‘I’m cutting it out,’ said her mother, ‘when everybody’s had a look. ’Tisn’t every day someone in our family gets her picture in the paper.’
Alison smiled, shook her head. ‘There’s no need, Mum. They send a glossy in a few days. That’ll be better.’
‘It won’t have the words underneath though,’ said Norah. ‘We’ll keep both, and our Tony can scan it for your Auntie Shelley. She’s out of it all, down there in Milton Keynes.’
FORTY-SIX
NOT EVERYBODY WAS happy with Bill’s snapshot. Carl Hopwood, who’d been kept at home because of his bruised face, saw it in the paper his father had left on the coffee table. He gazed at it. Try to put it out of your mind, his mother had said last night, and he had tried. This stark reminder made him moan, so that his mother looked up from her magazine.
‘What is it, Carl?’ She hadn’t quite forgiven him for calling her a daft beggar.
‘This kid in the paper, Mum, look.’ He held up the Echo.
‘Yes, your father showed it to me.’
‘She’s just like the woman I saw at the res. The ghost. It says local people have seen it, so why won’t you and Dad believe I saw it?’
Felicity shook her head. ‘It’s a story, Carl. A local legend. Lots of places are said to have ghosts, and some people think they see them because they expect to. You know the story of the ghost of Wilton Water, so when you were alone in the dark by the reservoir, you saw her.’
‘You mean I only thought I saw her?’ He shook his head. ‘She was there – I saw her like I see you now.’
His mother nodded. ‘You saw her, Carl, but she came from your mind, not from the water. A psychologist would say she arose out of the cortex. These things happen, it doesn’t mean people are lying.’ She frowned. ‘And it certainly doesn’t justify knocking them about.’
Carl folded the paper, dropped it on the table. ‘I don’t want to be going there all the time, Mum. Will you talk to Dad?’
His mother nodded. ‘I’ll talk to him, certainly, but you know what he’s like. We must hope this work on the reservoir will be finished soon, then perhaps your father will stop fussing.’
Carl shook his head. ‘No, Mum, he won’t. You know he won’t. He’ll just find something else to go on about.’
FORTY-SEVEN
‘MR CRABTREE?’ ASKED the man on the step. Tony shook his head. ‘I’m Tony Crabtree, you probably want my dad.’
The man nodded. ‘I’m seeking the gentleman who called the Echo recently about an unusual snapshot.’ He smiled, stuck out a hand. ‘I’m Stan Fox, Chief Reporter on the paper.’
‘Oh.’ Tony hesitated, then took the hand and shook it. ‘Yes, that was my dad but he’s out. So’s my mum. They go to the supermarket Friday afternoons. I . . . didn’t my dad call back to say it was all a mistake?’
Fox nodded. ‘Yes, Tony, he did, but then one of our photographers took this picture at the primary school last Friday.’ He pulled a brown envelope from his coat pocket, slid out a glossy photograph and showed it to the youth. ‘Is this young woman your sister?’
Tony nodded. ‘Yes, that’s our Alison. She won a fancy-dress competition. The pic was in yesterday’s paper.’ He frowned. ‘What’s this about, Mr Fox?’
Stan looked at him. ‘Alison told our man she’d come as the ghost of Wilton Water. Your dad claimed he had a snapshot of that ghost. I was wondering . . .’
Tony shook his head. ‘It wasn’t a snap of our Alison, if that’s what you were wondering.’
Fox pounced. ‘What wasn’t?’
‘The . . .’ Realizing his mistake, Tony stammered, ‘I . . . I mean we didn’t take a picture of my sister in her costume, up the res. It wasn’t a trick.’
Fox eyed him narrowly. ‘So what was it, Tony?’
‘A mistake, like my dad said. Look – I’ve got to go now, I’m shutting the door.’
He tried to shut it, but Fox stuck his shoe in the way. ‘Come on, lad, let me see what you’ve got.’
‘I haven’t got anything, Mr Fox.’
‘Yes you have. They don’t call me Curiosity Fox for nothing. I’m a dab-hand at sniffing out what’s been did and what’s been hid. All I’m asking is a quick peek. It’s not for publication, I promise you.’
Tony hesitated, then gave in. ‘Aw heck.’ He opened the door, stepped aside. ‘The thing is, Mr Fox, it’s not our photo. Alison’s friend took it, and she doesn’t want owt in the Echo about it.’
