The Bell House

For Larry Finlay.

Mazel tov, sweetheart.

PROLOGUE

The end, 1961

The view from the rear window was beautiful, had always been stunning. Undulating moors stretched away to a horizon made dark by pendulous clouds whose contents threatened to spill at any moment. Even in shadow, the Pennine foothills remained splendid. A grey day. There had been many such days of late, because even sunshine could not lighten the burden carried by one of the prettiest villages this side of the mountains.

John Horrocks turned and considered his handiwork. ‘Not a bad job,’ he muttered under his breath. He stood back and surveyed the satin-lined casket, larger than usual and of the best quality; no expense spared for this dead man. There had been a few quid salted away, enough for decent handles of solid brass, a pillow, a shroud of the finest material.

What the shroud hid was not the business of John Horrocks, Undertaker, Rivington Cross, Lancashire. What the shroud hid was the evidence of murder and marks left by pathologists in their search for truth. Would anyone ever know the full truth about the current occupant of this chapel of rest? Would anyone want to know? The undertaker shivered involuntarily. How many victims? How many lives had this piece of evil shattered? ‘Unclean,’ said John clearly. ‘Unclean and a nasty piece of work – may God forgive me.’ But not him. God should never forgive the article in this wooden box.

The coffin contained one of the ugliest clients it had ever been John’s misfortune to handle. The meeting between deceased and undertaker was invariably a subdued affair, but today the air hung heavily in the silent room, as if a malevolence had invaded the area, a dark shadow which penetrated brick, mortar, roof tiles. Wickedness. The man in the box was as ugly as sin and his sins had been particularly hideous.

‘John?’ Yvonne Horrocks stood in the doorway. ‘You’ve done your duty. Don’t be stopping in here – you’ll only get depressed.’

‘I’d sooner have left him to someone else.’ John prided himself on his professionalism, on his manner with the bereaved, on the respect with which he had always handled the dead. This was the final service to be performed by a man for other men and John was one of the best in the business. But he hadn’t wanted this one; he would rather the Co-op or some other parlour had taken the job.

‘There was nobody else,’ his wife replied.

The undertaker nodded. No family had come forward to claim the corpse, no friend, no colleague. ‘The village kept him all those years, and now we’re stuck with him for ever. I hope they dig the hole deep.’

‘He won’t climb out, John. Even he had to come to an end some time. There’ll be no need for garlic flowers and crucifixes, love. Come on – let’s make a cuppa and have an Eccles cake with best butter, eh?’

He awarded her a tight smile. ‘You go. I just want to make sure everything’s tidy. You know what I’m like – it all has to be just so.’ But he would not light the candles. At each corner of the bier, a thick, creamy candle rested in a huge sconce, wicks white and virginal. No, John Horrocks would waste no beeswax on this occasion. ‘I’m all right,’ he told his wife. ‘It’s the living we’ve to worry about next.’

She knew it was pointless to argue. Anyway, it was just a corpse now, just a shell that would soon decay in the graveyard. But it didn’t deserve a Christian burial, she told herself as she closed the door in her wake. No – that man should have been laid in unconsecrated ground alongside murderers and other unclean people. He had done great damage, yet he would be interred in a Christian cemetery among decent, goodly folk … why? Why hadn’t he lived to face the courts, the fury of his neighbours?

Yvonne raised her eyes and listened as her daughter paced about in the room above. Madeleine was about to take one more step, a stride too far. Eccles cakes? Who wanted to drink tea and eat pastries at a time like this? Everything had gone wrong. But Madeleine was unstoppable, had always been a determined little madam. ‘She’ll not start listening now,’ Yvonne whispered to herself, ‘not at twenty-one. God knows who her drummer is, because she’s a one-off with a pace all her own.’

The salon was closed. Yvonne sorted out a jumble of perm curlers, combed the hair from a brush, emptied an ashtray, placed shampoos and conditioners in tidy rows on shelves between mirrors. In this small room, she had beautified the women of Rivington Cross for over twenty years. She remembered the old days, when perms had been achieved by the scorching of hair, when waves and curls had been the order of the day, rigid, hair-netted, waves down to the ears, neat rows of curls below. ‘It’s getting more like topiary now,’ she muttered as she rinsed out a basin. People wanted their hair sculpted, shaped, lacquered, perfect, unreal … ‘I don’t know about scissors – I could do with garden shears and a bucket of weedkiller.’

She sat down wearily, throwing aside cleaning cloth and scouring powder. It didn’t matter. Making the place clean, burying the dead, cooking, washing, ironing – what difference would any of it make? It was a circle, a never-ending shape in which people were trapped, a merry-go-round that was no longer merry. People were born and they grew up. They had their hair done, then they died and had their hair done one last time. And Maddy was out of order. Maddy, the perfect child, the leader, the philosopher … No, Yvonne would not cry. Sometimes, Maddy made the sort of sense that dissolved all Yvonne had learned from parents, teachers and priests. Yes, she would go far, would Maddy. Too far – out of reach.

