The Shade of Hettie Daynes (11 page)

FORTY-ONE

‘WHAT’S HAPPENED?’ ASKED
Christa, glancing to where a knot of men stood looking at something on the ground. The last shoal of stars had blinked out, leaving their green phantoms in front of her eyes. ‘Has somebody been hurt?’

Harry nodded. ‘Yes, but not by a firework.’

‘What, then? I was watching the rockets.’

‘Everybody was. I bet I’m the only one who saw.’

‘Saw
what
, love?’

‘The councillor hit Carl, really hard. He fell down, they’re all gawping at him.’

As he spoke Carl sat up, one hand pressed to
his
cheek. The men stepped back. Councillor Hopwood bent, gripped his son’s elbow and pulled him to his feet. The boy looked groggy but his father ushered him away at once, through the circle of spectators, heading for the Rover.

‘What a brute,’ gasped Christa. ‘He’s lucky everybody was busy watching the sky. I expect he’ll claim the boy fainted or something.’

‘Yeah,’ said Harry. ‘Pity that photographer wasn’t here.’

What’s he called, Aly?’

‘Bill.’

‘That’s the one. Shame Bill wasn’t here with his camera.’ He smiled tightly. ‘Likes his picture in the
Echo
, our Councillor, but I bet he wouldn’t want an action shot of himself damn near knocking his son’s head off.’

‘Front page,’ grinned Rob. ‘
Councillor Reginald Hopwood enjoys an intimate moment with his son during Wilton’s annual bonfire celebration. Minutes after this picture was taken, Carl was rushed to Rawton General Hospital where his head was sewn back on
.’

‘Idiot,’ growled Harry.

‘Not something to joke about really, boys,’
murmured
Christa. ‘Makes you wonder what goes on behind the curtains up at Hopwood House.’

‘
Hopwood’s House of Horrors
,’ intoned the incorrigible Rob. ‘
Featuring Raving Reginald, Rawton’s Rotten Ratbag
.’

FORTY-TWO

FELICITY HOPWOOD WAS
at the window when the Rover pulled up in front of the garage. She’d been watching the rockets and Roman candles over the village rooftops. Felicity enjoyed fireworks, but never accompanied her husband anywhere unless it was absolutely necessary.

Reginald had stopped the car to let Carl out. As soon as she saw her son, Felicity knew something had happened. Carl didn’t look like a boy coming home from an exciting event. There was something hangdog about the way he waited for his father to put the car away. It was a look his mother had seen many times before. As the pair
approached
the house, Felicity stepped back and let the curtain fall.

Carl entered the room first. Felicity greeted him with the bright smile she wore when she didn’t feel like smiling. ‘Hello, Carl – nice time?’ The bruised cheek and swollen ear made his face look lopsided.

He shook his head and mumbled, ‘Does it
look
like I had a nice time? I saw this woman. She was a ghost but Dad says—’

Reginald loomed scowling in the doorway. ‘Dad says get yourself off to bed,
now
.’ Carl shot his mother a scornful look, then turned and slunk out. As he passed his father, Reginald raised a hand as if to hit him. The boy flinched, and Reginald laughed contemptuously. Felicity looked at her husband with loathing.

‘You hit him. A little boy. I don’t know how you can live with yourself.’

Reginald laughed again. ‘Certainly I hit him. He deserved it, showing me up in front of my friends.’

‘You show
yourself
up,’ murmured his wife, ‘and you don’t deserve to
have
friends.’ She was trembling. ‘D’you know what
I
wonder, Reginald?
I
wonder how you’d fare if you were ever foolish enough to strike somebody your own size.’

‘Ha!’ Her husband glared. ‘There
is
nobody my size,’ he snarled. ‘Not in Wilton, nor in Rawton. You married the cock of the heap, Felicity – not that you appreciate it or anything like that. Where’s my supper?’

Felicity locked eyes with him. ‘Your supper’s wherever you find it, you contemptible bully. I hope it chokes you.’

FORTY-THREE

‘WHOA!’ CRIED CHRISTA
, as she followed Harry and Bethan into the porch. ‘Don’t you
dare
track those trainers across my kitchen floor.’ She gave them a suspicious look. ‘How’ve they got into that state anyway – there was hardly any mud on the Green.’

Harry pulled a face. ‘We . . . called at the res on our way, Mum. My idea, sorry.’

