Once upon a time, when pigs spoke rhyme, and London was a small place in anybody’s mind, there were wells all around the town. Shepherds Well to Streatham Wells, Sadler’s Well to St Chad’s Well, Woodford Wells to Bagnigge Wells, St Bride’s or Bridget’s Well, Mossy Well or Muswell, Clerks Well to Camberwell, Briton’s Well or Cripplewell. Some had fresh water, good for drinking, and there were always queues of children, women and water-carriers. Some had sweet water, good for healing, and people came to cure their sore eyes and stiff legs and sad hearts. Others again had scummy water that was good for hiding, and people came with all sorts of dark secrets, and threw bodies, bones, and even babies down there. Now, in that long ago time when wells were all round and witches were as commonplace as apples, there was a man whose wife died, leaving him with a little girl. She was bright and willing but he couldn’t manage on his own, so he married again before too long. His new wife had a daughter too, much of an age as his own, so that would be company for the child, he thought, as well as a mother to care for her.
