SATURDAY 12 MAY, 1923

Great Applewick

Solomon Grundy,

Born on a Monday,

Christened on Tuesday,

Married on Wednesday,

Took ill on Thursday,

Grew worse on Friday,

Died on Saturday,

Buried on Sunday.

That was the end of Solomon Grundy.

(Old Rhyme)

PROLOGUE

Harriet held the cloth-covered basin in her thin hands,
feeling the
warmth.
She and Austin trod the well-worn path from their long strip
of back
garden
on Nether End.

Mam wasn’t home. She’d hurried off to Town Street, to buy
the Woodbines
that
Harriet accidentally on purpose forgot when she and Austin
went to do
the
Saturday shop. Mam wanted a new house. She was sick to death
of living
in
the back of beyond’s backside.

The path led through a meadow of primroses, buttercups and
daisies. Far
off,
the church clock struck five.

Austin puffed at a dandelion clock. ‘It doesn’t work. This
dandelion
says
three o’clock.’

Harriet, never short of an answer, sighed at his babyish ideas.
‘Dandelion
clocks have Saturday afternoons off. They belong to the
dandelion clock
union.’

He always believed her, believed her every word.

‘Why is Dad still at work?’

‘He has a special job to finish.’

‘The sundial?’

‘Yes.’

When they reached the stile Harriet handed him the basin,
till she got
to
the top. He passed it back to her and she climbed down. Some of
Conroys’
sheep grazed here with their new lambs. One of the sheep
would let you
pat
her, because she was hand reared, and called Mary; but Mary
ignored
them
today, busy with her lamb. In her composition at school,
Harriet had
written, “Autumn is my favourite season”. But perhaps it
should be
spring,
or summer, or even winter.

When they were halfway across the field, a dark cloud
covered the sun,
turning the world to gloom. A thrush made a fuss in the
hawthorn bush,
complaining about the dust that turned leaves white.

From here, you could smell the quarry – stone and dust.
There would be
no
one working, except Dad. At this time on a Saturday, no
blasting would
hurt
your ears. No crushing machine would puff itself up, ready
to swallow
kids
and grind their bones. Austin dragged his feet.

‘Can you do this?’ She clicked her tongue to make the sound
of a clop
clopping horse.

He tried.

In silence, blown by the east wind, they slip sloped to the
quarry
mouth.
The quarry grew and grew, like an inside out monster, bigger
and bigger
–
hungry jaws ready to snap you up and turn you to stone. Keep
out! The
sign
said.

The ground dipped and rose, puddles here, rocks there. On
the far steep
slope, a tree clung hopelessly to the side of the blasted
rock. Next to
it
was a new mountain of fallen stone.

They walked the rough path passing foreman’s hut and big
wagon that
blocked
the view when you were close enough. Beyond came emptiness,
the dark
shapes
of huts and the far slopes.

The first drop of rain fell.

Shielded by the wagon, Harriet put her fingers to her lips and
whistled, one
long whistle, one short – their signal. If Dad heard her,
they would
not
need to pass the empty sheds where goblins played hide and
seek.

No whistle answered hers, only an echo.

‘I don’t like it.’ Austin clutched her arm with his small,
fierce hand.
‘Whistle him again.’

She whistled.

On a weekday, or Saturday morning, there would be quarrymen
with big
voices,
to yell to Ethan that his bairns were here.

No reply. When Dad worked, he shut out the world. He heard
nothing and
no
one. So Mam said.

‘Whistle louder,’ Austin whined.

‘Don’t be scared. The goblins aren’t here.’

‘Where are they?’

‘They go to Yeadon on Saturdays. Come on.’

The sloping, bumpy ground turned walking into a half run,
eyes down,
not
looking at the crushing shed, the towering crane, the
dressing and
sawing
sheds. A person’s shadow grew longer in the quarry than
anywhere else
on
earth. Pushing Austin to avoid a puddle, she stepped into
one herself.
Bomnation! Now her boots would be soaked through.

By Dad’s mason’s hut, the blue slate sundial shone grandly.
Austin
reached
out and touched it. He traced the lines on the dial, placing
his palms
flat
as if the slate would feed him a story through his skin.

Harriet put the plate of food on the sundial. ‘Wait here.’

Afterwards, she could not say why she went into the hut.
First she saw
his
boots, toes pointing to the corrugated roof.

Why would Dad be lying down?

Her head turned strange, as if it might split from her and
float off
like a
balloon. She could not breathe out. Quarry dust dried her
mouth.
Something
funny went on with her knees. Her skin prickled. She
remembered the
time
when old Mr Bowman lay in the road outside the Fleece, and the
greengrocer’s
horse and cart went round him.

Harriet dropped to her knees.

Dad’s hard hand felt cold. His face looked away from her.
His cheek was
not
so cold. His hair stuck up. She did what she sometimes did:
combed her
fingers through his hair, smoothing it. Some wetness from
the hair came
onto
her hand. His scalp and hair smelled the same but different.
She picked
up
his cap but it did not want to go back on his head, as if it
had taken
a
dislike to him, no longer recognised him. She set Dad’s cap
down on the
bench, but it slipped.

From a long way off, she heard Austin making little sounds
of fright.
Harriet shoved herself to her feet, pushing against the
bench to help
her
stand.

Hurrying to her brother, she pulled him close.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, in a weepy little voice.

She said. ‘Just … Come on …’

‘No!’

She placed her hands firmly at the top of his arms and
turned him
around, to
point him homewards. He would not or could not budge.

‘Shut your eyes, Austin. Shut your eyes tight and I’ll lead
you through
dreamland.’

