Matilda trudged home from school. It had been another horrible day. Poppy Parker had discovered a new way to torment her.

‘Hey, look, it’s doormat,’ she called and her gang had taken up the nickname with enthusiasm.

‘Doormat, doormat,’ they chanted whenever they saw Matilda.

Matilda clambered over the stile. She hated them, hated school but, most of all, she hated Poppy Parker. She stomped across the field, shoulders hunched, eyes to the ground. Which was lucky because it meant she saw the tiny nest in time and managed not to step on it.
Matilda bent to look. The nest was a perfect cup of woven grass. Inside lay four miniature eggs, speckled brown. They reminded her of the freckles on her face, a feature which Poppy Parker had made fun of for months. The eggs were beautiful, though. Matilda took out her phone and took a careful picture.

There was a burst of birdsong high above her head. She looked up in time to see a tiny form tumble across the sky and land some distance away. She went to investigate, sure the creature was hurt. It was very hard to find but Matilda’s eyes were sharp. At last she spotted it - a small brown bird with a tiny crest on its head, quite hidden in the grass. It froze as she approached but soared up into the sky when she got too close. The song began again and Matilda hurried to record the beautiful liquid sounds.

She went home, full of the discovery, and asked her dad about the nest.

‘Aye, that’ll be a skylark, love. They nest on the ground. The parent was trying to draw you away from his nest so you wouldn’t hurt the eggs.’

Matilda spent the evening online, finding out everything she could about skylarks.

Tuesday was ‘Show and Tell’. Usually, Matilda was too shy to say anything but today her hand was the first to go up. She told the class all the things she had discovered - how the skylark was disappearing, all about its eggs and the tiny nest and, lastly, about its glorious song. Her classmates were fascinated, especially when she showed them her photo and the recording of the song.

At break Poppy Parker came up and asked her where the nest was. The bullying tone was missing.  She really wanted to know.  Matilda smiled at her.

‘I can’t tell you that.  It’s a secret,’ she said.

​And she walked away.

The little boy scuffed his shoes in the gravel at the road edge.
            ‘I’m tired.’
His sister walked on. He kicked a large stone into the grass verge and tried again.
            ‘Stop, Anna. My legs hurt.’
Anna wheeled round.
            ‘You’re a baby. Come on!’
A mutinous look descended.
            ‘No. You’re walking too fast.’
She scowled.
            ‘You’re too slow. Like a tortoise.’
His colour flared at the insult and she thought he was going to run at her in fury but he went back to kicking the stone chippings. Anna waited, arms folded. She was tempted to leave him but even at six she knew she had to be the responsible one. Then she heard a car. Startled, she ran back.
            ‘Mind out. There’s a car coming.’
Anna grabbed his hand as the car drew to a halt beside them. The passenger door opened.
            ‘Hey, kids. Do you want a lift home?’
Anna hung back, uncertain.
            ‘No, thank you.’
The man smiled.
            ‘Your mummy sent me to fetch you.’
He patted the seat invitingly.
            ‘Climb in.’
Anna felt her brother’s fingers slipping from her hand as he stepped towards the open door. Belatedly, she tried to pull him back.
            ‘No, Robert.’
He scowled at her.
            ‘My legs hurt.’
The man nodded.
            ‘Of course they do. Hop in and you’ll both be home in no time.’
Anna did not want to be rude but she did not want to get in the car. Mutely, she shook her head.
            ‘OK, then You don’t need to go anywhere. Just climb in and sit on these lovely leopard-skin seats.’
He patted the front seat, furry and spotted like a leopard. Anna thought it looked beautiful. Robert leaned forward.
            ‘Let’s, Anna.’
Anna watched the man. She did not like the way he looked at her, as if his eyes were burning.
            ‘No.’
The man cast a quick look round and scowled when he saw a tractor approaching. Without a word, he drove away. Anna grabbed Robert’s arm.
            ‘Come on. I’ll race you.’
The children scampered like rabbits towards home.
.

