Such a Charming Girl

SUCH A CHARMING GIRL

I remember the first time she came to the bakery. As if it were yesterday. She was a very pretty girl. Red hair. Green eyes. She looked fresh and intelligent. Exactly the kind of girl I wish I had more often in the shop. She just asked for a loaf of bread, paid and left. I thought she must be one of the students who camp hereabouts - she didn't look older than twenty.

The next Saturday, she came back and I asked her if she was new to the area.

"Yes," she answered. "I got married two weeks ago and I moved in with my husband."

"Why, congratulations, and welcome to Godric's Hollow. I hope you'll like it here."

"Thank you."

She beamed at me and showed me the ring on her hand.

"I'm Mrs. Potter now," she said with a bright smile. "It's so funny to have a new name. I have so much trouble getting used to it!"

Her happiness was so contagious that I couldn't help laughing.

She also had something intriguing about her. I didn't know anybody called Potter in the village, and I've been here for more than fifteen years. Pretty much everybody has been in my shop, and if a new couple had just arrived, I was sure I would have heard about them. But maybe they were only here on weekends. Some people from London are rich enough to have a second house in the country, and I don't blame them for wanting to get away from the city every now and then.

She started coming every Saturday. Whether it was sunny, rainy or even snowy, she would come on her bike, leave it against the window and come in to buy her bread and have a little chat. In the beginning, she only bought sliced bread for toast, but soon she gave in and started trying the pastries.

"My husband likes to sleep in on Saturdays. I like to wake him up with a nice breakfast," she would say.

She soon became my favourite customer. Nobody had ever been as keen on trying everything I sell, or as interested in what I had to say. I always looked forward to her visits. She always liked to chitchat about the weather or the latest gossip. How she laughed when I told her about the vicar's daughter! She cheered at the girl's attempts to thwart her father's ban on parties and rock music.

"He sounds like a charming man!" she said sardonically.

There were quite a few outraged gasps from the ladies waiting in line behind her, that day, but somehow I found it impossible to disagree with her.

She didn't like to talk about the news, though. Once, I mentioned the latest bombing by the IRA and she became really sombre. I wondered if she was Irish. It can't be easy for those who want nothing more than to live decently but who get looked at strangely and snubbed all the time.

One day, she had just left the bakery when Mrs. Paisley came in.

"Who was that girl who just left?" she asked.

"That was Mrs. Potter."

"That was not Mrs. Potter," she said emphatically.

"What makes you say that?"

"I have seen the real Mrs. Potter." She spoke in a hushed voice, bending over the counter in a conspiratorial way. "Mrs. Potter is the old witch who lives in the old house by the forest."

"Give over!"

"I swear it," she insisted. "I knocked on the door once, when I was a little girl, for a dare. She was wearing a pointy hat and she was holding a broomstick. I even saw a cauldron in the corner, and there was a bad sound coming from the house. Eerie, as if it was cursed. It scared the living daylights out of me. I've never been near that house again."

I laughed. I knew Mrs. Paisley was a bit barmy, but this was the best story she had ever told me.

"You're laughing now," she said huffily, "but you will see who is right. I know what them witches get up to. She's probably taken some youth potion to get a man in her trap, and once she's got him..."

It was obvious she wanted to be asked more, so I complied.

"What? What does she do to them?"

"She eats them!"

"But this young lady got married only a few months ago!" I said.

"That's what they all say," she muttered darkly.

Of course she was talking nonsense, but you can't help imagining things, can you? After all, I hardly knew anything about Mrs. Potter. She never told anything about herself and didn't seem to mingle with the rest of the village. I started to have dark visions of red-haired IRA bombers and international spies.

The next time I saw her, I asked her a few questions.

"So where exactly do you live?"

"Just outside the village," she answered with a carelessness that might have been forced.

She waved in a vague direction, but she didn't give any further indication.

Another time, I asked her what her husband did. This time, she didn't meet me in the eye.

"He, er, he works for the government."

It was such a bad lie that she even blushed. That day, she left in a hurry, without even asking about the latest gossip.

After that, I didn't ask any more questions. I told myself not to be silly. As far as I knew, she hadn't done anything wrong, and I didn't want to scare her away. What if she and her husband were just very private people? They didn't deserve to get suspected of every awful thing because of that! But a small voice in my mind kept telling me that there was something fishy going on, and my curiosity gnawed at me.

