by AJ Wright
Could we but climb where Moses stood,
And view the landscape o’er,
Not Jordan’s stream, nor death’s cold flood,
Should fright us from the shore.
It was with some amusement that he watched the choir troop past him when they’d finished. Some of them he recognised as young toughs from Scholes, and they were clothed in their usual scruffy garb with slim neckerchiefs covering filthy necks, each boy holding his folded cap as if it were something holy. Still, there was something about them, the way they walked with an unaccustomed slowness, heads bowed lower than normal, that made Brennan look back at the vicar still standing at the altar with admiration. If he could work such miracles with this gang of ruffians …
As the choir reached the heavy wooden doors, he saw them revert to what he’d expect – a sudden bout of pushing, shoving and cursing as the doors fell open and they stumbled out into the darkening world outside – and he wondered if his impression a few moments ago had been a self-deluding illusion.
‘Detective Sergeant Brennan?’
He turned back and saw the vicar approaching along the aisle.
‘Yes, sir.’
He wasn’t quite sure how to address a protestant vicar – Father wouldn’t do at all, he told himself as the Reverend Pearl escorted him out of the church and into the vicarage next door.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ the shape said.
The man – for man it was – had taken some prodding, but eventually he shifted his position on the bedroom floor and slammed himself against the wall. In the darkness, all he could see was a huge figure looming over him.
‘An’ who the fuck are you?’ Tommy Kelly asked, regaining his equilibrium quickly after the initial terror of seeing what he thought was his dead son transform himself into a filthy-looking fellow whose wild and staring eyes were just visible in the gloom from the window.
‘I sleeps ’ere!’ the man said, not taking his eyes off this lumbering intruder.
‘Not any more tha doesn’t.’
‘It’s God’s will.’
‘It’s not my bloody will!’
Tommy Kelly was both relieved and angry. Billy was still missing, but he hadn’t found the little bugger dead. Instead he’d found a mangy flea-bitten beggar dossing down in his saintly mother-in-law’s home.
He grabbed the filthy specimen by the neck and dragged him to the top of the stairs.
‘Up to thee,’ he said. ‘Tha goes willin’ or I clod thee down.’
Faced with such a brutal choice, the beggar hobbled his way down the stairs and slammed up against the front door, only to find it locked.
‘Back door!’ Tommy snapped.
Within seconds the man had vanished into the back yard. He heard him shuffle his way through the gate and into the alleyway. Once he was safely away from the house, the man yelled up, ‘May the Lord judge between thee an’ me, and may the Lord avenge me upon thee. Yer big fat bastard!’
Then he scuttled off, muttering further curses until he faded into the distance.
Tommy sat at the top of the stairs and leant forward on his elbows.
The darkness had descended now, and he suddenly felt the damp and the chill of the night creeping around him. The house was as silent as death.
Where are you, you little sod?
‘Most of my parishioners are colliers and their wives, Sergeant. They are rough and ready, and sometimes it is the poor children who suffer as a result. My housekeeper, Mrs Flanagan, makes sure that every Sunday there are cakes to be handed out as the children leave church.’ Reverend Pearl sighed ruefully and held his hands open. ‘Invariably we have cakes left over. My congregation can be quite sparse at times.’
They were seated in the small living room of the vicarage. A small but ornate fireplace lay unlit. Along the walls hung a number of framed prints of the countryside, and Brennan was struck by the wildness of the scenes: the grand sweep of a mountain topped by thick clouds; sparse landscapes, narrow waterfalls emerging mysteriously from thick wooded hillsides, a huge expanse of lake reflecting the hills on the far shore, a dying sun rendering a small fishing boat melancholy and insignificant, its oars hanging limply in the water.
‘Ah, I see you find them of interest?’
Brennan smiled. ‘A weakness, sir. Can’t say I understand them, but I do like a good picture.’
‘They’re particular favourites of Jane, my fiancée whom I gather you spoke to earlier.’
