“Fer Christ's sake stop scratchin' yer tits. 'T ain't ladylike.”

“I'm not a lady. Anyway they itch.”

The second witch considered this for a moment.

“That's no excuse. Lady or not, itchin' or not, don't scratch 'em. It just ain't done. Anyway 't'll leave dirty marks awl over yer dress. And they can't itch. Not if yer ain't a lady.”

“Bugger the dirty marks. I tell you they do. It must be the bra. Maybe the strap is twisted. Anyhow my hands are clean. Washed them this morning. Which is more than can be said for some.”

“Yer've got a lot ter learn about bras. 'Nd abart tits fer that matter. The straps don't come under the nipples. Christ you must 'ave 'ad a shelter'd bleedin' upbringin'. Ev'n if yer do wash yer 'ands.”

The third witch looked gloomily at the cauldron. Thought about scratching the itch again and decided against it. “I don't know why they insisted I wear them. The bra and the panties and .... all the rest of it.”

“It keeps yer in character. 'Aving tits an' wot goes wiv 'em reminds yer not ter fart or play wiv yerself in public.”

“Shut up! The both of you. How can a girl concentrate when you two are moithering on about bugger all.”

The second and third witches turned their attention to the speaker, both vaguely surprised at the interruption.

“Bleedin' awake then are yer? Fought yer'd died long ago.”

The first witch lowered her Guardian and looked at the speaker scornfully. She sighed. “Death would be indeed a welcome alternative to listening to you two polluting the atmosphere. I am increasingly tempted. Only a few more clues to go and then I might indeed embrace it.”

She turned her attention back to the newspaper a slight frown of concentration on her brow. She gnawed the tip of her ballpoint.

“Apart from the fact I promised,” she said.

“Promised what.” asked the third witch.

“Never you mind. Anyway I can't. Well only figuratively anyway. Die I mean.”

The second witch nodded. “Yerse. Immortality can be a bummer,” she said sympathetically.

“Immortality is comparative. We don't really know. None of us has lived long enough to be sure. When the world ends perhaps we will know, but 'til then .... And even then .... well immortality is rather like infinity. A concept difficult to grasp. It....”

“What on earth are you talking about?” The third witch asked, risking a surreptitious scratch, a mere itch-relieving-caress, of her right breast.

The other two turned their attention back on her.

“Nothing that concerns you,” said the first.

“Mind yer own bleedin' business,” the second.

“What's all this crap about immortality?” The third witch was undeterred by the joint rebuff.

“If I were you,” pronounced the first witch judiciously, “I would proceed with caution. I would endeavour to learn from my past errors, reflecting on the consequences that followed upon them. Then I would ask myself whether there were any steps I could take to minimise the chances of aggravating my current situation.”

“When yer in an 'ole stop diggin',” interpreted the second witch helpfully.

Following this exchange there was, for a while, silence.

The first witch resumed her study of the crossword puzzle, occasionally scribbling on her paper as she played with the letters of a possible anagram. The second witch opened a rather expensive looking handbag and, extracting a compact, flicked open its mirror and examined herself intently before dabbing a lipstick onto pouted lips. Dabbing in small yet sure strokes. It was quite unnecessary. Just a pavlovian response to a pause. She really was quite a looker. As indeed was the first witch.

The third witch watched them out of boredom. He stretched his right leg to relieve a touch of cramp. He regarded the long, elegant line of his leg tapering into a shapely ankle with a degree of surprise. Then his left. Just in case .... just to check and to preserve the new symmetry of things. It had been a long day and it was only two thirds over. He belched slightly and felt even now the after taste of his breakfast kippers at the back of his throat. Who would have thought when he had been carefully easing out the bones with his knife that in the afternoon he would be .... Rather 'she' would be .... because he had to think of himself as female for the next few hours. Because he must live the part .... well one couldn't be a witch and be referred to as 'he' could you? Not a witch in a bra, .... and falsies of course .... but they were necessary .... otherwise ....and a short, rather revealing, dress ,and stockings, and high heels, and .... well panties .... although that seemed a bit of an overkill because of course no-one could see .... well as long as he was careful .... because the dress was skimpy .... and a garter belt .... but they had insisted. Quite categorically. Wouldn't take no for an answer .... and ....

“Yer lippie needs redoin'. 'Aint yer got no sense of self respect? And yer mascara's a mess too.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't realise. I don't think I know how. I can't ....”

“Then its 'igh time yer learnt. Remember wot they said. Abart it bein' a last chance. An 'ole 'earted one 'undred percent effert they need. Huverwise .....”

Resignedly the third witch ferretted around in the small clutch bag that she had been given and, having laid out an assortment of cosmetics by her side, began to screw and unscrew their tops as if in hope that the very action of releasing their essences would, by some mysterious alchemy, transfer their complexion enhancing properties to her face.

“Christ! Yer dozy cow. Come 'ere. Let me. Just pay attention. I can't always be arahnd ter change yer nappy. Yer'll 'ave ter learn ter do it yerself. An' quick.”

“Hopefully I won't need to. Hopefully she'll be back soon and .... I mean it's only for a day or so and ....”

There was crackling of paper. The first witch looked over at her. “Who knows,” she said. “Mildred is a law unto herself. Quite unpredictable. Especially when she is miffed. As she is undoubtedly is. Last time something upset her she disappeared to Hong Kong for fourteen months on some British Council gig. Or so she said.”

A snorting sound emanated from the second witch. “British Council! Hong Kong! My arse! She were in Thailand shackin' up wiv some Itie gigolo. Said 'e were a Count or somesuch! Bollocks all ef it.”

The first witch shook her head reprovingly. “You shouldn't repeat unsubstantiated gossip dear. Especially not in front of our young friend here. It might cause her unnecessary concern. Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof and all that.” She smiled in a reassuring manner in the direction of the third witch.

“Bollocks I said and bollocks it is. Unnec'ssary concern my fanny. The trufe is no one knows when Mildred might come back or ev'n ef she hever will. An' our young friend 'ere might as well come ter terms wiv it, 'cos it's the trufe. She shud 'ave fought of that 'fore she shot 'er marf orf in the first place.”

“But I only said ....”

“Wot exackerly did yer say? I only 'eard fird 'and ....”

“Well I might have gone too far, but I was a little irritated by her attitude. She called me a young whipper snapper and suggested that I learnt to wipe my own arse .... Anyway I might have said something about her looking like an old crone and compared her sexual attractiveness unfavourably to that of a mildewed umbrella ....”

“According to what Mildred told me,” said the first witch, “you also likened her warts to gangrenous apricots and cautioned that she should avoid the company of baboons lest they mistake her breath for a fart.”

“Really!” There was for the first time a hint of respect in the second witch's tone.

