The Shade of Hettie Daynes

by Robert Swindells

  Carl smiled. He was only thirteen, but he pretty much knew what was what. Stanton Farley Hopwood had been a very naughty boy, and Carl doubted whether Councillor Reginald Hopwood (busy man) would want this to get out, even after all this time.

  SIXTY-THREE

  ‘YOUR GLOSSY’S COME,’ said Norah Crabtree, when Alison got in from school. ‘It’s on the kitchen table.’ Norah was watching TV as usual.

  Alison found the brown envelope under a mountain of clothes awaiting her mother’s iron. It was addressed to her, but Mum had opened it anyway. She pulled out Bill’s photo.

  ‘Oh, sweet,’ she whispered, gazing at it. ‘Am I a genius or what? That skirt, the way it hangs. The hair, the eyeliner – everything. And just look how my feet stand out white against the black of that puddle. It didn’t look half this good in the paper.’

  She spun on one foot, laughing, holding up the photograph. ‘No wonder old Hopwood couldn’t resist giving me the prize!’

  She scampered upstairs, punched in Bethan’s number. ‘Beth, my glossy came. Wait till you see it. I look exactly like the ghost we saw the night you slept over, and I’ve already decided what I’m going as next year.’ She laughed with excitement. ‘I’m going as our skeleton!’

  She waited for her friend’s reaction, but instead a voice said, ‘Who is this? Alison? This is Bethan’s mother. Bethan’s in the bathroom, and it seems she’ll have some explaining to do when she comes out. Thank you for calling. Goodbye.’

  SIXTY-FOUR

  BETHAN CAME INTO the kitchen. She’d changed out of her school clothes. Harry flashed her a warning look, which she failed to understand. She looked at her mother.

  ‘Did I hear my phone just now?’ Christa was stirring something in a pan. When she turned, Bethan saw the look on her face. ‘What . . . is something wrong, Mum?’

  Christa nodded. ‘I think so, Bethan. You did hear your phone. Alison Crabtree called. She wants you to know her glossy’s come, and that she looks exactly like the ghost you and she saw the night you slept over.’

  Bethan’s face fell. ‘Ah. Yes. Right.’ Her mind started to race, but it failed to turn up anything she might usefully say.

  ‘Oh,’ continued Christa, ‘and she’s already decided what she intends to go as next year – I assume she’s talking about the Hallowe’en Hop. She’s going to go as our skeleton, whatever that means.’ She eyed her daughter narrowly. ‘I suppose you know what it means, Bethan?’

  Bethan hung her head. ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘Well? What is our skeleton?’

  ‘It’s . . . we found it, Mum. At the old mill.’

  ‘What old mill? What are you talking about, child?’

  Harry broke in. ‘She means the mill at Wilton Water, Mum. Hopwood Mill. There’s a skeleton. Human. We found it.’

  His mother stared. ‘When, Harry? When did all this happen, and why am I the last to know about it?’

  ‘It was last Saturday,’ said Harry. ‘The eighth. We didn’t tell you because . . . because it’s our adventure.’

  ‘And because we think it’s Hettie Daynes,’ added Bethan.

  ‘Whoa, just a minute.’ Christa sank onto a chair, gazed at her children. ‘It sounds to me as though you’ve both been practically living by that reservoir, in spite of the fact that I’ve asked you to stay away from it, and in defiance of warnings at school and in the Echo about its being dangerous.’

  ‘We’ve been really, really careful, Mum,’ murmured Bethan. ‘Mr Wood and Mr Fox both told us what to do, and we’ve taken notice.’

  Christa looked at her. ‘Does Steve Wood know about this skeleton?’

  Bethan shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Mum. We didn’t show it to him.’ She tried on a smile. ‘Grown-ups spoil everything.’

  ‘And who’s Mr Fox?’

  ‘He’s the chief reporter on the Echo, Mum,’ said Harry.

  His mother nodded. ‘Yes, of course. And what about him – has he seen the skeleton?’

  ‘He’s seen our snapshots of it.’

  ‘There are snapshots?’

  ‘Yes, Mum. D’you want to see them?’

  Christa covered her face with her hands, shook her head. ‘What I want, Harry, is for my children not to be leading a secret life, involving ghosts and skeletons and reservoirs. I want the police to deal with any skeletons that might be around. I want priests or psychic investigators to cope with ghosts. I want my children to lead dull, unadventurous lives here, at number eight, Leaf Street.’ She dropped her hands. ‘Since you ask me what I want, Harry – that’s what I want.’

