The Didsbury Witch

In the autumn of 1961, Hallow's Eve held a special promise for me, because I had recently discovered that Didsbury was home to a witch.

She was a young witch I suppose, though at the time, all grown-ups were grown-up age, whether that was 25 or 82; but the witch was nearer the 25 end. She was an absolute gem of a witch - cut-glass cheekbones, raven tresses, high-heeled boots and every single garment I ever saw her in was black. She wore a regular pill box hat, but I saw through this disguise: I knew she had a pointy one in her wardrobe for special occasions. (I am nine years old here, are you keeping track?)

When I thought about it, I could not put my finger on the day she first walked into my field of vision and struck fantastic terror into my little heart. But now I saw her at least once a week, walking through the suburban streets of my childhood, always alone, never greeting anybody. The other grownups of the neighbourhood would hail each other when they crossed in the street, but not the witch. Men did not touch the brims of their hats when they saw her. Groups of chatting ladies huddled to the side as she passed, with their eyes averted. I had even known her to stride over hopscotch courses while children flung themselves in all directions to get out of her way.

As soon as we first laid eyes on her, all the Didsbury residents under the age of ten were agreed: that was definitely a witch. We were terrified and fascinated by her. When she turned onto a street, all play ceased. Generally she would pass by as if you were no more to her than a pebble on the roadside, but once or twice, her eyes had roved across me.

I feared her gaze like a searchlight. Though most of the time she seemed oblivious to me, on the odd occasion that she did seem to notice anyone around her, I felt sure that her eyes sought me above everyone else and that she had the ability to look right into my soul. I had no doubt that given a moment alone on the street, I would be her favoured victim.

One day in the cosy council hovel that housed my English grandparents, I said to my grandma, "I know a witch that lives near here. I see her walking all the time."

My grandma grimaced and turned away from me, as though she didn't want to discuss such sordid matters. I found this odd, because on the Irish side of my family, they spoke of little else. Witches, uncles' ghosts, angel sightings and the little people who lived out back, were regular fare for them and they would have known precisely what to do about a witch, I presumed, but presently they were in Ireland and I was in Didsbury.

"Do you know anything about witches, Grandma?" I pressed.

She flickered her gaze away from the tiny television set which was the luxury of her life. We were watching Citizen James, a show my grandma decried as 'vulgar tripe'. (But she refused to miss a week.) "What's put this in your head?" she said. "That's not a nice thing for a little girl to think about."

"But I've seen her!"

"You stay away from her then. Bad things happen to children who talk to strange women."

"What sort of things?"

She sighed. Sid James cackled. "A long time ago when I was your age-"

"Was it the Victorian times?" I interjected. My grandma was born in 1886, a fact which has never ceased to fill me with wonder. I saw her as a kind of timetraveller. I could talk to and touch someone who had seen new Sherlock Holmes stories appear in The Strand, who still spoke frequently of 'the old queen', who could recall the first time she saw an aeroplane or motorcar. I get goosebumps even now.

"Don't interrupt your elders, Joyce. Yes it was. A little girl who lived in the cottage at the end of our row went to play down at Whitwood Mere. And there she got talking to a woman who lived in the woods, even when she knew better. And she was killed there, poor thing."