But when there weren’t any girls around to divert him, the years between us seemed to vanish. Young Clem just loved larking around. In his snap break, he was always up for a game of hide and seek, or tiggy-on-gravestones. Or if I had my cricket ball with me, he’d show me how to set my fingers round it so that I could bowl a googly. One day he was demonstrating how to do this up against the church wall when Father Stamp came round the corner and I thought we would be in real trouble. But Clem didn’t seem bothered. He just lit a fag and blew smoke down at Father Stamp (Clem was a good six inches taller) till the vicar turned round and went back the way he’d come, like he’d forgotten something.
“He must like you too, Clem,” I said, impressed.
“You could say that,” said Clem. “Doesn’t mean I have to like him, does it?”
That struck me as odd even then. Under Mam’s influence, I’d come to think everyone in the world must like and admire Father Stamp, so it was a shock to find that my mate Clem didn’t agree.
I noticed after this that Clem often seemed to show up when I was with the vicar. I recall one occasion when I was round the back of the church where there was this funny old cross, very tall and thin with the actual cross piece set in a circle and not very big at all. Another odd thing was it didn’t seem to mark a grave and I couldn’t see any writing on it, just a lot of weird carvings.
Father Stamp came and stood beside me and started explaining what they all meant. I didn’t understand a lot of what he said but I did take in that it had been there for hundreds of years, dating back to long before the present St Cyprian’s had been built. He told me there’d always been some sort of church or chapel here right back to what he called the Dark Ages and this cross had been put up then and it was quite famous, and experts came from all over just to look at it. Then he lifted me right up on his shoulders so I could get a good look at the fancy carving on the topmost piece of the cross, and I was sitting there, clinging on to his hair, with his hands clasping the top of my legs really tight, when there was a cough behind us.
Father Stamp swung round so quick I almost fell off, and in fact I might as well have done, as when he saw it was Young Clem he dropped me to the ground so hard I was winded.
“Sorry to interrupt, vicar,” said Young Clem, “but Dad were wondering if you’d a moment to talk about tomorrow’s funeral.”
It didn’t sound to me all that important, but Father Stamp hurried away as if it was, and Young Clem said, “Giving you a ride, was he?”
“He was showing me the carvings up on the cross,” I said.
“Is that right? Tell you what, Tommy. The vicar’s a busy man. You want to play, you play with me. Or if you want to know about the carvings or anything, ask my dad.”
Even at that age, I couldn’t imagine that Old Clem would know anything the vicar didn’t but I followed Young Clem round the church to where his dad was sitting on a tombstone, puffing his pipe in the sun. There was no sign of Father Lamb so they must have finished their business quickly.
Young Clem said, “Tommy here wants to know about the carvings on that old cross”
Old Clem blew some smoke into the air reflectively then pronounced, “Heathen, that’s what they are. Nasty pagan stuff. Don’t know what summat like that is doing in a Christian churchyard.”
For all its shortness, I have to say I found this more intriguing than Father Stamp’s more rambling account but when I mentioned it to Mam, she said, “You don’t want to listen to Old Clem. What’s he know? No, you stick close to a clever man like Father Stamp and you never know what you’ll learn. But don’t you go bothering him!”
Mam didn’t like Old Clem much. She wouldn’t use the same words as Dad, who said he was an idle old sod, but that’s what she thought. And she really gave him a piece of her mind once when she found me searching through the long grass in the graveyard and I told her Old Clem had lost his rubber spade and asked me to help him find it. But she liked young Clem. She said he had a nice smile and I noticed she used to pat her hair and sound a bit different when she was talking to him. She even knitted him a scarf that he said was the best scarf he’d ever had, though I never saw him wear it.
So what with the Clems and Father Stamp, I had plenty of company in the graveyard if I wanted it. But most of the time all the company I wanted was my own and that of my friends in the ground. I had no fear of them. Why should I? They were all such good people, I could tell that by what I read on their headstones. I found it a really comfortable idea that after you were dead, folk would come and read what had been carved about you, just like I was doing, and they’d think what a great guy you must have been!
Sometimes I’d lie in the grass by Rocky, looking up at the sky and inventing things they might one day put on my own stone.
Here lies Tommy Cresswell, loving son, and the best striker ever to play for Bradford City and England.
The more I thought of it, though, the more I was forced to admit that it wasn’t all that likely as Bradford were holding up the bottom division of the league back then, and anyway I was crap at football. But anyone could be a hero, I reasoned. It was just a question of opportunity. So in the end I settled for this.
Sacred to the memory of Tommy Cresswell, beloved by all who knew him, who lost his life while bravely rescuing 56 children from their burning orphanage.
“He died that they might live.”
I got that last bit from the stone of some soldier who’d been wounded in the Great War and then come home to die.
The graveyard was full of such inspiring and upbeat messages. Those who reached old age had enjoyed such useful and productive lives it was no wonder they were sadly missed by their loving friends and families, while those who died young were so precociously marvellous that the angels couldn’t wait for them to get old before claiming them.
