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.
‘See – I’m not barmy, am I?’
Alison shook her head and shivered. ‘Wish you were,’ she murmured.
FOURTEEN
NORAH CRABTREE PEERED at her daughter in the light from the TV. ‘What’s up, lovey – somebody bother you or something?’
‘No.’ Alison shook her head. ‘Nothing’s up, Mum, honest. Where’s Dad?’
Her mother snorted. ‘Guess.’
‘Down The Lamb?’
‘Right first time. And the lads’re out somewhere, don’t ask.’ She frowned. ‘Something’s shaken you up, Aly, I can tell.’ She turned to Bethan. ‘What is it, Bethan – what happened?’
Bethan looked down. ‘It’s nothing really, Mrs Crabtree. We . . . we saw the ghost. I don’t think Alison believed in her.’
‘Ghost?’ Norah Crabtree laughed. ‘Ghost, my foot.’ She looked at Alison. ‘I’ve told you before, you great softie, there’s no such thing as a ghost.’ She sighed. ‘There’s enough to worry about in the real world without making stuff up to scare yourself with.’
Alison looked at her mother. ‘Bethan got a picture.’
Norah turned to Bethan. ‘Picture?’
Bethan produced the camera. ‘Yes, Mrs Crabtree. On this.’
‘You’ve got a photo of a ghost?’ Norah held out her hand. ‘Let me see.’
Bethan pulled a face. ‘I haven’t really looked myself yet, it might be a bit . . .’ She pressed quick view, peered at the screen. ‘Yeah,’ she murmured, ‘it’s not very sharp.’
‘Give it here.’ Norah zapped the TV, plunging the room into darkness. ‘If there’s a ghost I’ll see it, and that’ll be a first.’
Bethan passed her the camera.
There was a long silence while Norah stared at the tiny screen. She tilted the camera, rotated it, held it close to her eyes and far away. The two girls watched. After a while she cleared her throat and murmured, ‘There’s something that could be a person, but it must be a stump, a shadow, a trick of the light.’ She handed the camera back to Bethan. ‘People have come up with photos of flying saucers, lovey. Fairies. The Loch Ness Monster.’ She chuckled. ‘A newspaper even printed a picture of an old aeroplane they reckoned had crashed on the moon.’ She shook her head. ‘All sorts of funny things happen with photos. I’d whatsit if I were you, Bethan – delete it.’
Bethan shook her head.
‘I think I’d like to look at it on a computer screen first, Mrs Crabtree, if you don’t mind.’
Norah shrugged. ‘I don’t mind, lovey, ’course not – it’s your camera.’ She smiled. ‘Just don’t go having nightmares about it, that’s all – either of you.’
FIFTEEN
THIS WAS BETHAN’S nightmare. It was night. She stood on the shore of Wilton Water, alone. There was a brilliant moon. Everything stood out clearly – no blurring of one object into another.
The woman’s face, silvery like the moon, was turned towards her. One thin white hand was visible against the black skirt. The index finger pointed down.
Bethan looked where the finger pointed, then at the luminous face. The spectre stood motionless, its eyes pools of inky shadow. It didn’t speak or beckon, yet Bethan felt herself called.
She was moving down the bank. Reeds brushed her bare legs. Water spilled into her shoes, so cold it made her cry out. She called to the spectre: I’m not like you, I have weight, the water won’t . . .
It was then she heard Mrs Crabtree say, I’d whatsit if I were you, Bethan – delete it.
The water was up to her knees. She woke.
‘Wakey wakey, Bethan.’ Alison was shaking her. ‘Put a sock in it, you numpty, you’ll have everyone out of bed.’
‘I have weight,’ mumbled Bethan, ‘the water won’t support me.’
‘Yeah, whatever.’ Alison giggled. ‘You’ve been yelling the place down, what happened?’
‘Huh?’ Bethan shook her head to disperse the last shreds of dream. ‘Oh . . . she called me, Aly. I tried to walk to her, but I was sinking. Then I heard your mum.’
‘Yeah,’ Alison nodded, ‘and Mum heard you, I bet.’ She smiled. ‘Anyway it was a dream.’ Her smile faded. ‘Last night though – we did see her, didn’t we? That wasn’t a dream.’