“So Mildred departs in high dudgeon, but not before recommending to the powers that be that you take her place. Well not exactly take her place, I do that, and the erstwhile third witch takes mine, becoming the second, whilst you inherit the bottom rung of the ladder.”

The third witch shifted uncomfortably. His own bottom seemed rather numb from all this squatting. Numb in a tingly sort of way. “Why did they take any notice of what she told them? There are half a dozen girls that they could have brought in without going to all the trouble of dolling me up in drag.”

The first witch shook her head wearily. “No-one, not even they, deny Mildred her whims. What Mildred wants, Mildred gets. And she wanted you as the third witch. Even left the costume for you. Wig and false boobs and all. Especially for you.”

“Must 'ave spott'd yer latent talent, she must. Must 'ave decid'd that yer've 'idden depths as yet unplumb'd. Long 'istory of talent spottin' 'as ahr Mildred.”

“Did she find you two as well?”

“Us? Good Heavens no! We've always been here. Hereabouts anyway. Just like Mildred. She's only senior here because she was there. There when it first happened. So she knows. That's why they listen to her.”

The first witch smiled to herself, the smile of a particularly conscientious teacher who has at last managed to explain a rather obvious point to a backward child.

“All over,” she elaborated. “They all listen to Mildred. Because she was there. She's in great demand. That's why she can bugger off in high dudgeon when things upset her. She knows they will always welcome her back with open arms. At an even better screw usually.”

“Just 'cos she were there. Playin' 'ard ter git,” prá¨cied the second witch as if the use of the vernacular would somehow clarify the message.

“Where's there?”

“There's not many places Mildred hasn't been at one time or another. When I say there, it's more a question of when.”

“Bein' in the right place at the right time. That's 'er secret,” confided the second witch.

“We're only comparatively new to it whereas Mildred spotted the opportunities long ago.” The first witch shook her head in a sort of rueful admiration. “She realised early on that the old ways were past and that one had to branch out, explore new horizons. Capitalise in new ways on old skills.”

“Curin' warts, an' stickin' pins in waxen images, an' casting murrains din't bring in the readies no more. Bleedin' peasants were awl learnin' to read. Friggin' heducayshun ef the bleedin' masses 'as a lot ter answer fer.”

“I am afraid she's right. Whereas in the good old days a little finely chopped ragwort or a few branches of yew left lying around would do the trick, nowadays they just call in the local vet. And he sticks a needle up the beast's arse ....” The first witch shook her head in sad reflection at this evidence of the decay in rural society.

The third witch tried to deflect the conversation back to Mildred and her current situation.

“I don't understand though where Mildred was, when .... when whatever happened ....”

The other two however were not to be distracted from what what obviously a favourite topic.

“It's a lost hart is murrain castin',” said the second witch gloomily. “People ain't got no respect no more.” And then more inconsequentially. “It's the same wiv corn dollies.”

“An' wivart respect yer can't do noffink as any trick cyclist will tell yer. Well it's bleedin' obvious innit.”

“You can't fight progress. Look what happened to Joanna Pennydugs, poor dear.”

“Tragic,” concurred the second witch. “And yer couldn't hope ter meet a nicer girl. It just goes ter show.” She sucked at her lower teeth in an outward display of sympathy.

“What happened?” asked the third witch, regretting the question before the words were out of his mouth.

“She cast a murrain. Doing a favour for an old client she was. Joanna may have her faults but if you want a murrain castin' then she does the best.”

“Didn't it work?”

“Course it friggin' worked. Cattle all sick, ev'rythink in the garden luvverly. Christ, Joanna c'u'd do it in 'er sleep. Pro'bly did.”

“So?”

“Some nosey bastard fought it might be Foot an' Marf din't 'e. They 'ad bleedin' Ministry vets swarmin' all over the place. Set up a bleedin' isolation zone. Next to the Helgarren Estate it were too. Didn't please 'er as yer can imagine. Clos'd dahn the local Animal Research Centre. Movem'nt of stock nationwide forbidden. Politicians cancell'd their bleedin' 'olidays. Nation'l Hemergency declar'd. Hexport ef British beef forbidden by bleedin' Brussels. Right pantomime.”

“Joanna was on holiday in the Seychelles when it all hit the fan. She had to sort it out on her return. By which time about two thousand cattle had been slaughtered. Including those on her client's farm.”

“'E weren't best pleas'd neither. Refused to cough up wot 'e owed 'er. Got quite nasty it did. Until Joanna point'd ahrt the errer ef 'is ways. Yer don't want ter upset Joanna.”

For a fleeting moment the third witch thought of asking how the dispute was eventually settled and then hastily thought better of it.

A sound of thunder rolled rather metallically in the distance and a sudden gust of wind blew the fumes from the cauldron into the third witch's eyes. Cold on his calves and thighs. It rattled the first witch's newspaper, tearing one side from her grasp so that she dropped her pen which rolled towards the cauldron so that she had to scramble after it.

“Typical!” She said disgruntledly. “What on earth are they doing that for. They should have sorted all that out yesterday. Not leaving it to the last minute.”

“They had problems with it yesterday,” volunteered the third witch. “It kept blowing a fuse.”

“They say they can't get the staff. If they paid a living wage they might do better.”

There was a short silence as the three each considered the iniquities of the free market economy as exemplified by this current situation. Its weighting in favour of the employer to the detriment of the employees' well-being and the resulting spin-off as it affected other, innocent, members of society such as themselves. .

“The bastards!” The second witch gave voice to the consensus sentiment without detailing the target of their contempt..

The third witch shivered. Perhaps it was the fumes from the cauldron or the sudden wind chill on unusually exposed nether regions, but he felt quite feverish and the itch on the chest seemed to have intensified and was now spasmodically accompanied by a strange skin crawling sensation elsewhere.

“I don't know why he we are here at all at this time. Bloody ages to wait before the rest are due. Bloody waste of time.”

“It was Mildred's idea. To get you accustomed, she said. Sort you out, she said. Get you into the swim of things, she said. It's for your own good.”

The second witch grinned wolfishly. “Halledgedly.”

“Anyway,” the first witch continued, “it's not as if you have anything else to do. Not now.”

“Lyin' in yer pit wiv a dirty book fer a bit ef arternoon wankin' ain't an opshun. Not now,” opined the second witch. “Not wiv us actin' in locum wotsits.”

The third witch briefly considered denying this slur on his customary afternoon leisure activities. Realising it would only encourage further aspersions he sought to divert the conversation into a more impersonal channel.

“What sort of led to the argument with Mildred was that I noticed a newt in her cleavage. I thought it was a snake at first. A little head just peeping out from between her boobs. Sleek. Reptilian. Until I saw it had feet. Well I only saw the front ones of course, The others were hidden between her boobs. But enough to realise it was a newt.”

“That would be Adrian,” said the first witch, “and he isn't a newt, he's an eft. He lives there. In her bra.”

