The Shade of Hettie Daynes (8 page)

TWENTY-EIGHT

THURSDAY, HALF PAST
twelve. The gaunt young man stepped into the councillor’s path as he was making his way towards the pub, offered a magazine. ‘Here y’are, sir –
Big Issue
, top quality at a bargain price.’

Reginald Hopwood was in an unusually foul mood, even for him. Tomorrow, Wilton Primary School was holding its Hallowe’en Hop, and as Chair of Governors he’d agreed to judge the fancy-dress competition.
Hallowe’en Hop
, snarled a furious voice inside his head.
More like Hallowe’en flop
. He didn’t like kids, despised teachers and detested fancy-dress competitions.
Aged
nine he’d gone in for one, done up as a carrot. He hadn’t wanted to – felt totally daft with those long green feathers sprouting out of the top of his head, but his mother had made the costume herself and was proud of it. The kids laughed and shoved him about, just as he knew they would, and of course he didn’t win. It had taken him weeks afterwards to corner his tormentors one by one and beat them up.

‘Buy a
Big Issue
, sir – help the homeless.’

With the vendor directly in front of him, the councillor had no choice but to stop. ‘
You
again,’ he spat. ‘I told you before – get a proper job and stop harassing innocent pedestrians. You’re a disgrace to the village, the country and yourself.’

‘I
had
a job, sir. A good one. Then they made me redundant and I couldn’t find anything else. My wife left me, took the kids. I got depressed, couldn’t go out, lost the house. It can happen to anyone, sir – it could happen to
you
.’

Hopwood scoffed. ‘You obviously don’t know who I am, you cheeky young beggar. I’m Councillor Hopwood. My family practically built this village, so you’d better get out of my way or
I’ll
call the police.’ He smiled twistedly. ‘You’ll be depressed
then
all right.’

The vendor stepped aside and called after Hopwood as he strode away. ‘Everything changes, sir. Nothing stays the same, even for important men like you. Have a nice day.’

TWENTY-NINE

CHRISTA SMILED AT
the thin black cat. ‘You look really cool, sweetheart.’

‘Do I, Mum, honestly?’ Bethan looked at her mother through translucent green eyes.

‘Definitely. Original or not, if you don’t win that competition there’s no justice.’

Bethan grinned behind the furry mask. ‘I’ll get done by Aly if I do, after I made her change her outfit.’

Christa shook her head. ‘It would have been wrong of Alison to go as my poor aunt, Bethan.’

‘Great, great aunt,’ corrected Harry.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ snapped his mother, ‘she
was
my family.
Our
family. It’s better this way.’

It was five to six. Christa picked up the car keys and moved to the door. Bethan picked up her tail and followed. Harry went up to his room.

Norah Crabtree tore her eyes away from the screen for a second as Alison crossed the room. ‘D’you want a lift, lovey?’

‘No, Mum, it’s all right.’

‘You sure?’ Her mother had already returned to the six o’clock news. ‘Bit chilly out, dressed skimpy like that.’

‘It’s OK.’ Alison paused by the door. ‘Do I look all right?’

‘You look a picture, love,’ said her father, gazing at the newsreader. ‘Don’t talk to strangers, don’t get in anyone’s car. Shut the door on your way out. I’ll collect you at nine o’clock.’

Alison threw a hoodie round her shoulders and set off along Trough Lane. The hem of the old black dress scraped the ground as she walked, and the wind blew cold round her white bony ankles.

* * *

Reginald paused in the hallway, called up the stairs. ‘Right, I’m off then.’

‘Yes, well.’ Felicity’s voice floated faintly from above. ‘Drive carefully, have a lovely time.’

‘Lovely time,’ snarled the councillor, not loudly enough to be heard upstairs. ‘Fat chance of that. Two hours perched on a hard, child-size chair, watching a mob of future asbos cavorting in tatty, home-made costumes to hideous garage music, whatever that is.’ He shrugged into a bulky sheepskin car coat, opened the door. ‘Being expected to eat ghastly toad-shaped cakes made by some sanitarily-challenged mother in God knows what sort of kitchen, washed down with some fizzy red stuff labelled blood.’

The Chair of Governors drove off, still chuntering to himself.

THIRTY

EIGHT O’CLOCK. AT
Wilton Primary, the Hallowe’en Hop was in full swing. The children were having the terrific time they’d anticipated, and their Chair of Governors was every bit as miserable as he’d expected to be.

The music was loud, the lighting and decorations awesome, the food gruesome and plentiful. Best of all, there were some truly stunning costumes. Witches and wizards cavorted under spotlights which struck flashes of metallic brilliance from their sequins. Bats, cats, spiders and toads capered among them, ugliness made beautiful by the multicoloured jewels of
their
eyes. Only one dancer was plain: a thin, white-faced figure all in black who swayed sinuously to a rhythm all her own: who caught Reginald Hopwood’s eye precisely because of her gaunt, haunting plainness.