His mother sighed. ‘If you were sorry, Harry, you wouldn’t have done it. Your father was forever saying he was sorry, but it didn’t stop him doing the same thing over and over.’

Harry shook his head. ‘I’m
nothing
like
Dad
– it does my head in when you say that.’

‘I’m sorry, love. Of
course
you’re not like him. It’s just that I’ve asked you not to take Bethan near the reservoir, especially in the dark, and you did so regardless.’

‘It’s not
all
Harry’s fault,’ put in Bethan. ‘I’m interested in the old mill too, and—’ She nearly mentioned the ghost, but stopped herself in time. ‘And I nag him to take me.’

‘Yes well,’ said Christa, ‘we’ll say no more about it, at least not tonight.’ She smiled. ‘Decide who’s having the first shower, and I’ll put the kettle on for hot chocolate.’

Brother and sister slept like logs that night, but their mother did not. She lay thinking about Wilton Water, Hettie Daynes and the strange behaviour of Councillor Hopwood. On the face of it, the three topics were unconnected.

But
were
they?

FORTY-FOUR

CARL WAS SITTING
on the bed, hands clamped between his knees, staring at the rug. He looked up as his mother came into the room. She saw that he’d been crying, sat down and put an arm round him. ‘Where was the woman you saw? What makes you think she was a ghost?’

Carl shook off the arm, turned his face away. ‘On the reservoir, standing in the air.’

‘What d’you mean,
in the air
? Was she
flying
?’

He shook his head. ‘No, of
course
she wasn’t flying, you daft beggar. She was
standing
. Six feet above the mud.’

He was shivering. She reached for him but he
batted
her hand away. ‘Why were you at the reservoir, Carl? You were meant to be at the fire.’

‘Dad sent me to see if any kids were there.’

‘
Why?
’ Felicity sighed in exasperation. ‘I don’t understand. Do
you
know why he’s the way he is about Wilton Water?’

Carl shrugged. ‘Safety, he reckons. Barmy if you ask me.’

‘No.’ His mother shook her head. ‘Your father isn’t barmy, Carl, but something’s worrying him.’ She touched the boy’s cheek with her fingertips. ‘So you told him what you’d seen, and then he hit you?’

Carl jerked his head back. ‘Yes. Some of his friends were there. He called me a blithering idiot, showing him up. Then he knocked me down.’

‘And none of these friends protested. About his hitting you, I mean?’

‘I don’t know, do I? I was stunned. Maybe they didn’t see, everybody was watching the rockets. And anyway you’ve no room to talk.
You
never protest.’

‘I do the best I can,’ murmured Felicity. ‘It isn’t easy for me either, you know.’ She touched
her
son’s hair. ‘As for what you saw at the reservoir, try to put it out of your mind. It was dark, there were lights in the sky. Smoke. You certainly saw
something
, but perhaps it wasn’t quite what it appeared to be.’ She stood up, pecked his swollen cheek. ‘Sleep well, darling.’

FORTY-FIVE

THE
RAWTON ECHO
came out every Thursday. The day after Bonfire Night, certain people could hardly wait to see a copy of the paper. Most impatient was Councillor Hopwood. He bought an early edition on his way to The Feathers and paged through it as he walked along the street. He found Bill’s photo of Alison Crabtree in her wet costume and scanned the caption underneath.

Ten-year-old Alison Crabtree, winner of Wilton Primary School’s most original Hallowe’en costume competition. Alison came as the ghost which some local people claim to have seen at Wilton
Water
. The competition was judged by Councillor Reginald Hopwood, the school’s Chair of Governors
.

Reginald smiled, folded the paper and thrust it into his jacket pocket. The photographer had heeded his threat. The ghost was just a ghost. No name, which was good. His own name appeared though, and that was even better. He was so pleased, he forgot to swear at the
Big Issue
vendor who occupied his usual pitch.

The Crabtrees wanted to see the
Echo
too, but they had to wait till tea time. It was on the table, along with a stack of unironed washing and the cat when Alison got in from school. Her mother nodded towards it. ‘It’s open at the page, love. You look sensational.’

Alison gazed at the photo. She
did
look sensational. She also looked remarkably like the apparition Bethan had snapped at the res. The white make-up, pointing finger and bedraggled dress were absolutely spot-on. ‘That is
so
cool,’ she breathed.

‘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.’