“An eft? What's an eft?”

“A newt.”

“But I thought.....”

“An effin newt. But Mildred don't like 'im bein' called a newt 'cos ef 'em bein' linked in the public's higorant minds wiv gettin' piss'd. She said as how she weren't goin' ter 'ave any suggestion ef hinebriashun 'angin' over 'im.”

“So he's an eft. Although that was only afterwards. Afterwards when she got fond of him of course. At first him being a newt was only a temporary expediency.”

“What do you mean 'a temporary expediency'? A newt is a newt.”

“You couldn't be more wrong.” The first witch shook her head in sad reproof. “A newt is different things to different people. Even different things to the same person. A many splendoured thing is a newt. Adrian is living proof. Mildred's original intention was that he would be a useful ingredient. A practical newt. Only of course he isn't a newt. Not now anyway. He's an eft.”

“E weren't then neiver. Not a newt. Not when Mildred first met 'im. 'E were a waiter. In 'Ollywood. When Mildred were workin' wiv Walt.”

“She was over there as technical adviser for 'Snow White',” explained the first witch. “It was her big break through. Made her name and fortune. The wicked witch was modelled on her.”

“I didn't think it would be the eponymous heroine that was.”

“No need ter be so sarky,” warned the second witch.

“Every need not to,” added the first. “not if you want to retain some elements of the human form.”

“Fink ov Adrian an' take 'eed. All 'e did was ter call 'er an 'im.”

“Continually. During all four courses,” said the first witch in mitigation lest the third witch might think Mildred's reaction a trifle precipitous. “Accompanied by what Mildred considered to be a sneer.”

“An' Mildred claim'd 'e spilt some soup dahn 'er cleavage, although Adrian 'as allers denied 'e did.”

“The long and the short of it was she turned him into a newt. Caused quite a stir in the restaurant it did. Hollywood may be built on fantasy but its inhabitants can't handle it when they're eating.”

“Why a newt?”

The first witch shrugged her elegant alabaster shoulders

“It's traditional I suppose. That or a toad. And newts even then were getting hard to find. A basic ingredient like that! It's a lot worse now of course.”

“Can't get 'em fer luv nor money.”

“Yet another example of the decline of the small shopkeeper. Apothecaries disappeared ages ago, and as for alchemists .... .Well when was the last time you passed an alchemist's shop?”

The sudden question, accompanied by a direct challenging glare, rather took the third witch aback. He was feeling distinctly odd. Hot and cold flushes had joined his bodily symptoms. Chest, groin and scalp itched, and his bum felt numb and tingly.

“I .... I don't know. I .... can't recall ever having seen one.”

“There you are then,” exclaimed the first witch, buoyed up by this support for her own observational powers. “They've been squeezed out by bloody Boots and suchlike. Even the old fashioned family chemist used to have a little room at the back for special clients' special needs. But not now. All gone.”

The second witch nodded in agreement with this gloomy prognosis. Her long golden tresses shimmered in the flickering light emanating from the cauldron's base.

“An the bleedin' hinternet's a waste ef time. Bleedin' Ebay!”

“I imagine newts be a rather esoteric product there. Not much choice as it were,” ventured the third witch, wondering if the others might know where he could get a glass of water. And if they knew whether they would share the information with him.

“Not much choice!? Ebay's crawling wiv people offerin' 'em! Boil-in-the-bag newts, cauldron-ready-newts, instant newts, ready-boned newts, all usually bleedin so-call'd bleedin' organic .... You name it, they've got it. But is they newts?”

“Are they indeed? That is the question. One just doesn't know. They might be slivers of crocodile, or monitors, or iguana, or even komodo dragon, for all we know. By the time they have been de-boned and packaged. You just don't know what your getting. And we have our good name to consider. Spells are funny things. One has to be quite pernickety about the ingredients. Odd things can happen. We owe it to our public to maintain professional standards.”

“Yerse. Look wot 'appened when they imported them toads from Oz. Bleedin' great ugly brutes. Cheap they might 'ave bin but .... well ..... The number ef young girls wot disappeared an' were never 'eard of agin just becos they wos a bit hover henthusiastic like in their search fer a prince. It cost the profeshun dear 'ushin' that one up it did. A lot ef favours 'ad ter be call'd in. A lot ef 'igh-ups 'ad ter be remind'd ef youfful peccadilloes an' wot might 'appen ef a little bird sang.”

“And even if they are newts, we haven't got any guarantee that they aren't of an endangered species. A bit of Latin on the label doesn't mean a thing these days, except 'Caveat Emptor' of course.. You can't trust these overseas dealers. Bloody foreigners. In the old days you could rely on your local apothecary. You knew them and they knew exactly just what might happen to them if the goods weren't kosher. But nowadays ....”

The recital of the others' grievances washed over the third witch. It just seemed so unreal. Was so unreal. Of course they were only indulging in this nonsensical farce to while away the time until something happened, but it was getting out of hand. Quite over the top. All this crap about Mildred meeting Walt Disney. Even she couldn't be that old! And his thirst was getting worse. He wished fervently that he had never even mentioned newts. Not given the double act an excuse for this tarradiddle. Vaguely he was aware they were still milking it.

“And we've no comeback. If anything goes wrong it's our fault. Look well in the tabloids 'WITCHES LIQUIDATE NEWTS.' And bang goes the media charm offensive that Mildred's so keen on. Rectify centuries of misunderstandings my left tit! We would be back up shit creek as destroyers of the planet!

“'Ere.” The second witch turned her attention to the third. ”You awl right duckie? Yer looks a bit peaky like.”

“Just a bit off colour I think. Perhaps those breakfast kippers were a mistake. I feel a little odd .... slightly dizzy and sort of hot .... perspiring a bit.”

“P'r'aps it's an 'ot flush. I 'eard as how people get 'em wiv the change, an' in the circumstances ..... “

“What you need is a drink.”The first witch intervened. ”If you look in the back of the big oak there, the blasted-looking one, you'll find a little cupboard. Inside there's a thermos and some mugs. The peony fairy is Hermione's, the blue and white striped one's mine. You have the choice of a slightly chipped Winnie-the-Pooh or the late Princess of Wales without a handle.”

The third witch got to his feet. He nearly lost a shoe whilst doing so. It was difficult to balance in heels, and .... Perhaps it was the dizziness, the feeling of unreality, of being elsewhere, but it didn't seem to be just the heels .... his body didn't seem to respond in quite the same way as .... He shook his head. Too late to do anything about it today, but tomorrow he would tell them to stuff it. Bugger the job.