The reporter smiled. ‘Haven’t I just promised not to publish, Tony? All I want’s a quick shufti. Come on, there’s a good lad.’
FORTY-EIGHT
‘BETHAN, IS THAT you?’
‘No, it’s Beyonce – how did you get my number?’
Alison sighed. ‘Stop messing about, Bethan. Listen, I’ve got something important to tell you.’
‘You must have – it’s not half seven yet. Anyway, you can tell me at the res.’
‘The res?’
‘Yes. You’re not the only one making early calls. Me and Harry are meeting Rob there at half eight.’
‘Bit early, isn’t it? And what about Carl and the cave trolls?’
Bethan chuckled. ‘Carl was off school yesterday, and the day before. His dad smacked him at the bonfire. Harry reckons it pulverized his brain.’
Alison giggled. ‘Can you pulverize something that isn’t there?’
‘Never mind that, Aly. Meet us by the fence at half eight. The trolls won’t come without Carl, and the workmen don’t do Saturdays. Wear wellies – we get to explore the old mill at last.’
When Rob arrived at twenty five to nine, the others were waiting.
‘What kept you?’ demanded Harry.
Rob pulled a face. ‘I was just setting off when my mobi rang. Rooney, wanting a few tips on taking free kicks.’ He shrugged. ‘Got to help, haven’t you?’
‘ ’Course you do, Rob. Come on.’
Their old footprints curved across the mud like a gigantic bite. They walked in them, watching the trees along the shore. It was a still, cold morning with a thin mist. Nothing stirred.
‘Too early for old Steve,’ grunted Harry.
Rob nodded. ‘Hope so. You OK, girls?’
‘ ’Course,’ said Bethan. ‘We’re younger, not babies.’
They hauled themselves onto the shore and walked along to where they could see what was left of the mill. Bethan wasn’t a baby, but she was tense. Out there was where the ghost stood. She wasn’t there now, but everyone’s got to be somewhere. Even ghosts. Where is she in the daytime? whispered a voice in Bethan’s head. Can she see us?
‘OK,’ growled Harry. ‘Let’s do it.’ They slid down the bank and sloshed towards the remains of Hopwood Mill.
Halfway, Bethan remembered something. She touched Alison’s sleeve. ‘What were you going to tell me, Aly?’
Alison groaned. ‘I hoped you’d forgotten about that, Bethan.’ She put her mouth to her friend’s ear. ‘Guy from the Echo come to our place last night. Mum and Dad were out. Tony screened your snapshot for him.’
‘Oh, no!’ Bethan looked stricken. ‘He’s not going to put it in the paper, is he? Mum’ll go ape-shape.’
Alison shrugged. ‘He says not.’ She looked at her friend. ‘Tony couldn’t help it. The guy practically forced him. Said he was just curious, didn’t ask for a printout or anything so maybe it’ll be OK.’
Bethan nodded. ‘Let’s hope so. And let’s hope he’s not curious enough to come poking about here today – this is our adventure.’
FORTY-NINE
‘HEY LOOK.’ HARRY pointed to the ground they stood on. ‘There’s hardly any mud here. It’s cobbles, like some streets in the village.’ He grinned. ‘This isn’t going to be as messy as I expected.’
‘We’re in the mill yard, I suppose,’ said Bethan. ‘These walls all round were the weaving sheds, and the warehouse and office and that.’
‘Weird, isn’t it?’ breathed Rob. ‘The last people to cross this yard have b
een dead for a hundred years. D’you think if we listen really hard, we might hear the fading echo of their clogs.’
‘Oooh, Rob, don’t.’ Alison shivered. ‘I’m scared enough wondering if I’ll walk round the end of a wall and bump into the ghost, without you starting.’
Harry laughed. ‘You won’t bump into her, Alison, you’ll walk right through.’
‘Shut up, Harry,’ snarled Bethan. ‘We’re here to explore, not to tell ghost stories. What’re all these heaps of rubble, d’you think?’
‘They’re broken stones,’ said Rob. ‘It’ll be all the stuff that wasn’t worth carting off when they demolished the place.’ He kicked a lump. ‘The chimney stones’d smash when it fell, wouldn’t they?’
They walked about, scrambling over mounds that shifted under their feet, running their hands along the slimy tops of walls. Bethan tried to picture what it must be like here when the reservoir was full – a realm of dim green light, swaying plants and shoals of little fish. An alien place, lost to human eyes. Now the fishes were confined to the dark pool which lay in the deepest part of the reservoir.
