The Shade of Hettie Daynes

by Robert Swindells

  ‘Carl Hopwood’s just like his father,’ she murmured. ‘Too big for his britches, just because Hopwoods used to rule the roost around here. They built a mill you know, back in the nineteenth century. Nearly everybody in Wilton worked for them at one time. They were known as slave-drivers, and I bet they were.’ She stooped, pushing Harry’s clothes in the dryer. ‘Mill’s long gone, but not the attitude. Councillor Hopwood gets himself elected time after time ’cause people vote him in out of habit. His father was on the Council before him, and his grandfather as well.’ She straightened up. ‘I expect young Carl’ll get elected too, when folks’ve forgotten he used to chuck smaller kids in the pond.’

  I won’t forget, thought Harry as he logged on to the Net. I’d vote for a pig before I’d vote for that Carl, and I bet Rob would too.

  Rob was right: there was loads about the Corn Laws, and it was all as boring as Harry had known it would be. Who sits for hours and hours typing in this garbage? he wondered.

  He called Rob, asked him if he’d used this or that bit of data. It was important they didn’t hand in identical essays.

  Rob said, ‘Word on the street is, they’re draining the reservoir.’

  ‘Yes I know,’ said Harry. ‘Beth thinks it’ll upset the ghost.’

  Rob laughed. ‘It’ll spoil her party trick, for sure. Standing on water, I mean. Anybody can stand on dry land.’

  ‘Anybody except my dad,’ growled Harry. Dad had gone away when Harry was eight. He had a drink problem and Mum had chucked him out. Harry could just remember the poor guy staggering up the path and falling flat on his face in the doorway.

  ‘Yeah, well . . .’ Rob never knew what to say when Harry mentioned his dad. ‘Catch you tomorrow, mate, Mottan’s room.’

  ‘Nine on the dot, Rob, with your essay. And don’t carry it past the pond.’

  SIX

  ‘MUM?’

  ‘What is it, Harry?’ Tuesday tea time. Christa Midgley was busy with mince and lasagna, the children were setting the table.

  ‘Why do people say as daft as Hettie Daynes?’

  His mother looked at him sharply. ‘Who’ve you heard saying it?’

  Harry smiled. ‘Lunch time, Rob turned his peas and mashed potato into a smiley face. The supervisor wandered past, said Rob was daft as Hettie Daynes. Who is Hettie Daynes, Mum?’

  Christa slid the lasagna into the oven. ‘Hettie Daynes is an ancestor of ours, Harry. My great, great aunt to be precise. Something bad happened to her and she lost her mind. Took to tearing her clothes and weeping in public. Nobody knew what was causing her such distress. They started referring to her as Daft Hettie, and that’s where the expression came from.’ She straightened up, closed the oven door. ‘It was cruel and stupid to use Hettie’s name in that way, but people weren’t very PC in Victorian times.’

  Harry nodded. ‘Wonder they didn’t stick her in the loony-bin.’

  ‘We say psychiatric hospital, Harry,’ retorted Christa tartly, ‘not loony-bin. And no, they didn’t lock her up. She disappeared, never to be seen again. Anyway.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Tea’s in forty-five minutes: just enough time to do your homework.’

  Flipping homework, mumbled Harry as he trailed upstairs. Up till eleven last night for Mottan, and at it again the minute I walk in the door. At least it was English this time, not history.

  He’d been all right this morning though, old Mottan.

  ‘Ah – a dry one,’ he exclaimed when Rob handed over his assignment.

  ‘Yessir,’ Rob joked. ‘You see, I had my annual shower Sunday night.’ It was risky, but the teacher just laughed.

  Receiving Harry’s folder he asked, ‘You found the library then, young Midgley?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘No need, sir, my computer decided to work.’

  Mottan treated him to a wry smile. ‘Perhaps you’ll take the same decision yourself, laddie.’ Probably a decent bloke really, Mottan.