Round the back of the oak there was indeed a rather badly fitting small door which, on being prised open revealed a small cupboard about one foot by two and about eighteen inches deep. Inside there were three shelves. On the shelves, apart from the thermos flask and the mugs, there were was a nearly empty jar of Free Trade instant coffee, some Twinings Assam tea bags, a bowl of sugar, a half empty bottle of milk, a package of ginger snap biscuits, two bottles of whisky, one of which had several lines drawn horizontally across it, the lowest of which coincided with the level of the spirit inside. 'Mildred' was written in thick red letters across the label.

Hooking the fingers of one hand into the mug handles, which effectively ruled out Princess Diana, and seizing the thermos in his other, he was endeavouring to shut the door with his shoulder when ....

“Bring the bleedin' whisky while yer at it.”

The third witch obediently tucked the thermos under his arm, selected the unmarked whisky bottle, and pushed at the door. It clicked shut on the third attempt.

He tottered precariously back to the others. Both witches reached out for the whisky but the pecking order was preserved by a peremptory “Mine” from the first witch in an ice-cold voice that brooked no argument. Sitting down he distributed the mugs and offered the thermos.

“It's fer you,” said the second witch. “Mildred left it speci'lly. Fer yer throat. An' as a pick-me-up in gen'ral like. On account ef yer feelin' so peaky.“

“But my throat's O.K., and she couldn't have known .... I mean about me being a little off-colour .... I was all right at breakfast and ....”

“It's elderflower cordial.” The first witch was engaged in pouring generous tots of whisky into the blue and white and the, eagerly proffered, peony fairy mugs. “It's very refreshing. Just what you need. Mildred can be very considerate. Made it herself she did. Probably realised that the occasion would get to you.”

Then, “nerves and all that,” she added vaguely. She held the whisky bottle up against the light so as to better gauge the quantity remaining. “I would offer you some of this to go with it, only with you having hot flushes an' all.” She smiled as if arriving at a satisfactory solution to some inner dilemma, “Better not eh?”

The third witch regarded the light straw coloured contents of his mug dubiously. On its outside Winnie-the-Pooh hung from a balloon surrounded by what appeared to be bees. The third witch vaguely remembered the story. He wasn't sure about drinking anything that Mildred had made though. Hygiene didn't seem to be one of her priorities and the stuff was probably a breeding ground for every bug under the sun, but .... but he was so thirsty and, strangely enough, now that the second witch had mentioned it, his throat did feel rather raw.

He sipped at it cautiously. It was delicious! Ice cold and delicately flavoured, with just a tingle of effervescence. Another, deeper, swallow and he could feel it coursing down his throat and gullet, soothing, refreshing, revitalising. He topped up his mug.

“It's all yours.” said the first witch, seemingly pleased by his evident appreciation.

The third witch felt suddenly better. His chest and nether regions still itched a little but the skin-crawling sensation was less noticeable now. Difficult to describe but it seemed almost to have a sensual dimension instead of being an irritant. And his bottom was less numb, more comfortable on the ground really. All in all he thought he was on the mend. Perhaps it wasn't the kippers after all. Perhaps the first witch was right and it was just nerves - after all it was a breakthrough for him. A first foot on the ladder. Even if it was a bit delayed and hedged about by all this unnecessary waiting which only aggravated the tension. If he could just take his mind off it .....

“I didn't know your name is Hermione ....” He smiled in the direction of the second witch. May as well be friendly he thought. Perhaps that was his fault. Had always been his fault. Being standoffish ..... not relating to people. I mean they were very odd and seemed to live in a fantasy world with a way-out sense of humour, but surely it was still worthwhile making an effort, even though he would jack it in tomorrow — after all there was still some time to go. And maybe the first witch would reconsider about the whisky if ....

“It's sort of her name,” said the first witch. “It's what she's called.”

“Just as people call 'er Hediff.” The second witch nodded towards the first. “An' Mildred Mildred.” she added.

“They're stage names?”

“Not pertic'erly,” doggedly insisted the second witch. “As I sed. It's wot people calls us. Calls us now any road. Before it were diff'rent, nat'rally.”

The third witch felt his new resolution to reach out to others start to drain away. “Oh,” he said.

“What's your name then?” Asked the first witch.

“Ralph, Ralph Arkwright.”

“That your real name.”

“Yes. Of course. I was christened that.”

“I don't s'ppose, apropos to bleedin eff awl, that yer 'appen'd ter menshun that, menshun yer name, ter Mildred did yer?”

“Well yes. Why not. She asked me and I told her.”

“She arsk'd yer an' yer told 'er. Just like that. As easy as kiss-my-arse! Jesus!” The second witch cast her eyes despairingly heavenwards. “There's one born ev'ry bleedin' minit.”

“Why on earth not? I mean its a natural thing to do. That's what names are for. To give to people. To identify you. Without a name.....”

“Without a name you're safe.” The first witch finished the sentence for him. “If you give your name to someone, you give yourself to them. Your name is you. Give that away and you give yourself away. I don't suppose it matters too much if you give it to .... just people .... but to give it to Mildred is suicidal. Come to think of it giving it to Hermione and myself wasn't too clever either.”

A degree of speculation had crept into the second witch's gaze

“I don't s'ppose, an' fergive me fer arskin', I don't s'ppose Mildred arsked yer fer a DNA sample too, did she?”

“A DNA sample? Why on earth would she ask me for a DNA sample? Why on earth would I give it? What are you both rabbiting on about? I met her at breakfast, not at a bloody crime scene. She may be a witch but she isn't a bloody forensic scientist!”

“Keep yer 'air on. I only arsked. Only if she did an' you 'ad ..... then .....” The second witch sucked at her bottom teeth thoughtfully.

“If you had then she really would have you by the short and curlies. But you wouldn't be so stupid would you?” The first witch spelt it out for him. “I mean anyone can get someone's DNA by stealth but if you give it, accede to a request for it as it were, then well it's a different kettle of fish. With your true name and your body's code, both volunteered, then .... well the sky's the limit as far as Mildred is concerned.”

“Look. I've told you I did not give her my DNA. Although what different it makes is beyond me. She is only a decrepit old has-been. As I pointed out to her at the time. And she may still have influence with the powers that be, but I'm here because they asked me. At their insistence. After all it is a step up for me. Better than standing about with a spear or lugging branches around. A speaking ....”

“So you never saw her again?” The first witch cut in across his protestations. “Mildred. After your little contretemps, you never saw her again? You only had dealings with them?”

“Yes. They arranged it all. Everything. Every single thing. Down to the last detail. I think she arranged the details of the wardrobe. It was her idea that I should be in drag. Dressed as a bloody woman. I must say they were very thorough though. Most unlike their usual incompetent, airy-fairy, arty-farty, selves. Said she was very particular. They even asked me for a lock of my hair so she could match it to the wig. They .....”

“Wot colour was yer 'air then?”

“Well sort of mousey. Nondescript. It isn't my best feature but .....”

“Yer wig's plat'num blonde.”

“You have to hand it to Mildred,” admired the first witch. “There are more ways of killing a cat....or is that belling or swinging it?”