It sounded like the whine of a lawnmower and it was getting on my nerves.  The motor had some fault which created a shrill, stuttering sound which was impossible to ignore however hard I tried.  In desperation I slammed all the windows shut and returned to my work.

The next interruption was the doorbell.  First a short, hesitant burst, then the long determined ring of someone who refused to go away.  I cursed, jumped up and threw open the front door.  It smashed against the wall with a satisfying wallop and shards of glass flew out onto the doorstep, liberally covering my visitor with icy splinters.

            ‘Er...’
            ‘Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.’

I began to shut the door against the unwelcome guest but met some resistance.  One hand, holding a leather bound book, pushed back.

            ‘Er...’ he said again.
            ‘What?  I’m busy.’
            ‘Er... Busy?  With what?’
            ‘My work.  What do you want?’
            ‘Er... I need to tell you something.  Can I come in?’

            His voice did not sound eager to enter.  It sounded like the voice of someone who wanted to be anywhere except on my doorstep.

            ‘Come in?  No!’

I took in the meek demeanour and the give-away clerical collar and realised what his mission must be.

            ‘I suppose you’re collecting for something?  What is it?  The church tower crumbling to dust?’
            ‘Er... No.  Not exactly that.’
            ‘Well?  I haven’t got all day.  What do you want?’
            ‘Er...  I wondered.  Did you hear the exorcism?’
            ‘The what?’
            ‘The exorcism.  I thought I was getting through but then all the windows slammed and I lost the connection.’

I stared at him.

            ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

At the word ‘Hell’ he flinched and held up the book in a defensive gesture.  I read the words ‘Holy Bible’ in gold lettering on the cover.

            ‘It’s just that you’re dead, you see.  And the estate agent wants to sell the house and there are no takers, what with the haunting and the poltergeist activity and all...’

Words gushed from his mouth in a tumbled torrent.

            ‘So... er... I was asked to undertake an exorcism.’

I scowled at him.

            ‘Well, you can’t do it now.  I’m busy.’
            ‘Er... Only...  Did you know you’re dead?  Only some spirits don’t realise and...’
            ‘And what?’
            ‘Well, sometimes they just need a nudge, to be told and then they... Go.’

Despite myself I was interested.

            ‘Go where?’
            ‘Er... To heaven, I suppose.  Or, you know.  The other place.’
            ‘For a vicar, you don’t sound very sure about any of that.  Anyway, I’m busy and I’m not interested.  Goodbye.’

I tried to shut the door but he pushed back, with a little more force.

            ‘Er... it’s not really something you can ignore.  I mean, you’re dead.  You need to leave this sphere.’
            ‘Sphere? What are you talking about? I’m not going anywhere.  This is my home.’
            ‘Not any more.’

He opened up his Bible and started muttering something which sounded suspiciously like Latin.  It buzzed in my ears like the subsonic drone of a mosquito.  I tried once more to shut the door but this time there was greater resistance and the priest took a step forward, crossing my threshold.  With a howl of fury I threw everything I could at him.  Hats, gloves and scarves sailed by in a whirlwind of wool.  A vase shattered into fragments around his head.  Even the doormat lashed its way up into the air and did its best to envelop him in its folds.  At last, exhausted, I held up my hand.

            ‘Wait!’

The Latin stumbled to a halt.

            ‘What for?’
            ‘This is really rude, you know.  You’re trying to evict me from my home.’
            ‘It’s not an eviction.  The dead don’t have rights. This is an exorcism.’

I fixed my eyes on a small, angry pimple on his neck and squeezed hard.  He flinched but did not back down. I tried a more conciliatory tone of voice.

            ‘How is that fair?  I didn’t ask to be in this position.  I died before I could finish my life’s work.’

He peered past my glimmering form, into the darkness beyond.

            ‘What is so important to you that you refuse to accept that you’re dead?’
            ‘I’ll show you.’
I would have smiled but the scowl seemed to have been etched on my face at the moment I passed away. Instead, I drifted back down the hall, into the living room.  I could hear his heavy footsteps clumping along my carpet as he followed.  They stumbled to a halt as he turned the corner and saw my masterpiece.