‘No,’ murmured Bethan, ‘that was a nightmare, Aly.’ She shivered. ‘One I wish I could wake from.’
SIXTEEN
SUNDAY MORNING, HALF past eight. Bethan lay on her side, looking across the room at the sleeping Alison. She’d slept like a log herself after the scary dream.
Come on, Aly, she thought, wake up – we’ve stuff to do. They’d decided to link the camera to Alison’s iMac, get the snapshot on the big screen. If the ghost showed up clearer, Aly would call her mum to come and look.
Bethan was impatient to begin, but there was no way you could rush this family. The expression laid back might have been invented for the Crabtrees. She rolled onto her back, clasped her hands under her head and closed her eyes.
She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew Alison was shaking her. ‘Come on, lazybones, let’s not waste the day.’
‘Uh?’ Bethan scowled at her friend. ‘What a cheek! I was awake ages before you, must’ve nodded off again.’
‘Yeah, right,’ growled Alison. ‘There’s a bacon butty on the unit, and a coffee.’
Alison dressed while Bethan ate, then booted up the computer. ‘I can’t actually do the photo bit myself,’ she admitted. ‘Have to get our Tony to do it.’
One by one, the Crabtrees rose to fix their various breakfasts. Seventeen-year-old Tony carried his banana and marmalade sandwich into his sister’s room. ‘What you got that’s so desperately urgent you have to get a guy up in the middle of the night?’ he grumbled.
‘Middle of the night?’ Alison laughed. ‘It’s quarter to ten, you skulking loafer.’
The lad shook his tousled head. ‘Yeah, but it’s Sunday, sweetheart. What have you got?’
‘Ghost,’ said Alison. ‘On Wilton Water.’
‘Wilton backside,’ growled her brother.
Alison nodded. ‘That’s what Mum said, more or less.’
Both girls secretly hoped the enlarged snapshot would show only stumps and shadows. Ghosts are exciting as an idea, but nobody really wants to be involved with one.
It was there though, plain as Bethan’s nightmare. Same moon-washed face, same pools of shadow hiding the eyes, same pointing finger.
‘Blooming heck!’ spluttered Tony, stippling the screen with bits of sandwich.
Norah Crabtree arrived in her dressing gown. She peered over Tony’s shoulder, made a little choking sound in her throat.
‘I can enhance it,’ he offered.
‘D . . . don’t bother,’ croaked his mother. ‘It’s bad enough the way it is.’ She shivered, pulling the dressing gown more snugly round her. ‘Hang on while I fetch Dad.’
Mr Crabtree declared himself flabbergasted. ‘I never believed,’ he murmured. ‘Thought it was a load of old cobblers in fact.’ He looked at Bethan. ‘How about I phone the Echo, sweetheart – make you famous?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Mr Crabtree,’ protested Bethan, but she was too late. He was already on his mobi.
SEVENTEEN
LUCKILY FOR BETHAN, the newsroom of the Rawton Echo had only one man on duty Sundays. He listened to Mr Crabtree’s story and said, ‘I’ll run it by Stan Fox, sir, first thing tomorrow morning. He’s our senior reporter, he’ll decide whether to send somebody round. What’s the address again?’
‘Coming tomorrow,’ said Mr Crabtree, pocketing his mobi. ‘Perhaps.’ He looked at Tony. ‘Better save it, son.’ He turned to Bethan. ‘Can you get round here in the morning, sweetheart? They’ll want to talk to the photographer in person.’
Bethan shook her head. ‘It’s school, Mr Crabtree, I can’t.’
‘Can’t you bunk off, just for one morning?’ He sounded really disappointed. ‘It’s not every day you get the chance to be famous, you know.’
Bethan pulled a face. ‘My mum wouldn’t let me. And anyway, I can’t let her find out I was at the reservoir after dark, she’d kill me.’ She looked at Tony. ‘Can’t you say you took the picture, Tony?’
The lad nodded. ‘I could, I suppose, but then I’d get famous instead of you.’
Bethan nodded. ‘That’s all right, I don’t mind.’
Mr Crabtree shook his head. ‘Won’t work, sweetheart. I told the guy my daughter’s friend took it.’
‘Oh, heck,’ groaned Bethan.
‘I know,’ beamed Mr Crabtree. ‘I’ll say I was with you and Aly. Your mum wouldn’t mind you going to the reservoir with your friend’s dad, would she?’
