Whispers in the Graveyard

by Theresa Breslin

  Thanks to John, and Alison, and Margaret, and many, many more

  First published in Great Britain 1994 by Methuen Children’s Books Ltd

  This edition published 2016 by Egmont UK Limited

  The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

  Text Copyright © 1994 Theresa Breslin

  Cover illustration copyright © 2016 Thomas Flintham

  The moral rights of the author, illustrator and cover illustrator have been asserted

  First e-book edition 2016

  ISBN 978 1 4052 8181 2

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1759 5

  www.egmont.co.uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Tree: rudall30/Shutterstock.com

  Graveyard: Tim the Finn/Shutterstock.com

  Leaves: Saiana/Shutterstock.com

  Bird: Epine/Shutterstock.com

  Tombstone: Ivan Pucarevic/Shutterstock.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication and Copyright

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  The language of grave symbols

  Rowan trees in myth and folklore

  Q&A with Theresa Breslin

  Understanding Solomon’s world

  Back series promotional page

  CHAPTER I

  My footprints track across the faint dew still lying on the grass. My boots crunch heavily on the hard gravel path, and I’m talking to myself as I walk, school bag bumping on my back. But the residents lodged on either side of these avenues won’t complain about the noise.

  They’re dead.

  Every one of them.

  Their headstones march beside me. I stop to look at one of my favourites. A weaver. There is a carving of a leopard with a shuttle in its mouth. The animal’s head is black with age, its stone roar a silent echo in a grey Scottish kirkyard. The leopard used to be on the crest of the Guild of Weavers. My dad told me.

  Early-morning mist comes creeping between the gravestones. I shiver. It’s because I’m cold though, not scared.

  Not yet.

  I touch the old tinker’s grave. A ram’s horns and crossed spoons. That’s how I know a tinker is buried there. The carvings and designs on the stones tell you. They all mean something. My dad told me to listen and I would hear the crackle of the gypsies’ campfire, the black pot swinging just above the flames.

  I wish words on paper were as easy to read and understand.

  There’s a big stone vase monument on this path, with a draped cloth and a trailing vine. That’s a symbol from the Bible. Dad read out a psalm to me one night. ‘Fruitful vine, and olive plants.’ I liked the sound of those words, rolling around inside my head.

  Masons used trees and plants a lot on memorials, ivy and bay leaf, lilies, thistles and roses. It’s traditional. They used to strew flowers on graves in ancient times, and grow evergreens in kirkyards.

  I leave the path and cross the grass past the pile of stones that make up the cairn memorial and go towards the back wall. It’s empty and bare here. Only a single rowan tree growing, and just behind it the dyke is half broken down. I can go through the wood at the other side of the graveyard past the river, on my way to school.

  I climb up and pull away some of the stones. There’s a ledge where I can lie, out of sight. I’ve got stuff stashed here. Emergency rations for when I dog off school and can’t go home. An old blanket, comic books, biscuits, cans of juice. I unwrap the plastic covering and take out a soft digestive. This will have to be breakfast. It was Old Mother Hubbard time in our house this morning. Not one of our better weekends, you might say. Dad hasn’t had any work for a while, not even casual.

  You get used to having nothing, though. Weeks and weeks on the giro. Toasted cheese, spaghetti on toast, toast and beans, french toast, scrambled eggs on toast, toast and jam, toast and butter, toast and marg. Dry toast. Toast.

  One night we were watching a film on the telly. Just the two of us. About the British Army. An old black and white one. Tunes of Glory or something. And there was this bit where they were in the officers’ mess, and this guy leapt to his feet and went, ‘Gentlemen, the King. I give you the toast.’ And I just looked over at Dad, and at the same minute he was looking at me, and both of us laughed, really loud, and the next thing we’re hysterical, rolling about on the floor. And then he sits up, wipes tears from his eyes and punches me on the shoulder. We sit on the couch and watch the rest of the film together, me kind of small and skinny leaning up against his muscly arm.

  That’s the way it is with us sometimes. For ages after, if things were grim, one of us would just go, ‘Gentlemen, I give you the toast.’ And the next thing we’d be laughing ourselves silly.

  Then he gets a bit of work on the black and there’s money coming in. And it’s good times all round. Happy days are here again, the world is full of cheer again. And he’s the all-singing, all-dancing, ever-popular parent.

  Let’s go to the supermarket.

  Let’s treat ourselves at the chippy.

  Let’s just have a bottle of something from the off-licence.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just a couple of cans.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sol, old son, you’re being a bit of a bore. D’ye know that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I can handle it.’

  Oh no you can’t. Oh yes I can. Oh no you can’t. Oh yes I can. What do you think, children? All of you who believe in fairy stories, clap your hands.