            ‘Holy Mother of God!’
​
The Bible dropped from his hands.  Then I smiled.  Eleven Toby jugs sat on my mantelpiece, each with a clerical collar and eyes which followed you around the room.  Eleven little vicars who had had the temerity to try and exorcise me before I could complete my final work of art.
This one would make an even dozen. 

Toes on the beach, pink and vulnerable among a myriad pebbles.

Sharp stones smoothed and blunted by their storming, tumbling passage through the waves, some round and bland, generic shingle, but others lie twisted and angular, resistant to the ocean’s shaping force, a trap for unwary toes.

​Pebble colours of ochre, slate and dun with the occasional exclamation point of a stone as white as bone.
​
And toes, on the beach, pink and vulnerable.

Weeks passed. I grew taller as though I were being stretched. There was no meat on my bones but my arms were strong, honed by the hard work, sweeping and cleaning. Hansel was different. His muscles grew flabby for the witch treated him like a pet, a precious morsel who sat all day on a shabby cushion while I fetched for him and the witch fed him small treats. He thought he ate marzipan and sweet fruits but he was deceived by the witch’s spells.  In truth, he ate boiled eggs and slivers of chicken meat from the scrawny fowls she made me catch and kill while I lived on broth made from their boiled bones.

As I grew, it seemed the witch shrank. In the beginning she matched me, eye to eye but, as months passed, she began to look wizened and small. In the evenings I caught her watching me, a strange expression flickering across her face. Sometimes I saw flashes of the girl she had been before age and hardship had withered her skin and bent her ancient spine. I envied her nothing except her power and spent the few idle moments I had in making plans to escape. I thought I could steal away in the dead of night but I knew I could not leave without my brother. He was all I had now although every day the witch took him further from me as she petted and cajoled him with soft words. He was taught to demand my service, to command me to feed him and to complain if I were tardy or slow.

At midnight I was allowed to curl up on a pile of old sacks and sleep for a few hours. Hansel was already snoring, twitching and murmuring on his soft cushion, dreaming of sunlight and running through the forest. I had no dreams. Every night I tried to think of some way to escape the witch and pay her back for my enslavement. Every morning I had to accept that there was nothing I could do while she held Hansel under her enchantment. He thought her wonderful and would hear no word against her.

The seasons passed. By early summer there were only two chickens left to kill and I wondered what we would do once they were eaten. I caught the witch staring at Hansel in a different way. It was the intent look of a cat, waiting at the mouse hole, whiskers a-twitch. Instead of petting him, she began to squeeze his arm and mutter to herself. She made me gather branches from the forest and build a pen for him in the back yard. His muscles were so weak that I had to drag him from the house, half-carrying him to his new abode. I could have lifted him with ease but I did not want the witch to know how strong I had become.

She stopped petting him once he was installed outside. He was one of the chickens, now, a creature to be fed so that he would, one day, feed her. Each morning she checked the width of his flabby arms and pinched his neck as she gauged his weight. I scurried around my tasks, head down and shoulders slumped, hoping she would be deceived by my submission, knowing I would have only one chance to vanquish her. Success would depend on my speed, my strength and her surprise.

The day came when she decided that Hansel was ready for the pot. She had me build a fire of fir cones and old branches and boil up a large cauldron full of water. She was distracted by the thought of the meal to come and I sensed that her power had weakened. The cauldron took an age to heat and I wondered why she did not force it along with some magic but she seemed content to wait, savouring the pleasure of filling her belly with Hansel’s flesh. Sickened, I trudged out to the yard to check on him. He whined when he saw me, like a dog which has been kept on a leash for days. I found I had no sympathy for his plight but only a calculation as to the part he might play in my plans.

The witch came out and ordered me to bring him to the cauldron. I opened the door of his cage and began to drag him out but pretended I was too weak. Impatiently the witch came over to help, pushing as I pulled so that we rolled the boy like a barrel towards the fire.

‘He’s too heavy,’ I moaned. ‘I can’t lift him.’

