Look, here she comes now, bustling into the village square, like a ship in full sail. A silly old woman you may think, if you're fooled by the once-glamourous shawl stretched across her bosom, and the layers of petticoats festooned around her unguessable form. Look again, as she turns to greet the children who call after her wherever she goes:
     "Good morning, Mother Gosse!"
     "Mother Gosse, how are you today?"
     And then, as she passes on her way:
     "My dad says she's a hundred years old."
     "My sister says she can turn the milk sour, if you don't offer her some."
     "Oh, no she can't!"
     "Oh, yes she can!"
     Turn milk sour? Is she that ugly then? She's old, and her life hasn't been easy, but she's handsome, in her way. See the strength in that jaw-line, the piercing discernment of that nose.
     Now she turns her attention to the clamour of activity that is market day, anywhere in rural England.
     "Good day to you, good Mother Gosse!"
     "Care for a sup of this milk, Mother Gosse?"
     Mother they call her, but childless she is, although she's been in at the birthing of every mother's child. She's been much bandied about lately, offered to us as the pattern for a village witch. But if she has magic, it's of the common-sense kind. Hatches, matches and dispatches are her business. She's everyone's mother, and no-one's. She's the midwife, the baby-sitter, the matchmaker, and the only one who's close enough yet different enough to handle the sick and the dead without making everyone feel uncomfortable. Oh, she's popular indeed. Where is the suspicion and fear that's supposed to have fuelled the witch-hunts? She's heading for the inn now, her mind on a jar of strong ale, but it's a ten minute procession, interrupted as she is by half-a-dozen villagers with demands on her time.
     "Mother Gosse! Watch me catch my ball!"
     "Could you have a look at young Jimmy's rash, good Mother Gosse?"
     It's hardly ladylike, her life. You can see that clear enough as she finally reaches the inn. She settles herself squarely in front of a pint of ale. Her legs are planted firmly, a yard apart, under the table, and serious work-boots protrude from her voluminous skirts. And now she's thrown back her bonnet, revealing a tangle of wiry hair, gun-metal grey, and a pair of bird-bright eyes which twinkle eagerly as they dart to and fro, catching up on the week's news.
     Just think of the security she brings to the village. They don't have to like her – only show a little respect, and see her alright for food and fuel, when they've got some to spare. But the brave do like her. Just listen to the belly laughs echoing round the tap room, as Gossy and the innkeeper share a bawdy tale. No ordinary woman could top his foul jokes so shamelessly!
     Is there an edge of fear somewhere? In our modern towns we have security in numbers. Tell your doctor anything you like. He's not going to turn up at the weekend, chatting to your mates about your skin condition, is he? But in a little village, you need someone you can trust. How did she step outside far enough to do her job that well, and yet remain one of them? Almost every village had someone like her, but she says every one came there by a different path. You want a few examples? Well, there's Elspeth from Morflint, with the harelip. There's Maggie over on the Shuggen Hills, with her wooden leg. Before them, there was Mad Jen, whose own mother never spoke a word in her life, and Black Alice over Tetford way...Well, that one's self-explanatory, wouldn't you say? But don't run away with the idea that merely visible differences can create a village mother. Of course not. Such accidents just make their victims a more likely candidate. So what is special about these women? You tell me...You think they could all do magic? Well, who can't? Did they dance with the old goat? Well, doesn't everyone do it, then look for another to accuse? Isn't it all a matter of waking up with a shiver, finding yourself on the outside, and beginning a lifelong search for a way back in again?
     Well, not always. Perhaps some find they like it on the outside. Look now, Gossy's jar is empty. She's wiping her mouth on her sleeve, and bidding the innkeeper good day. Let's follow her home, and I'll show you one mother's secret. We'll have to be patient. Follow quietly as she concludes her business in the market square, then gets called aside to look at the blacksmith's youngster, who's sporting a nasty burn. She's rewarded with one of a batch of freshly cooked beef pies, which she folds carefully into a cloth, and tucks into a pocket in her skirt.
     At last, we see her making her way to the obligatory tumbledown cottage on the edge of the wood. She lets herself in, stirs up the fire in the grate, and then closes all the shutters with meticulous care. You see, all such matrons, for one reason or another, need a bit of privacy. While she's eating her pie, have a look round. It's no more than a dusty shack, her home: One room, with an earth floor, and a bed which is basically a heap of rags. On the table where she's tucking in to her supper (courtesy of the blacksmith's wife) stands a jar of scrumpy, a blackened clay pipe, and her medicine chest – containing the half-dozen cures she keeps ready prepared. That's about it, as far as possessions go.
     Well, she's finished her meal. There's nothing to clear up, really – except for the crumbs a couple of mice are already preparing to deal with. There's nothing more for Mother Gosse to do but, with a deep sigh, pull off her size ten boots, and unwrap herself from the mass of padding that, in her case, passes for clothes. She takes a pull at the scrumpy jar, then lowers herself onto her bed with a groan.
     She's not as young as she was. It's a hard life she has. She wonders, was she ever really young, the way some sweet folks are? She lets a square, big-knuckled hand slip down her barrel-like chest, and further, seeking comfort in the penis she never asked for. Because this Mother Gosse is a man.
     "Oh no she isn't!" cry the children on one side.
     "Oh, yes she is!" reply the children on the other.

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