  It was always like that with the shopping. When I was smaller he would go and have ‘a quick one’ while she and I trailed around the supermarket. Then we’d have to hang about the car park waiting for him. One time he was away so long all the frozen-food packages had melted. Our plastic carrier bags were full of soggy cardboard boxes, water running out the bottom. She started yelling as soon as she saw him coming towards us, all smiles and waving happily. He just turned round and walked away. I’m sure that’s when she finally decided to leave.

  She did give me a choice. ‘Come or stay,’ she said.

  Some choice.

  I stare at the sky. It’s a darkening blue colour. A bit like my weekend. I’ve started to count my days in colours, from bright, clean white, all the way through to fiery, angry red. Maybe I should have gone with her. I wouldn’t be
having so many days with bad colours now.

  I put my stuff away and cover it up. It’ll be quite safe. Hardly anyone visits here. It’s too old, y’see. No one buried here would have any relatives left alive.

  At least that’s what I thought.

  Once, though, a woman came. One of those arty types. You know. With coloured scarves and long skirts and ear-rings. She did rubbings from the tombstones and then wandered off peering at things. I liked her pictures. Didn’t mind her being there either. Didn’t try to scare her off. The way she touched the stones with her palms and fingers, I could tell she was listening to them. She came so close to my place I could hear her talking to herself.

  ‘Strange, nobody buried at this end. Can’t see why not. Must be a reason . . . Nothing growing either.’ She frowned and put her head on one side. ‘One single rowan tree.’ She reached out her hand to touch the smooth silver bark, and then stopped. She shivered and moved away.

  That’s when I first realised nothing grew at my end. I suppose I should have wondered why that part of the wall had fallen away and had never been repaired, especially as all the rest was in fairly good order. Not even lichen and moss in the cracks to bind the stones together. But I didn’t. Just as well. I might have been tempted to start poking about, and it could have been me that got it first.

  The way it turned out someone else was there before me. Though I did get involved eventually. Not particularly wanting to. But then if I hadn’t, things would have been very much worse.

  A lot more people might have died.

  CHAPTER II

  Enter Warrior Watkins, scourge of the squaddies, specially selected to take the top juniors and lick them into shape for going up to high school. He’s collecting in our weekend work.

  He lingers at Sharon Fraser’s desk. She sits in the front row, right under his eye. All teeth and lipstick and legs.

  ‘I hope I’ve done enough.’ She gives him the thousand-candle-power mega-smile.

  It’s a ten-page exercise in perfect copy. He grunts as he looks at it. Disappointed, he takes the folder from her and moves on to find a victim. It’s cool. I’m OK. I’ve copied my homework in the cloakroom from my pal, Peter.

  ‘Make some mistakes for God’s sake,’ said Peter, eating an apple and leaning over my shoulder. ‘He’s not totally thick.’

  Peter’s tall and broad and good-looking and smart. I don’t know why he decided to be friends with me. One day in Primary Five he stopped in the middle of bashing me to bits and said, ‘You know, you’re hardly worth the effort. Pathetic.’ He watched as I silently cleaned my bleeding nose and fixed my clothes. Then he said, ‘Right enough, maybe it’s me that’s pathetic.’ He picked up my school bag and carried it home. And that was it. From then on he was an ally. Best buddy. My mate. Peter.

  And do I need him now? Do I ever. It’s do-your-diary time. My left hand crooked around my book, the page at right angles to the desk, I scrawl out my best effort.

  ‘Bloody baboon,’ hisses Watkins as he goes past.

  My face burns and my fingers tighten on the pencil. The words start to blur. I stop and look at the squiggles I’ve made. Has it come out right this time? Peter’ll check this sentence.

  Good old Peter. Thou art Peter and upon this rock I will build my . . .

  I shove it across and Peter gives it a quick look-see. He rolls his eyes, shakes his head and marks an X in sign language on the desk.

  It’s a bad one.

  I stare at the page in a desperate panic. What’s wrong with it? Sometimes I get bs and ds mixed up, or words back to front.

  Watkins is prowling back, metre stick swishing, searching for an outlet for that little fire he’s banked up. Sharon Fraser has a lot to answer for.

  He brings it down with a crash beside me.

  ‘Let’s have a look, Solly boy, shall we? What is it this morning? Egyptian hieroglyphics? Martian?’

  ‘Ignore him,’ mutters Peter.

  And I try. Really I do.

  My jotter is dangling from Watkins’ fingers. He sneers as he reads it out. ‘No saturbay I was a footdall maSh . . .’ His face is pushed up against mine, cheese and oniony breath smells in my face. Crêpey skin sags around his eyes, little red broken veins make crazed lines on the whites.

  Don’t stand so stand so stand so close to me

  ‘You are a lazy stupid boy.’ Thump, thump, on the desk. Fingers whorled and nicotined clench the ruler. ‘Nobody in my class turns in work like this.’ Thump, thump. ‘Nobody.’

  I wonder what would happen if I actually told Watkins about my weekend? This time Dad’s bender lasted all Saturday and Sunday. I eventually got him to bed at four o’clock this morning. I looked in on him before I left for school. He had peed on the sheets. There was nothing I could do. I didn’t have the time and he’s too big for me to move anyway.

