The Weekend Witches and Other Stories by Lynne Roberts
fine patch for the bicycle and sat behind Joe happily as he pedaled home.
Over the next few days, Mr and Mrs Clark were taken aback to find that there were only a few requests for Verity’s services.
‘I can’t understand it,’ puzzled Mr Clark.
‘Nor can I,’ agreed his wife.
‘You don’t need the money, anyway,’ Verity pointed out. ‘I’ve given you my prize for the fishing competition.’
‘That was very good of you, my dear,’ said her father, ‘but I don’t know why people aren’t asking for you anymore. I mean, It rained this morning just as Mrs Leopold hung out her washing, but she never said a word about it.’
‘I’ll go down to the supermarket,’ Mrs Clark decided. ‘There is bound to be someone there who will tell me what is going on.’
She dashed off down the street and was soon home again. She stormed into the living room where her husband was reading the paper.
‘I have found out why they don’t want Verity,’ she said grimly. ‘They say she caused a tidal wave at the fishing competition and they don’t trust her any more. Old Arthur even came up and said he’d rather let the weather happen naturally than have Verity around.’
‘And I’ve been reading some of the letters in the paper,’ fumed Mr Clark. ‘They say Verity needs discipline. They suggest she goes to school.’
‘Yes!’ shouted Verity. ‘I’m going to be normal! Please let me go to school, Mum and Dad. You have enough money to live on now and I would like to grow up like everybody else.’
Her parents discussed this for several days. Every morning Verity would look at them hopefully but it wasn’t until a week had passed that Mr and Mrs Clark called for a family conference.
‘We have decided that you can go to school Verity. Your mother and I are going to open an umbrella factory instead. With the weather being unpredictable, people will need to carry an umbrella at all times in case of rain.’
‘Thank you,’ cried Verity joyfully.
‘You’ll have to promise not to use your talents at school, though,’ her mother warned her. ‘We don’t want you squandering them for no purpose.’
‘Of course,’ Verity assured her.
So Verity got her wish to be normal and went off to school and ballet class and flute lessons with all the other little girls. And if it just happened to be fine on School Sports Days or if Mrs Munstead, who nobody liked, just happened to step into a very large puddle outside her classroom door, well that wasn’t Verity’s doing. Or was it?
Riding Lessons
Bridget O’Sullivan wanted a pony. When she was four years old she had sat on the back of a fat little Shetland pony at a fair and been led around for a short time. Ever since that day, she had dreamed of a pony of her own. Bridget had read all sixteen books in the Bessie and her Pony series, and the wall above her bed was decorated with pictures of horses and ponies cut from magazines or lovingly drawn in crayon or pastels.
‘I wish I could have a pony,’ she sighed, as she set the table for dinner one evening.
‘We’ve been through all this,’ said her mother wearily. ‘You know we don’t have the money for a pony and we certainly don’t have the room. It’s crowded enough as it is.’
The O’Sullivan house was certainly crowded. With two parents and six children, ranging from Bernadette aged sixteen down to four year old Patrick, the house was bursting at the seams. Bridget knew better than to ask why they didn’t buy a bigger house. It was all something to do with The Downturn. Bridget was unsure what The Downturn was, but it meant that her father wasn’t getting as much building work as he had been. That in turn meant less money to feed and clothe a wife and six growing children. Bridget didn’t mind sharing a bedroom with Bernadette and Mary-Clare, but it was hard to find a space alone to think or daydream.
‘What about riding lessons?’ Bridget persisted. ‘If I can’t have a pony I could go to lessons and ride one there at the Stables and that would be the next best thing.’
Two of Bridget’s friends, Emily and Maddison went to riding lessons. They had smart black hats and riding jackets, with cream jodhpurs and shiny brown boots.
‘Riding lessons cost money,’ said Mrs O’Sullivan, brushing her hair back from her forehead with the back of her hand as she held a lettuce out to rinse it under the tap at the kitchen sink.
‘What if I could find really cheap lessons?’ asked Bridget hopefully.
‘Really, Bridget. I wish you would give this idea up. Even if you could have free lessons we still couldn’t afford the clothing and gear you would need. Now get the plates out of the warming drawer, there’s a good girl. And call the others for dinner.’