“You two do talk crap. Witches, spells, and DNA. You've got your centuries muddled up. It makes a better story when you stick to newts. Leave DNA to the scientists.”

“Crap is it? You people may only 'ave stumbled across DNA recently but we've allers known abart it. Toe nail clippin's, locks ef 'air, 'ave allers been valewed by us fer wot they are. The key ter the body's code.” The second witch was indignant.

So was the third. “I'm getting tired of this constant piss-taking. I may be new and piss-taking may be the traditional welcome but it's getting boring. Bloody witches indeed!”

“Have it your own way.” The first witch's tone was conciliatory. She reapplied her self to the Guardian crossword, twirling her pencil in her elegantly manicured fingers. “It doesn't matter now anyway. There is no shutting this stable door. Not now.”

The third witch ignored this apparent attempt to soothe his ire.

“If she really is a bloody witch she should do something about herself. Ugly old hag. Those warts .... Ughhhh.” The third witch grimaced his disgust. “I mean hasn't she got any self respect? Instead of changing people into newts, she might try to magic up a little cosmetic surgery.”

“Noffink wrong wiv changin' people inter newts! Don't knock it. As fer 'er looks, that's just 'er panderin' ter pop'lar prejudis. Them warts is 'er fortune. Norm'lly she favours the Holly Golightly look. But 'ere on the boards she likes ter give 'er public wot they want. Noblesse bleedin' oblige.”

“A likely story! You two don't share her enthusiasm for fulfilling audience expectations I notice though?”

The second witch preened herself a little, looking pleased.

“It ain't up to us. 'Avin' yer witches lookin' young an' sexy is all the rage nah-a-days. So they say. So we do ahr modest best. Ahr's not ter reason why, ahr's just ter slap on the face gunge an' tart up gen'rally.”

She teased out her hair between her fingers, patting down an errant strand.

“Mildred won't 'ave it though. An nobody ain't goin' ter tell 'er otherwise. A captif ov 'er own success she is,” she concluded philosophically

The third witch considered this. In stark contrast to Mildred, his two companions were admittedly very attractive. When he had first met them he had had a considerable, and insistent, problem with an erection which had waged a rather painful war with the constraints of his outwardly enticingly feminine but inwardly surprisingly unyielding panties. Whilst the urgency seemed to have been taken out of this early conflict and a degree of accommodation, comfort even, arrived at in his groin area, he felt vague feelings of sexual lust, a warmth of longing, reborn.

The second witch rose to her feet. She seemed to spiral upwards in one lithe sensuous movement.

“Goin' fer a pee,” she confided to the others, and swayed off, her hips oozing femininity at every enticing step.

The first witch suddenly gave vent to a satisfied “Aaaaaaahhh”, and scribbled in a couple of words. Intellectual gratification at this breakthrough encouraged her to try to rebuild bridges with the third witch.

“You mustn't mind Hermione. Heart of gold under that somewhat rough exterior. She's only trying to help. We both are.”

The third witch, gazing still in the direction the hips, now sadly disappeared behind the outlines of the trees, had taken, was only slightly mollified. He shrugged. Felt his bra straps tug. The weight on his chest react to the movement.”

“It doesn't matter,” he said sullenly. “I can't understand what she says half the time anyway. That accent of hers! I'm surprised they took her on. Whoever heard of a cockney witch?”

The first witch's eyebrows registered surprise. “Do you think she's a cockney. She will be pleased! You must tell her! Make her day. Doesn't say much for your acuity of hearing though,” she added, a mite ungraciously.

“Pleased? Why on earth should she be? Whether it's cockney or not, her accent's surely a disadvantage both to communication and to social acceptability.”

“She wants to be a proper actress,” explained the first witch. “Earn her living at it full time. On a regular basis. She hankers after celebrity status. So she's practising. So she will be able to seize her big chance when it comes along. She has her heart set on landing a part in 'EastEnders'. Hence the cockney accent. Or rather faux cockney accent.”

“And will she?”

“Not a cat in Hell's chance. I've told her, Mildred's told her, we've all told her. A cobbler should stick to his last. But will she listen? No!”

“But surely, she's an actress and .... well .... why not?”

“You do take some bloody convincing don't you? You may be an actor, although even that is debatable and becoming more so, but she isn't. She's a witch. That's why she's here. That's why we're all here. To add a touch of verisimilitude to the proceedings. Mildred was actually there remember. Was one of the originals.”

“When I say all,” she added, “I don't include you naturally. You're here because you got on the wrong side of Mildred. And to make up the numbers of course. But Hermione and I aren't acting. We're being. Being and acting are two very different things.”

You had to admire the way they lived the part, thought the third witch. Professional dedication of the highest degree. Perhaps he could learn something from them after all. RADA was only the beginning for those wishing to realise their true potential.

“Well personally I am grateful for this chance. And if Mildred really had a hand in persuading them to give it to me, then I must say it was very sporting of her, after all that passed between us. Magnanimous even. I may well have wronged her. And I shall tell her so should I ever meet her again.”

The first witch was seized by a sudden coughing fit. She dabbed carefully at her eyes with a small scrap of lace masquerading as a handkerchief.”

“That's good of you,” she spluttered when she finally regained her voice. “I am sure you will, meet her again, I mean. And I will try to be there. I will indeed. Wouldn't miss it for the worlds.”

The first witch again sought refuge in what was by now a distinctly moist piece of lace as a click click of high heels heralded the return of the second.

“I'm back,” the latter announced, somewhat unnecessarily.

“Tell her,” said the first to the third witch, dabbing at her eyes.

“What about?”

“You know.”

“No I don't.”

“About her accent.”

“Oh that.”

“Yes that”

“Have you two been talking about me behind my back? Comes to something when a girl can't go for a pee without her reputation being torn to shreds in her absence.” The cut glass syllables rang clear and true.

“Abigail thought you were a real sound-of-Bow-Bells-cockney dear. Loves your accent.”

“Abigail?”

“Did she really? What an absolute poppet she is!” The second witch beamed her appreciation of the compliment to the third.

“Abigail?” His voice rose a couple of octaves to a squawk on his repetition of the name. There seemed to be a slight constriction at the back of his throat.

“Yes, Abigail. Mildred picked it for you specially. She said it was appropriate. Such a pretty name too. Hope you like it.”

“But I've .... But I've already .... Hemmmmm” The third witch tried to clear the frog from his throat, tried to bring his voice back down to its usual register.

“What's wrong with Ralph .... Why .... ?” There wasn't actually a constriction in his throat now. It felt quite normal in fact, but his voice although it had lost its squawky edge, remained obstinately high. High with a sort of husky sexiness.

