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‘I shall never have a bath again,’ I said.
‘Just don't have one too often,’ my grandmother said. ‘Once a month is quite enough for a sensible child.’
It was at moments like these that I loved my grandmother more than ever.
‘Grandmamma,’ I said, ‘if it's a dark night, how can a witch smell the difference between a child and a grown-up?’
‘Because grown-ups don't give out stink-waves,’ she said. ‘Only children do that.’
‘But I don't really give out stink-waves, do I?’ I said. ‘I'm not giving them out at this very moment, am I?’
‘Not to me you aren't,’ my grandmother said. ‘To me you are smelling like raspberries and cream. But to a witch you would be smelling absolutely disgusting.’
‘What would I be smelling of?’ I asked.
‘Dogs’ droppings,’ my grandmother said.
I reeled. I was stunned. ‘Dogs’ droppings!’ I cried. ‘I am not smelling of dogs’ droppings! I don't believe it! I won't believe it!’
‘What's more,’ my grandmother said, speaking with a touch of relish, ‘to a witch you'd be smelling of fresh dogs’ droppings.’
‘That simply is not true!’ I cried. ‘I know I am not smelling of dogs’ droppings, stale or fresh!’
‘There's no point in arguing about it,’ my grandmother said. ‘It's a fact of life.’
I was outraged. I simply couldn't bring myself to believe what my grandmother was telling me.
‘So if you see a woman holding her nose as she passes you in the street,’ she went on, ‘that woman could easily be a witch.’
I decided to change the subject. ‘Tell me what else to look for in a witch,’ I said.
‘The eyes,’ my grandmother said. ‘Look carefully at the eyes, because the eyes of a REAL WITCH are different from yours and mine. Look in the middle of each eye where there is normally a little black dot. If she is a witch, the black dot will keep changing colour, and you will see fire and you will see ice dancing right in the very centre of the coloured dot. It will send shivers running all over your skin.’
My grandmother leaned back in her chair and sucked away contentedly at her foul black cigar. I squatted on the floor, staring up at her, fascinated. She was not smiling. She looked deadly serious.
‘Are there other things?’ I asked her.
‘Of course there are other things,’ my grandmother said. ‘You don't seem to understand that witches are not actually women at all. They look like women. They talk like women. And they are able to act like women. But in actual fact, they are totally different animals. They are demons in human shape. That is why they have claws and bald heads and queer noses and peculiar eyes, all of which they have to conceal as best they can from the rest of the world.’
‘What else is different about them, Grandmamma?’
‘The feet,’ she said. ‘Witches never have toes.’
‘No toes!’ I cried. ‘Then what do they have?’
‘They just have feet,’ my grandmother said.
‘The feet have square ends with no toes on them at all.’
‘Does that make it difficult to walk?’ I asked.
‘Not at all,’ my grandmother said. ‘But it does give them a problem with their shoes. All ladies like to wear small rather pointed shoes, but a witch, whose feet are very wide and square at the ends, has the most awful job squeezing her feet into those neat little pointed shoes.’
‘Why doesn't she wear wide comfy shoes with square ends?’ I asked.
‘She dare not,’ my grandmother said. ‘Just as she hides her baldness with a wig, she must also hide her ugly witch's feet by squeezing them into pretty shoes.’
‘Isn't that terribly uncomfortable?’ I said.
