Robert Swindells

The Shade of Hettie Daynes

ONE

Harry squeezed his sister’s arm. ‘Are you sure you want to see her?’
  Bethan snorted. ‘’Course. Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, would I?’
  The boy shrugged. ‘Want you to be sure, that’s all. She’s seriously spooky, and you are only ten.’
  ‘So? You’re two years older, big deal.’
  ‘OK, come on.’
  The moon was nearly full, but there was mist over Wilton Water. Gorse grew thickly on this part of the bank. They halted, peering through prickly boughs. Their breath was like smoke on the cold October air.
  ‘Is she there?’ whispered Bethan.
  ‘Hard to tell in this mist.’
  ‘Bet she isn’t. My teacher says there’s no such thing as a ghost.’
  Harry nodded. ‘Yeah well, your teacher’s never been to look, has she? Loads of people’ve seen her. Sensible people.’
  Bethan shook her head. ‘Mum hasn’t, and she’s lived here for ever.’
  Harry sighed. ‘Mum refuses to believe in ghosts, full stop. Look.’ He pointed.
  ‘Where, I can’t see anything.’
  ‘See that sapling on the bank over there?’
  ‘Yes.’
  ‘Well, look a little bit to the right of it.’
  Bethan peered through the haze, and gasped. A woman in a long black skirt was standing on the water, looking towards the bank.
  ‘You see her now, don’t you?’
  ‘I see something,’ croaked Bethan, ‘but it looks like it’s standing on water. Nobody can stand on water. It’s a whatsit illusion.’
  ‘Optical,’ whispered Harry. ‘But it’s not, it’s the ghost. Me and Rob’ve seen her five or six times, and she’s always exactly the same. If it was an optical illusion, you wouldn’t see it twice the same.’
  ‘Why does she stand so still then?’
  ‘How the heck do I know, I’m not a ghost.’ Harry chuckled. ‘If you think it’s an optical illusion, why are you whispering, hiding behind a bush? Stand up, give it a shout, see what happens.’
  Bethan shook her head. ‘No.’
  ‘No, ’cause you know it’s a ghost. Mum doesn’t believe ’cause she doesn’t want to. Some people are like that about ghosts.’
  Bethan stared at the phantom. She saw a woman pointing a long, pale finger at the water. Try as she might, she couldn’t turn it into a tree stump, a twist of vapour or a blend of moonlight and shadow. And she did try. After all, thousands of people see something on Loch Ness and mistake it for a monster. If you expect to see a monster, she thought, you see one. And if you expect to see a ghost, you see a ghost.
  ‘OK,’ murmured Harry. ‘You wanted to see her, and you have. I better get you home now, or Mum’ll make a ghost out of me.’
  Bethan turned to look back as they moved away. The figure stood as before. Where does she go in the daytime, she wondered. Can she see us? Does she know people come to gawp at her, and does she mind?
  She didn’t ask her brother these questions: didn’t want to admit she believed, but lying in bed that night it was the ghost she saw when she stared up into the darkness, and when she screwed her eyelids shut the phantom was behind them, keeping her from sleep.
      
TWO

Sunday morning, Harry’s mobi chirped. He freed it from its holster. ‘Yep?’
  ‘Rob. Fancy boarding the park for a bit?’
  Harry sighed. ‘I’m on the net, checking out the Corn Laws. School tomorrow, you know.’
  Rob scoffed. ‘’Course I know, that’s why I called. Gotta make the most of this last day, man: no more hols till Christmas.’
  Harry pulled a face. ‘Gotta dash off that assignment for Mottan as well.’ Mottan was what the students of Rawton Secondary called the history teacher, whose real name was Bailey.
  ‘Haven’t you done it yet, you moron? You’ve had a week.’
  ‘Yeah, but you know how it is. Mum wittering. Kid sister. Stuff to do. I forgot.’
  ‘OK, listen up. Mine’s done. I’ll bring it to the park, you can work from it tonight.’
  ‘Copy, you mean?’
  ‘It’s not copying, it’s research.’
  ‘It wouldn’t be my own work.’
  ‘Is the stuff on the net your own work?’
  ‘Well no, but—’
  ‘Sucker, please. What’s the point of two of us reading the same sites? That’s just duplication of effort. Half ten by the rain shelter. Bring your board.’
  Wilton Park had no dedicated boarding track, but there were shallow steps, flat-top walls and smooth tarmac paths. The day was cold but dry, and the two friends spent a couple of hours honing their skills, skinning knees and elbows in the process.
  It was just before one o’clock when Carl Hopwood appeared with his two hangers-on. At thirteen, Carl was a year older than Rob and Harry, a year ahead at Rawton. He was a big lad with fair, floppy hair and a broad, reddish face.
  ‘Hey,’ he cried when he saw the two boarders. ‘Look who’s here, guys.’ He sauntered towards them with his hands in his pockets. ‘It’s raggy Harry and his poorer sidekick, Rob the slob.’
  Harry picked up his board, tucked it under his arm. ‘Hi, Carl. We’re not looking for any trouble here.’ Carl Hopwood was the school bully. Both boys had been victims since primary school, and it was ongoing.
  ‘You’re not?’ sneered Carl in mock surprise. ‘Well that’s a shame, ’cause we are.’ He looked at his friends. ‘Aren’t we, guys?’
  Nigel Stocks grinned, Shaun Modley nodded. Carl’s dad was rolling in it. Carl was never short of dosh, and he used it to buy the loyalty of creeps like Stocks and Modley.
  ‘We’re watching out for scruffs in two-quid trainers and cut-price kit, making the place look untidy,’ said Carl, ‘and I reckon we’ve found ’em.’ He turned to his companions. ‘Seize ’em, guys,’ he ordered.
  Rob and Harry fought. They always did, and they always lost. Rob got Modley on the ear with his board, and Harry punched Carl’s big face before they were overwhelmed and pinned to the tarmac. Carl looked down at them, dabbing his burst lip with a tissue.
  ‘OK,’ he panted, ‘we’ll have the trainers for a start. And those cheapo boards. Hold ’em still, guys.’ The pair struggled, but Stocks and Modley were solid items. Being pinned down by them was like having a hippo on top of you. Carl pulled off Harry’s trainers, then Rob’s. He straightened up and sniffed them. ‘Uuugh, yuk!’ He screwed up his face. ‘This is where the stink was coming from.’ He dangled them at arm’s length by their laces. ‘We’ll chuck ’em in the lake to cleanse themselves. What d’you say, guys?’
  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 fifteen 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.’

The Shade of Hettie Daynes © Robert Swindells, 2008. Published by Corgi Children’s Books.