  Can’t say the same for Carl Hopwood though. He approached the pair at morning break. ‘Wise of you not to grass me up,’ he purred. ‘I get quite irritated when somebody splits on me, and my associates don’t like it either.’ He smiled nastily. ‘Get on the wrong side of a Hopwood and you’ll find yourself in deep water.’ He forced a laugh. ‘Deep water – geddit?’

  Prat.

  SEVEN

  IT’S DARK AFTER tea in October, and Bethan wasn’t allowed out after dark. Trouble was, she couldn’t stop thinking about the ghost.

  No such thing according to Mum, but she’d seen it. A woman in a long skirt. If Bethan stared up at the ceiling when she was lying in the dark, the woman always appeared, standing in the middle of the floating shapes and phantom lights you always see when you do that. Even with her eyes screwed shut she’d see her for a while, till she’d slowly lose shape and melt to a blob.

  Bethan didn’t see the ghost in the daytime, but it was inside her head and Bethan couldn’t get rid of it. It was interfering with her work in class. I’ve got to see her again, she thought. If I can just get one more look, perhaps I’ll be able to stop thinking about her.

  At break time she talked to her best friend, Alison. Alison’s mum wasn’t strict, Alison got away with all sorts of stuff. Sometimes her mum let Alison have a friend to sleep over, even when it wasn’t her birthday or anything.

  ‘Hey, Aly,’ said Bethan. ‘D’you want to see the ghost?’

  ‘What ghost?’

  ‘The ghost of Wilton Water of course.’

  Alison shook her head. ‘Don’t believe in her.’

  ‘Well neither did I, till Harry took me to see her.’

  ‘You saw her?’

  ‘Yes, and now I can’t stop thinking about her.’

  Alison laughed. ‘You mean she’s haunting you?’

  Bethan nodded. ‘In a way, yes. I need to see her again, then maybe she’ll leave me alone.’

  ‘So why me? Too scared to go by yourself, is that it?’

  ‘No, but I’m not allowed out after dark. I was wondering . . .?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, if I could sleep over at yours, say on Saturday? We could go up the reservoir after tea. Your mum wouldn’t mind, would she?’

  ‘ ’Course not,’ smiled Alison. ‘And I wouldn’t mind checking out this so-called ghost myself. I’ll ask Mum and give you a ring, OK?’

  ‘Magic.’

  Alison shook her head. ‘No magic, no ghost, but we’ll have a laugh. See ya.’

  EIGHT

  ‘BIG ISSUE, SIR?’ said the thin man to the beefy one in a blue suit.

  It was Thursday lunch time, and Councillor Reginald Hopwood was on his way to The Feathers for his customary plate of something and a pint. He didn’t break his stride, dashing aside the thin man’s magazine with a dimpled hand. ‘Get a job,’ he snarled, ‘instead of hanging around begging, making the place look untidy.’

  ‘This is my job,’ protested the thin man to the councillor’s receding back. ‘I’m an official vendor.’

  ‘Official scrounger, you mean,’ growled Hopwood as he strode away. He was a busy man, and a hungry one. The vendor gazed after him for a moment, then shrugged and turned away.

  The pub was busy too. The landlord looked up as Hopwood shouldered his way through the crowd.

  ‘Afternoon, Councillor!’ he boomed. Reginald liked to be called Councillor, especially where a lot of people could hear. ‘The usual?’

  Hopwood nodded. It pleased him that the landlord knew what he always drank. It showed he was a valued customer.

  He carried his pint of bitter to the corner table the landlord reserved for him every Thursday. He sat down and sipped his beer, watching the door. A minute or two later Stan Fox came through it.

  ‘Now then, Councillor.’ Fox slipped into his customary seat and grinned at Hopwood across the table. ‘Anything I should know?’ Stan Fox was senior reporter on the Rawton Echo, the town’s weekly newspaper. Hopwood kept him informed about council business, and Fox made sure the
councillor’s name and picture graced the front page from time to time.

  Hopwood smiled. ‘We’ve decided who’ll do the reservoir job.’