He did as he was bid, letting himself be spun round and
round into
dreamland. She guided him over bumps and hollows, telling
him about
the
gingerbread house to his left, all trimmed with barley
sugar. No it
wasn’t
raining. The fairy fountain spurted dandelion and burdock.

And she told herself that the dampness on her hand was
raspberry
sherbet,
not blood.

But a country child knows a dead thing when she sees it.

MONDAY

Pipistrelle Lodge, Headingley

Time goes by turns,

And chances change by course,

From foul to fair

From better hap to worse

Robert Southwell

ONE

The railway carriage lurched, flinging me forward. Bolts of
lightning
struck
as the carriage toppled. Gasping, I grabbed for something to
hold onto.
The
screech of brakes jerked me awake. I opened my eyes to find
myself in
bed,
the journey from Kings Cross to Leeds completed hours ago,
and safely.

What woke me was the persistent, loud knocking at my front
door. Since
my
room is at the back of the house, overlooking the wood, whoever
summoned me
from slumber hammered the knocker as if to tell me the house
was on
fire.

The clock on my bedside table said four o’clock. Sookie had
made a
pillow of
my dressing gown and did not take kindly to having it pulled
from under
her;
an unseemly intrusion for a cat in her delicate condition.

At the bottom of the stairs, I stubbed my toe on the
portmanteau,
dumped
there last night by the taxi driver. I flicked on the light
switch.

Turning the key in the lock and opening the door, I peered
into the
gloom,
expecting some messenger of doom.

A woman, wearing cape and hood, stood in the shadow of the
porch.

‘Mrs Shackleton?’ Her voice was slightly breathless, as
though she
were
nervous or had been hurrying.

What sort of mad woman rushes out in the middle of the night
and runs
through the streets in the pouring rain?

‘Yes. I’m Mrs Shackleton.’

‘I must to talk to you.’

When I did not straightaway open the door wider, she added, ‘My
husband’s
gone missing.’

I felt groggy with tiredness. ‘You best go to the police.’

They would have detectives on night duty.

Her snort, part laugh, part groan, dismissed my suggestion
before she
spoke.
‘The police? I’ve tried. They’re neither use nor ornament.’

She seemed unaware of the time and offered no apology for
disturbing
me. A
north wind howled down the street, driving horizontal
bullets of rain.

Imagining that a person intent on foul play would not hammer
the door
knocker loudly enough to wake half Headingley, I fumbled to
undo the
latch
chain. As the light from the hall fell on her face, she
looked very
young,
and pale as the moon.

Without waiting for an invitation, the woman stepped inside,
dripping
rain
onto the mat.

I shut the door behind her. ‘Let me take your cape.’

She unhooked and shook off a dark plaid cape, creating a
pool of water
on
the polished wood floor.

‘Thank you.’ Her lips were pale but two unnaturally bright
spots of
pink lit
her cheeks. Perhaps she suffered from consumption. The
pulses in her
throat
throbbed.

‘I left my umbrella on the train. I caught the milk train.
I’ve run
from
Headingley station.’

I hung the cape on the newel post, again stubbing my toe on the
suitcase.

‘You’d better come through, Mrs …’

‘Armstrong. Mary Jane Armstrong.’

The dining room doubles as my office but no fire had been
lit in there
for a
week, since before I left for London. I led her through to
the kitchen.
‘This way. The fire will be out, but we’ll be warmer in
here.’ She
followed
me. I handed her a towel. ‘Dry yourself a little.’ She
moved like
someone
who had walked out of the sea and would shortly return to
Neptune.

‘I don’t care about being wet.’ But she rubbed at her hair
which fell
in
damp wavy strands below her ears. Her hooded cape had
provided little
protection from the deluge.

She was in her mid or late thirties, about five foot four,
plump and
pretty
with unblemished white skin and abundant hazel nut brown
hair, swept up
and
caught with tortoiseshell combs and pins. It looked as
though it may
have
started out neat but now wavy tendrils escaped the combs.
Strands of
hair
hung below her shoulders where the pins had fallen out. She
wore a calf
length bottle green skirt and white blouse, with a locket at
her
throat. Her
shoes were so well polished that the rain slid off the leather.

I drew out a chair, leaving her to recover for a moment,
while I went
into
the dining room.

Who was she, and what brought her here at this hour?
Something about
her
seemed so very familiar. She reminded me of someone, and I
couldn’t
think
who.

I lifted the decanter from the sideboard, along with a
brandy balloon.
At
the kitchen table, I poured brandy into the glass. ‘Here.
Drink this.
You
look as if you need it, and then you can tell me what brings
you here.’

She cupped the glass in both hands and stared intently into
it, as if
the
amber liquor created a crystal ball and the future would become
startlingly
clear. Then she looked at me from eyes that were the same
hazelnut
brown as
her hair. There was intensity in her gaze, as though what
she did not
find
in the brandy balloon, she would see in my eyes.

Where did I know her from?

The impression fled as she screwed her eyes tightly, sniffed
at the
brandy,
and knocked it back in one quick gulp. She coughed and began
to choke,
saying between splutters. ‘Eh, I thought it were ginger ale.
What is
it?
Right burns my throat.’

‘Brandy. It’s brandy.’

‘You should’ve said. I’ll have another and take it more
steady.’

I lifted the decanter and poured another finger of brandy.
‘Sip it.
Gently
does it.’ I had come back from London feeling a little
tired, but now
the
tiredness fled. I said encouragingly, ‘You’d better tell me
what brings
you
here.’

She squeezed the glass so tightly it was in danger of
cracking. ‘Like I
said, my husband’s gone missing.’ Mrs Armstrong spoke in a
flat, tired
voice. ‘I don’t know whether he’s alive or dead. I thought
of you
because …
well I’ve heard that you find people.’