The Soprano

by England, Sarah

  By God, but that girl should be hanged as a bloody witch…

  They all said it, underneath their breath mind, but they all said it.

  Born first, Victor would turn out to resemble Annie’s own father to an uncanny degree: short and squat with a great beak of a nose, he was as bald as a pickled egg by the age of twenty-three. Grace, though… well, Grace had inherited her genes straight from Sam, with raven hair, flashing green eyes and finely sculpted features….the only resemblance to her mother and grandmother being the copper filaments in her hair, just visible on a bright day if she let it swing loose. An angel, the villagers called her - a beautiful gift from God with a voice to match.

  She must have slept. When Ellen opened her eyes again the wintry day had dimmed to dusk and a fire was flickering in the grate. The heat didn’t reach her bed in the corner of the room, but shadow flames leapt along the walls and when her eyes were closed they leapt across her eyelids too.

  There was a cup and saucer on the bedside table but her hand had not the will to reach for it. Heaviness compressed her lungs…impossible to move…and so quiet now… just the crackle of a log…Which is when the memory came. Suddenly and with all the shock and precision of a laser beam.

  She looks around startled. It is a night from long, long ago – the smoky taproom of a public house. There is an explosion of laughter… the click of snooker balls potted into corners… clump-clump-shoot… clump-clump-shoot. Her eyes are stinging in a cloud of tobacco smoke and she wants to go home… but the men are fixed on a game of poker long after time is called and the bolts have been shot.

  Aaron’s hand is a good one and he winks at her. Not long now. He knocks back another tot of whisky.

  Fear lodges in her swollen belly and shivering breaks out across her arms, her legs, her back. A knowing. Rain lashes against the leaded windows.

  Sam’s hand is better.

  Oh, God…

  A lurch inside.

  The hand laid on the table is a Royal Flush. The look on Aaron’s face… all the blood draining away…

  ***

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Harry Whistler

  Harry paused and squinted into the dawn fog, shovel in hand.

  The sound of footsteps creaking in the snow and wheezy breaths expelled in short grunts meant Jack Gibbs was on his way, but with visibility so poor he was almost upon him before he could make out his face.

  “How do, Jack? Give us a hand finishing this, will you? I just want to clear th’ path and then…”

  Wordlessly, with a cigarette still balancing on his lower lip, Jack started digging. A sinewy, broad-shouldered man with raised, snaking veins, he now delivered coal having been laid off from the pit due to chronic bronchitis and emphysema. Jack still wore the miners’ uniform, though, and probably always would – a long dark jacket, flat cap and lace-up leather boots.

  Spotting Arthur letting himself out of the back door, he shook his head. “Tell me as th’ nipper’s not coming, Harry? It’s a bloody long walk and one of us is going t’ end up carrying th’ little beggar.”

  Harry went on shovelling. “Fitter than th’ rest of us put together, is our Arthur.”

  “But what if—?”

  “No, dunna worry he won’t be going near th’ car. You’ve got the crowbar, ’ave you?”

  Jack nodded, indicating the rucksack he’d thrown down.

  “Lloyd coming?”

  “Aye – on his way.”

  They’d been through a lot together – Harry, Jack and Lloyd – serving in the same unit during the war. Jack had never fully recovered, remaining partially deaf and often cowering in a cringe if something took him by surprise - like a horse and cart speeding past. Flo’s husband, Lloyd however, rarely spoke at all – silently letting himself in from a day working underground still tarred and filthy with coal dust, to clomp straight upstairs and play the euphonium in the back bedroom. Thus avoiding Flo altogether. Jack said it was a good thing to be deaf seeing as he was right next door to that racket – Lloyds’s warbling brass notes and Flo yelling up at him to, ‘get thee bloody sen weshed.’

  It was speculated that Harry had fared the best out of the three because he was used to death and seeing dead bodies. There may have been some truth in that, Harry agreed, but somehow they’d all made it through, only to find when they returned that the women had got on frighteningly well without them. Word had it Flo and Lloyd had never openly acknowledged each other since. Yet still they managed to share a house.

