Peter Collins awoke with a tremendous start.
Sunlight streamed through his bedroom curtains.
The familiar sound of traffic drifted in from the street, and somewhere downstairs a wireless was playing a cheerful morning tune.
For several moments, Peter lay perfectly still.
Then he sat up.
“What an extraordinary dream!”
He looked down at himself.
He was wearing his blue-striped pyjamas.
They were perfectly dry.
His bedroom clock showed half-past eight.
From downstairs came his mother’s voice.
“Peter! Are you getting up? Your breakfast is getting cold!”
“Coming, Mother!”
Peter climbed out of bed.
He had lived independently for several years, but was spending a few days visiting his mother, who still insisted upon treating her thirty-two-year-old son as though he were seventeen.
He reached for his dressing gown.
Then he stopped.
Something was lying upon his bedside table.
A small red apple.
Peter stared at it.
The apple was perfectly round, with a deep crimson skin that seemed almost to glow in the morning sunlight.
Attached to its stalk was a tiny piece of parchment.
Peter picked it up.
Written in beautiful old-fashioned handwriting were the words:
Dear Peter,
I trust you slept well following your unexpected visit.
I sincerely hope that last night’s lesson has encouraged you to exercise a little more common sense in future.
Remember what I told you about the seven apples.
And should you find yourself in my garden again, kindly use the front gate.
Yours sincerely,
Agatha Thistlewick.
Peter stared at the note.
“Good heavens!”
He turned the parchment over.
On the reverse were seven words written in dark green ink:
THE CATS WILL ALWAYS KNOW YOU ARE THERE.
Peter sat down upon the edge of his bed.
He remembered everything.
The glowing mushrooms.
The whispering flowers.
The strange sundial.
Sebastian speaking in his extraordinarily educated voice.
And, most embarrassingly of all, Mrs Thistlewick’s old-fashioned ideas about discipline.
He shook his head.
“Utter nonsense! The whole thing must have been a dream!”
But there was the apple.
A perfectly real apple.
He picked it up and examined it.
For one brief moment, he considered taking a bite.
Then he remembered Mrs Thistlewick’s warning.
Never touch the seven apples.
Peter hurriedly returned it to the table.
From downstairs came another shout.
“Peter Collins! I shall not call you again!”
“Coming, Mother!”
He was about to leave the bedroom when he heard something outside.
“Meeeeow!”
Peter stopped.
Slowly, he turned towards the window.
There, sitting upon the garden wall, was an enormous black cat.
Its coat was as dark as midnight.
Its eyes were a brilliant emerald green.
Sebastian.
The cat looked directly at Peter.
Then, very slowly, it winked.
Peter opened the window.
“Sebastian!”
The cat yawned.
“Good morning, Peter Collins.”
Peter gripped the windowsill.
“You really can talk!”
“Naturally.”
“But what are you doing here?”
Sebastian examined one of his paws.
“Delivering a message.”
“From Mrs Thistlewick?”
“Who else?”
Peter looked towards the apple.
“What does she want?”
The cat’s whiskers twitched.
“She wishes to remind you that you promised to put her garden back in order.”
Peter stared.
“But that was a dream!”
Sebastian gave a long, theatrical sigh.
“Really, Peter. I should have thought that by now you would have learnt the difference between an ordinary dream and a visit to Keere Street.”
Peter looked utterly bewildered.
“When am I supposed to come?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“At precisely midnight.”
Peter shook his head.
“Oh, no! I am not going back there!”
Sebastian smiled.
It was a most peculiar expression upon the face of a cat.
“That, Peter Collins, is not entirely your decision.”
And with those words, the enormous black cat leapt gracefully from the garden wall and disappeared amongst the bushes.
Peter stood at the window for a very long time.
Then he looked once more at the red apple.
Something had changed.
A tiny golden number had appeared upon its skin.
SEVEN.
Peter swallowed.
From somewhere very far away, although he could not possibly have heard it from his bedroom, came the faint sound of a silver bell.
Ting!
And in the quiet little house on that perfectly ordinary English morning, Peter Collins realised that his adventures with the Witch of Keere Street were only just beginning.