“Yer gave Ralph ter Mildred, remember. We've already bin there. She's just returnin' the complim'nt. Yer can't go frew life wiv'art a name. Wot's wrong wiv Habigail any'ow? Joanna Pennydugs 'ad a salamander called Habigail. Still 'as p'raps.” The second witch's thespian ambition was again in the ascendancy.

The first witch leant over, reclaimed the thermos flask, poured the remainder of its contents into the Winnie-the-Pooh mug, before passing it back to the third witch.

“Drink up,” she advised. “You don't want your throat to seize up at this point in your career. Not before the big moment. Not long to go now.”

The elderflower cordial was cool and soothing. It flowed down dispersing a feeling of well being that seem to spread out from his throat, spread out into his chest, further down into his stomach, into his whole body. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the contentment it brought. What's in a name .... that which we call a rose .... Not that one could describe him as a rose. He smiled at the thought. And it was only for tonight. Tomorrow he would be off away from here. It wasn't worth making a fuss about. Nothing was worth making a fuss about.

He opened his eyes again. The other two were watching him. Expectantly? Worried perhaps. After all they didn't want him cracking up now either. It wasn't long to go.

“Abigail?” The first witch cajoled..

“Yes,” he replied, his voice high, light and clear. No longer a tenor perhaps but that didn't seem so important now. As long as he could still speak the lines. That was what really mattered. And he was lucky really. They were such consummate professionals. Living the part. A lesson to be learnt.

The first witch was regarding him intently. “You sure you're happy with your part? Know your lines? Can live it?”

Funny the way she seemed almost to read his mind. He nodded.

“Good,” she smiled at him, as if welcoming him to their circle, “Mildred thought you would.”

The implied inclusiveness, coming on top of his new found ease of mind, emboldened the third witch.

“Tell me,” he said, “how old is Mildred? I mean all that about her and Walt. It makes a lovely story but .... well newts don't live more than a couple of years and .... I mean I know she looks as if .... well the warts don't help .... and if she trying to present a traditional image .... but she can't be really as old as all that. And you and Hermione must be in your mid twenties and yet ....”

The first witch sighed. “Witches don't have an age. Not like people. We're ageless. I mentioned before the difficulty I have with the conception of immortality. It's because for us mortality is a theoretical concept only. Ceasing to be may or may not come our way sometime in an infinity.”

“Bugger the hinterlectual musin's Hediff. What abart the soup?” The second witch leant forward and clicked a small switch on the other side of the cauldron. She turned to the third witch. “The dahnside is that we miss art on birfdays.”

“She has to know sometime Hermione. So that she can come to terms with it. Sooner the better I say.”

“We've ter get frew this first. Otherwise it's awl a bit prematewer like. No point in crossin' yer bleedin' bridge 'fore yer gets ter the bleedin' river.” The second witch stirred the contents of the cauldron with a large ladle and sniffed appreciatively. “Stage fright's a funny fing. I've seen some so-called stars dry up on occashun. An' yer 'ave ter remember she's new ter it an' the langwidge ain't allers easy. Not fer those who was only born yest'rday.”

“I know my lines. It's not as if there are all that many. I'm not sure of what it all means but.....”

“Wot wot means?”

“Well who's Graymalkin, I though it might be me but, with you calling me Abigail .... and then there's Paddock ....”

“Paddock was a toad and Graymalkin a cat. But oddly enough, now I come to think about it, you're all three abigails. Mildred was right. You are most appropriately named.”

“Mildred allers 'ad cats, goin' right back. Allers called Graymalkin. She's very strong on tradishun is Mildred. Until the accident that is. Sad affair that were. She couldn't bring 'erself to 'ave another, not arter that. That's one ef the reas'ns Adrian's a newt, beggin' yer pardon, eft.”

The third witch tried to digest this added information. Without success. The first witch was prompted by his air of general bewilderment to enlighten him further.

“Mildred had an unforeseen encounter with a zeppelin over Hull in .... it must have been the winter of 1916 .... She was returning from some Hogmanay booze-up in Fort William, well she always claimed it was a Conference on Gaelic Folk Medicine but you can pull the other one, and she was running late.....”

“She were prob'bly 'alf piss'd. It were abart eleven o'clock. Pitch dark, pissin' dahn wiv rain, when awl ef a sudd'n, this great grey shape loom'd up ahrt ef nowhere, no bleedin' lights, no noffink, an' .... .”

“Mildred didn't see it until the last moment. Well I don't expect she was at her best and brightest if truth be told. She had had a succession of late nights with ample, and frequent, libations of the old uisge beatha, and .... .”

“It's not wot yer hexpect. Not in 1916. Not over 'Ull when ev'n the bleedin' seagulls had bin tuck'd up in their nests fer sev'ral 'ahrs snorin' their beaks orf. I mean in those days we witches practic'lly 'ad the monop'ly ef the hairways. Yer don't hexpect ter come across a bleedin' great Boche balloon floatin' arahnd at that time ef night .... Not hover 'Ull yer don't.”

“Whether she actually hit it or not is a moot point, but she certainly had to take violent evasive action, diving down and to her right. Then tossed by the turbulence of the propellers on the gondolas ..... well she must have dropped sheer for a couple of thousand feet. Always insists on riding side saddle does Mildred, even now, although you would have thought she would have learnt .... so by the time she had levelled off and was in full control again .....”

“Alaister 'ad vanish'd an'....”

“Alaister?”

“That were 'is name. Originally. Alaister McFly. Only 'as events prov'd 'e couldn't. Fly I mean.” The second witch sniggered. “Son ef the manse 'e were. From Glasgow orig'nally. 'Is dad 'ad upset Mildred wiv some sermon 'e preach'd abahrt the evils ef witchcraft, castin' haspershuns on 'er profeshun'l int'grity. He died when 'e fell inter the Clyde when rat-arsed two days later 'fore Mildred could get ter 'im, so she made do wiv the son an' .....”.

“Where does Graymalkin come into it?” The soup or whatever it was in the cauldron was simmering gently and was giving of a mouthwatering aroma. The third witch felt quite content. No more hot flushes. No more skin-crawling. Only tired. Tired and hungry. Increasingly more hungry than tired.

“Alaister was Graymalkin, well the latest one anyway. It gets confusing when they are all called the same so .... well we knew him as Alaister. Because it was his name,” the first witch explained helpfully. “Well Alaister, or Graymalkin if you prefer, had fallen off ....”

“'E allers sat on 'er besom amongst ....”

“On her bosom? Wasn't that a mite inconvenient ....”

“Naw. On 'er besom, clorf ears”, the second witch gave the third a suspicious glance, “on 'er broomstick, among the twigs where it's nice an' shelter'd. But 'e were gawn. Must 'ave bin dislodg'd by the involunt'ry acrobatics.”

“Mildred was really very upset. She had grown very fond of him. Well you do you know. Familiars are special and she had had him for a long time. A couple of hundred years give or take the odd decade. She went down to look for him of course. But no sign. Not then anyway.”

