The Shade of Hettie Daynes (4 page)

‘Steve?’ croaked Harry. ‘Who the heck’s . . .?’

‘Steve Wood. You know – local history guy. Writes books, gives talks to schools?’

‘Oh. Oh yeah.
That
Steve.’ His heart was still pounding.

Steve Wood approached. Tall, thin, long-haired, he regarded the boys through wire-rimmed grandad glasses. ‘Hi. They’re part
draining
this, y’know. Should see stuff that’s not been seen since it filled up in eighteen eighty-five.’

‘Like what?’ asked Rob.

‘There were two farms and a mill in this little valley,’ Steve told him. ‘They’ll still be here – traces of them I mean. I’m interested in Hopwood Mill. It should be just over there.’

‘
Hopwood
Mill?’ Harry looked at the historian. ‘Hopwood, as in
Councillor
Hopwood and Carl, his tunnel-dwarf son?’

Wood nodded. ‘Oh yes. The councillor’s ancestor, Josiah Hopwood, built the mill in eighteen o nine. It was a cotton mill. Practically everybody in the village worked there in Victorian times. It made Josiah rich. He had Hopwood House built, where the family still lives.’ He smiled. ‘Some say the mill was starting to fail in the eighteen eighties, and the water company came along at the perfect moment and bought it. Some old villagers still talk about the Hopwood luck.’

Harry looked where the historian had pointed. ‘And you think they’ll take enough water out so the mill will be on dry land?’

Steve chuckled. ‘I don’t know about
dry
. My guess is it’ll be seriously muddy, but it should be possible to get close to whatever’s left wearing wellies. Or barefoot, if you like the squish of mud between your toes.’

‘I think I’ll pass,’ growled Rob. ‘Go for the wellies.’

Harry nodded. ‘Me too. When d’you think it’ll be, Steve?’

The historian shook his head. ‘No idea. You’d have to ask the contractors, only I wouldn’t if I were you; I suspect they’ll want to keep locals well away from the place till the work’s finished. Anyway.’ He stretched, yawned. ‘I’m off for my tea now. I’ll probably see you around.’

The two boys watched him stride away. ‘Seems a nice enough guy,’ said Harry, ‘for a grave-dodger.’

Rob nodded. ‘He’s the star of my dad’s quiz team at The Lamb.’

‘Ah.’ Harry’s dad had been a sort of star at The Lamb, but it had nothing to do with the quiz team and Harry didn’t want to think about it. ‘I’m ready for a spot of tea myself,’ he chirped. ‘Come on.’

ELEVEN

‘WHAT’S IT LIKE?’
asked Bethan. It was half past five. The Midgleys were eating sausages and mash.

Harry shrugged. ‘Doesn’t look any different yet, apart from the diggers.’ He looked at his mother. ‘We met Steve Wood, d’you know him?’

Christa nodded. ‘I know
of
him, Harry. He was a postman, years ago. He’s into local history now – does research at Rawton Library, writes books. The
Echo
prints his articles now and again. I expect he’s looking forward to the water level dropping – it’ll uncover lots of local history.’

Harry nodded. ‘There’s a mill, Mum.
Hopwood
Mill. Steve says Carl’s ancestor built it – Josiah Hopwood.’

His mother nodded. ‘That’s right. Most of
our
ancestors worked there. My great, great auntie started when she was ten.’

‘
Ten?
’

‘Yes, it was quite usual in those days. They started very early in the morning, too.’ She smiled. ‘They worked three hours before the Hopwood children got out of bed.’

‘What about school?’ asked Bethan.

‘Lots of children left school at ten, love. Some never went at all.’

‘Huh – lucky them.
I’m
ten. Wish
I
could leave.’

Her mother shook her head. ‘They weren’t lucky, Bethan. Just think: trudging through snow at half past five on a winter morning. No breakfast, no warm clothes, clogs on your feet. And all for a shilling or two a week.’

‘What’s a shilling?’

Christa smiled. ‘Well, it’s five pence now, but it was worth more in those days. You could probably buy . . . oh . . . six loaves of bread and a packet of tea for a shilling.’

‘They worked all week for bread and tea?’

Her mother nodded. ‘And beef fat, perhaps. That’s what they’d have on their bread, instead of butter.’

Bethan pulled a face. ‘Ugh!’

‘Yes – ugh! So you see,
we’re
the lucky ones. My great, great auntie never tasted pizza, never had ice cream, never saw the sea. So.’ She smiled. ‘Let’s get these plates to the sink, break out the ice cream and be thankful the mill’s been underwater all our lives.’

TWELVE

ALISON HAD THREE
big brothers, so there was no spare bedroom at the Crabtrees’ house. Bethan got to share Alison’s room so the pair could talk half the night.

Bethan liked the family’s way with time. Mostly, they ignored it. There was no such thing as breakfast time, lunch time, tea time or bedtime. When somebody got hungry, he stuck something in the microwave and ate it in front of the telly, which was never switched off. The table was used only to pile stuff on: clothes, cassettes, magazines, junk mail. You went to bed when you were tired, and at weekends got up when you felt
like
it. The only clock in the house was on the DVD player. It didn’t work, and nobody cared.

Bethan arrived at four o’clock Saturday afternoon. In her backpack were her phone, some favourite CDs, her mum’s digital camera, a change of underwear and her pyjamas. Mr Crabtree and the three boys were out watching Rawton Rovers play Darlington. Mrs Crabtree and Alison were watching an ancient movie on TV.