Bridget scowled, but did as she was told.
Tea was cold chicken and salad, and Bernadette yelled as she bit on a bone.
‘Ow. Oh, it’s the wishbone. Here you go, Bridget, you can pull it with me. Make a wish.’
Bridget closed her eyes tightly as she hooked her little finger around the curve of the bone. ‘I wish I could have riding lessons,’ she thought, and pulled hard. There was a sudden snap and she opened her eyes to see she was holding the larger piece.
‘You won,’ said Bernadette, putting the bones into the scrap bucket. ‘I hope it was a good wish.’
‘It was,’ nodded Bridget, although she didn’t hold out much hope of it ever coming true.
The next day was Saturday and Bridget and Neal walked down to the shop to buy two loaves of bread and some bananas for lunch. Bridget didn’t mind shopping. There were always interesting things to be seen in the windows. The gift shop had sparkling glass bowls and vases in all the colours of the rainbow and even the hardware was intriguing with its jumble of nails, door handles, shiny tools and racks of seed packets. This week the Travel agency had posters of palm trees and golden beaches with a plastic lady in a deck chair wearing a straw hat. Bridget sighed enviously before following Neal to the supermarket.
With the bread and bananas safely stored in a shopping bag, Bridget and Neal started for home. They made a detour to watch a section of footpath being dug up by men with shovels and wheelbarrows and pneumatic drills. Neal would have watched this for hours but Bridget finally dragged him away.
‘My ears are banging and pounding,’ she complained.
‘It was great though, wasn’t it? I’m going to work on one of those drills when I grow up,’ grinned Neal. ‘Come on, race you to the lamp post.’
‘That’s not fair, I wasn’t ready,’ wailed Bridget as she pelted after him.
They walked more slowly after this as Neal led the way. Neal loved exploring and would often take them down streets and through small parks that Bridget had never even known existed.
‘See that house over there?’ Neal pointed to a large dilapidated house, surrounded by large dark trees.
‘Yeah, why?’
‘It’s a witch’s house,’ hissed Neal.
Bridget was determined not to react to this.
‘No it’s not.’
‘Yes it is. A real live witch lives there. I’ve seen her.’
By this time they were walking past the letterbox by the gate of the house in question. A rather crooked sign hung from the box.
Araminta. D. Nightshade
said the sign.
‘See, that proves it. That’s a witch’s name,’ said Neal with relish.
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Bridget.
‘Well, then I dare you to knock on the door,’ said Neal triumphantly.
Bridget groaned. How typical. Neal was always daring her to do the most outrageous things and she knew that if she didn’t do them he would call her a chicken and tease her mercilessly for days.
‘All right, I will,’ she said firmly, hoping Neal couldn’t see the way her knees were wobbling.
Walking up the steps to the front door, Bridget knocked firmly before her courage deserted her. There was silence. Bridget was relieved. She was about to turn around to call to Neal that no one was home when the door cr
eaked open. Flustered, Bridget turned to see a plump, white haired old woman standing in the doorway. She was dressed in a floral apron over a faded grey dress and her hair was escaping from its hairpins in wisps around her face.
‘What is it you want?’ enquired the woman politely.
Bridget’s mind went blank. She stood there for an agonized minute then blurted out the first thing that came into her head. ‘Do you give riding lessons?’ she asked.
The old woman looked taken aback then a slow smile spread across her face.
‘Well, I suppose could,’ she replied. ‘I never have before, but I guess there is no reason not to start.’
Bridget looked at her in astonishment. The old woman was looking at her, waiting for Bridget to say something.
‘Have a banana,’ said Bridget desperately, thrusting one into the old woman’s hands.
‘How kind.’ The old woman looked surprised but delighted. ‘Do you want a riding lesson now?’ she asked.
‘Um, I have to take the shopping home,’ stammered Bridget.
‘But then you’ll come back? The lessons will be free,’ the old woman added hastily.
‘I’ll come back this afternoon,’ gulped Bridget. ‘I have to go now.’
She turned and raced back to the footpath to find Neal waiting for her a few houses further on.
‘What did she say?’ he asked in awe.