  SIXTY-FIVE

  SATURDAY MORNING. FOX came out of the Echo building and practically bumped into Steve Wood. ‘Now then, Steve.’ Wood had occasional pieces printed in the Echo, and was a frequent user of the newspaper’s library.

  ‘Stan.’ Wood grinned. ‘Just off to cover the Rovers match, are you?’ Rawton Rovers were away to Lincoln that day.

  ‘Nah.’ The reporter shook his head. ‘Not my interest, mate. Colleague of mine’s a fan, I let him cover the Rovers. I’m poking about in what you might call a local mystery.’

  The historian smiled. ‘Sounds more like my sort of thing.’

  Fox nodded. ‘I suppose it is, Steve. It concerns Wilton Water.’

  Wood looked at him. ‘That’s a coincidence. I’m researching a fascinating piece of local history at the reservoir too.’

  Fox smiled. ‘There’s no such thing as coincidence, Steve. Would your bit of history involve a skeleton?’

  Wood looked startled. ‘How the heck did you know, Stan? I thought it was my secret. Well . . .’ He pulled a face. ‘Mine and the kids who found it.’

  The reporter nodded. ‘I met some kids last Saturday in the bus shelter. They had a camera. Showed me snapshots they’d taken of a skeleton, in the old mill.’

  ‘Yeah,’ sighed Steve. ‘That’s where it is.’ He kicked a pebble into the road. ‘I was at your place Monday, looking for stuff on Hettie Daynes.’ He looked at Fox. ‘You know, the mad lass who disappeared? The bones’re about a century old. I thought there was a slim chance they might be hers.’

  Fox nodded. ‘Find anything?’

  ‘Nothing till a couple of years after she’s supposed to have vanished. Then it was just a piece about the saying, daft as Hettie Daynes. Didn’t help at all.’ He grinned. ‘Found her in the census records though. Mill girl, lived on Prince’s Street in Wilton. One of seven kids.’

  The reporter shrugged. ‘Not unusual in those days.’ He pulled a face. ‘Anyway, the age of the bones scuppers my theory.’

  Wood shook his head. ‘Sorry, mate. What was your theory?’

  The reporter snorted. ‘Daren’t tell you, Steve, it involved a local resident. Sue the pants off me if he got wind of it.’

  Wood frowned. ‘What made you think . . .?’

  ‘Let’s just say somebody seemed to have a keen interest in keeping nosy parkers away from Wilton Water, so when those kids showed me their snapshots, it occurred to me there might have been a murder.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘A recent one, I mean.’

  ‘Ah.’ The historian thought for a moment. ‘There might have been a murder though,’ he murmured, ‘a hundred years ago, because’ – he looked at Fox – ‘the skeleton’s female, and the lass was expecting a baby.’

  SIXTY-SIX

  ‘MUM?’

  ‘What is it, Carl?’ Felicity slid an enormous steak pie into the oven. Reginald was at the Wilton Community Centre, making himself available to his public. My monthly surgery, he called it, and it always left him both ravenous and ratty. The pie would fix the ravenous part: only time would fix the ratty.

  ‘What’s a hand?’

  ‘A hand?’ She closed the oven door and straightened up. ‘Whatever d’you mean, dear? You know perfectly well what a hand is.’

  ‘No.’ Carl shook his head. ‘I mean a hand as in, silly little fool surely can’t imagine my father’s plans for me include marriage to one of his hands.’


  Felicity looked puzzled. ‘What’s that from, Carl – something you’re reading at school?’

  Carl nodded. ‘Yes, Mum, I read it at school.’

  ‘Well.’ His mother frowned. ‘It sounds to me like Victorian literature. Is it?’

  ‘Yes, it was written in Victorian times.’

  ‘I don’t recognize it – what’s the title?’

  ‘A journal.’

  Felicity shrugged. ‘Can’t say I’ve heard of it, but in those days factory workers were known as hands.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I suppose that was the only part of them their employers cared about – the part that did the work. Anyway, it sounds to me as though the character in your book is a young man who’s become involved with a girl – a factory hand. His family is probably from a higher class than hers, so his father won’t want him to marry her.’ She smiled. ‘Am I close?’

