The Shade of Hettie Daynes (2 page)

Modley grinned. His ear was turning purple where the board had slammed it. ‘Good idea, boss. D’you mean the trainers, or these plonkers?’

Carl smiled. ‘Oh, I think
both
, don’t you? Bring ’em.’

The boys were hauled to their feet. Their captors grabbed fistfuls of collar in one hand, pants-seat in the other and gave their victims the bums-rush towards the lake. Carl pranced in front with the boards under one arm, swinging
the
trainers. There were people about, but nobody interfered.

It was a small lake, but big enough. Carl hurled the shoes into the middle, and the boards followed. Rob and Harry struggled, but it was no use. Split almost in two by the grip on their jeans, and with feet only grazing the ground, they were shoved over the edge. They hit the freezing water and thrashed about, spluttering, while their tormentors jeered.

THREE

‘WHAT D’YOU CALL
this
, Robert Hattersley?’ Mr Bailey held up the clear folder by a corner. The papers inside were crinkled and stained, the words on them practically illegible.

Rob coughed. His cheeks were red. ‘Sir, I call it my history assignment.’ The kids tittered.

‘Do you, indeed?’ The history teacher silenced the class with a look. ‘D’you want to know what
I
call it, laddie?’

‘Not really, sir.’

‘I didn’t think you would, and I’m going to tell you anyway. I call it an ugly wad of papier-mâché. I call it totally unacceptable. I call
it
,
take this abomination out of my sight and bring me an A-star essay on the Corn Laws at nine tomorrow morning
. What do I call it, Robert Hattersley?’

‘Sir, an ugly wad of papier-mâché . . . uh . . . totally unacc—’

‘Yes, all right.’ The teacher smiled grimly. ‘I think you’ve got the message. And this time,
don’t
do it in the shower.’

Harry hadn’t tittered. He knew his turn was coming, and it did. ‘Harry Midgley?’

‘Sir.’

‘
Your
assignment is
not
constructed out of papier-mâché. Neither is it made out of blancmange, black pudding or balsa wood. It is made out of absolutely nothing. In short, it does not exist. Am I right, Mr Midgley?’

‘Yessir.’

‘Yessir.’ The teacher sighed. ‘Excuse?’

‘Sir, my computer’s down.’

‘Is it?’ murmured Mottan. ‘Is it really?’

‘Yessir. It’s been down over a week.’

‘Has it?’ The teacher gazed at his pupil. ‘Shall I tell you something about computers, laddie? You’ll be astounded, I promise.’

‘Yes please, sir.’ More titters, silenced in the same way.

‘When I was your age, way back in the neolithic, computers did not exist. Well – there were a few, but they were as big as this classroom, and none could be accessed by schoolboys. And yet, I managed to produce essays that were so fine, I eventually won a place at college and ended up standing in front of weird life-forms such as yourself.’ Mr Bailey smiled. ‘I expect you’re agog to know how I did it, aren’t you, Midgley?’

‘Can’t wait, sir,’ mumbled Harry.

‘Books, laddie. I did it with books. Textbooks, encyclopaedias, dictionaries. Books, as found sometimes in public libraries, even today. There’s a fine library here in Rawton. It’s gradually morphing into an internet café, but books lurk there still, in dark corners. Ever logged on to a book, Harry Midgley?’

‘Yessir.’

‘Good, aren’t they? They don’t go down, ever, and there’s no spam, except when some barbarian has used a slice as a bookmark. Why not pop down this evening, check out the library?
It’s
open till eight. Ask somebody to show you where the encyclopaedias are hidden, and look up the Corn Laws. You’ll find them under C. Take notes, then hurry home and produce me an essay at least as good as the one I’m looking forward to from your friend Hattersley. All right?’

‘Yessir.’

FOUR

‘BUMMER.’ THREE THIRTY
. Rob and Harry were dawdling home.

Rob nodded. ‘You can say that again, my old mate.’

‘Bummer,’ obliged Harry.

‘It’s all right for
you
,’ growled Rob. ‘You’ll be doing it for the first time. I had it finished, thoroughly professional job, till that creepazoid Carl chucked us in the pond.’

Harry shook his head. ‘You should never have had it in your jacket, Rob.’

‘I brought it for
you
, you parasite.’

Harry nodded. ‘I know, but you should’ve had
it
in your backpack. Backpacks’re practically waterproof.’

‘Are they heck. And anyway, I didn’t
bring
my backpack, did I?’

‘That’s what I’m saying.’

‘Huh!’ Rob scowled. ‘Last time I do
you
a favour, you landless peasant.’

The two parted at the corner of Leaf Street. The Midgleys lived at number eight. Mum and Bethan were in the kitchen when Harry walked in.

Mum smiled. ‘Good day at school, love?’

Harry looked at her. ‘Did
you
ever have a good day at school, Mum?’