‘She said thank you. I gave her a banana,’ said Bridget, then dissolved into relieved laughter. She and Neal giggled all the way home thinking of all the ways a witch could use a banana.
‘She could turn it into a canoe. It’s the right shape.’
‘Then if it
Over the next few days, Mr and Mrs Clark were taken aback to find that there were only a few requests for Verity’s services.
‘I can’t understand it,’ puzzled Mr Clark.
‘Nor can I,’ agreed his wife.
‘You don’t need the money, anyway,’ Verity pointed out. ‘I’ve given you my prize for the fishing competition.’
‘That was very good of you, my dear,’ said her father, ‘but I don’t know why people aren’t asking for you anymore. I mean, It rained this morning just as Mrs Leopold hung out her washing, but she never said a word about it.’
‘I’ll go down to the supermarket,’ Mrs Clark decided. ‘There is bound to be someone there who will tell me what is going on.’
She dashed off down the street and was soon home again. She stormed into the living room where her husband was reading the paper.
‘I have found out why they don’t want Verity,’ she said grimly. ‘They say she caused a tidal wave at the fishing competition and they don’t trust her any more. Old Arthur even came up and said he’d rather let the weather happen naturally than have Verity around.’
‘And I’ve been reading some of the letters in the paper,’ fumed Mr Clark. ‘They say Verity needs discipline. They suggest she goes to school.’
‘Yes!’ shouted Verity. ‘I’m going to be normal! Please let me go to school, Mum and Dad. You have enough money to live on now and I would like to grow up like everybody else.’
Her parents discussed this for several days. Every morning Verity would look at them hopefully but it wasn’t until a week had passed that Mr and Mrs Clark called for a family conference.
‘We have decided that you can go to school Verity. Your mother and I are going to open an umbrella factory instead. With the weather being unpredictable, people will need to carry an umbrella at all times in case of rain.’
‘Thank you,’ cried Verity joyfully.
‘You’ll have to promise not to use your talents at school, though,’ her mother warned her. ‘We don’t want you squandering them for no purpose.’
‘Of course,’ Verity assured her.
So Verity got her wish to be normal and went off to school and ballet class and flute lessons with all the other little girls. And if it just happened to be fine on School Sports Days or if Mrs Munstead, who nobody liked, just happened to step into a very large puddle outside her classroom door, well that wasn’t Verity’s doing. Or was it?
Riding Lessons
Bridget O’Sullivan wanted a pony. When she was four years old she had sat on the back of a fat little Shetland pony at a fair and been led around for a short time. Ever since that day, she had dreamed of a pony of her own. Bridget had read all sixteen books in the Bessie and her Pony series, and the wall above her bed was decorated with pictures of horses and ponies cut from magazines or lovingly drawn in crayon or pastels.
‘I wish I could have a pony,’ she sighed, as she set the table for dinner one evening.
‘We’ve been through all this,’ said her mother wearily. ‘You know we don’t have the money for a pony and we certainly don’t have the room. It’s crowded enough as it is.’
The O’Sullivan house was certainly crowded. With two parents and six children, ranging from Bernadette aged sixteen down to four year old Patrick, the house was bursting at the seams. Bridget knew better than to ask why they didn’t buy a bigger house. It was all something to do with The Downturn. Bridget was unsure what The Downturn was, but it meant that her father wasn’t getting as much building work as he had been. That in turn meant less money to feed and clothe a wife and six growing children. Bridget didn’t mind sharing a bedroom with Bernadette and Mary-Clare, but it was hard to find a space alone to think or daydream.
‘What about riding lessons?’ Bridget persisted. ‘If I can’t have a pony I could go to lessons and ride one there at the Stables and that would be the next best thing.’
Two of Bridget’s friends, Emily and Maddison went to riding lessons. They had smart black hats and riding jackets, with cream jodhpurs and shiny brown boots.
‘Riding lessons cost money,’ said Mrs O’Sullivan, brushing her hair back from her forehead with the back of her hand as she held a lettuce out to rinse it under the tap at the kitchen sink.
‘What if I could find really cheap lessons?’ asked Bridget hopefully.
‘Really, Bridget. I wish you would give this idea up. Even if you could have free lessons we still couldn’t afford the clothing and gear you would need. Now get the plates out of the warming drawer, there’s a good girl. And call the others for dinner.’
