Queen Dolly

by Emmy Ellis

  Startled, he swung round. His white, fuzzy hair resembled cotton wool and stood out from his head in clumps, as if windblown and matted. With a hand against his chest he said, “Oh! You scared me then, my dear.”

  He chuckled, and as I walked towards him down the aisle, a nudge of recognition prodded my memory. Dark glasses framed his eyes now, and the lenses in those frames reflected light filtering in from the huge stained-glass windows to my right. Being unable to see his eyes unnerved me, made me feel beneath him in so many ways. A white beard covered the lower half of his face, the moustache full, as cotton-woolly as his hair.

  “I was just…” Just what? Running from ghosts that probably still loitered on the other side of that door? Or not—perhaps they only existed in my imagination, as did he, for surely this man wasn’t real.

  “No problem, my duck,” he said and smiled.

  I stood before him now, looking up at him two steps above me, and it made him seem as tall as he’d appeared to me as a child.

  “Mr Lawton?”

  The man’s eyes widened, and he shuffled back a step, his heels coming into contact with the door. His breath left him in stuttered gasps, and the keys fell from twitchy fingers to the floor. “No, no, my name isn’t Lawton,” he said.

  I narrowed my eyes, peering at him. Blinked to clear my vision, to make sure I hadn’t made a silly mistake. Mr Lawton still stood there, pink splotches on his cheeks, his chin trembling beneath that big old bushy beard. It was him, all right.

  “It is you,” I said and walked up the steps, my gaze on his face, that beard, those unseen eyes, still sequestered behind reflected light.

  “It is him, yes,” said Belinda from somewhere behind me. “Isn’t fate a hoot? Just like his disguise.”

  “Shh!”

  Mr Lawton blinked.

  I stood nearly as tall as he did, and he looked nothing like the old man of my youth. Shoulders hunched, he reminded me of a scarecrow, its stuffing pecked out by a thousand starlings. Lines that had marked him as old back then rendered him ancient now. His once neatly combed hair, well, it stood in all directions.

  His watery eyes came into view at last—maybe the sun slipped behind a cloud—and he regarded me, said, “Carmel? Carmel Wickens?”

  I nodded. Smiled. Remembered the fifty p for the electricity meter.

  “Well, I’ll be! How are you diddling, my duck?”

  I smiled again. Remembered the photos. “I’m diddling fine, Mr Lawton. You?”

  “Oh, couldn’t be better, the good Lord’s seen to that. What brings you here? Salvation? A bit of prayer?”

  Belinda snorted. “Fate brought her here. Here to break your fucking neck.”

  “Shh!”

  Mr Lawton jerked his head back at the sound I’d made. “I’m sorry, dear. Didn’t mean to offend you.”

  I laughed, a light giggle. “Oh, no. You didn’t offend me. I was just—”

  “Just what? About to tell him you tried to shut up your dead childhood friend?” Belinda’s laugh rang through the church. Amplified. Too loud.

  “Just here for a look around. I came out walking, found this church,” I said and threw out my arm as if to encompass the building. “A shock finding you here. I didn’t expect that.”

  Mr Lawton laughed. “Me neither, my duck. Still, things happen for a reason. Maybe God brought you across my path today. Perhaps he feels my prayers for you, my confessions of past sins concerning you, aren’t good enough. Happen that today is the day I apologise to you directly and ask for your forgiveness.”

  “Forgiveness for what?” I smiled, heart thwumping. “Looking at pictures of my young, naked body? Fiddling with your cock while doing so? Oh, don’t be silly. There’s nothing to forgive. It’s not like you knew those pictures were of me. Is it?”

  “Good Lord, no. No. I didn’t know who they were. And truth be told, I should never have bought them. Your mam—not that I’m foisting the blame onto her, mind—was persistent when selling her wares. Another of my past sins.”

  Mr Lawton. And Mam? I shuddered.

  He bent down to pick up the keys, stood upright, and twirled them in his hands.

  “The dirty old fucker’s wanting to lock up, get rid of you,” whispered Belinda. “Make him wait, sweat a little.”

  “The past is just that, Mr Lawton. In the past. So, what do you do here? Caretaker?”

