by Mike Ripley
Ramsden allowed himself a smile. ‘Word gets about fair sharpish round here.’
‘You’ve got to remember, Mr Ramsden, that Walter Bagley was a respected miner, a fine bandsman and a lifelong member of my union. Haydon Bagley’s disgrace shouldn’t rub off on him, and if I knew where that sly bugger was, I’d as likely be on ’im, smashin’ ’is face in until we got back the money he stole from the widows and orphans fund. Then I’d happily ring you up and tell thee which hospital he’d been taken to.’
‘I believe you would, Arthur, and I’d probably not blame you,’ Ramsden said equably. ‘I’m more than happy for folk to think I’m in Denby about Haydon Bagley, but I’m really here to see you.’
‘And what have I supposed to have done?’
‘Nowt, or nowt I know of. I’ve come seeking a bit of help.’
Ramsden sensed his passenger bridle in the adjacent car seat and had the distinct feeling that the temperature in the Triumph, already low since he had parked and turned off the heater, had taken a sudden fall.
‘Coppers want my help? Can’t say I saw that coming. Ge’rr’on wi’it, then, it’ll be a first,’ said Exley, settling back in his seat and folding his arms across his barrel chest.
Ramsden took a deep breath, for he agreed with the solid-framed miner: this was unchartered territory for the pair of them. Ironically, Ramsden knew he would have felt more comfortable if they had been trading insults in front of a picket line.
‘The deputy manager here at Shuttle Eye got in touch a little while back …’
‘Oh aye? What does he say I’ve done?’ growled Exley.
‘Nothing. Get this through your head, Arthur – nobody’s accusing you of anything.’
‘But summat’s up, that’s for sure.’
‘We think summat is. There’s a goodly chance that quantities of explosives are going walkabout from both Shuttle Eye and Caphouse, blasting charges and detonators.’
‘Hell’s bells!’ Exley breathed. ‘Them’s not firecrackers, you know.’
‘I know that, Arthur, and we don’t think it’s somebody making jumping jacks for next Bonfire Night.’
‘So who’d you reckon? IRA?’
‘There’s plenty who would point the finger that way. Only natural, given the troubles over there,’ said Ramsden resignedly, ‘but we’ve not a shred o’proof one way or t’other.’
‘But you’re saying it’s an inside job?’
Surprise and concern had been replaced by ripples of defensiveness and indignation in Exley’s voice. ‘Stands to reason, Arthur. We think only small amounts have gone missing but they may have gone missing over a period of time and now it’s noticeable.’
‘Could it be a case of sloppy book-keeping? Somebody just being careless with the paperwork?’
‘Like to think so, Arthur, but we can’t take the risk so we’ve got to face the fact that somebody who has direct access to the explosives has been nicking them. That means somebody on the blasting crews working underground.’
‘And that means one of my union members.’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘So what do you want then, Mr Ramsden? You want to set a union man to catch a union man?’
Ramsden took in another long breath. ‘That’s exactly what I want, Arthur.’
Roderick Braithwaite and his best friend Andrew Ramsden had allowed their imaginations to run riot on the subject of the status, approachability or employment of witches. How exactly did they earn a living, if indeed they did? Were they eligible for the dole if unemployed? Did they keep regular consulting hours or were they governed by phases of the moon?
Being far too grown-up, in their own objective opinion, to be frightened by myths involving spells, curses, being dive-bombed by low-flying broomsticks and the threat of being roped together and stewed in a cauldron, the boys had set out on their mission with firm strides and stout hearts. Roderick had even voiced aloud the thinking behind his courage, stating that a witch, however hungry, must surely be desperate to conform to that grimmest of fairy-story clichés given that boys were supposed to be made of ‘snips and snails and puppy dogs’ tails’. And to show that he had researched his decision thoroughly, he had discovered that ‘snips’ were supposedly tiny eels, which would make the stew of young boys quite unpalatable. His friend Andrew had admired his logic but suggested there were minor flaws in Roderick’s argument in that snails were consumed with enthusiasm in France and the staple diet of cockney Londoners was surely eel pie and mash, whatever that was. Andrew did admit that he could not think of a primitive culture, not even one as far south as London, where puppy dogs’ tails were regarded as a delicacy.