The witch shoved me aside and pulled at Hansel’s bulk. Hunger had weakened her and she had little strength left in her arms. She would have to use her magic to lift him and I waited for the moment. She closed her eyes and murmured strange, misshapen words into the air. Her bony fingers wove a circle around Hansel’s head and slowly he began to rise like the balloons we saw at the fair. Her attention was all on him and I took a step back and to the side and pushed her with all the force I could muster. She was caught off balance and tumbled forward. I bent and grabbed her ankles, forcing her headlong into the pot of steaming water. With a shriek which echoed through the forest, she splashed into the cauldron and disappeared into the bubbling depths.

Hansel dropped to the ground like a felled tree and lay, moaning with pain on the scabby grass. I peered into the pot. There was no sign of the witch. I took a ladle and stirred the pot but all I could find was a handful of bones from the bottom of the cauldron.  Behind me the last remaining chicken clucked as if in warning. I caught its eye, a beady yellow gaze which reminded me of the witch. It nodded its beak towards Hansel and pecked at his legs. A scratchy voice in the depths of my brain spoke.

Pickings enough for two or more months if you eke him out.

I looked down at my brother, lying at my feet, and thought of the meal which would start to fill my aching belly. Slowly, with a tongue yet unaccustomed to the words, I started to repeat the witch’s chant, waving my fingers in the same complex patterns I had seen her use a thousand times.

Around me the forest went quiet.

The witch snapped her fingers and I was able to move.  Stiffly, like a clockwork soldier, I marched towards the cottage, unable to resist her will.  I felt it, like thunder in my head, a rumbling, grumbling force which threatened to blow me apart if I did not comply.  As I neared the cottage door I realised that the luscious gingerbread house was, in reality, a broken-down place, tiles hung with moss and criss-crossed with spiders’ webs.  My stomach rebelled as I saw that what I had delighted in eating was nothing but rotting wood, mould and black fungus.  Despite the witch’s control, I turned aside and heaved up everything until there was no more to come.

I heard her voice inside my head.

‘That’s right, dearie.  I thought there was no fooling you.  You see clear, but it won’t help you now.  Inside with you and clean my floor.  Wash my dishes and mend my sheets.  If you work hard there will be black bread and bone broth for your supper.  If not, you will go hungry.’

My legs were force to march again, into the dark cottage where Hansel sat, eyes glazed, stuffing himself with the burnt bread and rancid potatoes.

Stop! I wanted to cry.  This is all a trick, a spell to keep you here, a willing prisoner. 

But the words hammered in my brain without any sound, locked inside my head by the witch’s magic.  Stiff and uncaring I marched past and took the broom from behind the stairs.  It leapt to my hand and fastened there so I could not put it down.  I bent to my task and began to sweep the stinking straw which covered the cottage floor. The broom knew its work and pushed it all into one great heap by the back door.  Mouse droppings and tiny bones were swept up into the pile until it loomed over me, as tall as a man.

‘That’s the way, dearie.  A clean sweep for a fresh start.  Now out with you and take it down to the midden while your brother finishes his dinner.’

Without a word I opened the back door.  The broom leapt unbidden from my hand and propped itself beside the door.  I gathered up an armful of muck and took it down the path to the midden, a stinking heap beside the earth closet behind the witch’s cottage.  A few scraggy chickens, pecking at the barren earth, ran towards me, necks outstretched, hopeful of a handful of corn.  They fought over the rotting straw like dogs over the butcher’s barrel, eager for anything which would keep them alive.  One stopped, atop the pile, and gave me a sideways glare from its beady eye.  A scratchy voice, hardly more than a fleeting thought, whispered inside my head.
​
Stay alive and there is hope.  Do what you have to do to survive.

The witch smiled at me, as if reading my thought.  The bony finger painted a complex pattern in the air and my knees buckled as if someone had sliced the tendons in my legs, as father used to hobble the pig he kept by the back porch.  I opened my mouth to protest but could make no sound, not even a whimper of fear as she took a few steps nearer.  Blue eyes, cold and clear as glass, peered into mine and I heard her voice in my head, although her bloodless lips did not move.

‘Oh, no, deary.  That’s not the way to catch me.  You have a lot to learn.’