‘Come on in, lovey,’ smiled Alison’s mum. ‘Sit down, make yourself at home, I’ll put the kettle on in a bit.’

She didn’t. They watched the movie. When it was over, Mrs Crabtree switched channels.

Alison got up. ‘Come on,’ she said to Bethan, ‘there’s burgers in the fridge, we can have ’em with crisps and coke.’

They carried the meal up to Alison’s room.

‘We don’t want to be downstairs when Dad and the boys get back,’ said Alison. ‘If Rovers’ve lost they’ll be as miserable as sin, and if they’ve won they’ll be as daft as Hettie Daynes.’

‘D’you know who Hettie Daynes
was
?’ asked Bethan, as they settled on the bed with their plates.

Alison shook her head. ‘Haven’t the faintest. It’s an expression my gran uses, that’s all I know.’

‘She was our ancestor, lived here in Wilton about a hundred years ago. Went barmy, then vanished. My mum told me.’

‘Wow! Never thought of her as a real person. Hey.’ Alison grinned. ‘Maybe the reservoir ghost’s Hettie Daynes.’

Bethan shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. People’d
call
it Hettie Daynes if it were, wouldn’t they?’

They ate the crisps and burgers, drank the coke. Presently, the family car came growling along the pathway under Alison’s window. Her brothers piled out. The girls peered down. ‘They lost,’ declared Alison. ‘They’d be making more row otherwise.’

‘Could’ve been a draw,’ suggested Bethan.

Her friend shrugged. ‘Maybe. Anyway,’ she grinned, ‘who gives a stuff?’

They stayed where they were while the menfolk stamped and bashed about downstairs, getting their tea. Beyond the window, twilight deepened.

‘What time we going?’ murmured Bethan.

‘What time
is
it?’ asked Alison.

Bethan looked at her watch. ‘Coming up to six.’

‘We can set off now if you like.’

They went down to the hallway, got their jackets. Bethan slipped the camera into a pocket. Alison popped her head round the kitchen door. ‘Off up the reservoir, Dad, OK?’

‘All right, love,’ said Mr Crabtree. One of the boys growled, ‘If you see any Darlington fans up there, shove ’em in.’

They left the house and strolled towards the haunted water.

THIRTEEN

‘HEY LOOK – THEY’VE
started draining it.’ Bethan pointed to the water line. It had fallen quite a bit, leaving the reservoir’s fringe of reeds high and dry. It was dark, but the two girls could just make out the shapes of diggers and dumpers up at the western end. As far as they could tell, they had Wilton Water to themselves.

‘Where’s this famous ghost then?’ mocked Alison. ‘I didn’t invite you to sleep over so we could gawp at a few diggers.’

‘She’s over there.’ Bethan nodded towards the place she and Harry had seen the apparition.

Alison strained her eyes. ‘Where? I don’t see anything.’

Bethan shook her head. ‘No, I mean that’s where she stands when she’s here. She’s not there at the moment.’

‘Ha!’ scoffed Alison. ‘You’ll be telling me next she’s popped down to the Co-op for a loaf, back in a couple of minutes.’

‘Don’t talk daft,’ snapped Bethan. ‘We’ll get a bit closer, behind those gorse bushes, OK?’

Alison shrugged. ‘Then what?’

‘We wait and watch.’

‘Huh!’

They crouched by the gorse, watching the water. There was no wind, but something was rippling the surface, the ripples reflecting sparks of light that had no apparent source. The only sounds were muffled ones, of traffic far away.

Alison sighed, fidgeted. ‘Told you,’ she murmured. ‘There’s no flipping ghost. I’m off.’

‘No, Aly, don’t go.’ Bethan clutched her friend’s sleeve. ‘Give it one more minute.’

Alison subsided. ‘OK, Bethan, one minute.
One
.’ She gazed at the only visible star, counting seconds in her head.

Bethan gnawed her bottom lip and stared into the dark.

She was there. Hard to pick out against the trees, but
there
. Probably been there all the time.

Bethan touched Alison’s sleeve, pointed. ‘There,
look
.’

Alison’s eyes followed the trembling finger. She started to shake her head, then gasped. ‘Yeah, there
is
something . . . a shape . . .
does
look like . . . crikey!’

Bethan eased the camera out of her pocket.

Alison plucked at her jacket, whispered, ‘What you doing? Don’t leave me.’

‘ ’S OK.’ Bethan touched her friend’s hair. ‘Need to get a shot, see – proof.’

Alison stared at the motionless wraith, so like the black trunks behind it.
It’s a tree
, she told herself.
Just a tree, except
 . . . That pale smudge, just where you’d expect a face to be. And another one, smaller, farther down. A
hand
?

The flash made her jump. A brief whirr, and Bethan was back beside her, brandishing the camera. ‘
Got
her!’ she hissed. ‘Right in the middle of the frame. Is she still there?’

Alison peered through narrowed eyes. The
flash
had left a greenish, floating blob. She looked past it. The figure, if it was a figure, hadn’t moved. She nodded. ‘Yeah, still there.’

‘Unbelievable.’ Bethan shook her head. ‘I thought that flash . . .’

‘Can we go now, Bethan?’ Alison’s voice sounded hoarse. ‘I don’t feel too good.’

‘Yes, sure, come on.’ Bethan slid a hand under her friend’s arm and they started back the way they’d come. Bethan glanced behind, but the gorse was in the way.

You’re real though
, she said inside her head.
I’ve got a pic, and a witness
. She pressed quick view, thrust the camera under Alison’s nose.