  Mr Lawton visibly relaxed. “That and bell-ringer. My time…my time in prison,” he crossed himself, glancing above, “gave me a new beginning. I left that place and came here. A fellow inmate—another soul who found the great and good God—saw the opening for this job in the newspaper. I applied via post, prior to my leaving prison, and confessed my sins, explaining that I needed the job, wanted the job. To be as close to the Lord as I could.”

  I swallowed. “And they accepted you? Even after your confession?” I frowned.

  Mr Lawton smiled. “Oh, yes. Christians are good people. True Christians, I mean. And now I’m one of them.”

  He was a real Christian, despite his past faults?

  “The mind boggles, doesn’t it, Carmel?” Belinda’s whisper further fired my already growing ire.

  “Shh!”

  “What’s the matter? What did you hear?” asked Mr Lawton, a look of puzzlement on his face.

  “Oh, nothing. I wonder…would you mind showing me the bell tower? I’d like to see that. Do you have time? I wouldn’t want to mess up the rest of your afternoon.” I glanced at my watch. “Well, early evening.”

  Relief relaxed his features. “Of course I have the time. Come this way,” he said and placed the set of keys in his trouser pocket.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I followed him down the aisle and veered right. Walking past the front pew, I noticed a wooden door set in a stone wall opposite. Brick ends formed an arch over the door, and again, the images of people from a bygone age danced in my mind’s eye. Medieval men and women congregated beside the doorway and shifted out of Mr Lawton’s path as he approached.

  “I should tell them to spook the old bastard,” said Belinda. “Put the frighteners on him, you know, scare the life out of him. Give him a heart attack. Mind you, that would defeat the object, wouldn’t it?”

  Mr Lawton fished in his pocket and brought out the ring of keys, holding them up, and squinted before selecting the one he needed. Slipping the key in the lock produced a click, and the door swung open with an insipid groan.

  “This way,” he said and stepped forward into a small foyer.

  Flagstones covered the floor, and an image of it from the past entered my mind. Straw littered the flagstones. Sconces, placed at regular intervals on the walls, held lighted candles, and the aroma of burnt wicks lingered. I blinked. Electric lights replaced the sconces, albeit ones fashioned to resemble olden day lamps. The glass around the unlit bulbs reminded me of disused lighthouses.

  “What made you think of that?” asked Belinda, shuffling her feet on the floor behind me.

  I frowned, didn’t answer.

  A flight of wooden steps stood opposite us, and I cast my gaze upwards. Bells hung from a beamed ceiling. High, so high up.

  Mr Lawton climbed the steps. I followed.

  “Long way up, I’m afraid,” he said. “My old bones are given a hard job doing this every day.” He chuckled.

  Oh, my heart bleeds for you…

  “If it’s a problem…?”

  “No, no problem at all,” he said. “I should be used to it by now. I did wonder why the bells needed to be rung each day.” He wheezed. “What with this old church being so far out. Made me question who would hear them ringing. No houses around for miles, see. The vicar—he lives in town—he said it didn’t matter if no one heard, that the fact they were rung would please God. So, I climb the stairs twice a day and pull the ropes. Good exercise if nothing else.”

  I smiled at his rambling. The air thickened as we stepped higher. The staircase twisted, winding like a spiral. I looked down. Dust m
otes tangoed in the air, easily seen via the lowering sun peeking through the lead-paned windows set in the walls of the tower.

  Halfway up the staircase, Mr Lawton paused by one such window and leaned on the stony ledge to catch his breath. I stood beside him, my own breaths slightly laboured, and gazed out at the landscape. From this side of the building, the town wasn’t visible. Hills dominated the horizon, some dotted with what appeared to be sheep or cows. A patchwork of greenery, interspersed with brown and beige, spread far into the distance. Trees and hedgerows bordered many fields, and I wondered if some of those boundaries had existed years ago, put down by those who originally owned the land.

  How long had those trees been there? How many seasons had they seen? Idle thoughts, yet ones that inspired the want of understanding inside me. My childhood thirst for knowledge had stayed with me. Not the knowledge gained from secondary school, but that of infants and juniors. Tales told by Mrs Draper, those stories and fascinating myths remained, lingering in the recesses, and I reminded myself that day to join the library, to borrow books to feed the rekindled desire to learn.