  Clearing the last of the snow away from the gate, Harry propped his spade up against the wall. “What did Puffer say about it last night then, Jack? Who else is coming or is just us three?”

  “Bloody useless fat bastard,” said Jack. “Took me and Bill over an hour t’ bloody walk down there and then he says likely it’s a car that were left up there from before th’ snow set in. Likely we’d bust a gut climbing all that way up and then it’d be nowt to worry about. Didn’t seem like he was interested in going himself.”

  “The divil he didn’t!”

  “Aye. Sat there supping tea like we were taking up his time – me and Bill standing there sopping wet while ’is missus is asking us if we’re stopping for supper, like…You wouldn’t credit there’d been a lass missing these two weeks. Bill ’ad steam coming out on his ears.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Anyhow, Bill made a statement, and that was th’ last I saw on ’im. You know how he is – just vanishes. Reckon he’s lost a lot of sheep this time.”

  “Aye well, we’ve not ’ad owt as bad as this in years …not as I can remember. Purely selfish, like, but I hope he’s coming back down again – I’ve funerals piling up, if thee’ll pardon th’ expression.”

  At the sound of approaching footsteps they both squinted into the fog.

  “Aye-up, if it inna our Lloyd! ’Ow do, Lloyd?”

  Lloyd, nodded and said quietly, “Our Handel’s coming.”

  Handel was Head Master at the local primary school and also conducted the chapel choir. Small, slight and bespectacled, he had a fringe of ginger hair around the back of his pink, domed head and an air of being permanently excited with magnified eyes goggling and glinting behind bell-jar bottomed glasses. The mood lifted to hear he was coming along. Handel would be a good person to have on an expedition like this, his professional credibility invaluable when recounting whatever they might discover later that day.

  A grim expectation hovered between them as they waited for the fifth man. Just what were they going to find up there?

  “Did you bring th’ sandwiches, Arthur?”

  “Yes. We’ve got cake and tea an’ all.”

  Jack tapped his jacket pocket. “Something a bit stronger than tea for me.”

  Harry laughed. “Me an’ all.”

  Eager now to get it over with, as soon as Handel arrived they collected spades and rucksacks and set off – a darkly coated posse quickly swallowed by the freezing fog and another belt of snow.

  ***

  From Hilltop Road, the climb up Gallows Hill was slow, arduous and hazardous. Once a formidable fortress, Castle Draus had been built on the highest point of Kite Ridge, blasted on all sides by the elements and accessed only by a single, winding track.

  The most popular reason to visit would be for a picnic on a summer’s day, in order to catch the breeze and enjoy the four counties view. People made an occasion of it, taking picnic baskets, table cloths and games to play. Even then, with the earth warm and dry, they parked at the base of Gallows Hill and walked the rest of the way. Few attempted to drive up for fear of getting stuck and consequently being unable to turn the car around on what was a narrow, pot-holed lane with a sheer drop on both sides.

  On the western horizon, at the far end of Kites Ridge, an outcrop of large rocks stuck out bizarrely at a toppling angle like a stairway into the clouds. They called it Luds Throne, and no one knew or could fathom how it got there. Seen from the road far below, Luds Throne made a
striking silhouette. On the other side, however, it overshadowed a brooding, dark pool of water reputed to be inhabited by the ghost of a girl accused and subsequently drowned for being a witch. Over the years many a lone shepherd or farmworker had mysteriously been dragged into its depths after swimming on a hot day – lured by the sound of her beautiful singing voice. Singing Sally, they called the lake. And if you heard the singing you would just as surely walk towards it as if hypnotised, wading up to your neck before you felt her cold, cold clutches. Such were the fireside tales told to while away the dark evenings. And on a bleak day like this with the wind whistling across the moors, a sense of isolation and insignificance consumed man and boy alike as they climbed steadily upwards, the old stories becoming more believable with every foothold.

