It's Raining Men (29 page)

‘You’re a beautiful girl as you are. You should have more confidence in yourself.’

‘Everyone in my family is stick thin, except for me,’ Clare moaned as she picked up her bag. ‘And they all have cheekbones and normal-coloured eyes. I sometimes wonder if
I’m a changeling.’

‘My husband used to say that I had eyes like the jewelled waters of the sea.’ Raine reached for Clare’s hand and pulled her downwards so that she could kiss her cheek.
‘And sometimes we find that our hearts belong in different places from where our heads would have them be.’

Clare patted Albert on the head, not that he noticed – he was fast asleep – and she closed the door behind her as she left. What a lovely old lady, she thought. And she
couldn’t shake off the feeling that Raine knew more of what was going on in her heart than anyone else did. Herself included.

As soon as Gladys had disappeared from sight, Joan cast off her pained expression and went into the bathroom to put on some make-up and tie up her hair. She was no more ill
than Gladys was, although she wouldn’t like to have had Edwin’s head this morning – his first hangover at seventy. What an experience. Nearly as bad an ordeal as having to go into
Ren Dullem and endure the stares of all the odd-bods that lived in the village.

The manor house had felt very spooky last night, almost hostile. Joan had dumped Edwin in the first room she came to that had a sofa in it. She had only been in the library once before, on a
snoop, but there was nothing there of interest. She had no liking for stuffy old books and the smell that came with them. It wasn’t her favourite room in the house, drab as it was, and
decorated in dull mustard colours and browns which looked even more shabby when lit by the low-wattage bulbs at night. She studied the room whilst she stood beside the snoring figure of Edwin for
five minutes to make sure he was sleeping peacefully and not about to vomit and choke himself. There must have been a lot of money in all those old books, she decided. Another portrait of Gilbert
Carlton in hunting pink looked down on her disdainfully. She moved her eyes away from him and onto an old tapestry hung high on a wall. It depicted the village’s history: boats and the sea
and fish and fields of lavender, markets – all very boring. There was nothing of interest to her in the library.

There was a path from the cottage that cut through a small copse and led out onto the road which went left to Hathersage Farm and straight on down to the harbour. She wouldn’t have to pass
the front of the manor house if she went that way. She left a note on the door, should nosey Gladys come back, to say that she had gone for some fresh air, then she picked up her camera, notepad
and handbag and set off for the village. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she was going to find something to work on before she came back to the cottage. Joan could sniff the
opportunity to make money as surely as a shark could sniff blood.

She looked up into the sky to see a puff of grey cloud, far too low to be ‘real’ cloud, and remembered its presence the last time she had been to this godforsaken hole.
Clouds,
rain – it was rain that saved them.
Was there a connection? How the hell could rain save anyone or anything?

At the bottom of the hill Dullem was bustling, as much as it could ‘bustle’ anyway. There was a market in the cobbled square. Stalls were set up around the perimeter selling fresh
cheeses, bread, cakes, jams, fish and things made with lavender. There was a stall selling hot pork sandwiches with apple sauce and stuffing next to the kiosk that had once shut very rudely in her
face when she had approached it to buy a coffee – like she’d be offering them any more of her money. There was a flower stall beside a man selling bric-a-brac. In fact it was all men
that were running the stalls and, apart from a couple of older ladies, the customers were mainly men too. Last night she’d forgotten to get ‘Mary’ to ask why there were no women
in the community. Maybe they were all chopped up and made into the local butcher’s pies and that was the real secret of Ren Dullem. Joan giggled to herself, but anything was possible in this
inbred little shithole. She wondered what would happen to Carlton Hall when Edwin died. Who would inherit it? It might be worth having a look at his will if she could find it; he was bound to have
a copy in the house somewhere.

She endured the stares of a man as she approached the church. He had fairish hair in unruly waves, a slick smile and very green eyes. He was handsome, if you liked the full-of-himself male who
talked a good talk. That type were usually full of hot air, and rubbish in bed. She had her sights on richer pickings than men who had empty pockets and sparkling eyes, though. She recognized in
the green-eyed man the male equivalent of herself: predatory, manipulative, calculating, sybaratic. Every smile was an attempt at putting a key into the lock of a heart. She had no use for him, not
even as an amusing toy to outwit, and she walked on.

She took the path that snaked around the back of the church and into the graveyard. A good place to start, she thought. She began at the bottom corner by the gate: a ridiculous pet’s
cemetery. Beloved pets called Corky, Jess, Bill, Lassie, some dates going back to before the war. Nothing of interest. The key date she was seeking was 1928. That was when all – whatever it
was – started.

She walked over dead mothers and sons, the same names being repeated: Hathersage, Hathersage, Bird, Bird, Bird, Unwin, Coffey – the old stalwarts of the village, with dates from as far
back as the 1700s to as recent as three months ago. By far the grandest grave was a huge stone effigy of a praying man, his hands pressed together, his head looking dutifully upwards. This was the
grave of Reverend Jeremiah Unwin and his wife, Sarah, who both died on the same day. Merely from looking at the elaborate design of the grave, she imagined that Jeremiah Unwin would have been a man
right up himself whilst pretending to be humble and God-serving.

She was just about to give up when, in the top left corner, at the furthest point from the church, she found a small overgrown path. She had to part the hedges at either side to take it. It
wended left then right before opening up into a circle affording a grand view of the tiny harbour with its small outlet to the sea. A small version of Cleopatra’s Needle stood there, a carved
stone obelisk bearing the lettering:

Thirteen names. Including Gilbert and that interesting date – 1928. But what the hell did it mean? Joan needed to cross-reference the names with the ledger now.