A tap dripped. It had always dripped. No matter how many new washers had been applied over the years, that damned tap had never managed to hold its water. It dripped five times while the minute hand on her watch completed its course. Sixty minutes in one hour, twenty-four hours in a day – how many gallons were disappearing in a week, a month, a year? How would Madeleine manage in London? A teacher was on less than ten pounds a week – was that enough? Drip, drip, drip.

Maddy had broken all the rules. A dispensation, reluctantly awarded by the Bishop of Salford, had allowed Madeleine Horrocks to attend Didsbury Training College, a non-Catholic institution where teachers were shaped. Not content with that one small step, Maddy had opted for RE as her main subject, had plodded through Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism and several Christianities. ‘All because of the bell house,’ mumbled the troubled mother. In ten short years, the group known by all and sundry as the Famous Five-Plus had eradicated saints, prophets, the Bible, the Qur’an and any other religious tomes available in libraries.

And the plodding continued overhead. Drawers opened and closed, a wardrobe door clicked into position. Maddy was leaving home, was leaving everything, was leaving childhood. Emotion bubbled its unwelcome way towards Yvonne’s throat and spilled into sobs. She didn’t know what to think, how to feel, how to cope – and she must not weep! She had but one child and that child was precious beyond diamonds, but the precious child was a woman now, a wayward and determined young person whose convictions were leading her away to the big, bad city in the south. Maddy wanted a fresh start, anonymity, a chance to become herself. ‘Jesus,’ sobbed the mother. But Jesus was no longer trusted by Maddy. He had done some good, but He had divided man from man and was, therefore, to be questioned.

‘Where did we go wrong?’ Yvonne asked a mirror. But the answer was already a part of her. Maddy was bright. She was bright enough for university, for medicine, for law, for politics. But no, the girl had decided to help frame the future of her country, had been awarded a distinction in the principles and practice of education, was a star in the field she had chosen for herself. And life would be lonely without her.

Yvonne had borne two stillborn boys and had suffered countless early miscarriages. Yet her term with Maddy had been as smooth as silk – no sickness, very little pain at the end, just a few hard pushes and a perfect result, so pretty, so wanted. Right from the start, Maddy had focused on life, had delivered comments in unformed language, had made her wishes clear. She had read early, had sailed through school in an effortless sweep, had devoured book after book in a seemingly endless search for truth. Truth? There was none. There was just this dripping tap and some tiny hands moving across the face of time on Yvonne’s wrist.

John came in. ‘Don’t cry. She’ll be back.’ His words carried little conviction. He strengthened his tone. ‘Our Maddy’s a northerner to the bone – she’ll not stop long down yon, all that smog and noise. She’s used to the Pike and the open fields, Yvonne.’

‘And the bell house.’

He sighed heavily. ‘Aye, and that, too. Famous Five-Plus, eh?’

‘They called themselves the Cave Dwellers or the Cavemen. Remember? I wish she’d never found all that meso-whatsit stuff.’

‘Mesolithic.’

Yvonne nodded, then drew a hand across wet eyes. ‘All that about flints and caves and ancient burial grounds.’

‘And standing stones,’ added John. ‘But some of it made a kind of sense.’ He raised a hand against the startled expression on his wife’s face. ‘Nay, don’t look at me like that, because I’m not saying I agree with her. What I mean is that it’s a point of view. Even the Unitarians had to practise in secret for years – once folk start changing things and coming up with new ideas, there’s always trouble. And at least she stopped being a Buddhist. That lasted about three weeks if my memory serves me right.’

‘Which was that one?’

He pondered. ‘I think it was sitting still and doing nowt – nirvana and some eightfold path. What she’s got now isn’t a religion as much as a philosophy. And she has every right to it. It’s a bit like votes for women – somebody has to kick off. Just leave her be and she’ll come round in the end.’

‘The women didn’t,’ replied Yvonne. ‘They threw themselves under horses and chained each other to railings until they got their own road.’

‘And were they wrong?’

‘No, course they weren’t wrong. But Maddy might be – oh, I don’t know. What she’s doing is different. I wanted a white wedding with bells and bridesmaids. I wanted a nice reception and a little house somewhere near, a couple of grandchildren, a normal daughter.’

‘She is normal.’

‘John, it’s a register office job. She’s marrying out and it’s not right. Sometimes, I wonder whether it’s deliberate just to hurt us.’ She bit her lip. No. Maddy’s generosity of spirit would never have allowed for so mean an action. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she whimpered. ‘I can’t argue sensibly with her because she’s cleverer than I am. What am I supposed to do?’

John knew what to do. With or without his wife, he would be at the Bolton Register Office in a few days’ time. He would witness with pride the marriage of his only child, would support her through thick and thin, would travel to see her even if she moved to the North Pole. ‘Religion’s done all this,’ he said as he patted her shoulder.

‘You sound like your daughter now.’

‘Happen I do. Have you never thought that she might be just a little bit right? I mean, look at what I’ve got laid out in my chapel now – that’s proof of a kind, isn’t it? All this argufying all over the world, all these rules and regulations from God – how do we know? Because somebody said so? Because a pope said so?’

‘Stop it,’ she begged. ‘I’m confused enough.’