It was Rob who made the find. He called to the others in such an odd voice that they knew he had something special before they ran to him. The bones lay along the foot of a wall, close in, as if their owner had sought a sheltered place to sleep. There were long bones, ribs and vertebrae, and a skull so like the ones they’d seen in movies that they knew for sure it was human.
FIFTY
THEY GAZED IN silence at the bones, feeling unreal. People on TV find skeletons. Pretend detectives and real archaeologists. Kids imagine themselves finding skeletons during adventures, but they never actually have adventures of that sort. Or of any sort, really.
Rob broke the silence, more for the sake of breaking it than anything else. ‘How come you girls aren’t screaming?’ he asked in a husky voice. ‘On telly, if a woman finds a body she screams.’
Alison whispered, ‘I’ve noticed that. Scriptwriters live in a time warp. They think we still swoon at anything wilder than embroidery.’
‘I’ll scream if you like,’ volunteered Harry. ‘I nearly did anyway.’
Rob shook his head. ‘No it’s OK, Harry, thanks.’ He looked towards the shore. ‘We might not be by ourselves much longer, so we better decide what we want to do.’
Alison looked at him. ‘What d’you mean, want to do. What can we do?’
‘Well, Alison, these are human remains. What we ought to do is tell the police, in case it’s a murder or something. But . . .’ He pulled a face. ‘If we do, that’s the end of our adventure. They’ll put blue and white tape round and we’ll never get close again.’
Bethan shook her head. ‘Let’s not do that, Rob. Not just yet.’ She nodded towards the bones. ‘This might be the ghost.’
‘Well, yes it might,’ agreed Rob, ‘but we’re not whatsit – forensic scientists. What d’you think we can actually do?’
‘Well I don’t know,’ snapped Bethan. ‘Look for clues. Take snapshots. Anything but back off the first real adventure we’ve ever had.’
Rob nodded. ‘OK, Bethan, we’ll poke about a bit, and you can take some pics.’ His eyes swept the shoreline. ‘We better get a move on though – old Steve might show up anytime. And that reporter.’
FIFTY-ONE
THEY SQUATTED IN a semicircle round the skeleton. ‘It’s old,’ said Harry. ‘You can tell by the colour of the bones – more browny green than white.’
Bethan nodded. ‘Yes, and there are no clothes. There’d be clothes if it was new. And shoes.’
Rob shook his head. ‘You can’t say that, Bethan. How do you know the guy wasn’t naked when he fell in the water?’
‘She,’ corrected Bethan. ‘We’re looking at the ghost of Wilton Water, couldn’t be anyone else.’
Rob snorted. ‘You can’t say that either. Ten people might have drowned in this reservoir over the years. And we don’t know the difference between a lady skeleton and a man skeleton.’
‘But it is old,’ insisted Harry. ‘And the police aren’t interested in bodies a hundred years old or more.’
‘How d’you know that?’ asked Alison.
Harry sighed. ‘Stands to reason, Aly. If someone murdered someone a hundred years ago, the murderer’s dead too by now, isn’t he? They can’t stick him in jail, so what’s the point?’
‘We should still report it,’ said Rob.
‘We will,’ agreed Bethan, ‘when we’ve had our adventure.’ She pulled the camera out of her jacket and aimed it at the skull. ‘Smile, please.’
Rob stood up, scanned the shore. ‘If we want to extend our so-called adventure past today,’ he growled, ‘we’ll need to hide the skeleton so nobody else finds it.’
Harry looked up at him. ‘How?’
‘Only one way,’ Rob replied. ‘Stack broken stones on top of it, make it look like just another heap. Better be quick too, ’cause I think someone’s coming.’
They scurried back and forth, carrying lumps of stone, stacking them like a cairn over the bones. They hadn’t quite finished when Rob said, ‘OK guys, that’ll have to do. It’s Steve, and he’s got his wellies on.’
They placed a few last stones, walking crouched so the ruins hid them, then emerged and trudged in a knot towards the shore, laughing and horsing around. Steve Wood watched them scramble up the bank.
‘You guys’re bright and early this morning,’ he greeted. ‘Anything interesting out there?’
‘Naw.’ Rob pulled a face. ‘Nothing but a bunch of old walls, Steve. We’re off to do something more exciting, like watching chicken parts thaw.’