But eventually, after I’d done a tour of the whole graveyard, a problem began to present itself. I went all the way round again just to be sure, and it was still there.
I thought of applying to Mam and Dad for help, but I didn’t really want them to know how much time I was still spending in the graveyard.
Father Lamb would certainly be able to answer my question. After all he was in charge of everything at St Cyprian’s. But he didn’t seem quite so keen on talking to me as he’d once been. If we did meet and sit down for a chat, after a while he’d get restless and jump up and say he had to be off somewhere else, even if Young Clem didn’t interrupt him.
Then one Monday in early October on my way home from school still pondering my problem, I spotted the Clems digging a grave and it came to me that if anyone would know the answer, they would.
It was the usual set-up, with Young Clem up to his knees in the grave, digging, and Old Clem leaning on his spade, proffering advice.
I said, “Who’s this for?”
“Old George Parkin,” said Old Clem. “They’ll not be putting him in the hole till Wednesday, but we thought we’d get a start while this good weather holds. Poor old George. He’ll be sadly missed. He were a grand lad. One of the best.”
That was my cue.
I said, “Clem,” – letting them decide which one I was addressing – “I know you bury the good folk in the churchyard. But where do you put all the naughty ones?”
Old Clem stopped puffing, and Young Clem stopped digging, and they both said, “Eh?”
I saw that I needed to make myself a bit clearer.
I said, “You only bury the good people in the churchyard. I can tell that from reading what it says about them on the headstones. But the naughty ones must die as well. So where are all the naughty people? What do you do with their bodies?”
There was a long silence while they looked at each other.
Old Clem put his pipe back into his mouth and took it out again twice.
And finally he said solemnly, “Can you keep a secret, Tommy?”
“Oh yes. Cross my heart and hope to die,” I said eagerly.
�
�Right then,” said Old Clem. “We puts them in the crypt.”
Young Clem said, “Dad!” like he was protesting because his father was talking out of turn.
Old Clem said, “The lad asked and he deserves to know. The crypt, young Tommy. That’s where we dump all the bad ’uns. Pack ’em in, twenty or thirty deep till their flesh rots down to mulch. Then they grind the bones to bonemeal and it all gets spread on the fields. But you’re not to tell anyone else, OK? This is between you and me. Promise?”
I repeated, “Cross my heart, Clem,” and went away, leaving father and son having what sounded like a fierce discussion behind me.
This explained a lot! I knew there was this sort of big cellar under the church that they called the crypt. And I knew that there’d been bones and stuff down there because a couple of years earlier there’d been some worry about the church floor sinking and I’d heard Dad talking about clearing out the crypt and setting some props to support the ceiling, which was of course the church floor. So all the naughty people’s remains must have been cleared out to spread on the fields then. That thought made me feel a bit queasy, but, after all, I told myself, if you were too naughty to be buried in the graveyard, what did it matter where you ended up?
I mean, who’d want a headstone saying, Here lies John Smith who was really naughty and nobody misses him?
I’d never been in the crypt, of course, though I knew where the door was in a hidden corner of the church porch. There was a notice on it saying: Danger. Steep and crumbling steps. Do not enter. Not that there was much chance of that as it was always kept locked.
But it had to be opened some time so that more naughty people could be put in there, that was obvious. And if, as Mam said, there were a lot of naughty people in this world, it was probably getting full up again after the last big clear-out.
Suddenly I was filled with a desperate need to see inside the crypt. I wasn’t a particularly morbid child, but I recall one of my teachers writing on my report, It’s never enough to tell Tommy anything; if possible he’s got to see for himself.
So now I’d got the answer to my question, all I needed was for someone to open the crypt door for me and shine a torch in so that I could glimpse all the naughty people piled up there! Then I’d be satisfied.
But I was bright enough to know that this wasn’t the kind of favour adults were likely to do for a kid. I was going to have to sort this out for myself.
The answer was as obvious as asking the Clems about where the naughty people had been.
Dad could go anywhere in and around the church. Obviously he wasn’t going to open the crypt door for me. But he did have a key. At least, I assumed he had a key. He certainly had a bunch of keys that opened up every other door.
And as I thought of this, I also realized that tonight being a Monday night was the perfect time to put my plan into operation. Not that I realized I had a plan till I thought of it! The thing was, Dad always went down the pub to play darts on Mondays and Mam curled up on the sofa with her knitting to watch Sherlock Holmes, her favourite TV series, and nothing was allowed to interrupt her.
So tonight was the night! It seemed like fate, but for a while it looked like fate had changed its mind. It turned out that Dad had been feeling a bit hot and snuffly all day and Mam was worried it was the Hong Kong flu virus that was just taking a grip around the country. But after tea, Dad said not to be stupid, it was just a sniffle that a couple of pints of John Smith’s and a whisky chaser would soon sort. So off he went down the pub, and not long after I went up to bed without any of my usual arguments and lay there till I heard the swelling introductory music of Mam’s programme.