‘I’m confused, too, Yvonne. I can’t pretend to keep up with our girl and neither can you, yet what she believes is so simple – it has a kind of purity – it’s clean, you see. There’s no Bible and no commandments and no sin as such.’

‘Because somebody said so? Because our Maddy said so? How do we know? Is she from God and was Jesus not from God?’

He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything any more. A Catholic to the core, John Horrocks had been so shaken by recent events that his very soul seemed to ache. And it wasn’t just recent events, because since childhood, Maddy had questioned the ‘rightness’ of this and that, of state law, of religious edicts, of governments and kings. ‘Leave it, Yvonne,’ he begged wearily. ‘I’ve yon fellow to shift tomorrow and it could well be just me and a couple of the old folk.’

‘I won’t be there,’ she told him.

‘I know.’

‘Nor will Maddy, nor will poor Amy. He goes out with a whimper, eh? I bet there won’t be a single flower.’

‘And very few mourners.’ John left her to cry out her grief. In the small hallway that separated beauty salon from funeral parlour, he leaned against the wall and listened to the sounds of his daughter’s imminent exit. What she was doing broke every rule in just about every book, yet he found himself smiling. Maddy’s destiny had been mapped out years ago, because she had arrived in this world to change it. The changes she was making would not echo down the centuries, would not leave fossilized footprints in soil and rock, would break down no huge barriers, yet they would stand as Maddy’s own memorial.

‘You’re doing the right thing, girl,’ he told the ceiling above his head. ‘Follow the dream and be true to your heart.’ Then he turned left and entered the chapel of rest. There was a lid to be screwed down, there were flowers to be refreshed. Come what may, the business would carry on in its usual way. Yet he felt nothing but hatred for the man in the coffin and that made him uneasy. The dead should always command respect, no matter what …

Sometimes, the ‘what’ was too much. Sometimes, there was no forgiveness.

It was a beautiful suit, well tailored and in a shade of ivory that was more flattering than white. White was a cold colour, empty, devoid of feeling. Maddy hooked the hanger onto her picture rail, then sat on the narrow bed. This had been her domain for ever. She could not imagine life without this small space of her own, without the pictures on the walls, without the scarred furniture.

Her dolls sat in a row on a shelf, each one worn and slightly tattered by loving attention. Photographs of herself with her parents, with Amy and with various other friends were dotted about the room, as were awards for swimming and life-saving. The view from her window was spectacular, leading the eye out of Rivington Cross and towards Rivington itself with its beautiful, lush hill topped off by the famous pike. It was heaven.

But there was more than one heaven. London, a different kind of paradise, bustling with life and commerce, was beckoning. She would be living with her soon-to-be husband in the top half of a tall, narrow house with a walled rear garden terminated by a railway embankment. She would be teaching at a school near Spitalfields and would need to become inured to crushes on buses and tube trains. There would be street markets, buskers in the Underground, museums, theatres, the Palace of Westminster just a few miles along the road. The Tate, the Natural History Museum, the Victoria and Albert, dinner cruises on the Thames, wonderful shops. Well – eventually. For a few years, there would be little money for excitement.

Maddy’s eyes rested on a picture of Monty. The tears welled and she blinked them away angrily. Yes, he had been a wonderful dog and yes, there had been some wonderful times, but life had to move on into the next phase and she must stop looking back, must stop gazing at the pike and the cross and the post office. The cross was so old that metal railings had been built round it to protect it from dogs like Monty, from children like herself and her precious companions. And Monty had died a hero’s death, had lived a hero’s life. If there was an afterwards, a place where the dead gathered, Monty would be there, because there could be no sense without animals.

In London, she would keep a cat. London was not the place for dogs. Behind closed eyelids, she saw the ridiculous Monty streaking his way up the hill towards Rivington Pike, black-and-white spotted legs moving like pistons, feathered tail curled, black ears flattened against a narrow head. The runt of a litter, Monty had never seemed to grow to full size, but his courage had been enormous. Everyone died, she told herself firmly. The one inescapable fact of life was that every man, woman and child would finish up in the hands of her father or of someone like him. It was the same for animals and she had to look ahead, should wear blinkers.

Yes, it was a wonderful outfit. The man she loved, the person in whom she had placed all her faith, would soon stand next to her in a dark suit and a crisp new shirt. They would make promises, exchange rings, then take a coach to Victoria Station. Perhaps few people would come to the ceremony, but that didn’t matter. If Madeleine Horrocks wanted to count her blessings, the love of her life would come right at the top of her list. Nothing and nobody would divert them from their course. She would teach English, history and RE; he would teach mathematics and the sciences. Their furniture would be shabby and second-hand, but their love would stay as fresh and as young as if it were newly discovered with the birth of each dawn.

‘I will be all right. Everything will be all right,’ she told herself as she rocked back and forth, a pillow clutched to her chest. There came times in life for reflection, when it seemed natural to do a census, a taking of stock, and this was one of those times. The horror, the nastiness, the fear – these were all part and parcel of her life and of the lives of those around her, but she would not concentrate on those aspects just now.