  Where he’d got the stuff from I don’t know. No matter how broke we are he always manages to get his hands on some more booze. Charm, that’s what he’s got. By the bucket. Neighbours lend him money. Shops give him tick. Pubs, where he’s been barred only weeks before, will end up serving him. ‘Just the one, mind.’

  Once he was missing for hours and I found him at our town’s big hotel in among a wedding party. Everybody thought he was someone else’s uncle. He’d been getting free drink all afternoon and evening. When I arrived he was cracking jokes and telling them wild stories about his life in the Far East. The Far East! The furthest east he’s ever been is Edinburgh.

  He’s good with the stories though. Maybe that’s why I stayed with him. Telling them, reading them, making them up. The sounds of the words spilling out of his mouth and into my heart. Playing all the parts. Gollum and Gandalf the Grey. Capering around my bedroom at two in the morning, pulling the quilt from the bed to make a hobbit hole on the floor.

  I suppose I fell in love with him then, and hated her, my mother, shrieking from the door. ‘You’ve woken that child again. You drunken fool!’

  Well, who’s a fool now? Tom fool. April fool. Play the fool.

  ‘OUT!’ Watkins is yelling.

  He takes my exercise book and chucks it across the classroom. Suits me. I shrug and shoulder the ruckie. Peter grimaces. The rest stay low. With me gone he’ll be looking for another target. One of the girls probably.

  Melanie Wilson. She gives me a tiny sympathetic wave as I pass her. Poor Mousy Melly. She’ll be in tears before morning break.

  Now I’m in the school yard. Its emptiness accuses me. I’m supposed to stand out until first bell, but I’m not stopping here this morning. I look back as I slouch away through the gate and down the road. Take your time. Don’t hurry. Make with the real slow insolence, just in case Watkins is watching. The school windows stare back at me. Stupid, blank and vacant.

  Like my dad’s eyes when he’s totally crashed.

  God, I hate that place.

  CHAPTER III

  I count the money in my anorak pocket. Enough for a burger.

  I’ll need to get off the street quick. Can’t hang about. The local Miami Vice know me as a school dogger. They’ll round me up and take me back, which would probably involve three officers and two cars. Meanwhile the Post Office might be getting turned over.

  Yes, your lordship, I was being questioned as to the rightful ownership of the aforesaid Crunchie bar, submitted by the procurator as evidence, Exhibit A, when the getaway car accelerated away from the Post Office and screeched past us doing ninety in a built-up area.

  Did the constable say anything at the time?

  Yes, your lordship, he said, Some of those old-age pensioners are in a real hurry to get their allowance, aren’t they?

  I climb over the graveyard wall and drop down on the other side.

  Something is wrong.

  The soil beneath the wall has been disturbed.

  Someone has been here.

  They have left equipment close by. Tarpaulins and scaffolding. Heavy boot prints stamped in the earth, gouge marks on th
e grass. I don’t like this. Further down the path there are notices pinned up. I pull one down and stuff it in my pocket to look at later.

  What’s going on?

  I wander about, restless and agitated. There is a great disquiet all around me. Why?

  I lean against the tombstones. The familiar carvings of winged souls and hourglasses are old friends. These markings I can read and understand. I run my fingers over them. The crumbling old stone, mellow and marmalade-coloured, is warm beneath my fingers. The contours are soft and welcome my touch. The later grey slabs stand firm, their faces dark and strong. I reach up to the old carved urn. The cloth draped over it is smooth and reassuring, soft folds falling, falling . . .

  There is a flowering cherry right beside it. I gaze high through its branches. Its full frothy head is a spring song in the sky.

  I go back to the wall and get myself comfortable on my ledge, with my burger and comic. The sun is on my face. I close my eyes.

  Then I hear the sound of a heavy engine. I peer out through the stones. There’s a district council van driving through the bottom gate. Workies start piling out with picks and shovels. A larger car following them bumps up on the grass verge. Two official-looking plonkers get out and stride up the path towards me.

  I cower down lower in my hiding place. They can’t possibly see me, can they? They stop a few metres short of my wall.

  ‘Drainage,’ says the smaller man. He’s wrapped up in a tan raincoat, hands stuck in his pockets. He rocks back and forth on his heels and then stamps his feet a couple of times. ‘Drainage, Professor Miller. That’s going to be a big problem.’

  ‘Mmmm?’ The one called Professor Miller seems more interested in the gravestones. He has stopped to examine one. He traces the line of the pattern with his fingers, his hands gliding lightly along the surface like a doctor’s, searching, probing. ‘This is extremely interesting.’ He has the trace of an Irish accent in his voice. ‘What is the history of this place?’

  ‘It was a burial ground attached to a small church. There are only a few stones of the ancient kirk left in one corner. It became overcrowded and was closed some time ago. I believe its origins are pre-medieval.’