‘Well, I’m blowed,’ Dot had said. ‘I never would have thought it. Still, if he’s a pal of Uncle Rupe’s then I s’pose that accounts for it.’
‘I dunno as they’re pals exactly,’ Aunt Myrtle had said, giving the newspaper parcel an affectionate pat. ‘Rupe’s working for him after he finishes in the factory.’
‘Oh? What does he do?’ Dot had asked, as the two turned towards Lavender Court.
‘He does a deal o’ heavy lifting, taking stuff from the back room into the shop,’ Aunt Myrtle had said, ‘and he goes wi’ Mr Rathbone in the van, to fetch carcasses from the slaughterhouse in St Andrews Street. It’s heavy work, but reg’lar, and he gets a fair wage, he says.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Dot had said vaguely. She could not have cared less what her uncle did for Mr Rathbone so long as she, herself, was never expected to visit the butcher’s shop; and it looked as though she was not going to be asked to beard Mr Rathbone in his den after all. Feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, Dot turned her mind to Sunday dinner. Aunt Myrtle was not a good or inventive cook but she did know how to do a Sunday roast; and Dot’s mouth watered at the thought of a big joint of roast pork, with apple sauce on the side and lots of crispy roast potatoes.
But right now, perhaps because her worry about shopping at Rathbone’s had been lifted, Dot was wandering, idly, in the direction of the churchyard. It had been several weeks since she had last visited her little friend Rhiannon, and so long as she did not behave suspiciously, there was no reason why she should not do so now. After all, she had played in the churchyard long before the burglary, so no one would think it suspicious if she continued to do so, provided she did not show too marked an interest in little Rhiannon’s grave.
It was a sunny August day and the streets were full of children like herself, enjoying the freedom of the school holidays yet not quite knowing how best to employ their time. Normally, Dot would have been with Fizz, but he had gone off to visit an uncle who ran a gentlemen’s outfitters in Southport and gave Fizz a holiday by the sea in exchange for working as a delivery boy, whilst the young fellow who usually did the job took his own holiday. So here was Dot, carefully kicking a round pebble along the pavement, to the annoyance of passers-by, and wishing that she had had the forethought to get some bread and jam from Aunt Myrtle’s pantry before she left home, or to visit the vegetable market on Cazneau Street to see if she might nick some fades. It was not that she was hungry, exactly, but shoved down the front of her faded cotton dress was an old copy of the
Sunbeam
comic paper and Dot belonged to the school of thought which believed that reading and eating go together.
However, she continued on her way. It would be nice and cool in the churchyard, she told herself, and she could lie on the grass beneath the old yew tree which flourished in one corner, read her comic and perhaps even take a quick look at the little grave to make sure that it had not been disturbed. Not that she had the slightest fear of this happening, she reminded herself. Indeed, it was quite difficult to pick out the tiny gravestone now that the grass had grown so high but, nevertheless, she did like to check. Also, if she were honest with herself, she had been consumed with longing for some while now to take another look at the necklace. The trouble was, she had only seen it once, on the day she’d first buried it, and that had been at night. It had not been possible to see the beautiful green colour of the stones and Dot felt obscurely cheated. She had risked a great deal for that necklace, yet the only time she dared disinter it would be at night, when she could not see its beauty properly.
But it was no good repining and presently she reached the churchyard, climbed the crumbling wall and glanced around her, giving a small sigh of satisfaction as she did so because for her this was an enchanted spot. The churchyard was old and neglected and had run completely wild. Flowers which you never saw in the parks and gardens of the city flourished here, and last summer Dot had decided that she would discover what each bloom was called and write it down in a notebook. There was a nature book in school and this was some help, but she soon realised that she would need something more detailed in order to list all the wild and wonderful flowers which grew there.
