Short Story: a work in progress

“Mrs James said that YOU can’t be a WITCH.  She says there’s no such thing and Hollywood made them up!”

Jo glared at me, a reproachful expression on her face.  She was good at this.  Most things in her tortured young life eventually, sometimes sooner, come back to me.  I sighed.  I suppose it is my fault, I conceded.  I chose my path, abandoning the established order of simply ticking the Church of England box on official documents, and declaring Pagan instead. It was not my brightest move to share this information with my daughter’s school. 

“Jojo, we've talked about this. I believe that people have a right to follow their own path.  I’ve been open with you about my beliefs and that’s all I can say, really.  It’s up to you to draw your own conclusions.  Mrs James has her beliefs too, they may be narrow, but that’s how it is.”

I reached out to hug my daughter; truculent though she was, spiked red hair, tie undone, skirt rolled up around her waist so many times it made her look like the Michelin man, she was my child to be cherished and loved.  She wriggled loose. 

“Don’t call me that! I’ve told you, everyone calls me Josephine now.  Anyway,” she continued relentlessly, relishing her news, “now I have detention tomorrow!”

She flounced out of the room.  Experience told me that I should leave it at that, wait for the rest of the story.  But I couldn’t let it be, could I?  Oh no, the terrier in me had taken hold and I was getting feisty.  First of all, really, where did that bible bashing bigot get off telling my daughter what she could and couldn’t believe? 

I could hear her sobbing from the landing.  The door was locked and Jo was not prepared to let me in yet.  My anger had nowhere else to go.  Filled with the kind of righteous indignation only the parent of a misjudged child can be, I took my fight to the head.  That’s right.  Straight to the top, no messing.

Gareth Parker fixed me with a condescending gaze.  We’d had a few run-ins over the years.  Well you do, don’t you, by the time all five of your offspring have walked the hallowed halls of the local high?

“This really doesn’t sound like Mrs James” he proclaimed firmly. “She’s one of our more progressive teachers, always prepared to listen to new ideas, quite the change maker really!" he laughed at this, as though he'd said something amusing.  "Let’s bring her in, shall we?” he continued in a reasonable tone.  “I think she’s helping some of the less academically favoured children with their assignments.  Perhaps Jo was mistaken?”

He did not actually say ‘again’, yet there it was, a tangible thing despite being unuttered.  We both knew my daughter.  I let the slight go and waited for the paragon to appear.  She wafted in, all smiles and Liberty print, the odour of Anais Anais and paella clinging slightly to her cardigan. 

“How lovely to meet you Mrs Lewis” she purred, taking a seat next to me. 

In I waded, fervently expressing my absolute right to practise my religion in freedom and my daughter’s right to decide upon her own spiritual path. 

“Absolutely” agreed the virtue “perhaps Josephine would like to join my after-school class, Understanding the changing face of religion?  We discuss alternative religions and their place in our society” she offered helpfully.  At this point, I admit I nearly crumbled.   But I was caught in the red mist. 

“Perhaps she would,” I said cuttingly, “once she’s done with the detention you gave her for defending my beliefs!”

She looked at me in some surprise.  “Is that what she told you?  Mrs Lewis, did you really take to the sky on your broomstick at Halloween?  Is it really your intent to turn Ben Nokely into a frog?”  She shared a slyly triumphant look with the head.  I swear he smirked.  Of course, there was more to it. The language she had chosen for her chant was particularly offensive, apparently. 

Finally I extricated myself from the cloying geniality of the head’s study; three adults who’ve reached a mutual understanding.  The red mist had cleared, leaving in its wake a slight feeling of self contempt.  I had bartered my dignity by offering to help on the school fund-raising committee.  Perhaps I should dance naked around a bonfire.  That would surely raise a few eyebrows at the bake sale.