  The reporter looked at him. ‘Who?’

  ‘Forgan.’

  Fox frowned. ‘But I thought it was going to be Wexley.’

  The councillor nodded. ‘It was, but Forgan came up with an offer we couldn’t refuse.’

  ‘What offer?’

  ‘Playground for the school, state of the art, no charge.’ Hopwood shrugged. ‘Rude to say no.’

  The reporter grinned. ‘And for you?’

  ‘How d’you mean, for me?’

  ‘I mean for you personally, Reginald. You had to approve Forgan. What did they give you?’

  ‘Well.’ Hopwood winked, rubbed the side of his nose with a finger. ‘Expenses, you know? The usual out of pocket expenses.’ He looked at the reporter. ‘That’s off the record, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Fox raised his glass. ‘To you, Councillor.’ He grinned. ‘I assume lunch is on you?’

  ‘Naturally,’ purred Hopwood.

  NINE

  THURSDAY, AFTER TEA. Christa Midgley riffled through a sheaf of bills on the table while Harry and Bethan did the washing up.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘What is it, Bethan?’ She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice, but she was tired. Tired after her long day working down the minimarket: tired of the endless struggle to make ends meet.

  ‘Can I sleep over at Alison’s, Saturday night?’

  Her mother sighed. ‘Why, is there a party or something? It isn’t Alison’s birthday again already, surely?’

  Bethan giggled. ‘No, Mum, she only has one a year, in May. This is a sleepover for no special reason, it’ll just be her and me. Can I, Mum, pleeeease?’

  Christa scribbled something on the bottom of the gas bill, looked up. ‘Has Alison asked her mother if it’s all right to invite you?’

  ‘ ’Course. She’s the coolest mum in Wilton, Mrs Crabtree. Lets Alison do just about anything she wants. Probably won’t even notice I’m there.’

  Christa shook her head. ‘No, and that’s what worries me, Bethan. I was at school with Norah Crabtree, and she was just the same then. Didn’t let anything get to her. She’d come to school looking like a trainee bag lady, and sit gawping out of the window all day. She wasn’t Crabtree then of course, she was Nolan. Anyway, I can never quite relax while you’re at Alison’s, sweetheart.’

  ‘Oh, Mu-um!’ Bethan stood with a plate in one hand and a tea towel in the other, looking tragic. Harry came up behind her and squeezed out the dishcloth over her head. She shrieked, turned and swiped at him with the tea towel. The plate slipped out of her hand and shattered on the tiles. Bethan burst into tears.

  It came right in the end. Harry was sent to his room till bedtime, no TV. The pieces of plate were picked up, binned and forgotten. Bethan got a hug, and her mum relented.

  Ghost-watch was go.

  TEN

  AT MORNING BREAK Friday, Rob and Harry strolled round the perimeter of the all-weather pitch. It was a still, warm day, with a thin haze that hinted it might be one of the last.

  ‘There’s a ginormous digger by the reservoir,’ said Rob. Wilton Water was just about visible from his house.

  ‘Yeah?’ Harry kicked a pebble. ‘It’s starting then. We should check it out, home time.’

  Rob shrugged. ‘Sure, why not.’

  The day dragged. Fridays always drag, like the weekend’s dug its heels in, doesn’t want to come. The saying time marches on should have a bit added to it that says: except at school.

  Three thirty came at last, and the two friends headed for Wilton and the reservoir, wading through drifts of fallen leaves. On the banks of Wilton Water gorse still flowered, though sparsely. The light was fading, but the booms of two earth-movers stood silhouetted against the sky at the western end, where the overflow lay.

  ‘Look like dinosaurs don’t they?’ said Rob.

  ‘Uh . . . oh, yeah.’ Harry was gazing where he and Bethan had seen the ghost. The water there lay black and still, no figure stood on its surface. He shivered though, and cried out when somebody emerged from a nearby clump of alder.

  Rob laughed at his friend. ‘What’s up, you numpty, it’s only Steve.’

  ‘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.’