She turned and beckoned to Hansel who came slowly at her bidding, sleepwalking his way across the clearing, heedless of danger.  I wanted to cry out:
‘Run!’
But no words would come.

The witch bent and held out her one good arm.  Hansel hopped into her embrace and nestled there like a sparrow in its nest.

‘So, you are hungry, my precious.  I can see you need feeding up.  What would you like to eat the most?  Tell me, my lovely, and you shall have it.  I promise.’

Hansel’s eyes grew round so they looked almost comical, like the coal black eyes of the snowmen we made in the long winter months.  His mouth, too, shaped into an ‘O’, making the hollows in his cheeks puff out so that he looked plump and well-fed.  The witch stroked his head and bent nearer, the breath from her words ruffling his curls as she spoke.

‘Anything, my precious.  You can have anything your heart desires.’

‘Roast chicken and potatoes and a gallon of gravy.’

The words came in a rush, tumbling out of his mouth like vomit.  I swallowed bile and tried again to shout a warning but could make no sound.  Even my breath felt stilled in my chest as if I were under water, with no air to keep me alive.

The witch chuckled.

‘Roast chicken and potatoes and a gallon of gravy.  It is there on my table.  Can’t you smell it?’

Hansel lifted his head and sniffed.  He nodded.

‘It smells wonderful.’

‘Of course it does.  It’s just what a hungry lad needs, to make him big and strong.  Come into my cottage and you shall eat your fill, my precious.’
​
She released him and he ran towards the cottage door.  I tried again to call out a warning but the witch had stolen my voice.  The sky grew sullen and heavy, as if a storm was gathering, and the blue smoke from the chimney turned black.  I watched, helpless, as Hansel disappeared inside, the scent of burnt bread and rotten potatoes flavouring the air with a sickly stench.

Our stepmother hated us.  I knew it as soon as she came to the house, leaning on our father’s arm as if she were too helpless to stand alone.  She came in with a bright smile and glittering eyes and, with a shock, I recognised malevolence. It was like meeting a foe in battle.  She did not want us, the children of a previous marriage.  She wanted to destroy our family and keep our father to herself.  Hansel, of course, realised nothing.  He sickened me with his eager acceptance and brought her flowers, gathered from the forest edge.  I was coldly polite and waited, sure that my father would see through her cloying protestations of love, but it seemed that I was the only one who could see how empty all her promises were.

When Father took us into the forest and tried to leave us, Hansel cried and begged to go back.  I did not.  The home we knew was no longer a sanctuary. Our father had changed, was no longer interested in us but eager to return to his young wife, with her honeyed smile and stinging eyes.  He told us to go and gather mushrooms, he would come back later and take us home.  All the while, his eyes were dull and glazed, like a pigeon that has been torn from the sky by a sparrowhawk.  He had to prise Hansel’s grasping fingers from his coat before he strode away.  Hansel tried to follow but could not match the pace of our father’s long legs.  Desolate, he flung himself to the forest floor and wept.

I had no tears.  I had used them all when our mother died.  Now I had only rage, coiled in my stomach like a viper.  I vowed that someone would pay for everything the world had taken from me and spat into the leaf litter, to make the vow stick.  Hansel knuckled his eyes.

‘What shall we do?’ he asked.

‘Survive,’ I answered and turned on my heel and walked away.

I’ve always liked country funerals.  There’s something so comforting about the old lichened headstones with their weathered inscriptions, blurred by time.  The sense of continuity in a country churchyard is a real comfort to the bereaved.  Time and again I’ve seen it, that sense of peace and acceptance with what must be…
 
Of course, it’s always easier when the deceased is old and has had a good life.  It must be dreadful to bury a child.  That’s not the natural order of things; the young shouldn’t die before the old.  I don’t think that’s right, at all.  But when the person is old and has suffered, well, I think it’s a blessing really, when they go.  I don’t think anybody would argue with that; no one with an ounce of humanity in their veins, at any rate.  I always tell the family it’s a blessed release.  I think it gives them comfort and helps them to cope.
 
