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can be packed with people here in high summer. But today, it’s just Daisy and me.
    I take my shoes and socks off and roll my trousers up. I sit down and dip my feet in the cold seawater. I stare down through the sunbright surface hoping to see a jellyfish or maybe a large fish trapped inside. ‘What can you see, Daisy?’
    ‘The Bird Lady,’ she says in a hushed whisper.
    ‘What?’ I say. I look up. Daisy’s pointing along the rocky shore. I didn’t see her before. She was hidden in the shadows. But now I see an old lady sitting by the boulders at the water’s edge, her long grey hair and black shawl lifted by the breeze. I watch her tear chunks from a loaf of bread and throw them up into the sky. The gulls wheel and dive to catch them, and squabble on the rocks for fallen crumbs.
    ‘It’s Miss Penluna,’ I say. ‘I thought she’d moved away.’
    ‘She’s a witch,’ says Daisy.
    ‘Daisy!’ I laugh, because if Miss Penluna had a broomstick I’d think she was one too.
    Daisy frowns at me and folds her arms. ‘She is a witch. Tommy Ansty said when the cows on his dad’s farm got big warts, the vet couldn’t cure them, but the Bird Lady did. She put a spell on them. Tommy said the warts dropped off the next day.’
    ‘Well, watch out,’ I say. ‘She’s coming this way. She might put a spell on you too.’
    Daisy tries to pull me up. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
    ‘Don’t be silly, Daisy,’ I say. ‘There’s no such thing as witches.’ Despite my words, I press myself in to the rock shadows as she passes. Daisy clings on to me and we watch her shuffle past and climb the steps, worn smooth by people’s feet over the years, up to the path along the headland. Her long shawl trails a wet line across the rocks where it’s dragged in rock pools on the way. She’s almost made it to the top, when we see her fall. She stumbles forward. Her stick clatters to the ground and slithers down the rocks. All we see is the top of her shawl above the long grasses.
    She doesn’t move.
    I look at Daisy, and Daisy looks at me.
    ‘We’d better check if she’s OK,’ I say.
    Daisy nods and follows me across the rocks. By the time we reach Miss Penluna, she is sitting up and rubbing both her knees. A small bloodstain has soaked through the ribbing on her woollen tights.
    I pick up her stick. ‘Are you OK?’
    Miss Penluna looks up and smiles. ‘I think so, thank you, dear.’
    I hold out my hand. She takes mine in hers and I help her to her feet. Her arm feels thin and bony beneath her shawl. She’s so light it’s as if she’s made out of nothing at all. Her bird-like eyes dart across my face.
    ‘You’re Kay Wood’s child, aren’t you?’
    The question takes me by surprise. No one talks about Mum any more.
    I nod.
    Daisy clutches my hand tight in hers.
    ‘She used to bring me birds,’ Miss Penluna says. She cups her hands as if she’s holding one. ‘Funny little black and white birds, like penguins. Lost, they were. They couldn’t find their rabbit holes in the storm.’
    I hear Daisy stifle a giggle. She holds her hand across her mouth and I see the corner of her eyes crinkle in a smile.
    But Miss Penluna hasn’t noticed. She leans into us, eyes wide, and whispers. ‘I kept them in my drainpipes for the night.’
    Daisy is shuddering beside me now, and I cough to hide her helpless giggles. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ I say.
    Miss Penluna nods and pulls her shawl straight around her shoulders. She takes her stick from me. ‘I’ll be just fine now, thank you.’
    She’s about to walk away but she turns and faces me, her head cocked to one side.
    ‘How is your mother?’ she asks. ‘I haven’t seen her since I’ve been away.’
    I shrug my shoulders. It’s such a simple question but I don’t know the answer any more. ‘I don’t know where she is,’ I say.
    Miss Penluna’s eyes search my face and I feel careless somehow, like a small child who’s lost a precious toy. I thought