His mother shrugged. ‘Depends, doesn’t it? Not good compared to lying on a beach in Antigua, sipping a cool drink from a coconut shell while a fit young guy fanned me with a palm leaf. Good, compared to sitting in the dentist’s waiting room, listening to the screams coming from the surgery.’

Harry smiled tightly. ‘Well, Mum, let’s just say mine was closer to the dentist than the beach, all right? What’s for tea?’

It was pizza and chips. Harry was smothering his with ketchup when Mum said, ‘Have you heard about the reservoir?’ He stopped shaking the bottle.

‘What about it?’

‘They’re going to do some work on it. Bring it up to European standard, whatever that means. We got a letter about it, this morning. It’ll mean half-emptying it, and there’ll be noise for seven months. They apologize in advance.’

Harry shrugged. ‘We won’t be able to hear it from here, surely?’

Mum shook her head. ‘No we won’t. Not unless they’re going to use dynamite. But people won’t be able to walk round it while the work’s going on – they’re closing the footpath.’

‘What about the ghost?’ asked Bethan. ‘She’ll be really upset, won’t she?’

Mum looked at her. ‘Don’t be silly, Bethan. I’ve told you there
is
no ghost.’

Bethan nodded. ‘There
is
, Mum. We saw her last night, didn’t we Harry?’

‘Hmm . . . yeah,’ muttered Harry. ‘You were supposed to keep quiet about it though – remember?’

‘Never mind what Bethan was supposed to do, young man.’ Mum sounded seriously irritated. ‘You’re not supposed to frighten your sister with silly stories, and you’re certainly not supposed to take her anywhere near deep water at any time, let alone in the middle of the night.’

‘It wasn’t the middle of the night, Mum, it was half past eight.’

‘Yes,’ put in Bethan. ‘And I wasn’t a
bit
scared, was I, Harry?’
I’ve been scared ever since though
, she thought but didn’t say.
I’m a bit scared now
.

Harry sighed. ‘No, Bethan, you weren’t scared.’ He looked at his mother. ‘I don’t understand why you get so screwed up whenever one of us mentions the ghost, Mum.’

His mother frowned. ‘There
is
no ghost, Harry, and I don’t want your sister’s head filled with silly tales. People see UFOs, monsters, saints’ faces in bits of mouldy bread. Doesn’t mean they’re actually
there
. Now, d’you think we could stop talking and eat our food before it gets cold?’

FIVE

HARRY HAD LIED
to Mottan Bailey. His computer wasn’t down, so there was no need to bus it into Rawton and check out the library. After tea he went up to his room and switched on the iMac. Rob had said he’d found loads of stuff on the net about the Corn Laws. Waiting for the machine to boot up, Harry thought about something his mother said yesterday, when he came home soaking wet and told her Carl Hopwood was to blame.

‘Carl Hopwood’s just like his father,’ she murmured. ‘Too big for his britches, just because Hopwoods used to rule the roost around here. They built a mill you know, back in the
nineteenth
century. Nearly everybody in Wilton worked for them at one time. They were known as slave-drivers, and I bet they
were
.’ She stooped, pushing Harry’s clothes in the dryer. ‘Mill’s long gone, but not the attitude. Councillor Hopwood gets himself elected time after time ’cause people vote him in out of habit. His father was on the Council before him, and his grandfather as well.’ She straightened up. ‘I expect young Carl’ll get elected too, when folks’ve forgotten he used to chuck smaller kids in the pond.’

I won’t forget
, thought Harry as he logged on to the Net.
I’d vote for a pig before I’d vote for that Carl, and I bet Rob would too
.

Rob was right: there
was
loads about the Corn Laws, and it was all as boring as Harry had known it would be.
Who sits for hours and hours typing in this garbage?
he wondered.

He called Rob, asked him if he’d used this or that bit of data. It was important they didn’t hand in identical essays.

Rob said, ‘Word on the street is, they’re draining the reservoir.’

‘Yes I know,’ said Harry. ‘Beth thinks it’ll upset the ghost.’

Rob laughed. ‘It’ll spoil her party trick, for sure. Standing on water, I mean.
Anybody
can stand on dry land.’

‘Anybody except my dad,’ growled Harry. Dad had gone away when Harry was eight. He had a drink problem and Mum had chucked him out. Harry could just remember the poor guy staggering up the path and falling flat on his face in the doorway.

‘Yeah, well . . .’ Rob never knew what to say when Harry mentioned his dad. ‘Catch you tomorrow, mate, Mottan’s room.’

‘Nine on the dot, Rob, with your essay. And don’t carry it past the pond.’

SIX

‘MUM?’

‘What is it, Harry?’ Tuesday tea time. Christa Midgley was busy with mince and lasagna, the children were setting the table.

‘Why do people say
as daft as Hettie Daynes
?’

His mother looked at him sharply. ‘Who’ve you heard saying it?’