The statue 9/15

The witches weren’t much help when it came to finding out what had happened to the castle.

“We were told it had fallen down some time ago,” said Matilda. “It would have taken an awful lot of magic to build it up again and it didn’t seem right somehow, knowing that the giants and all the dwarves that worked underneath had been killed.”

Jennifer Jane learned that it wasn’t Arthur or his wife who’d died in the accident. The giants she’d known, as well as the dwarves, had all passed away years before.

In fact the more she questioned the witches, the more she was beginning to think that they hadn’t taken much of an interest in local affairs for years and years. For example none of them had heard of Esmerelda and her shop. It had never been there as far as they knew and they were rather surprised when Jennifer Jane told them about it and the thriving business with the village.

Since her day the Witches’ Home seemed to have become little more than a large school for apprentice witches, who although they practised hard, didn’t really appear to have much use for what they’d learned when they’d finished the course.

She made up her mind to ride out towards lower Dene the next morning. That had been an up and coming village in her time, because Sir George and his new carting business had made their headquarters there. Perhaps some of the locals there would know what was going on.

Major was ready and eager to go the next morning, so the pair set off happily along the road towards Trollbridge and turned right just before Lurgin’s bridge. Jennifer Jane wasn’t too sure of the way, but assumed, quite rightly as it turned out, that the new road was sure to lead to lower Dene. In fact it led there directly without having to go through the wood she remembered.

As she got nearer, the red and white painted carts appeared more and more frequently, until at last she entered the outskirts of the village proper and could see the changes that had happened since her day.

Most of the village looked the same as she remembered, rather like Lurbridge, but there was a very large square building in the middle, with arched entrances for carts on each side. There was a huge white flag with a red cross flying over a high tower at one end, while each of the other corners had a tall round turret full of small holes, where hundreds and hundreds of pigeons were nesting.

She rode past and went on to the Swan. Past experience told her that this would be the best place to hear all the local gossip. She managed to convince the barman that her ancient penny piece was well worth the price of a ginger beer and sat down at a table opposite the door, so that she could see all the comings and goings.

Drivers in creamy white smocks complete with badges, were going in and out more or less continuously. The barman took their orders, but said little else other than “Morning George,” or “Safe trip George,” to each one as they came or left.

After ten minutes Jennifer Jane couldn’t stand it any longer and went up to the bar. “Are they really all called George?”

The barman laughed. “I don’t know their real names of course, there’s far too many of them, but we call all the carting company drivers George. It’s a very old tradition, I believe the founder of the company was called George and the name seems to have stuck for anyone who drives one of their carts. All the pigeon minders are called Phil, probably for much the same reason!”