The third witch stretched his legs. He idly noticed slenderness of his ankles. Funny he had never appreciated it before, but he did have rather shapely legs. The sort that any girl would be jealous of. Smiling to himself he tucked them back to one side where they rested against his gently rounded buttocks. The feeling of well-being persisted and the arrant nonsense being indulged in by the other two now seemed amusing, interesting almost. Worth playing among with. It seemed increasingly to have its own weird logic. Easy to sink into. Easy to accept.”

“As yer can imagine Mildred were right miff'd. She took it ahrt on the Boche balloon first.”

“She destroyed it?”

“Good Lord no.” The first witch sounded quite shocked. “Mildred isn't the destructive type. She has more respect for nature than to destroy that which has been created. She just improved it a bit. As is her wont.”

She accompanied this observation with a smile of particular sweetness directed at the third witch.

“She add'd a bit more 'ydrogen. Henlarged the canopy like. 'Fore they knew were they were, them Krauts were up several fahrsand feet 'igher than they 'ad hintend'd. 'Igher than their designer feller had hintend'd even .... .”

“They had been quite culpably negligent in my opinion,” the first witch pronounced sternly. “No provision at all had been made for any freakish occurrence resulting in a sudden gain in altitude and their operating ceiling had been placed quite unrealistically low.”

“It can be bleedin' cold over 'Ull in Jan'rary. It can be bleedin' cold there in June come ter that,” the second witch shivered, “but in effin' Jan'rary brass monkeys give it a wide berf! So it were no surprise when not only did the gear wot operat'd the rudders freeze up, but the gas escape valves wos simil'ly haffect'd.”

“And at that altitude it remains cold of course. There have been a few sightings over the years. Auguste Piccard in 1931, and then Jeannette in 1934, both claimed to have seen something. And NASA had to postpone a couple of launches in the early days because of an unidentified blip on their screens.”

The first witch shrugged her elegant shoulders. “As I said, it doesn't do to get on the wrong side of Mildred.”

“You did say that there was no sign of Graymalkin, of Alaister, then. Did he surface .... I mean .... was he found later?”

“Yerse. Yer couldn't make it up if yer was writin' one ef them bleedin' stories, but it's 'as true as I'm sittin' 'ere. Alaister 'ad fallen inter the 'old ef an 'erring trawler bound ahrt ef 'Ull fer the North Sea grahnds. Wot few 'errings they 'ad already caught 'ad cushion'd 'is fall and 'e manag'd ter survive in spite 'ef 'avin' the odd ton of 'erring dropp'd on 'is 'ead ev'ry few 'ahrs.”

“It was a good fortnight before the trawler made it back to Hull. And a couple of months after that before Mildred and Alaister were reunited. He was very badly traumatised. Quite useless as a familiar. Not fit for purpose. And, as his fur was impregnated with the smell of fish, for society either. He ended his days in a feline psychiatric ward in the Royal Dick School of Veterinary Studies in Edinburgh. Mildred arranged it all. No expense spared. Very good about things like that is Mildred.”

“But Mildred couldn't bear the fought ef 'avin anuver cat, anuver Graymalkin. Not wiv poor Alaister allers at the back ef 'er mind. So when Adrian cross'd 'er path it were natural that 'e ended up as a newt. Pertic'l'rly as they was, even then, fetchin' quite extorshunate amahnts ef dosh on the hopen market.”

“Though newts do have their limitations. Even when they're efts .... although one has to admit that Adrian is very willing. Eager to please. Is now anyway. Still one needs to move on. Onwards and upwards as it were.” This general observation elicited a nod of affirmation from the second witch although its purport was not altogether clear to the third.

“Yerse.” Then. “D'yer fink it's time yet?”

The first witch nodded. “You may as well. They'll be here soon. We need to give it time.”

The second witch opened her clutch bag and. After fumbling about in its depths for some time, she produced a small plastic sachet. This she opened with her teeth. Small, sharp, rather predatory looking, teeth.

The third witch watched with interest. A detached sort of interest. He had the feeling of being in the audience rather than on the stage. A lock of hair escaped and fell across his eyes so he saw only a vague, veiled, scene before him. He brushed it back impatiently. An odd languid impatience in which he seemed to be detached from normal time. His fingers snagged on a clip and he felt a tug on his scalp. Quite a painful, urgent, tug. He swept his fingers through again, long scarlet nails combing back, releasing the clip and re-anchoring it through errant tresses in a simple, easy, movement. A simple, natural, gesture.

The first witch smiled at him.

The second witch carefully sprinkled into the cauldron the contents of the plastic sachet and, unhooking a ladle, stirred them into the simmering soup with a slow figure of eight motion.

A rich, spicy aroma filled the air. An aroma redolent of all the herbs that could be imagined. Tarragon and basil, rosemary and sage, thyme and coriander, rue and cumin, marjoram and .... sometimes one and sometimes another predominated. The third witch's sense of smell was overwhelmed as it chased fleeting clues, transitory elements, that shifted and changed before they could be identified. A bewitchment of scents that filled his nostrils, permeated deep into his brain, awakened there unimaginable imaginings.

“What on earth is it? Delicious is nowhere near adequate .... “

“Baxter's Game Soup's the base. We allers keep a few tins 'andy. Mildred favours mullig'tawny but as she ain't 'ere .... That an' a few 'erbs wot Mildred keeps fer special occayshuns ....”

“Special occasions?”

“Birthdays. Birthdays and such, anniversaries, the usual things.”

“Is it someone's birthday,” asked the third witch, his voice seeming to echo, clear and sultry, in the cavern of his head.

“Hermione's.”

“Hediff's.”

The first and second witches spoke simultaneously, before again with one accord correcting themselves.

“Mildred's”

Somewhere at the back of the third witch's mind a fragment of a previous conversation regarding witches and their sad deprivation as regards birthdays floated to the surface. And sank again.

“Would you like to try some ?” The first witch gestured towards the cauldron.

“Please. If I may? I do feel rather hungry .... and it smells so ....”

“S'long time since yer brekf'st. Nat'ral yer shud be feelin' a mite peckish. 'And us yer mug.”

The second witch expertly, and with a certain professional flourish, filled the Winnie-the-Pooh mug with the ladle.

The third witch cradled the mug in his hands, savouring the warmth, the aroma that intoxicated the senses bringing a sense on well-being, of rightness. Winnie-the-Pooh peeked at him through his fingers and seemed to wink at him.

The hunger that had been growing within him was now urgent. But for a moment longer he hesitated, savouring that hunger, milking the anticipation, the delight that the first sip promised.

His mug halfway to his lips .... “Aren't you having any?”

“Afterwards,” said the first witch, “afterwards, never before.”