She curled into a position that was almost foetal, the pillow still held tightly in her arms. Turning to face a wall of buttercup yellow, she allowed her mind to skip back through the lanes and hedgerows of childhood, up hills, down dales and right to the edge of the reservoir. In her mind, she entered the bell house with its makeshift seating formed by orange boxes and beer crates, with the waxy, smoky smell created by the burning of stolen church candles; could almost taste the sticky toffee and jam tarts pooled by the members of her gang.

They had been not the Famous Five, but the Famous Six plus dog, and their adventures would not have made stories pretty enough for the fans of Enid Blyton. She grinned to herself. ‘We were more like William Brown and his motley crew, seldom clean, always naughty.’ And a small part of her wished that those days would come back just for a little while, that she might re-enter the innocence of childhood and relive the joy of discovery of such valued companions. Amy had always been there, but the others had arrived in stages, each one of them special, each one of them valuable. One of them was now her fiancé. The engagement had raised eyebrows and tempers, but they had stuck steadfastly to their plan and nothing on earth would divert them now.

Her eyelids grew heavy and she entered sleep gratefully. Now, she could relive all of it, but it would not be real. Tomorrow was the only reality.

1951

Across the road from Hair By Yvonne and Horrocks Funerals, a woman gazed out of a front window of St Faith’s Vicarage. Her twins, Sarah and Simon, were outside somewhere, were probably engaged in a conversation that excluded all others. Since birth, they had performed as a single unit, complete in themselves, settled – almost adult. They did not need her.

Derek needed her. He valued her, made her laugh, made her a young woman again.

In the church, her husband would be supervising some ongoings – flowers, orders of service, plans for the choir. He sermonized. He bored people. He was a good man and he did not need her. He was safe, predictable, gentle, generous and stodgy. No, he did not need her – he had Jesus.

Derek needed her. There was a hint of danger, an excitement, a promise of new territory, a fresh beginning. Caroline Butler saw beyond the slight lisp and the moustache; she saw a man who needed love and passion. She saw her future, picked up her cases and followed her instincts.

From today, her life would begin.

ONE

Madeleine Horrocks was renowned for two things.

Her parents ran a pair of businesses judged by locals a ‘queer combination’ and Madeleine herself was far too pretty and outspoken for a good Catholic girl with a grammar school scholarship under her belt. She took little notice of people’s opinions, was usually sunny, especially when arguing with an adult, and she made no bones about her ambitions. She was going to be a famous actress, or a famous writer, or a famous something-or-other. The something-or-other changed with the wind and she wasn’t particular as long as the word ‘famous’ could be woven into her personal tapestry.

Amy Bradshaw, as dark as Madeleine was fair, was a total contrast to her special friend. Quiet by nature, made quieter by parents who had had no business producing a child so late in life, Amy was a dependable sort. She, too, had won a scholarship to the Catholic grammar school and she would be accompanying Madeleine on two buses, one into Bolton, the other up Deane Road to the convent of St Anne’s, where, under the rather less than gentle guidance of Cross and Passion nuns, she would be educated towards teaching, law or some other respectable profession.

It was the last day of school. The two friends stood side by side outside the gates of the Holy Martyrs’ Infant and Junior School, each of them blinking back a few tears.

‘It’s a bit like dying,’ said Amy, ‘as if that part of us has passed on. In July 1951, we stopped being the people we were.’

Madeleine, too, was upset, though she hid it well, as was her wont. ‘Well, I’m not ready for my dad yet, are you?’

‘No,’ replied Amy, ‘but what I mean is, we die in bits. Chunks. We can never go back in there, because Amy Bradshaw and Madeleine Horrocks are not on the register any more.’ She glanced sideways at her companion. ‘On our notes at the doctor’s, there is a space at the top called “date of death”.’

‘Start worrying when they fill it in,’ said Maddy. ‘We’re only eleven.’ Not for the first time, she added, ‘Amy, you read too much of what your mother tells you to read.’

‘Jinny Anderson died when she was twelve,’ replied Amy. ‘Mam was there when they filled that space in. She said it was like looking into hell, because nothing can be worse than a child dying of cancer. Even the doctor cried.’

Maddy shook her head, causing blond curls to tumble into her eyes. She swept them back with a careless movement. ‘Your mother and my dad have very sad jobs. She sees people sick and my dad sees them dead – and we have to make the best of things. That’s what my mother says, anyway.’

Maddy’s mother, the local hairdresser, saw and heard a great deal. In fact, between the four of them, the Bradshaw and Horrocks parents knew just about everything connected to their village. John Horrocks was the undertaker, his wife was the local stylist, while Amy’s mother and father worked for the doctor and the post office respectively.

The two girls turned their back on infancy and walked away from the school gates. They passed St Faith’s, the local Church of England, and noticed the boy. He was there every day at this time. Perched on top of the ancient stone wall, he sat for hours on end, his heels beating a rhythm against the sandstone blocks. Even darker than Amy, he wore an air of mystery, because his family had come from abroad and the circumstances which had brought his parents and grandmother to England were unusual, to put it mildly.

‘What about his shoes?’ Amy asked. ‘My mother would kill me if I did that. He must spoil them.’

Maddy shrugged. ‘Well, he’s lucky to be alive. They escaped from somewhere just before the war started. I suppose they’re not bothered about shoes. Anyway, my mother says they have loads of money.’