‘I did indeed.’
‘She loves the wildness of the countryside. Says it’s only there she can truly feel the hand of God and have a sense of His grand design. In the classroom, and the signs of suffering in some of those children at George Street, she feels the design of an entity quite different. I’m blessed, you know.’
Brennan presumed he was referring to his relationship with the retiring schoolteacher and not the Almighty, although he had to admit, the good reverend was right in a more personal respect. He was quite a handsome fellow, early thirties, he’d guess, and it was easy to see the attraction for the similarly attractive Miss Rodley: he sported jet-black hair that was just the respectable side of long; he had what might be regarded as craggy features – cheekbones that were prominent and a nose that had at one time been broken – with eyes that were a piercing blue. They made an attractive couple.
‘She tells me you wish to speak to me about the terrible events of this morning? I shall never forget the sight of that poor girl …’
Brennan shifted in his seat. ‘Dreadful business, sir. I gather you were with the rest of the staff when Mr Weston went along to the classroom.’
‘That is correct.’
‘And the caretaker tells me you found the key to the door?’
‘Yes. It was lying a few feet away. Obviously the girl had locked herself in before she threw away God’s greatest gift.’
‘It would appear so.’
‘I see.’ He gave Brennan an inquisitive look. ‘You don’t accept that the poor girl committed a grievous sin upon her own person?’
‘I’m not sure as yet, sir. I don’t like jumping to conclusions.’
‘From what Jane tells me, there seems to be only one conclusion to jump to.’ There was a subtle change in the man’s expression that suggested he’d overstepped the mark. ‘Forgive me. What is it you wish to know?’
Brennan paused then said, ‘Last Friday. Your contact with Miss Gadsworth. What did you speak about? Even your observations of her would be of help.’
Reverend Pearl took a few moments to gather his thoughts. He steepled his hands to aid contemplation. Finally he said, ‘Before I met her, I remember being most impressed by her letter of application. Good penmanship, excellent qualifications and just the right spark of personality that suggested a lively, fresh approach. Sadly, when we met her in person … well, let us say the pen was mightier than reality.’
‘In what way were you disappointed?’
‘I was told her classroom presence was good, despite some early hesitancy, but when I met her in the staffroom, admittedly after that unfortunate fainting spell, she spoke falteringly, with little of the authority or the vivacity one had come to expect from her letter of application. Of course I wouldn’t have expected sparkling wit or mature conversation after such a thing, but still, you’d expect to see traces, wouldn’t you?’
Brennan said nothing.
‘At any rate, Richard Weston described her as “milky” and I see no reason to contradict his judgement.’
‘Did you speak with her personally at any time?’
‘I had intended to speak privately with her at dinner time after the hurly-burly of her lesson, but that was pre-empted by her fainting spell when we came into the room.’
‘The school inspector, Mr Tollet, administered to her?’
‘He was most expert, issuing orders and aiding her recovery. By the time she’d gathered her wits, I deemed it ill-advised to impose myself. It was quite clear to everyone that she was
not suited to the tribulations of George Street.’
‘Do you have any idea why she fainted?’
Reverend Pearl frowned. ‘I should imagine it was her brain’s way of telling her she was incongruous.’
‘How so?’
‘People faint for a number of reasons, Sergeant. I knew a woman parishioner once who fainted whenever she smelt a rose. Not in this parish, you understand,’ he added with a smile. ‘Roses are in short supply in Scholes.’
Brennan raised his eyebrows in agreement.
‘But there are those who faint because of an inability to cope with the situation they are faced with. And I think that was the case with Miss Gadsworth. She simply realised, after sampling the delights of Standard 6, that a Wigan school was not for her.’
‘I was told she acquitted herself quite well for the most part.’
‘Perhaps she saw glimpses of the devil lurking amongst them? Who knows?’
‘You and Mr Weston later interviewed her?’