“I'll 'ave a little more whisky fust. 'Fore Hediff 'ogs it awl.” said the second.

The third witch sipped from his mug. Cautiously lest it be too hot. Then more deeply. It was all that its aroma promised. All and so much more. Its warmth spread through him. Revitalising him, soothing away all that ever stood in his way. All that had ever prevented him from being what he was destined to be.

He shook his head in disbelief. He shook his head to clear from out of it all the old broken shards of a lost self. He shook his head to free his long golden hair that swirled around him, caressing his cheeks, whispering to him of secrets that were soon to be his.

“Feelin' better now?” The second witch was refilling his mug. He must have handed it back to her. “Puts 'airs on yer chest donnit? Or in yewer case p'r'aps not.”

He took a small sip from the replenished mug and sat there, breathing in the warm fragrance arising. The feeling of well-being was accompanied by an increased awareness of self. He was more than ever conscious of his body and the movement of his body. He told his left arm to move and it did so, sweeping up to touch, to check his earring, sweeping down to lightly caress his breast. A breast that felt warm and responsive, A breast that transmitted back the sense of being touched. A breast that belonged. He told his right arm to move and it did so. Replicating the actions of the left. Earring, breast .... and further down .... sliding over the silkiness of his dress, moving it over the softness of his body.

Feeling down, sliding over the curves and then ....

And then he knew. Strangely was not surprised. Felt he had in some way known for some time. Perhaps had always known.

“So it's true.” Not a question. Not now. Too late for questions now. A statement.

“Yes,” said the first witch. “It's true.”

“You are witches. Real witches. Not just ....”

“Yerse. Yer took a lot ef convincin', but now .... now yer know.”

“And I too .... You've changed me into one .... to be ....”

“No. Not that. Even Mildred can't do that. Witches just are. Nobody can make one.”

“Then what am I? Just a girl? But why?”

“Yer knows why. But not just a girl. Yew'er Habigail. There's worse fings.”

“Be thankful for small mercies. Mildred must have been in an exceptionally good mood. Had a lottery win or something. You could have been another newt.”

“Naw. Not anuver bleedin' heft. There's limits ter wot an heft can do. 'Owever willin'.”

“Yes Mildred always had a strong sense of the practical with which to leaven her charitable instincts. A girl is so much more useful.”

“Hits not that Hadrian don't try 'is best. 'Course 'e does. 'E'd be a fool ter do huverwise. But 'e is small. 'As ter be ter fit inter a bra. An' sadly portability 'as its dahnside.”

“There are physical disadvantages in having a newt, however willing, as a personal servant. Hand washing and ironing one's dainties. Cooking, A whole raft of household duties. And even acting as understudy on occasions such as this. A girl is comparatively high maintenance of course but one can't have everything.”

“Swings an' rahndabarts. But yewe'll be someone that Mildred can 'ave girlish chats wiv. Bein' a witch can be quite a solitary hoccupashun. So a confid'nte is allers ewesf''l. Girls offer more in the way ef conversayshun than yer av'rage toad or cat.”

The second witch kindly sought to brighten up the third's day by adding.

“An' Mildred can be quite interestin' yer know. Full ef little japes and rem'niscences. A laugh-a-minute. Sometimes. When she's in the mood.”

“You'll grow into it Abigail. End up quite liking it I expect. Being a girl can be fun too. Let's face it as a man you were no great shakes. More opportunities for sexual gratification as Abigail. Mildred is all for a bit of lewdness. Adrian has a frightful reputation as far as spawning is concerned.”

The first witch smiled. “Drink up, dear. It will make you feel better. So much better.”

And so he finished, as in a trance, the still hot, aromatic, thick, soup. And the kernel of panic that had been growing in his gorge subsided. An inner numbness of spirit seized him, slowing down thought, calming the senses.

He realised that imperceptibly darkness had crept all around them. It had never been very bright of course. Shadows had always been murky and indistinct, fading into each other. But now with the evening had come the dying of the light. Shadows had grown bolder, had deepened and spread into an all embracing darkness.

A shaft of light suddenly illuminated the cauldron reflecting back onto the three witches faces. Reducing them, as seen from outside their glowing circle, into silhouettes.

“It's time,” said the first witch, her voice dropping to a whisper was low, urgent. “Are we all ready?”

The third witch saw by the ember glow from beneath the cauldron that she had begun to discretely beat time with the ladle, setting the cadence for them all. He felt part of it. Felt involved in this coven. Discovered within himself the first bourgeonings of a belonging.

And then they commenced. First Edith, then Hermione, and then himself, herself, Abigail.

1st Witch: When shall we three meet again?
In thunder, lightening, or in rain?

2nd Witch: When the hurlyburly's done,
When the battle's lost, and won.

3rd Witch: That will be ere the set of sun.

1st Witch: Where the place?

2nd Witch: Upon the heath.

3rd Witch: There to meet with MacBeth.

1st Witch: I come, Graymalkin.

All: Paddock calls:- anon!
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
Hover through the fog and filthy air.

Not the dismal hag-croakings, the discordant screechings, that jealous humans once ascribed to witches, but the voices, soft and seductive, of three beautiful women. Soft seductive tones that wreathed out into the audience as the fumes wreathed around the cauldron. Tendrils of sound that entwined themselves into the innermost recesses of the minds of those who heard them, making the women glance at their partners in sudden unease; making the men shift uncomfortably in their seats with an ill-defined sense of unobtainable desire. Soft seductive voices making all who heard suddenly aware of a threat to the settled, accepted, ordering of their lives.

The light that had shone down upon the circle of witches faded and died. Leaving them cocooned again in their own dark world.

The spotlights were now concentrated on the far end of the stage were a group of characters were declaiming their lines. Scene 2. Of no concern to the witches.

“Not bad at all,” whispered the first witch. “In fact it went down very well. The rest will be a doddle. So much depends on getting them in the palm of your hand right from the off. After that it all falls into place.”

“”Cud've bin worse,” softly endorsed the second. “Young Habigail 'ere play'd a blinder too. Shud be plain sailin' next scene. From now on an' awl.”

The third witch felt drawn into this intimacy of success. She knew it would be all right. That the night and her part in it would be a success. She saw the first witch smiling at her, welcoming her into the fold. For tonight and for all those other nights, for all those other days, that stretched before her.

Again the whisper that carried clear to the three within the circle.

“No worries now Abigail?”

“No. No worries now Edith. Thank you.”

“Good!” The first witch smiled. “Mildred will be pleased.”

My heartfelt thanks to Erin who worked her magic on the teaser to this tale, weaving spells of HTML around it. I suspect the odd eye of toad may well have been added. Do look on Hatbox at the fantastic cover that she produced to grace this story there.

My thanks also to Bobbie who tried patiently to introduce me to the very basics of HTML. Only my innate stupidity foiled her efforts. Perhaps one day ....