  “Amazing view, isn’t it?” asked Mr Lawton.

  “More amazing than a kid with no clothes on,” Belinda said.

  “Shh!”

  “Yes, I quite agree,” he said. “Needs to be gazed upon in silence. A little longer here, then?”

  I frowned, catching on to his meaning. “Oh. Sorry, I keep shhing you. I don’t mean it to sound rude.”

  “Not a problem,” he said and seated himself on a step. “You continue looking. Take in as much as you can before the light fades completely.”

  The sky had darkened. The stairwell appeared gloomy, and I thought it would look either creepy or quaint when lit by the many wall lights.

  “Shall we carry on upwards?” I said. “A quick peek at the bells—I’ve heard they’re really big—and then I’ll leave you in peace.”

  Belinda laughed.

  At the top of the tower, vertigo hit me. I stared down at how far we’d climbed. Inhaling deeply, I clutched the top of a wooden partition that reached waist height. I steadied my breathing and looked at the four bells. They surely must have been taller than us.

  “How did they get these up here?” I mused.

  “I should imagine they were hoisted up on ropes. You know, many people pulling, enough people to bear the weight. These bells have apparently been hanging here well over two hundred years.”

  “Isn’t that amazing?” I gazed at the intricate carvings on the bell sides. That someone could create such beauty without a machine stirred admiration inside me. “And those carvings. Wow.”

  “Are you being serious, Carmel, or taking the piss out of the old duffer?” Belinda asked. She sat atop a bell, hands clutching the metal mechanism that held it to the rafters. She wriggled, and the bell moved a little. It donged.

  I clamped my hands over my ears. “That is so loud,” I shouted.

  “The reverberation fair tickles your fanny, too,” screeched Belinda.

  Mr Lawton laughed. “That’s why I wear these while bell ringing,” he said loudly and held up a pair of industrial ear protectors before placing them on his head. “Don’t know why it rang, though. I hadn’t pulled the rope.” He frowned.

  I glared at Belinda. She crawled from the top of the bell, down its side, and hugged it. The bell swung farther, donging louder.

  “What the devil’s going on?” said Mr Lawton. With wide eyes, he fingered his bushy beard then leaned out over the wooden partition and made to catch the edge of the bell, or at least let it bump against his arm until it came to rest. I thought the weight of the swing might push him sideways. Luckily, we stood away from the stairs if he should tumble.

  Belinda’s feet rested on the bell’s rim. She bent her knees and pushed her weight downwards. Ringing as if Mr Lawton himself pulled the rope, the bell emitted an ear-buzzing toll. Again, I covered my ears. Mr Lawton flapped his arm over the wooden partition, leaning out a little farther. I moved behind him to pick up a second pair of ear protectors that were on the floor. Before I could, another ear-splitting toll shuddered through me, hurting my ears, and I jumped. Nudged Mr Lawton’s backside with my elbow. His moving weight displaced the air, and wispy breezes caressed my face. I gasped, stood upright, and dumbly wondered where he had gone.

  His scream mingled with the sound of the bell, growing quieter and hoarser the longer he yelled. I glanced at Belinda, who stood beside me, then stared at the bell that had stopped swinging, stopped ringing. And looked over the partition and down, just in time to watch Mr Lawton’s head disintegrate as it slapped against the flagstones below.

  “Another accident?” asked Belinda. “He’s closer to the Lord now, all right. Or not, as the case may be.”

  I slapped my palm against my mouth to stop vomit escaping. Swallowed it. I heaved, but nothing burst out of my mouth and through my fingers. I shook from head to foot, inhaling a dust-laden breath, and removed my hand from my mouth. Pulling down the sleeves of my sweater over my hands, I rubbed them along the top of the partition. I turned, glaring once again at a smirking Belinda, and raced down the staircase, my sweater-covered hands wiping the handrails as I went.

  Giddy, so giddy, my breath escaping in strangled gasps, I reached the bottom of the stairwell. I leaned over, palms on knees, and struggled to breathe, to regain my equilibrium.

  Calm down, calm down, calm down. It was an accident. Not your fault…

  “Oh, behave your fucking self. Delusional, you are. I mean, look at him. Tell me you didn’t mean to do that,” said Belinda.