He shook his head sadly. ‘According to Mr Weston, it was as if the light she had shown earlier, during her teaching, had been extinguished. She was almost monosyllabic in her responses and didn’t do herself any favours at all. It was, sadly, an easy decision at the end.’
‘She took it badly?’
‘Oh there were tears just below the surface, I suspect. She thanked us and left in quite a hurry, as if she was desperate to be out of the place. Most curious.’
‘As the school manager, sir, you have responsibility for the appointment of teachers?’
‘Among other duties, yes.’
‘So you would naturally receive the various letters of application?’
‘Yes.’
‘Might I see Miss Gadsworth’s letter?’
Reverend Pearl shook his head. ‘Alas, no, Sergeant. Once the decision was taken not to appoint, we destroyed it.’
Brennan looked crestfallen.
‘Why do you need to see it, if I might ask?’
‘Her address, sir. It’s the only way we have of knowing where she lived. To inform her next of kin, you understand? And to examine her handwriting.’
‘Handwriting? Why?’
‘To compare it with the note beside the body.’
The vicar raised his eyes to Heaven. ‘We are given self-discipline by God Himself, and when we cast that aside, why, we lose self-control and the devil takes over. It’s always fascinated me that no one leaves a note explaining why they haven’t committed suicide.’ He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and stood up briskly. ‘But I can give you her address, Sergeant. It was I myself who wrote back to her inviting her for interview. I have it in my desk.’
Brennan watched him walk over to the small bay window where an oval desk fitted snugly into the recess, the leather chair with its back to the windows. He opened a drawer and took out a single sheet of paper.
‘Here it is. You may keep it, of course. I have no further need for it.’
He handed the sheet to Brennan who glanced at it – an address in Bolton – before folding it in two and placing it in his inside pocket.
‘If there’s nothing else, Sergeant?’
‘No, sir. You’ve been very helpful.’
As they stood in the hallway, Reverend Pearl placed a friendly hand on his shoulder and said, ‘The next time we meet, Sergeant, it’s perfectly acceptable to address me as “Vicar”. “Sir” makes me feel like a knight in shining armour!’
‘I’ll do that, sir,’ Brennan replied unthinkingly.
Tommy Kelly had slouched back home, downcast and apprehensive, ignoring the wary greetings from those he passed who were making their way to any one of a number of local hostelries. He knew he’d have to face her sooner or later, and there was little point in his trudging round the streets of the town looking for Billy. He could be anywhere. Besides, it was growing dark now. Perhaps the little devil was already home, squatting down in front of the fire and gloating about where he’d been and what he’d been up to.
When he opened the front door, his heart lifted for a few seconds as he heard voices from the kitchen, but it sank almost immediately.
Edith was sitting in one chair with Dolly Marshall seated in the other across the small table. Both were drinking tea, and both glared at him as he approached.
‘’Ere ’e is, bloody useless lump. Empty-’anded, I see.’
‘Dolly,’ he mumbled with a nod in their visitor’s direction. He turned round and was about to move back into the front room when his wife forestalled him.
‘Oh no you don’t. You’ll stay in ’ere an’ listen to what Dolly ’as to say.’
Despite himself, there was something in her tone that made him stop and face them both. ‘What?’
It wasn’t difficult to see where Dolly’s son Joe – who was Billy’s age – got his ferret-like looks from: she had teeth that stuck out a little too much, and small eyes either side of a sharp, pointed nose.
She gave a sniff and folded her arms, confident of his attention. ‘Our Joe saw your Billy Friday night. Pushin’ an’ shovin’ wi’ Len Parkinson’s lad like two turkey cocks.’
‘Feytin’?’ Tommy frowned. Was Billy lying injured somewhere?
‘Aye. But our Joe reckons your Billy wouldn’t ’ave ’im a do. Reckons your Billy just ran off.’
Tommy clenched his fists. ‘My lad never run away from a feyt in ’is life.’
Edith Kelly felt it incumbent upon her to support her husband’s judgement. ‘I reckon your Joe might’ve got that runnin’ away bit wrong.’