FIFTY-TWO
IT STARTED TO drizzle. They headed for the bus shelter. Harry chuckled. ‘Chicken parts. Where’d you get that one, Rob?’
Rob shrugged. ‘Dunno. TV, I suppose. We can find sticks, scrape the muck off our wellies.’
There were only two buses on Saturdays. The first had gone, the other wasn’t due till one o’clock. The shelter was unoccupied. They sat on the bench in their socks, working at their wellies.
‘Wonder what Steve’s doing,’ muttered Bethan. ‘I hope he doesn’t find our bones.’
Her brother grinned. ‘They’re not our bones, Sis – we’re still wearing those.’
Bethan scowled. ‘Nobody likes a smartass, Harry.’ She wasn’t going to admit it, but the ghost was haunting her again. She’ll know, won’t she, murmured a voice inside her head. She’ll know we found her skeleton and didn’t report it because we want an adventure. And what does she want? A proper burial for one thing, I bet. Not someone with a camera going smile please, that’s for sure. She shook her head. I can’t believe I said that.
‘He won’t hang about in this stuff.’ Rob nodded at the rain. ‘Probably home right now, working on his latest book.’
Harry pulled a face. ‘Hope you’re right, Rob, but he was a postman, remember – out in all weathers.’
Alison shrugged. ‘Nowt we can do about it anyway. At least we got pictures.’ She nudged her friend. ‘Let’s have a look at ’em, Bethan.’
Bethan produced the camera, handed it to Alison.
Alison selected quick view, peered at the tiny screen. ‘Hey, Beth, this is a good one,’ she chirped. She was about to scroll forward when a shadow fell across her. She looked up.
The man in the raincoat smiled. ‘What is it, Alison – another ghost?’
FIFTY-THREE
‘WHO’RE YOU?’ ASKED Rob, before Alison could reply.
The man stuck a hand out. ‘Stan Fox. And you?’
Rob hesitated, then took the hand. ‘Rob Hattersley.’ He gestured to the others. ‘Alison Crabtree, Harry and Bethan Midgley. How do you know about the ghost?’
The man grinned. ‘Saw it on-screen at this young lady’s house.’ He nodded towards Alison.
‘Oh, yeah.’ Alison nodded. ‘Our Tony showed you. He wasn’t supposed to.’
Fox pulled a face. ‘Sorry. I promised not to print anything and
I haven’t, but I must admit I’m curious.’
‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ growled Rob.
Bethan thought this sounded rude, but the man only smiled. ‘Hasn’t killed the Fox though – not yet anyway.’ He nodded at the camera. ‘You going to let me see, Alison?’
Alison shrugged. ‘It’s Bethan’s camera, she took the pics. You better ask her.’
Fox looked at Bethan. ‘I bet you’re the one who snapped the ghost, aren’t you? It’s a terrific shot – near professional.’ He smiled. ‘But you don’t want to be famous, right?’
Bethan stared at her socks. ‘I don’t want my mum to know I went up the res at night,’ she mumbled. ‘That’s all.’
‘Aaah!’ Fox nodded. ‘I understand, Bethan, I had a mum like that.’ He smiled. ‘OK then, same promise – whatever’s on your camera, it won’t find its way into the Echo.’
‘And you won’t tell the police,’ added Bethan without looking up.
‘The police?’ said Fox, surprised. ‘You mean you’ve got something they’d be interested in?’
Bethan nodded. ‘Maybe, but this is our adventure, right? We found it and we’re investigating. We don’t want blue and white tape cutting us out. Grown-ups always cut kids out of interesting stuff.’
‘Yes, but still.’ Fox cleared his throat. ‘I think I’d better have a look, Alison, if you don’t mind.’
‘All right.’ She put the camera into the reporter’s hand. ‘But you promised, remember.’
FIFTY-FOUR
THE STONES THE kids had heaped up looked just like the other heaps to them, but it didn’t fool Steve Wood. As Fox gaped at the camera image of the skeleton, the squatting historian was gaping at the bones themselves.
Nothing but a bunch of old walls, eh? He chuckled. Crafty young devils. He gazed at the discoloured skull. How long’s this been here, I wonder? Quite a while I’d say, though I’m no expert. He pulled a face. I know a lass who is, though. I wonder . . .
The Shade of Hettie Daynes Page 7