This vicar’s got a lovely voice, very mellow and reassuring.  I wonder what an Irish priest is doing in this corner of Sussex?  It’s funny how people travel about nowadays.  It’s not like it was when I was younger.  People stayed put then.  Of course, I’ve moved around a lot, myself, but that’s understandable.  I have to go where my job takes me.  I suppose I’ve made it my life, my job.  I didn’t really choose to but that’s the way it’s turned out.  And you have to do what is necessary, make the sacrifices that others, maybe, wouldn’t make.  I think it’s turned out for the best.
 
That dratted magpie startled me.  It flew right over my head with that funny chuntering cry they make.  I don’t like them.  Stealing other birds’ eggs and such.  Nasty things.  And it’s unlucky to see only one.  What is that rhyme I learned when I was a girl?  “One for sorrow, two for joy” or something like that.  There’s only one here but I suppose that’s appropriate for a funeral.  One for sorrow.  Yes, I think it must be meant, somehow.  I believe everything is as it is meant to be.  Even magpies.
 
It’s a good job it’s such a nice Spring day.  The sun helps lift everyone’s spirits and those primroses look a picture over on the bank.  I do like that pale yellow.  I think I might use that when I redecorate my lounge.  It would look really fresh and pretty.  I suppose I’ll have to wait for a bit, until probate’s sorted out.  A funny word that – probate.  I wonder what it means?  One of those legal terms that everyone uses but no-one really understands.  I wouldn’t have liked to go in for the law. It’s too dry.  I like the human contact in my job though I suppose a solicitor has quite a few clients.  It’s not the same though.  People don’t rely on a solicitor the way my patients rely on me.  They know I won’t let them down.
 
Another magpie.  That’s “Two for joy” after all.  They do look handsome in their black and white coats, very glossy and sleek.  But I don’t like them – nasty, smug creatures.  They always look so sure of themselves, so complacent.  They are smart, I’ll grant you that, but they should all be exterminated, like vermin.  That’s all they are.  Vermin.
 
Still, it’s what I call a proper funeral.  A lovely setting, this.  And people have made an effort and dressed up a bit, in black and dark grey.  I don’t like this modern trend for coming in your normal, everyday clothes.  I think it lacks respect.  People ought to make more effort.  Of course, I usually wear my nurse’s uniform with a nice black coat over it.  I think that strikes a nice balance, shows I’m here in a kind of official capacity as well as just a mourner.  It’s important to keep that distinction, I think.  And I’m pleased with the coat.  It’s very good quality wool and it was really quite a bargain.  I like to get value for money and, after all, I’ll get some wear out of it.
 
Another magpie.  That’s three.  I’ve read somewhere they’re considered unlucky.  Three, that’s for a girl, isn’t it?  I wonder if it means Megan?  She looks very pale, almost stern, somehow.  I haven’t seen her cry once since the death.  That doesn’t seem right to me, I have to admit.  You should cry when your mother dies, I think.  Well, that’s my opinion.  But she’s always seemed cold.  Not heartless but held-in somehow as though there’s a lot going on beneath the surface.  I hope I haven’t made a mistake about her.  People can be funny, sometimes.
 
It’s getting chilly, now.  Funny how all the warmth goes out of the day when the sun goes in.  I shall be glad to have a cup of tea when this is over and get a bit of warmth back into my bones.  I hope Megan’s organised a proper funeral tea.  Sometimes people skimp on that, which is a real shame.  I always think it’s the best part of a funeral, the tea.  It gives people a chance to talk and that helps the family.  Someone usually thanks me, as well.  I know I am only doing my job but still, it’s nice to be appreciated.  And it can be hard, watching someone die, especially when you’ve got to know them so well.  The families don’t always appreciate that.  They just think of their own grief but it’s hard for me, too.  I'm the one who's been there, every step of that final struggle.
 
