'Lest we should forget'
by William EmslieGone were the hoards of tourists who pervaded our small coastal town for the
season, the stifling summer of '76 finally over. As winter approached, the
commercial kite of the resort fell like foliage from the trees: promenade cafes
packed up tables, the amusements closed, beach chalets fell empty and the leafy
lanes were once more safe. We were thirteen, Sam and I, at the back end of the year before the year in
which we discovered girls. Best mates, we spent our days sharing jokes and
fizzy drinks, learning life's lessons as we grew together in a bond that would
last into adulthood. This was our winter wonderland; a fair old place to grow
up: free to roam, where neighbour looked out for neighbour, where we all knew
one another and one another's business. Two boys exploring a world still unfamiliar enough to be magical, our maturing
minds were starting to unravel some of childhood's mysteries; one such being Ma
Harbin. We'd see her on Sundays, in or en route to the paper shop to pay her bill and
pick up The Observer. She knew everyone by name, greeted them with a verbal
salutation: 'Morning, Mr Glover. Getting colder, eh, Miss Willis? Keeping well,
Mrs Cooper?' We kids went unacknowledged, but not unnoticed: she'd watch us suspiciously,
our every move, her beady little eyes flittering hither and thither, her
constantly chewing mouth tutting at the least noxious of our misdeeds. She had lived in the shambling old house atop Hale Hill for as long as anyone
could remember, overlooking the whole town; you could spot the place from
neigh-on anywhere in the neighbourhood. It commanded fine views of the sea, a
panoramic vista of countryside to the rear, but that is not why she lived
there. She lived there so that she could spy on us. Beyond that, little was known of Ma Harbin. She had become the stuff of local
legend. At school, they said that she was the child of a gypsy family who had
travelled to town and never left. If you wronged her three times, she would
give you the Evil Eye; a year and a day later you would be dead. My mum thought that she was once headmistress at the village school, long since
closed: a learned, kindly woman who simply preferred to keep herself to
herself. Sam's dad recalled that Ma Harbin had been a haggard old crone when
even he was a boy. But we knew the truth, Sam and I. We knew that Ma Harbin was a witch. Shelookedlike a witch. Were you to look up the word 'hag' in an illustrated dictionary,
you would find a picture of Ma Harbin peering menacingly from the page. Even
now, when I recall her with childhood's eye, I see her in a black cape and
pointed hat. No doubt she possessed no such apparel, but she looked as though
she should have. No doubt, too, the passing years have exaggerated the hook in her nose;
caricatured the straggly hair, the cackle in her voice, the high, saggy
cheekbones, the stooping gait. But she was a witch all right. She ran a coven. We would see streams of similarly haggish women, strangers in
town, head up Hale Hill to her Hammer Horror house. Ma Harbin was immortal, too. Sam and I figured she must be at least ninety, yet
still she was indefatigable. Virtually self sufficient, she grew her own fruit
and veg, kept goats and chickens. Though sometimes assisted by the other
haggish crones, she was essentially a one-woman farm. Perhaps she had brewed up
the elixir of eternal life, made an immortality pact with the devil. Or it
could just be that all witches lived forever. Whichever way, she kept herself
going, harvesting the fruits of her labour year round, year in, year out. What she could not eat, she sold. In winter, the tourists gone, her produce adorned the front wall of her garden.
You simply took what you wanted and put the money in an honesty box shackled to
the gate Ma Harbin's only concession to security. It was a routine errand for
us kids, a walk up Hale Hill for the Sunday veggies: spuds, carrots, caulis,
sprouts, immaculately fresh, tasting like no others. Jars of jam and chutney
there were too. And eggs. It started with the eggs. Sam and I usually made the trip together on Saturday morning, with Co-op
carriers stuffed into our parka pockets to be filled with Ma Harbin's seasonal
fare. Easy as it would have been to take the goods and pocket the money for
ourselves, the thought had never crossed our minds. To steal from Ma Harbin
would have been like thieving from a museum; she had sold her wares like this
for decades, and most grateful were the townsfolk that she did so. To abuse the
system would have been anathema. Besides, we weren't going to dice with the
Evil Eye. No, this was different; it was a laugh, a prank. It was a Saturday morning in November, the eve of Remembrance Sunday. Both Sam
and I had poppies pinned to our parkas, which gave him a ruse when we reached
Ma Harbin's garden wall: ''Ere, Bob, have you ever blown an egg?' I had to confess that I had not. 'It's simple, right.' He took the produce of one of Ma Harbin's bantams from
the cardboard tray. 'Ya put a pinprick in the top and bottom, see, then ve-ery
gently blow through.' He demonstrated, and the shell's contents left like a
narrow stream of pee, turning from white to yellow as the yolk evacuated. It
was the funniest thing I'd seen in weeks; I fell about laughing. 'No, look,' insisted Sam, and held up what was, to all but the most observant
eye, an undamaged egg. 'Hollow!' he exclaimed triumphantly, and put it back in
the tray. 'You 'ave a go.' My first attempt was clumsy; it cracked between my fingers as I blew too hard.
'Try another one,' urged Sam, kicking the tell-tale shell into the grass verge. I giggled nervously: 'What if she sees us?' Sam shrugged. 'She'll put a curse on us. Wowee, I'm scared.' This time I got it right. One more untarnished shell, devoid of contents, was
placed back in the tray before we paid for the vegetables and headed down the
hill. The following day, Remembrance Sunday, Sam called at our house on his way to Ma
Harbin's for some apple chutney to go with their roast pork. 'Coming for the
walk?' he wondered. The egg tray had been re-stocked, but the two blown ones were still there. Ma
Harbin had been duped. We found all this most amusing and blew a couple more
each for good measure. Next Saturday, Sam having brought the pins specially, we decided we'd do four
each before legging it. We didn't blow past the first. Before we knew it, Ma Harbin, armed with a
stick, was half way across her front lawn, ambling towards us, cackling at the
top of her voice to a background of startled clucking from the chicken coops.
Had we not been the object of her wrath, the scene would have been comical; as
it was, we wasted no time in turning tail and fleeing down Hale Hill to home
and safety. 'We'll just have to say she didn't have any veggies today,' Sam concluded
breathlessly upon reaching my house. I don't think my mum believed us, but I returned the money and she seemed happy
enough. Sam and I had a Coke in the kitchen then adjourned to the living room,
ostensibly to watch some TV but really to consider how to explain our
vegetablesness to Sam's parents, who we knew would be less easily placated than
mine. We were beginning to concoct some reasonably credible tale when the
doorbell rang. Sam and I exchanged nervous glances. Seconds later, our worst fear was
confirmed: we heard the muffled yet unmistakable cackle of Ma Harbin's voice
ranting from the front doorstep. Nervously we crept, silent, to listen to what
she was saying
'Those eggs are my livelihood, Madam. My livelihood. The other lad, that Sam, I
can understand. Just spoken to his father in the pub, like he always is,
morning to night it's no wonder he's turned out a bad 'un, but your Robert? I
thought he was a decent lad
' I stood, my hand covering the lower half of my face, suppressing a snigger.
When I glanced playfully at Sam, however, his eyes were steely, his lower lip
quivering. We headed back to the living room. 'Don't worry,' I giggled, 'she'll calm down.' Sam shook his head. Eyes glazed,
tiny moist beads had formed on his lashes. 'Look,' I reassured him, 'she's
hardly gonna give the Evil Eye over a few eggs
I-is s-s-she?' I started to
feign fear, rolling my eyes crossed and making cursing gestures with my fingers.
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