Amy slowed down and placed her hand on Maddy’s arm. ‘Stop a minute. They’re not Germans, are they?’

‘Polish. Warsaw, I think,’ replied Maddy. ‘And Jewish.’

Amy sighed. ‘They killed Jesus, didn’t they?’

Madeleine, an avid reader herself, had formed her own views on that subject. ‘The Romans had a lot to do with it. And Rome is where the pope is, so even Catholics aren’t all that clean. Anyway, Jesus had to die. My dad said it was written into His contract.’ She frowned. In religious education, she and her classmates had been taught about free will, that special God-given treasure visited upon mankind and only upon mankind. If Pontius Pilate and Herod had decided not to kill Jesus, then what might have happened? And if Jesus had really been sent by the Father to die, wouldn’t that have involved the influence of God to a point where free will became meaningless?

‘Maddy?’

‘What?’

‘The Jews are condemned to wander the face of the earth,’ whispered Amy. ‘It’s in the Bible.’ Amy’s parents were devout Catholics. With their own hearts hardened against the Jews, they had instilled in their daughter the belief that Catholicism was the only route to heaven. ‘They can never be forgiven.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Maddy marched on. She owned her thoughts, yet the language in which she might express herself often evaded her. Sometimes, though, she lost patience with Amy. Amy listened too much, took notice of everything she was told, had been forced by her family into a straitjacket within a religion that was already rigid. He was just a boy; a boy who talked posh, but just another young male person. Before she reached his place on the wall, Maddy crossed the road and Amy caught up with her. ‘Sorry,’ breathed Amy, ‘but it’s just that they say at home—’

‘Oh, stop it.’ Maddy placed her heavy school satchel on the ground. ‘The Jews have got their own homeland. And that boy’s family escaped from the Nazis just before the war started. Hitler killed millions of Jews – and other people as well. So, was Hitler right?’

Amy shook her head.

‘Then there’s your answer. The lad over there lost uncles and aunties – my mother said so. She said his mam and dad feel guilty because they never got gassed. They are alive, Amy, but only by the skin of their teeth. According to Mrs Shuttleworth, another ten days and they would have been goners. But they got to London and the dad worked translating stuff for the War Office. Now they’re here and you can please yourself, but I am going to make friends with him during the holidays.’ Even for Madeleine Horrocks, this had been a long speech. She picked up her bag. She should walk across there now, right this minute, but Mother was expecting her home.

Amy tagged along silently. She didn’t share Maddy’s certainty, but she believed in her friend with most of her heart. Maddy made life interesting; she didn’t moan and groan when she couldn’t have something, never complained when she had to sweep up hair in the shop, when she was asked to sort out flowers for the hospital after a funeral. Useful, was the word for Maddy. But beyond that, she was imaginative and unafraid.

They reached the long frontage across Horrocks Funerals and Hair By Yvonne. Some folk went to town for hairdressing, because it was common knowledge that Yvonne Horrocks did the hair of dead people. Maddy had the answer to that one, too. When questioned, she would answer quite haughtily, ‘There is no better hairdresser than my mother and yes, she tidies up dead people. She says it is a privilege, because it’s the last thing that can be done for a person in this world and it pleases the relatives.’

The two girls entered the salon. As it was Friday, the interior was crammed with women who were ‘doing themselves up’ for the weekend.

Yvonne almost cheered when she saw her daughter and Amy. ‘One of you get the sweeping brush and the other can put the kettle on – my stomach thinks my throat’s cut, and thirsty? I’ve a tongue like the bottom of a birdcage.’

Cheerfully, Maddy got the dustpan and broom while Amy made tea. Maddy enjoyed every moment in her mother’s shop. She learned more in here than from any teacher, because, as Mother said, the hairdresser was a bit like the confessional. Something happened to a woman when her crowning glory was wet. It was as if dignity went down the drain with shampoo and conditioning oils, because confidences poured as freely as tap water in Hair By Yvonne.

Mildred Cookson was speaking. ‘It wouldn’t be so bad for somebody normal, but with her being a vicar’s wife …’ She raised thin shoulders. ‘Can you do me a couple of kiss curls near my ears, Yvonne? Put some setting lotion on. Anyway, she upped and left without so much as a by-your-leave.’

To make herself less noticeable, Maddy got down on her knees to retrieve some long strands of dark brown hair from beneath one of the dressing tables.

‘She had her hair done in town.’ Yvonne’s words had to struggle past a few hairgrips clasped between her teeth. ‘Round here was never good enough for her. It’s the kiddies I feel for. I mean, he’s a grown man and he can fend for himself, but the young ones have done nothing to deserve it.’

This was interesting, thought Maddy. A woman of what some might term loose morals had been married to the vicar of St Faith’s. Vicars’ wives were meant to be all nice cardigans and sensible shoes, good at flower arranging and visiting the sick, but it sounded as if Mrs Butler had been another type of person altogether, one who was certainly unsuited to marriage with a man of the cloth.

