Short Stories by Francesca Astraea

Ask anyone: twenty-eight Wimbourne Way was the place to go if you needed a helping hand with your life. For the price of one good deed, or a couple of thousand pounds, the witch who lived there would paint you and at least the likeness of your loved ones into a scene of your heart’s desire. Expect to find yourself living at least the likeness of that scene anywhere between two months and two years later. The witch was very good at it and rarely had complaints. This was predominantly because, as she always said, you really put the hard work in yourself, although it does help to visualise where you want to go. Psychobabble bullshit? Legitimate magic? The positive impact that visualisation (and a hot cup of tea with an understanding stranger) can have on one’s mental health?

No one really cared; they were just glad they had somewhere to go when things got desperate.

The witch’s most interesting portrait for decades came to the door one Thursday evening in February, in the form of a tall, gangly teenage girl with heaps of bright orange curls. Not the sort of orange that experimental teens like to colour their hair, the sort of orange that one is cursed with from birth. Both the witch and the girl, Tansy, were aware that in a few years’ time Tansy would own the hair instead of the hair owning Tansy. Both were aware that she was not quite there yet.

‘How can I help you?’ the witch asked when Tansy was seated, with tea, in the witch’s art-studio-living-room-office. Tansy surveyed her surroundings. The room felt more like an old theatre than anything else, with gilded plasterwork, dark pink wallpaper, velvet-covered armchairs and what looked suspiciously like gas lamps. Several easels were dotted about, with a variety of end tables and cabinets pressed into use as work benches or filing cabinets. Dozens of portraits hung on the walls, which gave Tansy the vague impression of being watched.

‘I would like you to paint me with my family please,’ she said. ‘I have a… a disjointed home life and I would like for it to iron out, just a little.’

‘Of course. You emailed me…’ The witch rustled several stacks of paper, most of which were dangerously close to the gas lamps.

‘Last week.’

‘Last week, with some photos of the family… two parents, one grandmother? Ah, I’ve printed them out… here. We agreed a price of…’

‘One good deed.’

‘And is it done?’

‘Yes. Do you want to know what it is?’

‘Only if you wish to tell me.’

Tansy said nothing, so the witch gathered her watercolours and her preferred easel and squinted at Tansy. ‘This could take anywhere between one and three hours,’ she warned. ‘I have some sandwiches if you get hungry.’

‘I should be fine, thank you, I had an early tea.’

The witch smiled faintly. ‘In that case, I’ll begin.’

‘How did you get into art?’ Tansy asked after a few minutes. She had never sat for her portrait before and found it slightly discomfiting, especially with all the other pictures watching her.

‘I always enjoyed artwork; it’s quite meditative, isn’t it?’

Tansy couldn’t say she agreed but nodded anyway.

‘When I was in my early forties, I found myself suffering both from the menopause and a spate of unemployment. This was before the internet, you see—nowadays you can find a coven in about three clicks. Back then, you found yourself in a community of witches and you stayed put… until they expressed a desire for you to move on. I washed up here, with some savings, and decided to give portrait art a go.’ Tansy found herself scanning the room again, taking in all the pictures. The vast majority seemed to be the witch’s own work, all watercolours and charcoals, signed with a loopy signature.

‘You’re very good,’ Tansy said honestly. ‘Do you get a lot of different clients?’

‘Oh yes, lots. I’ve had teachers, politicians, stay-at-home parents… sometimes people are between jobs, or a little stuck in their personal lives. You get the odd rock star or Hollywood starlet, but in some ways I prefer the little people. You’d be surprised how many folks forget to say thank you when their salary is more than four figures.’

Tansy gazed at the wall. ‘My dad’s a rock star,’ she heard herself tell the witch. ‘Well. Indie rock? I don’t even know, I’ve heard it too many times. Spends forty weeks a year touring. We moved eighteen times before I was twelve, and that doesn’t count hotels. Eventually my mum and nan moved us back here.’

‘Mm.’ The witch dabbed at her canvas absentmindedly. ‘That must have been an interesting childhood.’

‘Oh yes, it was—and I’m very grateful that we got to travel, and now we have a nice house. And he’s a great dad, I’m not dissing him. I don’t think he’s ever had any affairs or done loads of drugs or eaten any bats. He’s always available on the phone or iPad or whatever. Always has been. It’s just… it sort of feels like he considers his family as work and his work his family.’

‘Understandable,’ the witch nodded. ‘So you’d like a little more time together?’

‘Not more time, necessarily.’ Tansy shifted in her chair. ‘Just for the time we do have to revolve around more than perfunctory conversation about the weather and my school.’

As she sat, Tansy found herself telling the witch all about her father’s meteoric rise to stardom. Most of it occurred while she was still teething and her mother worked in a hairdresser’s, with Nick Waterford gigging six nights a week and watching Tansy while her mother was at work. By the time Tansy was in pre-school, Nick had moved up the billing and into larger venues. By primary school he was touring worldwide. By secondary school he had reached the level of fame that allowed complete strangers to approach Tansy in the school corridor and say, ‘aren’t you Nick Waterford’s kid?’

Of course, Tansy had done most of her primary schooling in hotels and studios, her grandmother acting as tutor while her mother ran Nick’s schedule (although she still did his hair on occasion). Her childhood was, Tansy confessed, idyllic.

‘We aren’t this unhappy family,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s just that I sometimes think he can’t see past the next set of ticket sales and I don’t think that’s quite healthy.’

‘You count pennies as a child, you count them as an adult,’ the witch murmured, eyes on her work.

‘My dad always says that. Do you keep a lot of your portraits?’

‘A few. Some people don’t like to admit they’ve been to me. Some don’t want to remember a time in their life when I was their last resort.’

‘Mm. I’d like to take mine with me, please.’

‘You’ll have to come back tomorrow, when I’m sure it’s dry.’

Tansy nodded. Was that a real art thing or was the witch going to do some magic? She wasn’t sure which she’d prefer.

Two hours later, Tansy was safely out of the door with strict instructions to come back and call a cab if the buses weren’t running. The witch retreated to her front room, her portrait of Tansy and her family resting happily in her easel. Nestled in the room’s farthest corner, the one portrait Tansy hadn’t seemed to notice, was of a tall, rakish gentleman with a beaming wife and orange-haired toddler, standing on the edge of a stage.

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