She scribbled the names down and returned to the main churchyard to find the relevant graves and see if they yielded any more information. Eleven of the graves were together in a long straight
line. Gilbert’s grave was not in the churchyard because obviously he would be in the family vault. Strangely, at the end, outside the original boundary of the land, was the grave bearing the
twelfth name: Seymour Elias Acaster: born 1909, died 1969. Joan took the camera out of her handbag and started snapping, especially at Seymour’s stone and the fence now around it. With not
much else to go on, Joan wondered if the positioning was significant. Roll on Gladys buggering off home so Joan could take a long hard look at those ledgers again.

‘Well, if it isn’t the witch. And where have you been with your big bag of spells?’

At the lip of the woods, Clare was arrested by the familiar voice.

‘Val. How are you today?’

‘Horny.’ He smiled. ‘How about you?’

‘Tired,’ said Clare, unable to stop a grin from pushing up the corners of her lips. He was very naughty.

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘Nor do I have any intention of doing so. I’ve been for a walk.’

‘What’s in the bag?’ He kicked at it with his toe.

‘Victims of my spells – people who asked too many questions.’

Val Hathersage held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Then I’ll stop asking.’

‘Good.’ Clare didn’t stop walking. She imagined that was what Colleen Landers would have done. Treat them mean, keep them keen.

‘When are you going to let me kiss you again?’ he called after her.

How about now
, she wanted to shout. God, she was brazen.

‘Who knows?’ she said, over her shoulder.

She waited for him to call to her again but he didn’t and she then cursed herself for not standing and talking to him. Colleen Landers would have walked away and not given a hoot. If he
didn’t come crawling after her, so what? But then Colleen knew he would because she had a confidence in herself that Clare didn’t.

Clare turned to see him walking down the hill, hands in his pockets.

‘Tomorrow at twelve?’ she called, aware that her voice was too eager, but not caring.

‘Maybe,’ came the reply.

As Clare opened the door to the cottage from the outside, Lara was just opening it from the inside.

‘Ah, it’s the scrubber,’ she said.

Clare felt herself blushing slightly.

‘We’re going for something to eat. Coming?’ asked May.

‘Has all your cleaning made you hungry?’ added Lara.

Clare nodded. ‘Yep. I think I could eat something.’

It was market day in the village centre. They bought lavender bags and pressed them to their noses, remembering schooldays when they made them at their desks to bring home as Christmas presents.
Apart from a couple of older ladies, they were the only females in the bustling square.

‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’ May said.

‘The ratio of men to women, do you mean?’ replied Lara.

‘Maybe there’s a mermaid living here,’ May speculated.

‘What?’ the others said in unison.

‘My granny was from Cornwall. She was always full of mermaid tales, if you’ll excuse the pun.’

‘Like what?’ asked Clare.

‘Like it was good luck for sailors to see one.’

‘I thought it was supposed to be bad luck,’ said Lara.

‘My granny said they were good luck. They had a soft spot for sailors and would guide them away from the rocks. She said that if there was a run of boy births it was because a mermaid was
in nearby waters – they get jealous that girl babies will be more beautiful than they are and take all the boys’ attention, so girls aren’t born.’

‘What a load of bollocks,’ Lara scoffed. ‘Tell that to Carole, my aunt. She had six boys on the trot and the three of them who had kids all had boys as well. Can’t
remember hearing of any mermaids living in Penistone.’

A lean youth with chiselled features and a Hugh Grant-style floppy hairdo passed by. He was going to be a very handsome creature one day, May decided.

‘It’s raining men here. It should be a paradise for young women. There are some gods walking around,’ she said.

‘Aren’t there just?’ Clare agreed, thinking of Val Hathersage and his sexy grin.

‘Oh, lookee,’ said Lara with faux joy as she spotted Gene Hathersage buying a coffee at the conical kiosk. ‘It’s one of those handsome gods you were talking about –
our helpful and kind landlord buying a coffee from the second rudest man in the world.’

As if hearing her, Gene’s head swivelled and he spotted Lara pointing at him. She had no need to worry that he might come over and indulge in jolly conversation, though. ‘What a
Grinch,’ she said with a low growl.

May nodded in faithful agreement but watched him as he bought his coffee. He had a gorgeous body: long legs and big thighs, strong arms and wide shoulders. He would be only slightly dwarfed by
Frank if they stood side by side, she reckoned. With his wild hair and mean expression under that beard he looked rather like a monster from a Grimms’ fairy tale having a civilized day off.
Funny – and she wouldn’t dare say this to Lara – but May could easily see her feisty friend with a man like Gene Hathersage. They’d spark off each other and have fun doing
it. She had never met James but instinct told her that he would be too smooth, too clever and far too serious for Lara. She needed someone who would make her eyes twinkle. She hoped James
appreciated Lara and that Lara wasn’t forced to take second place to his achievements.

‘I wish I could get my hands on this place,’ said Lara, her voice bordering on lust.

May knew what she meant. This was the sort of village that would really excite her professionally too. She could easily visualize those old abandoned buildings as new businesses, serving
tourists. They were too lovely to be allowed to crumble. Ren Dullem was a diamond that needed a lot of polishing – but nevertheless it was a diamond.