  Carl nodded. ‘Pretty much, Mum, yeah.’ He left the kitchen, went to his room and took the diary out of his backpack. He lay on the bed, propped by pillows, and read on.

  October seventeenth:

  She weeps around the village: how can it not come out? I contemplate drastic measures. If I’m driven to act on them, she’s only herself to blame.

  October nineteenth:

  Desperation. We’re to meet at the mill at nine p.m. tomorrow when, God willing, all will be resolved.

  October twentieth (written in a shaky hand):

  It is done. I do most fervently wish it had not proved necessary, but she drove me to it. Soon the rising waters will conceal my crime, but will prove insufficient to the cleansing of my soul, upon which the Lord have mercy.

  ‘I’ve seen you, haven’t I?’ breathed Carl. ‘Bonfire Night, at the res, standing on nothing. No wonder you gave me that look.’

  He couldn’t stop shivering.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  SUNDAY MORNING AT eight Leaf Street. After a hard week at the minimarket Christa was sleeping late, her dreams haunted by snapshots of bones and spectres. Harry and Bethan crept about downstairs, making breakfast, hoping Mum might wake in a better frame of mind.

  The phone rang.

  ‘Drat!’ Harry strode across the kitchen and picked up. ‘Yes?’ He hoped it hadn’t disturbed his mother.

  ‘Who am I speaking to?’ A man’s voice.

  ‘Harry Midgley, who’s this?’

  ‘Fox, the Echo. We met at the bus shelter. Is your mother there?’

  ‘She’s having a lie-in Mr Fox. Can I help?’

  ‘I really need to speak to your mum, Harry. It’s about the skeleton, and Hettie Daynes.’

  ‘Mum doesn’t like talking about Hettie Daynes.’

  ‘I know,’ said Fox, ‘but I fancy she’ll be interested in what I have to say. I know I promised but things have come to light, it’s gone beyond a kids’ adventure. Tell her I’ll call round sometime after two.’

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Bethan, pouring milk on her cornflakes.

  Harry pulled a face. ‘Stan Fox. You know, the reporter? He’s coming to see Mum. Wants to talk about Hettie Daynes and the skeleton.’

  ‘But . . .’ Bethan slopped milk on the tablecloth.

  ‘I know, I know. He pulled the grown-up act – you kids don’t understand these things. Typical.’ He tossed his sister a cloth.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  ‘MS MIDGLEY – THANKS for seeing me. And for this.’ Fox raised his coffee cup.

  Christa shrugged. ‘I don’t consider I had a choice, Mr Fox. You invited yourself while I slept.’

  The reporter smiled ruefully. ‘That’s absolutely true, Ms Midgley. I hope you’ll feel my rudeness was justified when you’ve heard what I have to say.’

  Christa frowned at Fox in the other armchair. She’d sent Harry and Bethan upstairs on his arrival. ‘My son tells me it’s to do with my great, great aunt.’ She shook her head. ‘There are things in families – highly personal things – which members prefer to keep inside the family. The brief, tragic story of Hettie Daynes is a case in point.’

  ‘I understand, believe me.’ Fox drank some coffee, returned his cup to its saucer. ‘The thing is, Ms Midgley, Steve Wood and I have reason to believe the bones uncovered at Wilton Water may well be those of your ancestor, and that something dreadful might have happened to her.’

  Christa looked at him. ‘You also believe my daughter took a snapshot of a ghost, so you’ll forgive me if I’m not that impressed by what you believe, Mr Fox.’

  The reporter nodded. ‘Spirit photos were always a grey area, Ms Midgley,’ he conceded, ‘but please hear me out.’ He finished his coffee, set cup and saucer on the table she’d placed between them. ‘Your great, great aunt disappeared in 1885 after behaving strangely for a time, is that right?’

  Christa nodded. ‘Something like that. I’m not sure of the year.’

  ‘It was 1885 – the year the reservoir filled up and Hopwood Mill disappeared.’

  Christa met his gaze. ‘And the bones were found in what’s left of the mill. I think I can see where you’re going with this, Mr Fox. You think Hettie Daynes committed suicide in the mill where she’d worked, because she was out of her mind.’

  The reporter shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I think something far worse than that, Ms Midgley.’ He looked Christa in the eye. ‘Hettie was expecting a baby, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Was she?’ Christa held his gaze. ‘And that’s the icing on your cake, isn’t it? You can splash it all over the front page: SHRINKING RES REVEALS VICTORIAN SCANDAL – HETTIE DAYNES WAS WILTON WANTON. It might even get you a job on a real newspaper.’