‘Mr Hopwood?’ The headteacher bent close to Reginald’s ear. ‘I wonder if you’ve spotted the costume you feel is the most original?’ She smiled, watching the children. ‘They certainly haven’t made your task an easy one, have they?’

Hopwood forced a grin, shook his head. ‘No, Miss Gadd, they haven’t.’ He’d just eaten something called a batburger, and its aftertaste was making him suspect it might have been made with an actual bat. ‘However, I
have now
made my choice.’

‘Splendid!’ smiled Miss Gadd. ‘We’ll let them dance for five more minutes, then I’ll stop the music and you can venture into the throng and lead the winner onto the platform.’

Reginald nodded. ‘Fine.’

‘And in the meantime, please feel free to enjoy another of the Sexton’s batburgers.’

He didn’t know why he felt drawn to the dancer in the long black dress. It wasn’t an
attractive
costume, and the child had smeared far too much mascara round her eyes. She reminded him of some Goths he’d spotted once at Whitby, there for a Dracula bash.
She stands out
, he told himself. And she’s original.

The music stopped, prompting groans of protest. Hopwood rose stiffly, scanning the restless crowd. The girl in black had disappeared.

THIRTY-ONE

AS THE MUSIC
stopped, Alison slipped out to the cloakroom to put the finishing touch to her costume. She’d noticed the Chair of Governors watching her, and was pretty sure he meant to award her the prize.
Wait till you see this
, she thought, twisting a tap and holding her hand in the flow.
Come on water, warm up
.

Reginald Hopwood was standing in the middle of the hall, cutting his eyes this way and that, trying to hide his irritation. Alison wound her way through the crowd, leaving a splashy trail till she stood in front of him, drenched from head to toe. A puddle began to form under the hem of the
bedraggled
dress, mascara scored tear tracks down her cheeks. Children gasped and stared as she stood absolutely still, pointing a long pale finger at the floor.

‘Wh . . . why are you wet?’ croaked Hopwood.

Alison smiled. ‘It’s part of the costume, I’m the ghost of Wilton Water.’

‘There
is
no—’ The councillor seemed agitated. ‘What’s
that
to do with Hallowe’en?’ He grabbed the girl’s hand. ‘What’s your name, girl?’

‘Alison, sir. Alison Crabtree. I wanted something spooky – original. Nobody’s ever . . .’

‘N . . . no,’ stammered the Chair of Governors. ‘I mean yes, it
is
original. Very.’ He began tugging Alison towards the platform. ‘You win, of course you do.’ He half-dragged her across the floor amid a clatter of applause.

As Hopwood thrust the prize at Alison, a camera flashed. The photographer smiled. ‘Hi, I’m Bill from the
Echo
. Can I get your name, sweetheart?’

‘Yes, it’s Alison Crabtree.’

‘Good. And who’ve you come as, Alison?’

‘The g . . . ghost of Wilton Water.’ She was cold, her teeth were chattering.

‘Has she a
name
, this ghost?’

‘Well . . .’ Flustered by the occasion and by Hopwood’s odd behaviour, Alison blurted, ‘Hettie Daynes, I suppose . . . she
might
have been Hettie Daynes when she . . .’

‘No name,’ snapped the Chair of Governors. ‘Just call her the ghost.’ He glared at the photographer. ‘I’m Councillor Hopwood. Stanley Fox is a friend. If I read that name in the paper you’re in big trouble, understand?’

The man shrugged. ‘Sure. It’s all the same to me, Councillor.’ He pocketed the pad, hung his paraphernalia on a shoulder, nodded to the Head and strode away.

‘Come, Alison, you silly girl,’ said Miss Gadd. ‘Let’s get you into some dry clothes.’ She smiled at Hopwood. ‘Thank you
so
much, Councillor – I do hope you’ve enjoyed the evening.’

Hopwood managed to smile back. ‘Very much, Headteacher.’
Like you’d enjoy having a bolt hammered through your kneecap
, he thought but didn’t say.

Alison followed Miss Gadd to the staffroom.

THIRTY-TWO

HER MOTHER SMILED
as Bethan slid into the passenger seat. ‘Good time, sweetheart? Did you win?’

Bethan nodded her head, then shook it. ‘Yes I had a good time, no I didn’t win.’ She smiled. ‘Aly did.’

Christa nodded. ‘That’s what you hoped would happen, isn’t it?’

‘Ye-es.’ Bethan looked sidelong at her mother. ‘Didn’t quite go the way
you
wanted though, Mum.’

‘What d’you mean, love?’ Christa started the engine, eased out of the parking space.

‘Well, there was this guy from the
Echo
, Mum. Bill. He took Aly’s picture, asked her name and who she’d come as.’

Christa nodded, steering the car through the gateway. ‘Right.’

‘Yes, but when she said the ghost of Wilton Water, Bill asked if the ghost had a name.’ Bethan pulled a face. ‘I guess it took Aly by surprise, because she said it might be Hettie Daynes.’