Mrs Cookson, kiss curls plastered to her cheeks with setting lotion and steel slides, carried on with her tale. ‘Seems he came back from a meeting with the organist and there she was – gone. They say she never even left a note. Even took the dog with her. And them kiddies loved that dog. It’s a shame and no mistake. You’d best put me another colour rinse on next week, Yvonne – I think we need to tone me down a bit.’

Hilda Barnes awarded Mildred Cookson a withering glance. Mildred Cookson had bleached hair and wasn’t worth much in Hilda Barnes’s book. Hilda sniffed, then chipped in with her tenpennyworth. ‘He’s boring,’ she pronounced. Nobody ever disagreed with Hilda Barnes. She was old and her husband was on the Town Council, so what she said went. ‘You wouldn’t need sleeping pills.’ She patted the net that contained her newly corrugated hair. ‘Just sit through one of his sermons and you could sleep from Boxing Day till Pancake Tuesday. Sermon on the Mount? He’d be better off on the mount, because the sheep might listen to him up yon.’

Maddy wondered why Mrs Barnes bothered going to church, but she held her tongue. Crossing swords with that lady was beyond most adults, let alone a child only just out of primary school. She prayed that Amy would hang on for a while, but she came in with the tea tray and began the business of distributing cups to the congregation.

As the ladies drank, Maddy picked up a few more snippets before dragging her friend through to the living quarters. ‘Mrs Butler’s gone,’ she whispered.

Amy swallowed. ‘Is she in there?’ She jerked a thumb towards the chapel of rest. ‘How did she die?’

Maddy looked to heaven for guidance, then, with her hands on her hips, she put her friend in the picture. ‘Not that sort of gone – gone, disappeared, wandered off. And I think she left her children and took their dog. It must be terrible when your mother leaves you and takes the dog instead.’

Amy blinked and swallowed a lump of guilt. A part of Amy Bradshaw envied the Butler children and she hated herself for it. Mam and Dad were strict, but they stayed, at least. She didn’t wish they would go away – not really. ‘Where’s she gone?’ she managed finally.

Maddy shrugged. ‘No idea – but the salon’s full of it. They say he’s boring. That’s one thing you could never call old Fire-and-Brimstone Sheahan, eh?’ Father Sheahan, parish priest of Holy Martyrs – which church was known to infidels as Holy Tomatoes – was a man of unpredictable temperament. His mood swings were directly connected to the collection platters – if there was enough for a couple of bottles of Irish whiskey, he was calmer; but when the support of his habit was poorly upheld, every non-contributor was silently allocated eternal hell and several decades of the rosary. ‘I can’t stand him,’ was Maddy’s final pronouncement.

Amy did not quite shake in her shoes. Inured at last to her friend’s tendency to undermine the priest, she simply made no reply. As Mam and Dad had explained many times, a priest was just a man and he had his own sins to tell. Judge not lest ye be judged’, was one of Celia Bradshaw’s oft-spoken rules. Which was strange, because Celia had plenty to say about other folk and was judgemental on all issues from the price of cod to the king’s being a Protestant.

They drank milk and ate biscuits through Children’s Hour on the wireless. This was Amy’s second home, as her mother would be working at the doctor’s and her dad, who had to rise at an ungodly hour each morning, needed his nap in the afternoons. She loved being in Maddy’s house, though she needed to work hard not to worry about those dead bodies just a few feet away. In Maddy’s house, there were proper conversations; there were jokes, there was laughter, there was fun. According to Celia Bradshaw, Maddy Horrocks had an old head on her shoulders because she heard too much. Amy, on the other hand, heard very little in her own house.

‘I wonder what will happen to them?’ pondered Maddy.

‘Who?’

‘The vicar’s children. Who’ll make their dinners?’ She immediately added the vicar’s son and daughter to her list for the holidays. Now, she had to break two lots of new ground – the Church of England and Judaism. ‘I know we’re not allowed to go inside the church without permission, but we can play with them, can’t we?’

Amy attempted no answer. Her mam had enough to say about Maddy – what would her response be if she discovered that her daughter was associating with Protestants? Oh, she didn’t dare think about that.

Maddy Horrocks motored on regardless. ‘It’s all daft,’ she announced crossly. ‘What are they frightened of? Do they think Protestantism is a disease we can catch? If we went to evensong or something, would we come out with spots and a temperature? Or do they think we might hear some sense?’ She was repeating stuff she had overheard in the salon, which was the biggest source of information for her over-active mind. ‘We should be allowed to choose,’ she concluded.

‘But we’re chosen,’ said Amy.

‘The Jews were chosen, too,’ insisted Maddy. ‘That’s in the Bible as well – the chosen ones. They were led out of Egypt and …’ she struggled to remember, ‘then Moses parted the waters and there were loads of frogs and locusts. A bush set on fire all by itself and he found the tablets. They were given to the Jews and our God is the same God as their God.’

As far as Amy was concerned, Maddy Horrocks was already fit for university. At the age of eleven years and some months, this friend of Amy’s was extraordinarily well informed. It was because of her dad, really. During quiet periods, John Horrocks was a keen reader and he imparted a great deal of information to his only child. As for local knowledge – that was all freely available within the confines of Hair By Yvonne.

‘Jesus was a Jew,’ finished Maddy.