It seems a long service today.  It’s not really kind to keep everybody standing out here for so long.  One or two of them look pretty frail anyway.  It won’t do them any good if they get cold.  I shouldn’t be surprised if somebody picks up a chill and then there will be another funeral before you know it.  I’ve seen that happen before.  Sometimes there can be a run of two or three funerals in a row.  Of course, people don’t think when they organise these things.  An indoor service at the crematorium might have been better, though I suppose the deceased wanted to be buried.  Some people do, I know.  Funny that.  I don’t know why people bother about what’s going to happen once they’re dead.  I mean, once you’re dead that’s it.  You’re not going to care what happens to you.  I suppose people are just very sentimental about it.  They don’t see things clearly.  Well, there’s one thing I know: there’s no room for sentimentality in nursing.
 
Oh, finally, it looks as if things are drawing to a close.   That’s good, I’m parched.  I really fancy a nice cuppa.  I just better go over to Megan and express my sympathy.  I think that would be the best thing.  It shows I really cared for her mother; that she wasn’t just a nameless patient to me.  It’s all part of it, isn’t it?  Things have to be done properly.  I thought I might be in one of the funeral cars but I had to make my own way here.  Most families have included me in but I don’t think Megan has ever really taken to me.  Well, if she had spent the time with her mother that I did in those last few weeks, maybe she’d have some room to talk.  But I won’t say anything.  Just my usual sympathy speech.  There’s no point in making things difficult.  I know what to say to the bereaved.  I think I can bring her some comfort.

                                                                                                                     ****************************
 
Well!  I must say, I didn’t expect that.  She was really quite unpleasant.  Almost ignored what I said and such a look in her eyes.  As if she resented my being here.  I suppose she knows about the will and it’s upset her.  Maybe she’s one of the grasping, greedy kind who can’t bear any of the money being willed away from them.  But, after all, it’s only fair.  If her mother wanted to thank me for what I did for her then she had a perfect right to do so.  It's all legal and everything.  There’s nothing Megan can do.
 
Look at that!  Another magpie.  On my car, as well.  Shoo!  I hope it’s not made a mess or scratched the paint.  “Four for a boy.”  Well, there’s no rhyme or reason to that.  It’s just a silly superstition.  I don’t know why I’m even thinking about it.  It’s not like me to be fanciful.  I wonder who Megan’s talking to, over there?  He doesn’t look like family, somehow.  At least, I didn’t see him at the graveside.  I suppose he’s one of the undertaker’s men.  Now, that’s not a job I would like, having to be pretend you care about people’s grief.  I mean, you can’t build up a relationship with a corpse.  I've always enjoyed the time I spend with my patients, even if they are fighting a losing battle with their illnesses.  We’ve all got to die of something and I like to think I can make things a little bit easier for them.  We have some good laughs and I know they’re grateful to me.
 
No-one has told me where the funeral tea is.  I suppose I’ll just have to follow everyone else.  It’s left a bit of a nasty taste, to tell you the truth.  I’m not used to being shut out like this.  Most families recognise my contribution and even if they don’t like it, there’s no point in being unpleasant.  The patient has a perfect right to leave a bequest to their nurse, especially one who is so supportive and who makes their last days more bearable.
 
Bless me!  Those magpies are like a plague.  There must be a flock of five or six there. Flying so low, as well.  I suppose they’re nesting somewhere in the church grounds. “Five for silver, six for gold.”  It’s funny how that rhyme comes back after all these years.  I must have learnt it when I was a little girl, more years ago than I care to remember.  But it’s very apt:  “six for gold.”   Because this latest bequest will really set me up.  Who knows, I may even retire.  It’s about time I had some fun in my life, bought nice things and got what was due to me.  I’ve worked my fingers to the bone for other people for so long.  Now, it’s my turn to live and order people about and get what I want.  After all, my National Health pension isn’t going to provide me with many luxuries.  Private nursing pays better and is much easier on the back and feet than a hospital job but it’s still work.  And I reckon I’ve done enough, really.  It’s time to put my feet up and enjoy what’s left of my life.
 