  ‘Ouch!’ Fox looked hurt. ‘You certainly have a very low opinion of me.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not your family secret I’m investigating, Ms Midgley. If I’m right, there’s a family with a far more shameful one.’ He looked at Christa. ‘It might well involve murder.’

  ‘Murder?’ cried Christa. ‘Whose murder? Are you saying . . .?’

  The reporter shook his head again. ‘I’m not saying anything,’ he murmured. ‘Not yet. The matter is under investigation. Hard evidence is scarce.’

  He stood up. ‘The young woman who left her bones at Hopwood Mill was pregnant, Ms Midgley. More than one reluctant father has solved his embarrassing little problem by disposing of mother and child in one go, and what better spot to choose than a mill that’s about to disappear for ever?’ He smiled thinly. ‘What people tend to forget is, nothing’s for ever.’

  SIXTY-NINE

  MONDAY, BEFORE THE bell. Rob gaped. ‘So your mum knows everything, sucker – we’ve no secret any more?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘Sorry, mate. Alison Crabtree blabbed on the phone before she knew who’d picked up.’

  ‘What a dipstick. And Stan Fox went back on his promise?’

  ‘Yeah. Says it’s gone beyond a kids’ game.’

  ‘Typical adult.’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘So what’ll your mum do – tell the police?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘Dunno. She says if the skeleton is her great, great auntie, she wants to give it a proper burial.’

  ‘What – so the ghost can like, rest? Stop haunting Wilton Water?’

  ‘No, not that. She refuses to believe in the ghost, even though she’s seen the snapshot.’

  ‘What about Fox then? Will he go to the police now, d’you think?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. Him and Steve Wood have got together. They think they’re looking at an old murder.’

  ‘They think Hettie Daynes was murdered?’

  ‘They think the skeleton was murdered – they can’t prove it’s Hettie.’

  ‘Hey up,’ warned Rob. ‘Troubles come in threes, here’s number two.’ Carl Hopwood approached rapidly, with a face on him like a slapped bum. He came alone, so Rob risked a wind-up. ‘Cheer up, Hopwood – it might never happen.’

  ‘Shut your face, Hattersley.’ Carl grabbed a fistful of Rob’s hoodie, slammed him against the wall. ‘What you done with
my book?’

  ‘Book?’ gasped Rob. ‘What book? Don’t tell me you’ve learned to read, Hopwood.’

  Carl ignored the jibe. ‘You know what book. It was in the bog, on the sill. I went back for it three minutes later and it had gone. Nigel saw you go in.’

  Rob shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Carl, honest. I didn’t see any book. Why would I want your book?’

  The bully relaxed his grip, stepped back. ‘Well someone must have pinched it,’ he choked. His eyes filled up. ‘My dad’ll kill me if I don’t get it back.’ He turned and blundered away, half-blind with tears.

  ‘Poor old Carl,’ murmured Harry. ‘Must’ve raided the councillor’s library without asking. It’ll be Bonfire Night all over again when his great pink self finds out.’ He smiled. ‘I almost feel sorry for him.’

  Rob shook his head. ‘I don’t.’ He patted his pack. ‘In fact I’ve got his rotten book in here.’

  ‘You haven’t!’ gasped Harry. ‘What if he’d searched it, Rob?’

  Rob shrugged. ‘Well then he’d’ve got it back, wouldn’t he?’ He grinned. ‘We’ll check it out in maths, see what’s so vitally important.’

  SEVENTY

  WILTON PRIMARY, MONDAY morning assembly. Miss Gadd on the platform.

  ‘Good morning, children.’

  ‘Good morning Miss Gadd. Good morning everybody.’

  ‘Now.’ The headteacher smiled, rubbed her hands together. ‘Today is a very special day for our school. Can anybody in Year One tell us why it’s special?’ Her eyes scanned the upturned, mostly stunned faces of the ankle-biters. A blond dumpling raised her hand.

  ‘Yes, Tabitha?’

  ‘Miss, our Fluffy’s had four kittens.’

  Miss Gadd smiled. ‘That’s exciting news, Tabitha, but there’s something else. Something about our playground?’

  The heavy clue produced a crop of swaying hands. ‘Yes, Lucy?’