Well, there was no arguing with that. Amy chewed thoughtfully on a gingernut biscuit. But she could never communicate these things to her own parents, because Celia and Arthur Bradshaw were frozen in a time all their own. Bernadette, their older daughter, had been forced to leave home because she had been far too broad-minded for her parents to appreciate. ‘I wish I knew what you know, Maddy. I wish I could be as … as clever.’

Maddy laughed. ‘But you are – don’t you see? You’ve just got to allow yourself to think. Stop doing as you’re told without thinking about it. I mean, you can still obey people, but you can know inside what’s right for you.’

Amy stayed silent. Her mother could see right inside Amy’s skull. She knew what everyone was going to say and she knew when a person was harbouring bad thoughts. Whilst there was not much said in the house, Celia Bradshaw watched her daughter like a hawk; one daughter gone ‘bad’ was enough for Celia. So every expression on the younger child’s face was noted, scrutinized, and probably recorded in a notebook somewhere.

‘Amy?’

‘What?’

‘Can you keep a secret?’

Could she keep a secret? She was an expert at secrets. The biggest of all Amy’s secrets was shared with no-one – not even with Maddy. ‘Of course I can keep a secret.’ Would going to the grammar school make things difficult? The big secret was hard enough now, let alone when there was homework to be done.

‘The bell house.’ Maddy’s voice registered just above the whisper mark. ‘That’s where they go, the vicar’s children. I even know the grave where they hide the key – it’s called Evelyn Partington. She died in 1802 and was a beloved mother and wife. Nobody visits her, so the key is in a gap under the urn.’ She thought about the urn. ‘She can’t have been all that bad.’

‘Who?’

‘Mrs Butler. She always put flowers in that pot. Mind, that might have been because it’s near the church and it made things look a bit more cheerful. Anyway, that’s where they keep the key.’

‘Oh.’

‘And I’ve been in.’ Maddy’s tone was trimmed with pride. ‘And I’m going in again. And I’ll be talking to them.’

Amy could see that Maddy’s journey through the summer holidays was going to be adventurous. Where Maddy led, Amy followed; had she not done so, her own life thus far would have been conspicuously lonely. ‘Then I shall come, too. But if my mother finds out …’ Amy raised thin shoulders.

‘You could meet Nettie there. It’s bound to be a lot safer than the woods.’

Amy’s jaw dropped.

‘Yes, I know you meet her on the sly. If you both went to the bell house the back way – from the woods – you would have a better chance of getting away with it. As it is, anybody chasing a rabbit might see you with Bernadette and tell your mother. Where would you be then? Locked in a bedroom with the Sacred Heart and the Book of Saints? Safer behind the closed door of the bell house, that’s what I say.’

‘How long have you known?’

It was Maddy’s turn to raise her shoulders. ‘I can’t remember. But I’ve distracted people who were not far behind you – I can tell you that for nothing. This village knows everything about everybody. If you carry on meeting your sister, your mam and dad will find out as sure as eggs. We need a plan.’

The relief was so overwhelming that Amy broke down. Tears poured through long, slender fingers as she hid her face. Maddy had been looking after her; Maddy had made sure that no-one found out about the secret meetings. And it was so wonderful to know that Maddy knew.

‘Don’t cry.’

Amy uncovered her face. ‘You’re like my mother, but nice,’ she managed finally. ‘She guesses things, but not nice things. And this would not be a nice thing for her.’

‘I know.’

Amy mopped her face with an ink-stained handkerchief. ‘I don’t even know why she threw Nettie out, but I sometimes wish I could go and live with her. She’s twenty-six now and she could look after me. And she does normal things like going to the pictures and having ice cream.’

‘I know,’ repeated Maddy.

Amy breathed a long, shuddering sigh. ‘I just want normal. To talk at the table, to play games with my mam and dad. Dad’s all right, but he’s always tired or at work. Mam’s … well … she’s … what does your dad call people like her?’

‘Fanatics. She’s fixed in her mind, and she can’t help it – it’s just how some Catholics are. I mean, look at Father Sheahan. If he thought anybody ate meat on a Friday, he would probably set the village stocks up again and we’d be throwing tomatoes and rotten apples at each other. I don’t want to feel like that. I don’t want to be a Catholic just because I’m frightened.’

‘I know.’

‘So.’ Maddy tossed the yellow curls away from her face. ‘So, I ate a slice of ham one Friday and nothing happened. I confessed it in town – just in case the Catholics are right – and I never got struck down dead. Because it’s all a load of rubbish.’

There was a pause before Amy answered. ‘If it’s a load of rubbish, why did you confess?’

Maddy laughed. ‘Because I am frightened. Because they frighten all of us. And God shouldn’t be about being frightened. God should be like a good friend, somebody you can talk to when things get hard. He shouldn’t be a threat, Amy. I’m fed up. I wanted to go to Bolton School, because they do more science there, but even my mam and dad wouldn’t allow that. It’s as if Rome would choke them.’

Amy nodded and returned the handkerchief to her gymslip pocket. Maddy was right. Children had been caned for not learning catechism, for missing Mass, for getting the words to a hymn wrong. Father Sheahan kept well in with the richer people among his congregation, often neglecting those who were in real need of help and advice. There was something radically wrong with Catholicism, but two eleven-year-old girls weren’t going to get to the bottom of it.