  I stood upright. My head spun, eyes watered, heart thundered. I steeled myself to turn and look at Mr Lawton, but instead, fled from the foyer, back through the church, and out into the fresh, early evening air. Swiping the arm of my sweater over the door handle ring and the door itself where I’d pushed it upon entrance and exit, I fled through the churchyard on leaden feet, stumbling for miles without seeing my surroundings or anyone that may have witnessed my presence.

  * * * *

  “That really was very naughty,” said Belinda.

  She sat on the arm of my bed settee, leaning back to get more comfortable. Her socket face bled, though the blood didn’t drip anywhere. As if shrink wrap covered her face and prevented the blood escaping, the red liquid churned and reminded me of water behind the glass of an automatic washing machine door.

  She’s staying for the duration by the looks of it, Carmel.

  “Yes, I am,” said Belinda, her tone brisk. “I want to discuss what Carmel’s been doing, Doll. As you weren’t there, you can piss off out of this conversation.”

  I sat with my back pressed into one corner of the settee, my legs tucked beneath me. I glanced at the wardrobe behind the sofa. Nelson still sat on the wardrobe, her one-eyed, glassy stare fixed on the back of Belinda’s head. Her cracked face appeared to twitch—did she blink?—and her pale lips, once so pink, pursed. I was sure of it.

  I don’t have to be there to know what happened. I’m everywhere, just like you seem to be, Belinda. The only difference is that I’m wanted.

  Belinda bounded from the chair arm, twisted round, and faced Nelson. “Look, I was her friend way before you came along. If it wasn’t for you, none of this would have happened. Fucking weird little doll, you are. Telling her what to think and what to do.” Blood bulged against the wrap-like skin, stretching it—water in a balloon.

  I’m weird? Check out your face.

  I closed my eyes and willed them to stop bickering.

  A knock on my door startled me.

  “Who the fuck is that at this time of night?” Belinda asked.

  “I don’t know, I haven’t got the ability to see through doors,” I said.

  “Oooh! Get you,” she said.

  Oh, be quiet, moron.

  “You be quiet,” snapped Belinda.

  “Both of you be quiet,” I whispered, walking to the door. “Who is it?” I asked, my mouth close
to the doorframe.

  “It’s me, Gary.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I opened the door. Gary stood, hands in trouser pockets, hair tousled and damp with sweat. His breath came in short spurts, and he appeared distressed.

  “Bloody hell,” I said. “Who rattled your cage?”

  He brushed past me into the room and walked over to the sink. His hands gripping the sides, he leaned over it and took deep breaths. After turning on the cold tap, he filled a glass. With two swallows, he emptied the glass then placed it upside down on the drainer.

  “Needed that,” he said and swiped the sleeve of his jacket over his lips. “Ran all the way from the pub on our estate, you know, The Cross Keys. I was minding my own business, drinking my pint, and that Bob bloke walked in.”

  My stomach lurched. “Bob? And?”

  “Well, we got talking, which surprised me because I hardly know him. He asked me if—”

  Panic wrenched my solar plexus. “You didn’t tell him where I live, did you?”

  Gary sighed and shot me a contemptuous look. “Do you think I’m stupid?” He laughed. “Actually, don’t answer that one. Anyway, he asked me if I knew where you were. Your mam’s been asking for you, apparently.”

  Gary sat down. Belinda stood from the sofa arm, opened the wardrobe, and shut herself inside. I leaned against the kitchenette worktop and folded my arms across my stomach.

  “Why the hell has Mam been asking for me? Did Bob say?”

  Gary shrugged. “He said something about her nearly overdosing last night. That he visited her as usual, and she was out of it on the sofa, semi-conscious. Reckons her H was cut with quinine, whatever the fuck that is. I didn’t even know your old dear took heroin. I thought she was just a piss head. How come you never told me?”

  Thoughts of Mam dying from an overdose entertained me for a few seconds. Unable to explore my feelings on the subject fully, I said, “Didn’t think it was anything to shout about, you know? I mean, who wants to admit their mam is an addict?”

  I pushed away from the worktop and plonked down beside Gary. He placed his arm around my shoulders and gave me a little squeeze.