Nervous frivolity aside, they had resolved to call on Ivy Neal, Denby Ash’s local (and possibly only) witch with a business proposition. It was a proposition to which they had given serious consideration and it was one which, by their boyish logic, she could not conceivably refuse. They had not, however, counted on the obstinacy of adults in general and witches in particular.
‘We should have brought a torch,’ said Andrew, his voice muffled by the thick woollen scarf wrapped around his neck and mouth against the rain.
‘Don’t be daft. It’s only just across the Green – you can see her caravan from here,’ chided Roderick, then he sniffed loudly. ‘Fancy a bag of chips on the way back? My treat.’
They were standing opposite the church of St James the Great at the bottom of Oaker Hill where it joined Pinfold Lane and curved around what the residents of Denby Ash called the Green, a lozenge-shaped piece of rough grazing that had been known to previous generations as the Pinfold, a secure area where straying animals were penned or ‘pinned’ until reclaimed by their owners on payment of a fine to the local pinder. About the size of one of Ash Grange’s rugby fields, the Green was best known to the boys as the site for the annual visit of the ‘Feast’, a travelling funfair which had once boasted a dancing bear on a chain but nowadays brought the delights of toffee apples, candy floss, rickety roundabouts seemingly powered by loud pop music, and the opportunity to win a goldfish or a cuddly toy by means of air rifle shooting or the throwing of round hoops over square objects, or darts at playing cards.
At his friend’s offer, Andrew turned his head towards the nearest building, the rectangular redbrick shed known to all despite the absence of signage as Willy Elliff’s Fish Shop, and he too sniffed loudly.
‘He’s started frying,’ Andrew confirmed. ‘I’ll get some chips for the bus home if he does bits.’
‘’Course he does,’ said his friend and founder of the feast to come.
The very mention of ‘bits’ pricked a nerve in Roderick, for he remembered his mother’s furious edict that he should never be seen in Willy Elliff’s ordering ‘bits’ – the crunchy scraps or excess batter from the fish which floated to the surface of the deep fryers and which would be skimmed off and sold for tuppence rather than the sixpence charged for a bag of chips. ‘Asking for bits instead of proper chips makes it look like we can’t make ends meet,’ the formidable Ada Braithwaite had told her son. It was clearly a stigma to be avoided, and a stigma which the various members of the Elliff family serving behind their chrome-and-Formica counter were maliciously keen to propagate. A bag of chips with bits was, however, perfectly acceptable so long as Willy Elliff, who was notoriously keen when it came to his profit margins, did not charge extra.
Their supper arrangements settled, the boys stepped off the road and on to the Green towards the only habited dwelling in Denby Ash not illuminated by the yellow glare of the street lights. Even so, the domed outline of a small caravan was clearly visible at the far end of the field where, the boys knew, the Oaker Beck formed a natural boundary with the pitch-dark Denby Wood.
They squelched through the cold wet grass and mud with determined steps, hands in pockets to hug their winter coats closer, using the glow from a light behind a red curtain at one of the caravan’s windows as a homing beacon.
Close to, the cara
van loomed like an ancient earthwork or prehistoric barrow; silent except for the rain bouncing off its metal roof. It was with some trepidation that Roderick placed one foot on the two metal-framed steps, raised a fist and rapped on the door set off-centre towards the rear end of the vehicle.
When there was no response, Roderick knocked again and said ‘Hello?’ in a voice which came out a higher pitch than he had planned.
Now there was a response, of sorts. The red curtain at the window to the left of the door definitely twitched, the boys heard a distinct creak of movements from inside the van and then more lights came on, illuminating the bulbous front end.
‘Come in, then, if tha’s coming, and put t’wood in t’hole to keep rain out.’
The voice was of indeterminate age and sex but had undoubted authority and the boys did as they were instructed, climbing into the caravan and pulling the door closed behind them.