‘Is your Nettie still a Catholic?’

‘Is she heck,’ answered Amy. ‘She was a Methodist for a bit, then she started going to one of those spiritualist places where they talk to the dead. I couldn’t do that.’

‘My dad does.’ Maddy had often heard John Horrocks talking as he laid out friends and neighbours. Sometimes, there was a break in his words and Maddy had heard him weeping on more than one occasion. He would tell them they had been too young, that they should have drunk less beer, that he had enjoyed their company. Then Maddy’s mother would go in to do hair, nails and make-up just to make the bodies look nice for that one last time.

‘Have you ever seen one of the dead people?’ Amy asked.

Maddy nodded. ‘I’m not supposed to go in and I suppose that’s why I did. It was a lady and she looked beautiful. It was as if she was asleep. It’s not frightening at all. Dad says a body is the house a person lived in, no more.’

‘So what about ghosts?’ Amy bit down on a nail.

‘Stop chewing your fingers,’ ordered Maddy, ‘and there are no ghosts. Not here, anyway …’

‘I hope not.’ Amy shuddered.

A mischievous moment visited Maddy. ‘I don’t know about the bell house, though. It’s creepy.’

Amy swallowed audibly. She had heard tales about the little building and she didn’t want to hear any more. ‘I’d better go,’ she said after a short pause. ‘Mam likes the kettle on when she gets back from the surgery. And Dad might be awake now.’

Maddy could not share her friend’s fear. Even if there were ghosts, what could they do? With no arms and legs, with no substance whatsoever – how could they hurt a living being? Death was a matter-of-fact business in the Horrocks household – Dad had even been heard to say that death was his livelihood – so perhaps that was the reason for Maddy’s simple acceptance of the fact that life ended, that the spirit left its shell and … And what? What did she believe?

‘Maddy?’

She looked into the thin, worried face and decided to keep her thoughts to herself. Because Maddy wanted the end to be the end; she required neither heaven nor hell, did not want eternity, not in flame, not in everlasting light, either. It should be quicker than that, simpler than that – and she did not understand herself. What she was thinking and hoping was probably a sacrilege, a sin so mortal that it could never be cleansed …

But. If there was no God, there was no sacrilege and—

‘Maddy? I’m going.’

‘All right.’

Maddy sat and stared into an empty grate. To whom should a child pray when the prayer was, ‘Let there be no God’? To whom could a child speak about doubts and fears such as these? She was alone. She was one apart, a creature who belonged nowhere and with no congregation. ‘I think it’s called an atheist,’ she told the fireplace. ‘But there’s another word – ag-something-or-other. It’s for people who aren’t sure.’ Then she went to find a dictionary, because she needed to be sure of her words, even if she could not manage to be certain about eternal life.

They always died in the middle of the night. Why couldn’t they pass on during daylight hours? Father Michael Sheahan was no longer a young man and he needed his rest. The whiskey helped him sleep, but even half a tumbler of Irish would not have seen him through repeated door-banging such as this.

He dragged himself out of bed, wished he could have kept a resident housekeeper, someone who might judge the severity of a situation and, on occasion, leave the master of the house undisturbed. But his help went home every evening and, with no curate, the whole parish looked to him when the reaper called.

Staggering from bed to chair, he dragged on some trousers and a shirt, throwing a cassock over his untidiness before descending the stairs. It was all but four in the morning, an ungodly hour for such disturbance.

When he opened the door, he stopped breathing for a second, then tried to push the door closed again. But she was quick; she had always been quick in both mind and body and he was no longer a match for her. Also, she was holding something in one hand, was digging it into his ribs – a piece of weaponry, no doubt.

‘Sit,’ she snapped.

He sat, eyes narrowing against the light when she switched on the central chandelier. ‘What do you want?’ he whispered.

‘You,’ she replied. She noticed how old he was, that his breathing was laboured. ‘Just you. I have come to see you on your way and to cheer you along.’ She leaned against the closed door. ‘Satan is waiting for you. For such a loyal servant, he will have kept a special place. I bet you will have a cell all to yourself – with plenty of heating, of course.’

She could not be in her right mind. The presbytery was over fifty yards away from the next house, but surely the shot would be heard? She was levelling a gun at his chest. ‘No use going for your heart, as you have none.’ Her tone was conversational – she might have been discussing the weather or prices down at the local Co-op stores. ‘Years I’ve waited for the courage to do this. Years and years and more years. How many little girls have you meddled with, eh?’

He gulped again. ‘None,’ he managed. ‘I prayed – I got help from God and from the saints.’

Her laughter was chilling. ‘So I was the only one?’

The priest nodded. ‘I swear it.’

‘But can you prove it?’

‘No, but who could?’

She walked towards him. ‘Don’t move, bastard priest. Don’t even breathe. There can be no punishment fierce enough for you and your kind. And even if it was just me – if I have been the chosen one – isn’t that evil enough? Did you confess?’

He nodded.

‘Who heard you?’

‘Father Flanagan at St Patrick’s.’