Bridget scowled, but did as she was told.
Tea was cold chicken and salad, and Bernadette yelled as she bit on a bone.
‘Ow. Oh, it’s the wishbone. Here you go, Bridget, you can pull it with me. Make a wish.’
Bridget closed her eyes tightly as she hooked her little finger around the curve of the bone. ‘I wish I could have riding lessons,’ she thought, and pulled hard. There was a sudden snap and she opened her eyes to see she was holding the larger piece.
‘You won,’ said Bernadette, putting the bones into the scrap bucket. ‘I hope it was a good wish.’
‘It was,’ nodded Bridget, although she didn’t hold out much hope of it ever coming true.
The next day was Saturday and Bridget and Neal walked down to the shop to buy two loaves of bread and some bananas for lunch. Bridget didn’t mind shopping. There were always interesting things to be seen in the windows. The gift shop had sparkling glass bowls and vases in all the colours of the rainbow and even the hardware was intriguing with its jumble of nails, door handles, shiny tools and racks of seed packets. This week the Travel agency had posters of palm trees and golden beaches with a plastic lady in a deck chair wearing a straw hat. Bridget sighed enviously before following Neal to the supermarket.
With the bread and bananas safely stored in a shopping bag, Bridget and Neal started for home. They made a detour to watch a section of footpath being dug up by men with shovels and wheelbarrows and pneumatic drills. Neal would have watched this for hours but Bridget finally dragged him away.
‘My ears are banging and pounding,’ she complained.
‘It was great though, wasn’t it? I’m going to work on one of those drills when I grow up,’ grinned Neal. ‘Come on, race you to the lamp post.’
‘That’s not fair, I wasn’t ready,’ wailed Bridget as she pelted after him.
They walked more slowly after this as Neal led the way. Neal loved exploring and would often take them down streets and through small parks that Bridget had never even known existed.
‘See that house over there?’ Neal pointed to a large dilapidated house, surrounded by large dark trees.
‘Yeah, why?’
‘It’s a witch’s house,’ hissed Neal.
Bridget was determined not to react to this.
‘No it’s not.’
‘Yes it is. A real live witch lives there. I’ve seen her.’
By this time they were walking past the letterbox by the gate of the house in question. A rather crooked sign hung from the box.
Araminta. D. Nightshade
said the sign.
‘See, that proves it. That’s a witch’s name,’ said Neal with relish.
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Bridget.
‘Well, then I dare you to knock on the door,’ said Neal triumphantly.
Bridget groaned. How typical. Neal was always daring her to do the most outrageous things and she knew that if she didn’t do them he would call her a chicken and tease her mercilessly for days.
‘All right, I will,’ she said firmly, hoping Neal couldn’t see the way her knees were wobbling.
Walking up the steps to the front door, Bridget knocked firmly before her courage deserted her. There was silence. Bridget was relieved. She was about to turn around to call to Neal that no one was home when the door cr
‘What is it you want?’ enquired the woman politely.
Bridget’s mind went blank. She stood there for an agonized minute then blurted out the first thing that came into her head. ‘Do you give riding lessons?’ she asked.
The old woman looked taken aback then a slow smile spread across her face.
‘Well, I suppose could,’ she replied. ‘I never have before, but I guess there is no reason not to start.’
Bridget looked at her in astonishment. The old woman was looking at her, waiting for Bridget to say something.
‘Have a banana,’ said Bridget desperately, thrusting one into the old woman’s hands.
‘How kind.’ The old woman looked surprised but delighted. ‘Do you want a riding lesson now?’ she asked.
‘Um, I have to take the shopping home,’ stammered Bridget.
‘But then you’ll come back? The lessons will be free,’ the old woman added hastily.
‘I’ll come back this afternoon,’ gulped Bridget. ‘I have to go now.’
She turned and raced back to the footpath to find Neal waiting for her a few houses further on.
‘What did she say?’ he asked in awe.
‘She said thank you. I gave her a banana,’ said Bridget, then dissolved into relieved laughter. She and Neal giggled all the way home thinking of all the ways a witch could use a banana.
‘She could turn it into a canoe. It’s the right shape.’
‘Then if it