Her name was Autumn – and she had a talent that was truly magical
THE END Rosamund Eyre
Some people (most likely witches) might not mind being called a witch – but I do. For a start, I know nothing of spells and potions. And I certainly don’t think I look like a witch. Well, not the ones I’ve seen in books – all warts and missing teeth.
That’s not what I see in the mirror. I see a young woman of 19. Someone who tries to keep up with the latest fashions. I haven’t got a black cape or a pointy hat. It’s 1905, for goodness’ sake, not the Middle Ages!
I like to think I’m pretty. My mother calls me her ‘beautiful Autumn’. When I was a little girl, she would often tell me the story of the day I was born and how she came to give me that name…
‘It was a bright, breezy afternoon in October, and your father had gone to market,’ she would always begin, stroking my hair as we sat by the fire in our cottage.
‘I decided to look for mushrooms in the woods. My back was paining me, and perhaps I should have paid heed to your father and stayed close to home, but I wanted to be in the air, with the wind tossing the leaves about, and the crows chattering in the trees. And guess what, my sweetness. You came to me all of a sudden under a giant beech.
‘So quick it was and there you were, lying in a leafy cradle like a fairy babe. And when I saw the wisps of your hair – all gleaming and rosy gold – I knew there was only one name for you – Autumn.’
I loved that story. It made me feel special. Only, what happened as I grew up was to make me feel special in an entirely different way.
My beloved father was taken by influenza when I was 13. And suddenly the world changed overnight for Mother and me.
Father had kept a few cattle and pigs, and grown vegetables. But my mother was in poor health and not up to it. The animals had to go, though I told Mother I could manage the chickens. There was money to be made from the eggs on market day. I was also handy with a needle, so I said I would go around the village offering to mend clothes.
And that’s when my troubles really began.
I’d never been popular at the two-room village school. The other kids kept their distance most times, and would stare at my threadbare dress and battered boots. I’d hear the girls, with their glossy ringlets and crisp white aprons, whispering about me in the playground.
When I left school, I