Bethan shrugged, stared at the floor. She suspected her mother’s distrust of Norah Crabtree extended to the man she’d married, but you just can’t say that sort of thing. Instead she mumbled, ‘I never said I wanted it in the paper, Mr Crabtree. I wish you’d call back and say it was a mistake or a joke or something.’
Mr Crabtree was about to protest when his wife chipped in. ‘If that’s what Bethan wants, Gilbert, you’d best do it. It’s her snapshot after all.’
‘Hmmm.’ Mr Crabtree frowned, looked at Bethan. ‘If you’re sure, sweetheart?’
Bethan nodded. ‘Yes please, Mr Crabtree.’
A reluctant Mr Crabtree made the call, and not long afterwards Bethan left her friend’s house and set off home. She knew she’d disappointed him, but he ought not to have phoned the paper without giving her the chance to object. I didn’t want to be famous, she told herself. All I wanted was to see the ghost again, so I could maybe stop thinking about her all the time.
Hasn’t worked though, ’cause she’s still here, doing my head in. Wish, wish, wish I could get her out of my head . . .
EIGHTEEN
CHRISTA WAS DUSTING the living room. She paused as Bethan walked in. ‘Hello, love, did you have a good time?’
Bethan nodded. ‘Yes, Mum, thanks. We played music till late. It was cool.’
‘Crabtrees all well?’
Bethan shrugged. ‘Far as I know. Where’s Harry?’
‘In his room, I expect, glued to that computer.’
Bethan nodded. ‘I’ll take my stuff up, see you in a bit.’
Her brother looked up as she stuck her head round his door. ‘Go to i-photo,’ she hissed, ‘I’ve something to show you.’ She dropped her p
ack in her own room, returned with the camera.
‘Wow!’ Harry gazed at the screen. ‘It’s her all right, Sis. How the heck . . .?’
‘Ssssh!’ Bethan glanced towards the door. ‘Don’t let Mum hear. Me and Aly went up the res last night, she’d kill me if she knew.’
Her brother nodded. ‘OK, only this is fantastic, Sis, yeah? I mean, I don’t think anybody’s ever managed to snap a ghost before: not even those paranormal investigators with all their fancy paraphernalia. We’ve got to let someone see this because it’s . . . well, it’s historic.’
Bethan shook her head. ‘No, Harry, we can’t. I told you Mum’d kill me, and anyway I had this dream.’ Briefly, she described her nightmare. ‘I think she wants something, Harry.’
The boy grunted. ‘Like what, Sis?’
‘Well I don’t know, do I? She was like this.’ Bethan pointed a rigid finger at the carpet. ‘Aly thinks it’s Hettie Daynes, and Mum says Hettie disappeared so it makes sense.’ She gripped her brother’s arm. ‘I want us to investigate, Harry. We’re always looking for adventure and never finding any, and now we’ve found it.’ She looked into his eyes. ‘Please, Harry, let’s keep it to ourselves and investigate.’
Harry gazed at the screen for half a minute, then nodded. ‘OK, Sis, we’ll give it a whirl. But I’m saving this, and if we don’t find anything out, we show it to somebody. All right?’
Bethan nodded. ‘Yes, all right.’
NINETEEN
‘FORGAN?’ COUNCILLOR HOPWOOD was on his mobi. ‘Hopwood here. We met at Rawton Town Hall.’
‘I remember. How are you, Councillor?’
‘I’m fine. Listen. This Wilton Water job.’
‘Yes: nothing wrong I hope?’
‘Not so far, but the Council’s worried about public safety.’
‘I can assure you, Councillor Hopwood, my company’s safety record is among the very best in the industry.’
‘I know, Forgan, I know. I’ve read the literature. It’s just . . . well, I know Wilton people. I should: most of ’em worked for my family at one time. They’re stubborn, and they’re nosy. I’ve seen the Keep Out signs you’ve put up, and I can tell you they won’t work. The minute there’s anything to see, folk’ll be swarming everywhere, gawping. Especially the kids. The Council wants to see barriers, Forgan. If somebody drowns, it won’t only be the water company that gets sued, it’ll be us. We think you ought to keep a watchman on site as well.’
The Shade of Hettie Daynes Page 3