They’re taking their time.  It’s not very well organised if you ask me, everybody milling around and not knowing what to do; someone needs to sort them out.  I suppose not everyone has had as much experience as I have with funerals.  But, if you go in for geriatric nursing, there’s going to be quite a few deaths along the way.  It’s a fact of life, really.  Of course, you can’t afford to get too close to them; that’s where the professionalism comes in.  You have to make them feel special, as though you really care about their every ache and pain, but you keep a detachment.  A kind of professional reserve.  Most good doctors have it.  Well, they need to, really, because otherwise they couldn’t function.  I mean, you can’t take everybody’s cares onto your shoulders, can you?  It wouldn’t be reasonable.
 
Come on!  I can’t see what the hold-up is.  If the funeral cortege would just pull off we could all follow and get some tea.  You would think a family with all that money would know how to do things properly.  I hope Megan’s not going to be difficult.  I suppose it is rather a lot of money.  No-one’s ever left me that much before but I don’t see why it should cause any problems.  After all, she was rolling in it and this will set me up nicely.  And I earned it.  They’ve got to admit I did.  I did everything for that woman and that’s no joke when you’re talking about total bedcare for someone who can’t even get to the bathroom.  It’s not pleasant and a lot of people wouldn’t want to do what I’ve had to do.
 
More magpies.  That must be seven by now.  “Seven for a secret, never to be told”.  Well, that’s appropriate.  I know a lot of secrets.  I suppose any nurse does.  When you’re constantly with someone who is old and ill and vulnerable, well, you’re bound to get to know things.  And I’ve always been a sympathetic ear.  It’s a skill, really, and one that I’m proud of.    Patients tell me things that they wouldn’t, maybe, tell their families.  It creates a bond.  And it’s a relief for them, getting rid of some of the things they’ve been bottling up over the years.  I must admit, it helps me to help them if I know what it is that’s bothering them.
 
Of course, people are afraid.  Well, it’s only natural.  I sometimes think it’s not the dying that bothers people but the waiting to die.  That’s the hard part.  So really I’m doing them a favour.  I think most people, at the bottom of their hearts, they want to be helped over those last few days.  I mean, why just go on suffering unnecessarily.  You know how it’s going to end.  I know.  I’ve seen enough patients to recognise when the end is near.  It’s really a kindness to help them through it.  Speed things up, like.
 
You have to be careful, though.  Doctors can be very touchy about patients dying “too soon”.  As if they know better than the nurse.  They don’t sit with the patient, hour in, hour out, watching them take every breath.  Don’t tell me about doctors.  It’s easy for them.  They get good pay for what they do, but what about me?  I’ve had to make provision for my old age.  And what real harm does it do?  She had so much money and it wasn’t  going to do her any good.  I just needed to play my cards right and get her to sign the, what do you call it?  The codicil.  That’s it.  It had to be all legal and above board before I let her go.  I had to make sure of that.  But now it’s properly signed and witnessed and all, I don’t see what Megan or anyone can do about it.
 
Ninety thousand pounds.  It will be a nice little nest egg for me and give me a chance to enjoy myself, before it’s too late.  I’ve always been the one looking after others; time to look after myself, for a change.  Is that Megan walking towards me?  Why isn’t she in the funeral car?  What’s going on?  And that man I saw earlier.  He’s looking at me as if…  But they can’t know.  They can’t.  How could they?  He’s bending to speak to me.  Should I get out or just sit here?  I could wind the window down.
 
“Miss Johnstone?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Inspector Pike.  Would you please get out of the vehicle.”
 
He can’t really be going to arrest me.  Surely this is all a mistake.  They can’t know.  I was careful, really careful.  She didn’t even die when I was there.  There’s no way they can pin anything on me.  Those bloody magpies screeching.  They sound as though they’re laughing.  Horrible, cackling laughter.  This can’t be happening.  I’ve always got away with it before.  Always.  Old people die.  There’s no way they can know what I did.  No way.  And it was a kindness anyway.  She was suffering and I helped her find peace.

​I can see police cars, behind the church, black and white like the magpies. But they can’t prove anything, surely they can’t.  I was careful.  I always am.  I can hear those magpies cackling, such a horrible noise.  Pecking at the freshly turned earth.  They don't even respect death.  I knew they were bad luck.