They found themselves confined in what was clearly a kitchen area, a tight mesh of folding Formica surfaces surrounding a gas hob on which was balanced two unwashed metal saucepans and a battered kettle which looked as though it had been used for target practice. From the ceiling, hung from a latticework arrangement of lengths of clothes line were bunches of dried flowers, herbs and sprigs of mistletoe.
So far, so odd, if not exactly witchy, but then the boys’ heads turned in unison to face the front end of the caravan where three hissing gas lights provided a focussed pool of bright light in one corner, casting the rest of the van into dingy shadow. The effect was theatrical, as if an overhead spotlight had been shone down only to illuminate upper stage left – and the actors who were there waiting for their cue.
‘You’re not the ones I expected,’ said the woman. The large, long-haired tabby cat resting across her knees opened its mouth and showed its teeth, but said nothing.
The woman wore a wool wrap or blanket around her shoulders and a headscarf tied in a big knot under her chin. Her face was long, thin and white and her lips pursed as if permanently puckered. She was sat on one of the corner bench seats which all caravan enthusiasts knew converted into a bed. Behind her head were long dark drapes and though she could not have been, given the dimensions of the van, more than twelve feet from the boys (who had stayed close together and within leaping distance of the door), she seemed to be far more distant and, when she spoke, her voice was strangely disembodied.
‘Well, then. What’s Old Ivy done to deserve this, then? It’s a mucky old night to go visiting.’
Roderick felt a friendly nudge in the small of his back and, thus prompted, found his voice. ‘Mrs Neal,’ he began politely, ‘I’m Roderick Braithwaite.’
‘Ada’s lad, aye, I know that,’ said the woman, who remained strangely inert even whilst smoothing the cat on her lap with long, exaggerated strokes. ‘An’ you’ll have come to Ivy about your haunting, I’ll bet.’
‘It’s actually a poltergeist,’ said Roderick with the seriousness of a train-spotter, ‘and we want it gone. We thought you might help us.’
The woman inclined her head slightly but her face remained expressionless, staring not quite at the intruders but off to the side.
‘You’ll have tried our spineless vicar, I suppose?’
‘Yes,’ Roderick said quietly, but saw no reason to add that they had also tried three Methodist ministers and a lay preacher.
‘Just what d’you think Ivy can do?’
‘Perform an exorcism. I’m willing to pay. I’ve got over twenty-five pounds in my Post Office savings,’ Roderick pleaded. ‘I just want it gone, for my mum’s sake.’
‘Keep your money, lad and stop roaring …’
‘I’m not crying!’ said the boy defiantly.
‘You’re close to it,’ said the witch harshly. ‘But tears won’t help anybody; they never did. Now I don’t know what you think or what folks have told you I am …’
‘Everyone says you’ve got powers,’ said Andrew in support of his friend’s plea.
‘I don’t do exorcisms – that’s priest work,’ snapped the woman, ‘so you’d be throwing your money away. Now get yourself home before your mother starts to fret. If I could help Ada Braithwaite, I would. She’s a good woman and she’s never done me harm or called me bad behind my back, but my powers don’t run that way. Tell her she won’t have to put up with it much longer, that’s all I’m saying. Now go and leave me in peace.’
‘I could get more money …’ started Roderick.
‘I said go!’
The witch woman known as Ivy Neal slowly rose to her feet and it seemed, under the peculiar light thrown out by the popping gas mantles, as if she was not only standing up but growing taller as she did. She had gathered the cat in her arms and, clearly displeased, the beast showed its teeth again and hissed at the two boys.
Then Ivy Neal took one step towards them and totally disappeared.
Roderick and Andrew looked at the empty interior of the caravan, then at each other, and then scrambled for the door.
Being the rugby player of the two, Andrew easily outstripped Roderick as they beat a very hasty retreat away from the caravan across the Green, aiming for the sanctuary offered by the street lights on Oaker Hill. Through their noses they were able to judge their proximity to safety by the smell of frying fish and chips which hung in the air like the scent of a night-blooming tropical plant.
They stumbled on to the road almost opposite the Green Dragon pub and turned right, slowing their pace to a purposeful stride, towards Elliff’s fish shop and the long hill up through the village.
‘She really is a witch,’ said Roderick, catching his breath, ‘if she can disappear like that right in front of us.’