  Half way up, the group paused to get their bearings. It was a white-out. At this level the fog was a dripping cloud and a raw north-easterly now slashed sideways in sleety squalls, doubling the peril since they could barely see where to put the next step. In the near distance now, Luds Throne was all but obscured and Singing Sally’s Pond indistinguishable from the miles of snow covered heath stretching out as far as the eye could see.

  Harry shouted to the others above the noise of the wind. “Everybody alright?”

  With headlong blasts constantly buffeting them, each fought against fatigue and Harry’s gaze lingered on Arthur.

  Arthur nodded.

  “Right. Not long now then. Stay close, Lad.”

  By the time they reached the summit it was almost midday and time was now short if they were to be home before dark. The trip had taken far longer than any of them thought it would and the force of the wind at the top was breath-taking, howling around the ruins, wailing through the gaps in the walls.

  “Careful now, don’t lose your footing,” Harry shouted to Arthur.

  Arthur was struggling to stay upright, his reply lost on the wind.

  Unable to hear, Harry beckoned to them all to follow. Cupping his mouth he shouted and gestured, “Other side of the wall! Car’s on t’ other side.”

  Seen from surrounding fields the walls were crumbling stones not difficult to scale, and fun for children to jump on and off on a summer’s day. Today, however, they were lethal – ice-coated and unstable. With no chance of a safe foothold, the only course of action was to walk the long way around, which meant trekking west for a good ten minute before the wall was low enough to scramble over. It seemed the weather was taking a turn for the worse, too. Belt after belt of clouds laden with more snow rumbled over the moors and blasted the rocks.

  Harry led the way, pulling Arthur over with him onto the lea side of the castle wall. The others clambered after them, grateful for what was an instant respite from the wind.

  “Bloody hell!” Jack said, swigging from a hip flask. “I’m buggered.”

  Handel, crimson faced, crumpled against the wall frantically searching his rucksack for the flask of tea Vera had made. His short, rotund frame was not made for this kind of escapade and his feeble legs had set to shaking quite violently.

  Lloyd slapped him on the shoulders and offered a rare word of encouragement. “Shape up now, thee’ll be alright.”

  He nodded, close to tears. But after a short break they were ready again to continue the journey. The walk on this side was sheltered and they made quick progress.

  Suddenly, Arthur, the only one still as sprightly as a springer spaniel, yelled at the top of his voice, “I can see it. Look! Dad – look!”

  With the sky darkening rapidly, urgency gripped them all and they pounded towards what Arthur had spotted. Yes there was a car there. The roof could clearly be seen.

  “Right, you start digging at the back end,” said Harry, handing Arthur a spade as they drew near. “Just clear the snow away from th’ boot and then give me a shout.” He gestured to the others. Whoever uncovered the windscreen would be the first to see a body inside and it ought to be himself.

  “Thee do that bit at th’ front, Harry,” Jack shouted, reading his mind.

  Harry nodded, already shovelling and indicating the other three should get cracking too. They all began to dig.

  After a few minutes Arthur called out.

  The men carried on digging, in rhythm now and determined to get the job done.

  Arthur shouted again and Harry looked up. “What is it, Lad?”

  “It’s a Jag,” said Arthur. He was trying to run towards them, skidding and stumbling. “I’ve seen it afore an’ all. It’s a bloody Jag.”

  “Bloody hell! That’s ’er's that’s gone missing.”

  “It bloody is an’ all. They said she ’ad a Jag, didn’t they?” Jack said.

  “Nobody’s in it, though,” said Harry. “No one’s in th’ car. Look.”

  All five peered into the interior. An opulent walnut dashboard and cream leather seats were entombed in igloo whiteness.

  They stood breathing hard.

  “I think we ought to set back now,” said Handel. “At least we can say it’s definitely her car and leave it to the police. It’s quite definitely police business now. She must have managed to get here, then maybe got stuck and decided to try and walk home?”

  All five looked across at the vast open plain of snow-covered moorland – a death trap of hidden bogs, crevices and gullies in sub-zero temperatures.

  “She may have had hypothermia and become confused,” Handel said.

