The Secrets of Thistle Cottage

‘Where are we going?’

‘You’ll see.’

I pulled on my boots and my own coat, and together we went outside into the dark street, Jem leading the way.

‘Here,’ she said in triumph as we reached the corner. ‘I lean against it when I’m waiting for Cassie.’

It was an information board aimed at tourists, showing some history of North Berwick. Jem got her phone out and shone the light at the pictures.

‘There’s an old map,’ she said. ‘I was looking at it this morning.’

I squinted at the board in the dim light. ‘I think this map is a bit later than the witches would have been,’ I said, trying to read the date.

‘Still could help.’

That was true. I looked again, trying to get my bearings. ‘So that’s the harbour, there,’ I said, pointing. ‘And that’s what’s now Forth Street. Shine the torch here, Jem.’

She obliged and I grinned. ‘It’s called Church Street,’ I said.

Jem clapped her hands. ‘Church Street. Let’s go and look that up, then.’

We hurried back to the house because it was chilly, with a real autumnal feel to the evening, and I made tea while Jem googled Church Street, North Berwick and witches, and gave a yelp of triumph.

‘I’ve found them,’ she said. ‘At least, I think I’ve found them.’

I took the mugs of tea through and put them on the coffee table. ‘Show me.’

‘Look, this is someone’s dissertation or something. It’s like a massive project on witches in Scotland,’ she said. She looked up at me and gave me a cheeky grin. ‘Maybe Cassie and I can just copy this whole thing.’

‘Jem,’ I said. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

‘Joke.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Look, Honor Seton is on this list here of accused witches. Her address is given as Church Street, and it says she was 35.’

‘Considerably younger than me,’ I said wryly.

Jem zoomed in on the list, looking pleased. ‘And it says she lived with her daughter Alice, who was 16. Maybe Alice was a witch too?’

I felt a bit uncomfortable. A mum with a teenage daughter, in our house, being accused of all sorts. It was a strange coincidence. ‘None of them were actually witches, Jem,’ I said, more sharply than I intended. I forced myself to smile and look more interested. ‘So what happened to them? Were they burned at the stake?’

‘It doesn’t say,’ Jem said, leaning forward. ‘There’s a photo of the original document. Hang on.’

She enlarged the picture, which was of a list of accused witches from the seventeenth century. It was written in old-fashioned hand, difficult – if not impossible – to read, without the helpful typed text beneath translating it for our twenty-first-century eyes. But there was nothing about the outcome of the trial – simply that it was said to be happening.

‘I’m sure we can find out what happened, now we know their names. Cassie’s mum could find us some books. Or she said one of the people who work at the museum with her might know more.’ Jem’s eyes were gleaming with interest. I drank in her happiness, pleased to see how much she was enjoying this. ‘Isn’t it funny, that we’re a mother and daughter living here, just like they were?’

‘Let’s hope we’re not accused of witchcraft,’ I said, stifling a yawn. ‘Gosh, I’m beat. I think it’s bedtime for me.’

‘I’ll come up too,’ said Jem, who may have been bolshy and independent, but still didn’t like being downstairs by herself.

I pulled her to me and kissed her temple. ‘You go on up, sweetheart, and get your stuff ready for the morning. I’ll be up in a minute. Remember to plug your phone in down here, please.’ That was another rule – no phones in the bedroom. I didn’t want Jem scrolling and stumbling on anything about her father. Or about me. I liked to know what she was looking at, although I knew I couldn’t control that all the time.

Jem threw me her phone to plug in, then she stuffed her books back into her bag and headed up to bed, calling a cheery goodnight to me as she went. I took our mugs into the kitchen. As I rinsed them out, I noticed the bin was overflowing. Jem had a very irritating habit of balancing rubbish on top like a smelly game of Jenga. Tutting, I pulled the bag out of the bin, tied it up, shoved my feet into the sliders I kept by the back door for this very reason, and went out to the wheelie bin.

The wind had really got up and the crashing of the waves was loud in the quiet night. I shivered as I dropped the bag into the bin, and let the lid close. Winter was definitely on its way.

A noise in the dark garden made me start, my heart thudding. Those witch stories had spooked me a little. I stayed still for a second, but there was nothing there – it must have been the wind.

I turned to go back inside and jumped again as a black cat ran in front of me.

‘Christ,’ I said, clutching my chest in fright. ‘Where did you come from?’ The little cat sat down and regarded me in the light from the kitchen without interest. I reached out a hand to stroke its head, and it hissed at me, making me recoil. ‘Oh,’ I gasped. The cat darted off into the darkness, leaving me shaking my head at my jumpiness. No more reading about witches before bed, I thought. It was clearly a bad idea.

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