‘That was a trick and a half, all right,’ agreed Andrew, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one had seen their undignified flight across the Green, ‘and it must be a trick. If she had any real magic she’d have turned us into frogs, or would that be toads?’
Roderick giggled nervously. ‘Warty toads in your case,’ he said, then squealed as Andrew punched him on the arm. ‘Ow! Gerroff! Seriously, I reckon it’s best we don’t mention our little meeting with Ivy to anyone.’
‘I’m with you there. We’d be laughing stocks. I won’t say a word to anyone, not that anyone’s likely to ask.’
But within less than a half a minute, Andrew Ramsden was proved painfully wrong and if their experience in Ivy Neal’s caravan had startled them, the two black-clad figures looming out of the shadows down the side of the fish-and-chip shop terrified them.
‘Just what d’yer think you’ve been up to, young ’uns?’
The voice which stopped the boys in their tracks was pitched low and carried menace, but its owner and his companion were little more than half-a-dozen years older than the youngsters they confronted. They were, however, bigger and more muscular. Dressed in dark jeans, leather jackets and crash helmets, and blocking the pavement, their intentions were clearly hostile.
‘Cat got your tongue, then?’ snarled one biker, grabbing the front of Roderick’s coat. ‘Ivy Neal’s cat got your tongue, p’rhaps?’
‘Hey, take your hands off my—’ Andrew began, only to find a leather gauntlet, slick with rain, at his throat, and then his legs kicked from under him by a steel-capped boot.
Roderick, eyes bulging in fright, clawed at the hands that had grabbed him and which were lifting him until he stood precariously on his tiptoes.
‘What were you up to at Ivy Neal’s?’ his attacker barked into the boy’s face, so close that Roderick recoiled at the stench of fried fish and vinegar coming from behind a row of tombstone teeth. ‘What she say to you? You’d better tell me or it’ll be the worst for you.’
‘None of your business, you dozy prat!’ Roderick said with a bravado he did not feel as he caught sight of Andrew landing heavily on the edge of the pavement and rolling into a large puddle in the gutter as a biker’s boot descended on his chest.
‘If you won’t let on then mebbe you’ll learn
,’ said his own attacker. ‘You stay clear of Ivy Neal or we’ll come after you again. And this is to make sure you remember the lesson.’
Roderick felt the breath leave his body and his legs buckle before he registered that he had been punched savagely in the stomach. Disorientated, he saw a yellow street lamp, the night sky, the road, the shiny wet concrete kerb and the pavement, which looked very hard indeed. And then he took a blow to the side of his head and a knee came up to meet his face. As he tripped over and on to his prostrate friend, he saw a slash of white light from the open door of the chip shop.
‘Oi!’ came a shrill but authoritative voice, ‘leave my Faustus alone!’
TEN
Men Only
‘Is it for a lady?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The half of bitter; if it’s for a lady, it needs a lady’s glass,’ the matronly barmaid explained patiently, but Rupert looked no wiser.
‘Of course I’m a lady,’ chirped Perdita, ‘and so I should have lady’s glass.’
The barmaid, who was more than old enough to be Perdita’s mother, adopted the expression of a mildly shocked maiden aunt, but said nothing and busied herself filling a small dimple jug with a handle from an electric beer tap which seemed to know by magic when to stop dispensing beer and leave a half-inch of foamy ‘head’ atop the brown liquid.
‘That’ll be two-and-fourpence.’
‘Good heavens! Is that all?’ Rupert blurted out.
‘Tha’ can pay more if tha’ wants but nobody’ll thank you for it,’ snapped the barmaid. Then she flicked a tea towel at an imaginary spillage on the bar and flounced away.
‘I don’t think that lady approves of me,’ said Perdita quietly. ‘I should have demanded a pint. I bet that would have put a twist in her girdle.’
‘Don’t be so sensitive, darling,’ Rupert soothed. ‘I’m sure all the women in here drink the beer … when there are women in here, that is.’
Perdita lowered her voice to a whisper as she glanced around. ‘So you finally noticed I’m the only one in here not working, have you? We’re probably committing some terrible social faux pas.’