That Magic TOUCH
Does a witch live there?’ Oscar asks me, as we walk past the black house surrounded by a high stone wall.
‘Of course not,’ I reply. I’m just tall enough to see part of the garden, where the branches and trunks of shrubs and small trees are intricately twisted and interlocked.
‘It’s dark and scary,’ Oscar says.
I smile and give his hand a little squeeze. ‘People like different colours for their houses, that’s all,’ I reply, although I understand why, to seven-year-old Oscar, the house looks creepy.
When we get to the school gates, I give him a kiss, remind him I’m working late this week and his gran will pick him up. I’ve recently sold our city flat on a busy road and moved into a house nearer Mum. The area is quiet and she’s delighted to help out.
After work that evening, I pass the black house and, through the wrought-iron gate, see a lady with frizzy white hair and wearing a long grey skirt, sweeping her path – not, I note, with a broomstick.