  Harry frowned. “I suppose it’s possible.”

  “How else could it be explained?”

  Another Arctic blast threatened to lift them clean off their feet and Harry shouted across the tumultuous roar. “Okay, well let’s just check the boot and then get off home.”

  Jack nodded, following him. “That lazy bastard, Judd, can come and get th’ car later. We’ve done what we can,” he said, getting the crowbar out of his backpack.

  “Don’t damage it,” said Arthur. “It’s beautiful, is that car.”

  Jack hesitated, looking over at Harry. “Shall I?”

  “It’s a bloody murder case – we’ll ’ave to check.”

  All four referred to Handel for the final word.

  He nodded, keen to call it a day. “Yes, there could be clues in there – clothing or a suitcase for example – that we could report back. Yes, go on, Jack.”

  “Good point,” Harry agreed. “Lloyd? Speak now or—”

  Lloyd nodded.

  “Hurry up, then, Jack,” Harry shouted. “We don’t want to be ’ere any longer than we need.”

  The boot was wrenched open.

  All five stared open-mouthed.

  And Arthur was copiously and violently sick.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Louise

  The day after Dad and Arthur went up to the castle it stopped snowing for the first time in three weeks. I knew because the light had changed. Knew even before I popped my head over the covers and drew in the first icy breath. And outside, above the sound of shovels scraping on the road, people were shouting to each other in excited voices. Something had changed: a lift in energy.

  I ran to the window and looked out at a blinding blue sky. Suddenly the glass looked grubby, and when the curtains dropped back dust mites fizzed in columns of light. You could hear the change too – in the guzzling drains and the drip-drip-drip of icicles thawing under the eaves. It was like waking from a long, dark dream.

  Those in the know had another purpose that morning, though, which I was yet to discover. Arthur had returned home very late the night before. Only vaguely aware, I’d heard the click of the latch on the bedroom door and shifted uncomfortably when his icy body pushed between me and Iddy, but soon fell back to sleep. I never heard Dad come in. All I knew was that the neighbours seemed to be scraping away more frantically than usual out there and that there was an air of renewed optimism, of expectation. Meanwhile, downstairs my mother and the aunties were making no effort to keep their voices down. Odd. Unusual.

  Leaving A
rthur fast asleep, I tip-toed downstairs and sat on the middle step listening-in. The wireless was on and I soon got the gist: the main road from Leek was now passable. Council workers had been working since the early hours so the police could get through with the help of local farmers. Apparently, a woman’s body, presumed to be that of Hazel Quinn, had been found at Castle Draus last night and the news desk would keep us informed of further developments when they came in.

  At this my heart flipped inside my chest. Dad found her! Dad and Arthur!

  I crept further down the staircase, ear pressed closely to the railings. In the meantime, people were being told to stay home unless it was absolutely necessary to travel, said the urgent-sounding staccato voice. Phone lines were still down and the power was still out. If anyone was sick or elderly we were to check on them. Supplies of food items were at an all-time low and…

  “I wonder who did it?”

  “I don’t know, Connie,” said my mother.

  “Have you got th’ blood off th’ steps?”

  I slammed a hand over my mouth. Blood on our steps?

  “Louise, are you on the stairs?”

  My mother’s telling-off voice never failed to fill my body with dread and I clung to the stair rail, already mid-turnaround and with every intention of reappearing several minutes later in a normal manner. But she’d swung open the door before I had the chance and grabbed me by the elbow.

  “Get in here this minute.”

  I wriggled from her clutches and darted to the breakfast table, staring down at my place mat with my cheeks burning.

  “There’s a boiled egg! Now get it down you. I’ve knocked the top off and done you some soldiers. Eat up and then you can start the cleaning. We’ve chores to do on a Saturday.”

  “I’ve never seen so much muck on th’ windows,” said Auntie Flo.

  “It’s going to’ take me all ruddy day to do mine, and then…” said Auntie Connie.

  I wondered if these women ever sat in their own homes because honestly, they were always here.