One day, it was especially hard for me to mind my own business. She was about to pay and took her purse out of her handbag. It wasn't the one she usually had. She opened it and I saw something gold glittering in there. She shut it very fast.

"I'm sorry, it looks like I've left my purse at home," she said.

Just like the time I had asked about her husband's job, she blushed. I wanted to ask her what I had seen in the purse, but I knew that it would be a bad move. Instead, I pretended I hadn't noticed anything.

"Don't worry," I said, "you can pay me next week."

The questions went on and on in my mind: what was the gold in that purse? And why didn't she want me to see? Gold didn't sound right for a bomber or a spy, but I couldn't imagine a decent reason for her carrying it around, either. What if she was really a jewellery thief? Whenever I started having such fancies, I swore to myself that I was never going to watch television again, that it made me imagine things, but I still couldn't quite let go of the matter.

I had already found out, thanks to an innocent question here and there, that she was indeed coming from the forest road, and that she was always going back there. One day, I couldn't stand it anymore. That morning, I kept my bicycle ready. When Mrs. Potter was done, I closed and followed her from a distance. Of course, she was young and light, and I was old and heavy, so I had trouble keeping up with her. On the other hand, that way I wouldn't be too close to her and she couldn't hear me puffing and groaning.

However, she must have heard me. She stopped and turned to look at me. I stopped too. It was strange, because she seemed uncertain about something, almost suspicious. She had a scared look on her face. I waved cheerfully at her. She waved back distractedly, got back on her bicycle, and turned into a lane.

Now that I had been spotted, I couldn't follow her anymore. It would have been really obvious what I was up to. I rode past the lane to take a last look at where Mrs. Potter was going before turning back. I was in for a surprise: she had disappeared.

I stood there for at least five minutes, peering at everything in view. I even cycled up and down the lane, but I couldn't find any place she could have been hiding. It was a long lane, lined with hedges, in which it would have been impossible to hide. There was no road she could have taken a turn on. It was very odd. One thing was certain, though - I was sure now that Mrs. Potter lived near the forest. The house Mrs. Paisley had mentioned was one of the only ones she could have been going to.

As I rode back, I thought I must have dreamt it. Surely there must have been a tree somewhere, or a lane she could have turned into? Maybe she had been faster than I thought. Maybe I hadn't paid enough attention. There must be an explanation. The mystery was driving me mad.

The following week, she asked me if it had been me, on the road.

"Yes," I said. I had prepared my little lie, and I told it in cold blood. "I got an order on the phone right after you left," I said. "My wife had taken the car so I had to take the bicycle. I waved at you, remember?"

"Oh yes, that's true."

She had a strange look on her face, as if she had to force herself to have this conversation. It made me feel slightly uneasy. I wanted to ask her what was the matter, but she cut me off.

"I was wondering," she started again. "Do you remember that story about the clergyman's daughter? I wanted to tell it to my husband, but I couldn't remember it. Can you remind me what happened?"

So I told her again. I had the strange impression that I was getting interrogated, and that things wouldn't go well for me if I didn't give the right answers. She still wasn't convinced, though.

"That cake you made, a month ago, what was it called again?" she asked.

I had to answer several more questions before she was entirely satisfied. Then she went back to her usual cheerful self and asked if there was any news about Mrs. Thompson's alleged infidelities.

The conversation left me deeply unnerved. Whatever the reason, what I had done had seemed deeply suspicious to her. So suspicious that she had needed to make sure that I was not an impersonator. What kind of business in Godric's Hollow could possibly justify such care? The bank or jewellery theft came back to my mind, even though there hadn't been a single robbery in the whole district since Old George Barton had left with the money of the church two years ago. It was bordering on paranoia: who could have fooled her? It was not as if she hadn't known me for nearly a year! The stakes must have been high. In any case, I thought that it would really be a bad idea to spy on her again. What if it got her into trouble?

Not long after that, she told me she was pregnant. I congratulated her, of course.

"So, what are you hoping for," I asked, "a boy or a girl?"

"I really don't know. Sometimes I dream of a little girl who will try on my clothes and steal my make-up, and sometimes I want a little boy who'll run wild and come home completely covered in mud."

"I know it's a bit early, but any ideas for a name?"

She laughed.