It was Part Two of The Hound of the Baskervilles, I recall, and I was confident there was no way she’d move till it was finished. I had at least an hour.
I slipped out of bed. I didn’t bother to get dressed. I was wearing track suit pyjamas and it was a warm autumn night, so warm in fact I was perspiring slightly and the thought of putting on more clothes was unpleasant. I tiptoed downstairs, carrying the torch I kept for reading under the bedclothes. The TV was going full belt, and I moved into the kitchen, plucked Dad’s church keys from the hook by the back door and headed out into the night.
Our door into the churchyard was locked but I knew by touch alone which key I needed here.
As I passed through, I paused for a moment. The graveyard looked different in the dark, and the bulk of the church silhouetted against the stars seemed to have assumed cathedral-like proportions. But I switched on my torch and advanced till I spotted the comforting outline of Rocky, my broken-nosed angel keeping guard over David Oscar Winstanley, the virtuous old postman. The long grass beneath my bare feet was pleasantly cool, the balmy air caressed my skin, and I felt sure somehow that Rocky would be keeping an eye on me too.
The door to the crypt was in a corner of the church’s broad entrance porch. I thought I might have to unlock the church door itself as, ever since the theft of some items of silver a couple of years earlier, the building had been firmly locked at dusk. Tonight, however, the door was open. I didn’t consider the implications of this, just took it in my superhero mode as a demonstration that things were running my way.
Now all I had to do was find the right key for the crypt door.
It proved surprisingly easy. Close up, I saw it wasn’t the ancient worm-eaten oak door I’d expected but a new door, stained to fit in with the rest of the porch, and instead of a large old-fashioned keyhole there was a modern mortice lock.
That made the selection of the right key very easy and the door swung open with well-oiled ease and not the slightest suspicion of a horror-film screech.
Now, however, the thin beam of my torch revealed that the bit about the steep and decaying steps hadn’t been exaggerated. They plunged down almost vertically into the darkness where the naughty people lay.
Suddenly I felt less like a superhero and more like an eight-year-old boy who got scared watching Dr Who with his mam!
It felt a lot colder in the church porch and there seemed to be a draught of still colder air coming up from the crypt that made my sweat-soaked pyjamas feel clammy. I could smell damp earth – that was an odour I was very familiar with from hanging around the Clems while they were digging a grave. But what wasn’t there, which I’d half expected, was any of that decaying meat smell I’d once got a whiff of as Young Clem’s spade drove into an unexpected coffin.
Far from reassuring me, this only roused a fear that maybe the naughty people didn’t decay like the ordinary good people, but somehow got preserved like the salted hams that hung in Granny Longbottom’s kitchen. Maybe they even retained a bit of life!
In fact to my young mind, already well acquainted through the school playground with notions of zombies and vampires, it seemed very likely that the new door and its mortice lock hadn’t been put there to keep the inquisitive public out, but to keep the still active naughty people in!
I could have shut the door and retreated and gone home to bed, and no one would ever have known of my cowardice. Except me, of course.
Daft, wasn’t it? Just to prove to myself I wasn’t scared, I began to descend that crumbling sandstone staircase. And all the time my teeth were chattering so hard I could hardly breathe!
What did I expect to find? Bodies hanging upside down from the ceiling? Coffins stacked six or seven deep? Heaps of bones? I don’t know.
And I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved when all that the beam of my torch picked out was … emptiness! Except, that is, for seven or eight pillars of steel rising from metal plates set on the packed earth floor to give them firm grounding, and with metal beams running between them at ceiling level to support the sagging church floor.
And that was it. It dawned on me that Old Clem had been having me on again, like he did with looking for the rubber spade! I should have known. Making a fool of people is what passes for a joke in Yorkshire. I felt really stupid! Also despite the chilly air down h
ere, I felt very hot. I pulled off my pyjama top to cool down and used it to wipe off the streams of perspiration running down my face and body.
Suddenly I was desperate to be back in my bed and I turned to go.
Then I heard a noise.
And all my fears came rushing back full pelt!
It was a relief to realize the noise was coming from outside the crypt, not inside.
Someone was at the top of the stairs.
I clicked my torch off and stood in the dark.
A voice demanded harshly, “Who’s down there?”
I almost answered but the thought of the trouble I’d be in at home – sneaking out after I’d gone to bed and stealing Dad’s keys to get into the crypt – kept me quiet. Also, as I say, all my old fears were boiling up again. Maybe this was one of the wicked zombies returning from a stroll round the graveyard! I found myself praying to Rocky who’d never been beaten to come and help me!
Then a bigger fear erupted to push out all the others. Suppose whoever it was pulled the door shut behind him as he went away and left me locked in the crypt all night!
The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9 Page 4