It was Fi’s mother who taught me how to knit. Fi and I met when we were four years old and I wet my knickers on my first day of school. I remember, with excruciating shame, turning to the small dumpy girl next to me and demanding she take off her knickers and swap with me. Bless her generous heart, she did. Kind-hearted to a fault and blissfully practical, Fi trained as a plumber and electrician, and then promptly moved to London, set up her own business and briskly started making a fortune. She married a nice, sensible, kind man, had three boys in quick succession and proceeded to juggle marriage, motherhood and a thriving business as if it were the easiest thing in the whole world. Fi has always knitted, her rough and tumble boys moaning about their home-knits (yet secretly loving the fact their mother weaves a single red thread through every single sweater, to keep them safe and sound).
‘To ward off the pixies. You remember? Like Mum told us,’ said Fi, a twinkle in her sharp blue eyes.
Fi’s mother was a huge-hearted woman, married to the village butcher. You could barrel into her soft pillow of a body and feel safe as safe could be. I spent as much of my childhood as I possibly could in her kitchen, chairs set close by the woodburning range, needles clacking.
So I suppose it was in the hopes of recreating that warm fuzzy safe feeling, that I walked into the village hall for the Knitting Group, bag in hand, Rommel at heel.

It was a small hall, set up into the hill. Even before I opened the door, the damp smacked me in the nose. In the vestibule there was a large laminated map of the surrounding area and a notice-board with dog-eared bits of paper advertising the delights of the short mat bowls team; bell-ringing; 50+ and Fabulous Keep-Fit and a meeting of the WI with a talk from Brigadier Blah about his holiday in Malta (slideshow eagerly awaited). Inside it was clad in wood panelling, with antlers set high around the room. A fifty-something woman, tall and broad with a shelf of a bosom, marched forwards with her hand stuck out.
‘Judith. The Willows. Pleased to meet you. You must be Rowan. Epiphany.’
I nodded faintly. Home as surname? Whatever paddles your canoe.
She pumped my hand and pulled me to meet the small group sitting in a circle by a gas heater, rather like a bunch of vagrants round a dustbin fire.
‘Maura. Fo…,’ She stopped, drew back a moment in thought, then said firmly. ‘Maura: Honeysuckle Cottage. Rowan: Epiphany.’
I wondered what she had been about to say, as I shook hands with a rather dumpy moon-faced woman, maybe a little older than me.
‘Hello. Your house is gorgeous. I was so envious when it came on the market. We live at Honeysuckle Cottage, down Holloway Lane. Well, we will do, when the work gets done. I suppose we’re really living in the caravan at the moment.’ She giggled in a somewhat irritating manner.
Judith tut-tutted her quiet and carried on with the introductions which went thus:
Camilla: Combe Barton. A rather attractive woman in her mid-forties, wearing clearly expensive but very low-key clothes – cashmere sweater, loose trousers, low pumps.
Edna: Glebe Cottage. Prime granny material. Bound to be knitting bootees.
Sheila: 4, The Mead. A ball of a woman, like one of those baby LEGO toys, with a teeny tiny head that pops inside when it rolls over. Rather piggy, shifty eyes and the sort of nose that heralds a drink problem.
Jane: Not in the village. Said with a sort of disapproving sniff. ‘She comes from E***’ A raised eyebrow, a wave of a hand as if, if it wasn’t an address in ‘our’ village, it didn’t count. Jane shook my hand and gave me what I swear was a quick wink. She looked a bit older than me, late thirties/early forties even but nice. Tallish, short hair and (was it wishful thinking) a whiff of Off. Not just off out of the village but Off Off, as in the city.

Judith fussed around me like a mother hen, settling me on a chair near the heater. ‘Bring a cushion next time, dear. The wood gets a bit hard on the posterior.’
We got out our knitting, everyone leaning over to see what I was working on. It’s a sweater for Fi actually. She never has time to knit for herself and so I’m doing one for her, in finest midnight blue mohair. The stitch was quite involved but, once you got it, pretty straightforward. I’m a lazy knitter – can’t be doing with fairisle or cable – don’t like colour changes either. It’s been sitting in a drawer for months, so it’s high time I got to work on it, before it goes out of fashion.

They chatted about the usual sort of village stuff. So-and-so going to hospital; so-and-so dying, so-and-so going on a round the world cruise. How awful the cottage opposite the shop was – you’d think they’d clear all that rubble but no! An eyesore. Something should be done. It was mainly Judith, Edna and Sheila who did the talking.
After a while, Maura got up, put down her knitting (a rather shapeless man’s sweater with atrocious tension) and went to make tea. A plate of Rich Tea, custard creams and garibaldi – I was back in childhood once again.
Then the door opened slowly, deliberately. I had my back to it but I felt the draught and caught a whiff of scent – something exotic and heady - amber and saffron, lemons and cardamom maybe. As if you had breathed in hashish from a hookah, light-headed and fuzzy round the edges. Quick furtive glances flashed between some of the women. Eyes slightly widened, lips pursed and sucked inwards. OK, so this was clearly a significant arrival. It was obviously a woman – no man would provoke such a complex reaction. I could sense pockets of fear, jealousy, uncertainty, a pinch of grudging admiration, a scratching of pure hate. Above all, a separateness. This woman was way outside the group. I looked casually over my shoulder, determined not to look overly nosey.

She stood in the doorway. It was the woman from the church. Tall, possibly six feet, long-boned, loosely-strung, joints strong. Black jeans, big black boots, red tee-shirt and a man’s tweed jacket, patched with velvet and tartan – random, mismatched buttons giving a magpie, rather charming, effect. Silver jewellery, serried ranks of bangles up her arm. A huge ring, ear-rings reminiscent of tribal masks. Black hair, uncombed, tangled, wayward. How old? Impossible to tell – she could have been 35 or 70.
‘Good morning, ladies.’ Her voice was rich, low and slightly husky, as though she smoked strong Turkish cigarettes from an ebony holder.
‘Eden.’ A statement rather than an acknowledgment from Judith. No following house name.

Her eyes swept lightly over the company in a lazy, almost amused way. I found myself unsure as to whether to stare boldly at her or look away. She had a very curious effect, unsettling. I wasn’t sure if I liked her or was shit-scared of her.
Inevitably I caught her eye. She nodded briefly. ‘You’re one of the new people. Up at Epiphany. We’ll need to talk sometime soon.’

With that, she turned and left.
I’ll confess I was a little freaked out. Why did we have to talk? Why me? What was she talking about? But the others were reassuring.
‘She’s just plain weird, that one,’ said Sheila. ‘I reckon she’s a witch.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Camilla, cut-glass tones. ‘She’s a very fine plantswoman. Very knowledgeable about herbs in particular. Well-travelled too. I heard she picked up her dog in the desert. Beautiful thing.’
Jane agreed. ‘I’ve always wanted to talk to her. But she isn’t what you’d call easy. She keeps herself to herself. And why not?’ She shrugged.

Why not indeed. I’ve always been interested in herbs so I quite like the idea of having our own wisewoman/witch on the doorstep. I think I might like Eden. She’s certainly far more interesting than what I expected from this place.

Still no Aidan, by the way. But he promised he’d be home tomorrow.


PS
How did I remember all those names and addresses? Sadly I don’t possess perfect recall. Judith, efficiency personified, gave me a sheet with everyone’s names, addresses and phone numbers (but not an email in sight!). Bless.
I’m sorry, once again I am hopelessly over length. As I keep saying, please don’t feel obliged to read this…heaven only knows there are plenty of other, less wordy, options.