about the dangers he had been through. He was still her little boy and she couldn’t bear to imagine how much he had suffered. She lit the lamps and silently said a prayer of thanks and another one for the future. She sensed he might need it.
As the sun waned people began to arrive armed with food and drink to contribute to the party. Reverend Elwyn Hammond strode in with his wife and two grandchildren carrying bags of bread buns; old June Hogmier, who ran the village shop, brought potatoes for baking which she had scrounged from the chuck basket, being too mean to bring fresh ones; and Cyril and his sweet wife, Beryl, brought vegetables and baked apples for pudding. The farm labourers came with chickens, and a boisterous group of George’s old friends, the few who had survived the war, carried bottles of beer. George mingled beneath the large banners that the children had painted with Alice that spelt ‘Welcome Home George’. He was touched by the effort his parents had gone to, if a little self-conscious. He didn’t feel he deserved so much attention. He was unable to shake off the feeling of guilt that had gnawed at him ever since he had come home. So many men hadn’t lived to see victory.
He was talking to Reverend Hammond when Rita arrived with her family. He excused himself politely and made his way through the people to greet her.
‘How was Megagran?’ he asked, putting his hand in the small of her back and pulling her against him so that he could kiss her.
‘She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know,’ she replied.
‘Losing her touch, is she?’
‘No, I’m just improving mine. She’s coming tonight.’
‘On her broomstick or will she be jumping out of a cake?’
‘I hope neither. I don’t think your mother is up to making a cake that size.’ They both laughed.
‘Hello, Eddie. How’s my favourite girl?’ He grinned down at her and ruffled her hair.
‘Don’t lie. I’m not your favourite. Rita is.’
‘My second favourite then.’
Eddie sighed melodramatically. ‘One day I’ll be someone’s number one!’ And she strode off into the crowd with Harvey the bat clinging to her sleeve.
When Mrs Megalith arrived the crowd seemed to part like the sea before a big liner. No one dared stand in the way of the Elvestree Witch. She had stuck peacock feathers into her hair and draped herself in her favourite purple dress over which she had thrown the green tasselled shawl her late husband had bought her in India. She wore the heavy moonstone around her neck on a black cord and her fingers were laden with crystals.
‘Hello George, remember me?’ she said, tapping him firmly on his shoulder. He swivelled around.
‘Mrs Megalith, how nice of you to come.’ He ran his eyes up and down her eccentric costume. ‘You look glorious!’
‘One mustn’t disappoint. These good people expect me to dress like a witch,’ she said with a wink.
‘Don’t witches wear black?’ he asked. Rita put her hand to her lips to suppress nervous laughter. Her grandmother was notorious for her unpredictable nature. Only Max could get away with teasing her about being a witch. To Rita’s
It was warm and sheltered out of the wind and smelt of cut grass and smoke from the barbecue. She had set up two long tables that they had improvised with logs and planks, made a tablecloth out of sheets, and borrowed cutlery, plates and glasses from Mrs Megalith who had enough for a banquet. She had offered the use of her garden, which would undoubtedly have been a prettier setting, but Faye had declined. It was George’s homecoming party and nowhere else would do but home. She lit a candle and proceeded to light all the hurricane lamps on the tables. It felt surreal that he was home, that the war had ended. She tried not to think about the dangers he had been through. He was still her little boy and she couldn’t bear to imagine how much he had suffered. She lit the lamps and silently said a prayer of thanks and another one for the future. She sensed he might need it.
As the sun waned people began to arrive armed with food and drink to contribute to the party. Reverend Elwyn Hammond strode in with his wife and two grandchildren carrying bags of bread buns; old June Hogmier, who ran the village shop, brought potatoes for baking which she had scrounged from the chuck basket, being too mean to bring fresh ones; and Cyril and his sweet wife, Beryl, brought vegetables and baked apples for pudding. The farm labourers came with chickens, and a boisterous group of George’s old friends, the few who had survived the war, carried bottles of beer. George mingled beneath the large banners that the children had painted with Alice that spelt ‘Welcome Home George’. He was touched by the effort his parents had gone to, if a little self-conscious. He didn’t feel he deserved so much attention. He was unable to shake off the feeling of guilt that had gnawed at him ever since he had come home. So many men hadn’t lived to see victory.
He was talking to Reverend Hammond when Rita arrived with her family. He excused himself politely and made his way through the people to greet her.
‘How was Megagran?’ he asked, putting his hand in the small of her back and pulling her against him so that he could kiss her.
‘She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know,’ she replied.
‘Losing her touch, is she?’
‘No, I’m just improving mine. She’s coming tonight.’
‘On her broomstick or will she be jumping out of a cake?’
‘I hope neither. I don’t think your mother is up to making a cake that size.’ They both laughed.
‘Hello, Eddie. How’s my favourite girl?’ He grinned down at her and ruffled her hair.
‘Don’t lie. I’m not your favourite. Rita is.’
‘My second favourite then.’
Eddie sighed melodramatically. ‘One day I’ll be someone’s number one!’ And she strode off into the crowd with Harvey the bat clinging to her sleeve.
When Mrs Megalith arrived the crowd seemed to part like the sea before a big liner. No one dared stand in the way of the Elvestree Witch. She had stuck peacock feathers into her hair and draped herself in her favourite purple dress over which she had thrown the green tasselled shawl her late husband had bought her in India. She wore the heavy moonstone around her neck on a black cord and her fingers were laden with crystals.
‘Hello George, remember me?’ she said, tapping him firmly on his shoulder. He swivelled around.
‘Mrs Megalith, how nice of you to come.’ He ran his eyes up and down her eccentric costume. ‘You look glorious!’
‘One mustn’t disappoint. These good people expect me to dress like a witch,’ she said with a wink.
‘Don’t witches wear black?’ he asked. Rita put her hand to her lips to suppress nervous laughter. Her grandmother was notorious for her unpredictable nature. Only Max could get away with teasing her about being a witch. To Rita’s
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