Dolly sniffed again. She was torn between her fear of Edith’s temper and her desire to defend her son’s veracity. She chose the latter. ‘Not in the ’abit o’ tellin’ lies, our Joe.’
For once, Edith allowed the pursuit of facts to outweigh her lust for violence.
‘Whether or not our Billy ran off – an’ as Tommy says that’s a bit bloody far-fetched, knowin’ our Billy. But that’s by-the-by. Fact is, your Joe saw ’im Friday night. Did ’e tell ’im or that Parkinson brat where he was off to?’
Dolly shook her head. ‘Our Joe reckoned the two of ’em ’ad words right enough, but ’e couldn’t make out what they said to each other. Then off he runs.’
‘But where was he goin’?’ Tommy’s voice betrayed his growing sense of exasperation.
Dolly Marshall held out both hands palms upwards on the table like a card player with no hand left.
‘Well where did ’e run off to? Which direction?’
‘Up towards town, that’s all our Joe said. So when I ’eard your Billy were missin’, I thought to meself, it might be summat you could tell t’police.’
‘Police?’ Tommy whispered the word. ‘Why the ’ell should we tell them men? The lad’s buggered off before now an’ come back with his tail between his legs.’
Dolly shrugged. ‘Your Billy’s been missin’ for four days.’
Edith looked at her husband. He could see a new expression in her eyes: fear.
Moses Reed had waited a long time to get Septimus filled to its limits. He’d stood on the canal bank alongside his son Bart, watched the pit lasses high above riddle through the coal to clear it of any dirt before tipping it into the screening chute, where it would slide its way down into the belly of the barge. There, he watched more pit lasses levelling the mounds of coal to spread the weight evenly. But the time they took! He’d shouted up at the supervisor, who cupped his ear against the crashing noise of the coal, then made a great show of taking out his fob watch and holding it up. The light was fast fading, and he was sorely looking forward to the first pint in the Woodhouse’s.
‘Might as well polish the bloody coal while they’re at it!’ he said to young Bart, who was busy feeding Goliath before their last pull of the day.
Still, once the base coal was levelled onto the boat, and a sufficient mound of coal built up to capacity weight, he signalled his relief with a less than cheery wave at the supervisor and a shrill whistle to his
son waiting on the towpath with both hands on the harness. A sharp tug, and Goliath gave an angry snort, stamped his hooves on the cobbled stretch of the canal bank, and heaved his way forward. Once the barge had pulled away from the bankside and the towpath’s surface changed from cobbles to dirt, enabling the spikes hammered into the horse’s shoes to take a firm grip, the load became easier. He gave another snort, of satisfaction this time, as they set off down the Leeds–Liverpool Canal towards their destination on the outskirts of Wigan.
Occasionally, Bart would whisper words of encouragement to Goliath. Although he was only twelve years old, the boy had grown attached to the huge beast in the three years he’d been working with his dad on the barges. But even so, he’d seen a gradual deterioration in the horse’s strength, manifesting itself in slower, more laborious progress, the occasional whinny of pain as the harness dug deep into his broad shoulders, and the look in his eyes sometimes – a pleading, heartrending expression of misery. When Bart had tried to explain all this to his dad, he’d been met with a single, dismissive comment of ‘Bloody years left, yet. Bloody years.’
Still, he’d said nothing when Bart had persuaded his mother to sew together some cloth ears to protect Goliath from the clouds of flies that buzzed around the canal’s surface during the hot summer months.
As they approached Pottery Bridge, near Poolstock, Bart brought the horse to a halt. The towpath dwindled to nothing beneath the bridge, and it was necessary to unshackle the horse until the barge was safely through the archway of the bridge and out on the other side, where it would be tied once more to its cumbersome load. Carefully, Bart unbuckled the harness and freed it from the rope linking it to the barge.
‘Hurry up, young ’un!’ Moses shouted, almost tasting the froth on his promised pint.