To make such a list had been a good idea but she had been unable to find a notebook or an old exercise book in which to begin, so somehow the project had come to nothing. But now, settling herself comfortably in the long grass, with her back against
Agnes, beloved wife of James and mother of Algernon, Philip and Susanna, who departed this life on 17 August 1779: Rest in Peace
, Dot decided that she really must have another go. It would please her teacher, Miss Spellman, and it would give her a good excuse for visiting the churchyard whenever she felt like it. Next time someone pays me a penny for doin’ their messages, I’ll spend it on a notebook and then I can start, Dot told herself, fishing the
Sunbeam
out of the bosom of her dress and flattening it out against her knees. As she did so, she glanced cautiously around her. The churchyard wall was not particularly high but trees grew close against it, and though a good many people passed along the pavement Dot had noticed before that they never so much as glanced towards the churchyard. Probably most of them did not even know it was there. It was strange that children did not frequent such a marvellous playground, but a couple of years earlier, when she had brought Phyllis with her and proposed a game of hide and seek, her friend had been both shocked and horrified. ‘Don’t you know there’s a murderer what’s buried in that churchyard? I thought all the kids knowed that,’ Phyllis had told her. ‘They say he comes alive and so do all the little kids he murdered, and they wail round the churchyard and in and out of the ruined church. I wouldn’t play there for a hundred pound, honest to God I wouldn’t.’
‘But – but not in the daytime, surely?’ Dot had said. ‘I’ve been here often and often an’ I’ve never seen no one – unless you count the odd cat, mousing among the ruins, and the birds an’ squirrels.’
‘Well, it ain’t only the ghosts; my mum says there’s subsi – subsi . . . I can’t remember the name of it, but it’s when the earth sorts of falls away, leavin’ great gaping holes. She says that’s why the church were abandoned, years ago, an’ that’s why no one goes there any more.’ She had looked at Dot with round-eyed distress. ‘We mustn’t play there, Dotty. The church could fall right down any day, crushin’ you flat, or the earth might swallow you up.’
Even then, Dot had been so familiar with the churchyard that she could have poured scorn on Phyllis’s fears, but she had not done so. If fear of ghosts and the ruined building kept kids away from this delectable spot, then who was she to say it was all lies and risk her favourite playground being overrun? So she had meekly agreed not to suggest playing there again and instead she and Phyllis had trekked down to the canal and sat on the bank, paddling their feet in the water and watching the boys swimming and splashing in the Scaldy.
Naturally, after Phyllis’s revelations, Dot had scoured the churchyard for signs of the subsidence which Phyllis had mentioned and had found nothing. To be sure, some of the older graves had caved in and others were lopsided, but it was easy to see that this had happened many years ago and was no longer a threat. The ruined church was another matter; ivy-clad and sinister, the great sandstone blocks still standing did look dangerous and common sense had kept Dot well clear of the building, despite knowing nothing of its ghostly reputation. So she had continued to enjoy what she now thought of as her own private place and had never even brought Fizz here, because he was such a gossip and would undoubtedly tell everyone in his class – everyone in his school, probably – that the churchyard was an excellent place to play, which would completely ruin it so far as Dot was concerned.
Now, having glanced carefully around her, Dot pushed the comic paper back into her dress and set off in the direction of Rhiannon’s little grave. The birds seemed to be kicking up more of a din than usual and she supposed that there was a cat somewhere about, but when she reached the shade under the yew she received a considerable shock. Sitting cross-legged beside the little grave was a small girl. She wore a crisp, pink dress, with a matching pink ribbon tying her abundant brown curls back from her face, and she was carefully setting out the contents of a small box on the flattened grass before the little tombstone. As she did so, she was chatting cheerfully away in a high, clear little voice and Dot crouched almost double before she crept slowly forward, hoping that the child’s companion was not a grown-up who might ask awkward questions.
‘One for you, one for me, and three for the little ghosts,’ the small child was saying. As she spoke, she was arranging what Dot recognised as a doll’s tea service on the grass. Dot caught her breath; it was the sort of thing she had seen in the windows of expensive toy shops, but had never actually handled. This was one very lucky little girl! Dot suddenly realised that the child had no companions, except imaginary ones, with whom she was playing tea parties, for she had picked some of the wild flowers and was placing a few blossoms in each small cup and plate. Presently, the child sat back on her heels and picked up the nearest cup, pretending to drink from it.