"Well, my husband is very keen on Harry, if it's a boy. He already told me that he didn't want to hear about any other name."

"Harry! But that's my name. Good, strong name. You can always count on a Harry!"

"Then Harry it is!"

She continued to come until quite late into her pregnancy. I wondered if I was going to see her husband, once she was confined to the house, but he didn't come. July came and went, and so did August. Surely the baby had been born now, and she was going to come back? But every Saturday brought a new disappointment, and every Saturday I made up excuses for her: the baby was waking her up at night, he was sick, she was getting visits from her family...Surely she would have come to say goodbye if she had moved away?

Two weeks ago, I couldn't stand it anymore. She hadn't come to the bakery for a year and a half, now, and I really missed her. After closing time, I took my bicycle and went to pay her a visit. I started by going to the old house on the edge of the forest. For all Mrs. Paisley was mad, there might be a part of truth in her story, I reasoned. The old Mrs. Potter was probably the new Mr. Potter's mother or grandmother, and now he had set out to renovate the family house with his wife or something like that. It seemed perfectly plausible.

When I got there, I was in for a new mystery, even more confusing than the disappearance of Mrs. Potter on her bicycle: the house was gone! The grand, two-storey house, that always looked so desolate from a distance, had vanished! The only thing that was left was a neglected lawn. I was confused. Had I got lost because of the dusk? I looked around and I recognized the road I had come from. I was certain I hadn't made a wrong turn, and this was the right place. Everything looked like it should, except the house that was missing.

Suddenly I heard a pop. There was someone standing behind me.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" It was a man's voice. It sounded very harsh. He obviously thought I was trespassing.

I turned round. The man was holding a torch that shone in my face. I shielded my eyes with my hand.

"I'm looking for Mrs. Potter," I said.

"Don't speak that name! Are you mad?" he yelled angrily. I had been so surprised by his appearance and he was so forceful that I was thoroughly confused.

"Do you know her?" I asked.

"No, I don't! Shut up!"

"If you see her, can you tell her that the baker of Godric's Hollow asked after her and hopes she's doing well?" I insisted.

"I will pass on the message," growled the stranger reluctantly. "Now go away. You want to get yourself killed?"

I got back on my bicycle and rode back home as fast as possible. I was shaking all over and my head was swimming with questions. Who was that man? Was it Mr. Potter? And if so, why didn't he want me to say his wife's name? Was it someone else? Where had the house gone? What was going on here?

I went through my disjointed conversation with the mystery man over and over again, trying to understand what was going on. I was glad that I'd been able to leave a message, but the last words of the man kept ringing in my ears.

You want to get yourself killed?

What had Mrs. Potter got herself into?

Two days ago, the house was back. It had exploded during the night - people had heard it even on the other side of the village. When some of us went to have a look the next morning, it was in ruins. I was sure that it had been a deliberate attack, but I couldn't tell anybody. Who would have believed what I had seen? We didn't find any bodies, though. Thank goodness, I thought, she has survived.

Then, today, there was the procession in the village. There were about twenty people. I first thought they were from a circus or a carnival, because they were all dressed so strangely, with witch and wizard costumes like you can buy for children. But then I saw how gloomy and solemn they all looked. Some of them were even crying. And then I saw the two coffins.

Still, it didn't click who was lying in there. How could I possibly imagine that Mrs. Potter belonged to a circus? Then I got to the pub tonight, and there was one of the blokes from the funeral sitting at the bar. He had been one of the casket bearers. I remembered him, because he was the only one who was dressed almost normally. He was a bit shabby, but at least he was wearing trousers and a shirt instead of a weird dress and a pointy hat. He looked like he had already been drinking a lot and he had got to the point where he was telling his worries to the barman: about his friends James and Lily Potter who had been murdered, and their son Harry who had somehow survived...

I've finished my beer and I've left the pub. I don't feel like talking at all right now. More like crying, really. She will never come to the bakery again, ask for gossip and choose pastries for her husband. I will never find out about her secrets. All that is left is my imagination that has seen too many television programmes. I'd better not think about her son Harry if I want to swallow my tears until I get home.

I remember the faces of the circus people at the funeral. Were these her family, her friends? I wish I had paid more attention to them. At least I would have an idea, however vague, of what her life was like.

Lily Potter. I wish I had asked her first name. It's such a pretty name.

Saturday will never be the same again.