Dot must have made some movement at this point for the child jumped, then turned round. Seeing Dot, she smiled a welcome, though Dot could not help noticing that she looked a trifle anxious. She held out one of the cups, upon which reposed a poppy and a cornflower. ‘Hello,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Have you come to my tea party? Are you a ghost? I met a girl in the street who told me not to play in the churchyard or the ghosts would get me, but you’re the only person I’ve see’d. And you don’t look much like a ghost to me.’
‘Well, I’m not – a ghost, I mean,’ Dot said, gravely taking the delicate little cup and sitting down beside the small girl. ‘Are you all by yourself? I heard you talking as I came up, but I couldn’t see anyone else.’
The little girl stared at her, her eyes rounding. ‘Course I’m not by myself,’ she said indignantly. ‘I never go anywhere without my friend Marietta. Can’t you see her? She’s got long golden hair, done in two plaits just like yours, and she’s wearing a pink party dress and pink ballet slippers. She’s sitting right opposite me and she’s smiling at you, so you’d better say hello,’ she finished.
‘Hello, Marietta, how very nice to meet you,’ Dot said seriously. She turned to the little girl. ‘Actually, I can’t see Marietta, because you’re the only one who can do that. But I know she’s there because when I was little, like you, I had a best friend no one else could see. Her name was Jennifer Jane and I really loved her.’
The little girl beamed at her. ‘Jennifer Jane’s a lovely name, but then so is Marietta,’ she said. ‘What’s your name? I’m Sadie O’Brien, and I’m five, and me and Marietta are running away from home because Nanny was cross. Marietta chalked on the new wallpaper in the dining room, so we got sent up to bed, only we sneaked out when no one was looking, with the tea set in its little case, and just ran off.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Dot said slowly. ‘But your nanny will be ever so worried, Sadie, and you won’t want to be here when it gets dark, just in case.’
‘Oh, I shall go home at teatime,’ Sadie said airily. ‘Auntie Ethel and my cousin Lucy are coming to tea so there’ll be red salmon and a great big salad, thin bread and butter and hard-boiled eggs cut in half. And afterwards, there’ll be a sherry trifle for the grown-ups and red jelly for me and Marietta – and Lucy, of course.’
‘Oh!’ Dot said enviously. Red salmon was a luxury she had not even tasted. She had guessed, from Sadie’s clothing and the doll’s tea service, that Sadie had well-to-do parents; now she was sure of it. Dot’s own feet were bare but Sadie wore short white socks and brown leather sandals on her feet, which proved that her parents were rich, for it was summertime and all the children Dot knew either went barefoot or wore shabby plimsolls in the school holidays. She looked, speculatively, at her small companion. ‘Do you live near here? I’ve had quite a walk, but my legs are longer than yours.’
‘I live at number four Shaw Street,’ the little girl said glibly. ‘What’s
your
name and where do
you
live?’
‘Oh, I live off Heyworth Street and me name’s Dolly,’ Dot said, with equal glibness. This little girl was a right tartar, probably her mammy’s spoilt darling. Dot could just imagine her turning up in Lavender Court and telling everyone, including Aunt Myrtle and the cousins, that she had met Dot in the disused old churchyard, where they had played tea parties together. It seemed that she did not need to worry, however.
‘Heyworth Street? Well, I don’t know it but then I don’t look up at street names when my mummy takes me shopping, ’cos I’m too busy looking in the windows,’ Sadie said. ‘I’ve got a tricycle – do you have a tricycle? – but I’m not allowed to ride it in the street until I’m six, but even then I ’spect Mummy will say “we’ll see”. My daddy’s captain of a big huge ship though, and when he’s home he takes me to the park – he carries my tricycle all the way, imagine that – and I ride and ride and ride, and tinkle my bell and have a grand time.’
Really rich people, Dot thought, awed, whilst replying that she did not have a tricycle but hoped to possess a bicycle one day. If Sadie was telling the truth and her father really was captain of a big liner, then she was a very lucky little girl indeed and Dot need feel no scruple about discouraging her from playing in the churchyard. She began at once, telling Sadie impressively that this really was a dangerous place, that the ground was undermined by old graves and could cave in any minute and that she, Dot, meant to find somewhere safer to play in future.