his fence, watching the proceedings with intense interest. Then the church clock struck six and he stood upright, straightened his cap, and stared up the road. But someone was coming towards them; he suddenly put his hands back in his pockets and slouched against the fence, watching.
They saw the little figure creeping along, a small brown person enveloped in a dingy raincoat and carrying shopping. One hand held a plastic carrier with celery sticking out of the top, the other clutched the handles of an old-fashioned carpet bag.
“Hello, Rose,” the boy called out. She stopped and looked up. Her hair was tucked out of sight inside a brown knitted pixie-hood that buttoned under her chin, and they saw a small oval face, smooth and freckled like an egg. It was hard to work out how old she was; she might have been twenty, thirty, or anything in between. “Want me to carry your bags then?” the boy hollered, and stepped forward.
“No. . . no. . .” Rose stammered. The sad little face didn’t look anxious any more, it looked terrified. She started to run, but just outside Elphins the road was still cobbled and the ancient stones were loose and dangerous. Rose tripped and fell flat on her face. She clung grimly on to the carpet bag but the carrier landed on the cobbles. “Me eggs,” she whimpered. “All me eggs. Fresh today an’ all.”
As the sticky yellow mess oozed out on to the road she started to cry. The boy by the fence laughed loudly. “That’s typical of you, Rose Salt,” he sneered. “You can’t even carry a bit of shopping home. Cheshire born and Cheshire bred, Strong in th’arm and weak in th’ead. That’s you.” And he set off, up the street. Rose, still spreadeagled on the stones, sobbed harder than ever.
The two children were so taken aback they just stood by the car, goggling, but Rose’s wails had brought Molly out of the house. “It doesn’t matter at all, dear,” she said gently, helping Rose to her feet. “It wasn’t your fault. Come on in now, our visitors have arrived. And I saw you’d got tea ready, now that was clever of you, dear.” Then she called up the street in a very different voice. “As for you, Sid Edge, you’re Cheshire born too you know, just in case you’d forgotten. Thick as a brick, like all the Edge family,” she whispered to the two children, steering the sniffling Rose up the garden path.
“Who is Rose Salt?” Colin asked Oliver, when they were getting ready for bed.
“I don’t know. My father never mentioned her. I didn’t know she lived with Molly.”
“I think she’s a bit weird.” Colin was jumping up and down as he pulled his pyjamas on. “This place is freezing. Do you think Molly would mind if I filled my hot-water bottle?”
“Why should she?” Oliver was putting a pair of thick red socks on, to wear in bed. “She’s not the touchy type, you know.”
“No, she’s nice. But what about Rose, Oll? She gives me the creeps. And why does she wear that funny hat all the time? Do you. . . do you think she’s bald?”
The two boys collapsed into giggles, then Oliver pulled himself together sharply. His mother wouldn’t approve of that kind of joke, she was rather religious. “I don’t know. She’s definitely a bit odd. Perhaps she’s the village idiot,” he said slowly.
“Oliver, what a thing to say.”
“Well you said she was creepy,” he said huffily, tucking a scarf round his neck and climbing into bed.
Prill couldn’t get to sleep because of the cold. If this house didn’t warm up soon she’d spend the whole holiday in the kitchen. It had an open fire, and she quite fancied sleeping down there tonight, with Jessie. Colin’s stuff had been in the top half of the trunk. He’d unpacked, then dragged it along the creaking corridor to her room. There was something in the bottom that she hadn’t wanted anyone to see, and she was clutching it now, an old French doll called Amy.
Amy was the most precious thing Prill had. Her grandmother had given it to her on her tenth birthday. It was an heirloom, brought back from World War One by Grandad Blakeman’s father. Prill was too old for teddies and stuffed toys, and this doll usually sat on the shelf at home, above her bed. There was nothing cuddly about Amy, with her disapproving porcelain face, her frilled dress and her real leather shoes.
But she smelt of home, and Prill needed something to remind her of Mum, Dad and Alison. She’d only once been separated from them all before, and it was only for a day or so. She knew she wasn’t going to enjoy this holiday very much, and she didn’t like this cold, dark house either.
Much later, when someone crept into her room, Prill was still awake, though Stang church clock had already struck midnight. When she heard the door open she half closed her eyes and took deep, regular breaths, though her heart was thumping, and she peeped at the figure hovering near the bed.
It was Rose Salt, still in her pixie-hood, but now wearing a long yellow nightie. She stretched out a little brown hand and touched the doll’s blue frills, then ran a finger over the painted face. A tiny sound escaped from her lips. “Ah. . . Ah. . .” she was sighing, tenderly. But at that moment Prill turned over quite violently in the bed, closed her eyes properly, and clutched the little French doll much tighter.
Molly Bover was a great leaver of messages. Colin came down first next morning and found the kitchen table covered with little notes. One: She’d gone off at seven, with the poodles, and taken a carload of pots to a craft fair near Chester. Two: She would drop Oliver’s film into Kwik Flicks, a new rapid-developing place in Ranswick. Three: Breakfast was on the stove. Four: Her old friend Winnie Webster was expecting them for lunch at twelve-thirty sharp. Her bungalow was easy to find, they just had to follow their noses to Blake’s Pit. “DON’T BE LATE!” she’d added in curly capitals, decorating the exclamation mark with a skull and crossbones.
There were no notes for Rose Salt. Perhaps Oliver was right, perhaps she was a bit weak in the head. She probably couldn’t read. Colin looked all round, but there was no sign of her. The long brown mack had gone from its hook on the back of the door, and the carpet bag had vanished too.
He helped himself to porridge and buttered a pile of toast. If Rose had made the nutty brown bread she could certainly cook. Colin ate so much it was quite an effort to get up from the table. Then he remembered Jessie. Molly had put her in the shed in exchange for the poodles – quite a comedown, after queening it all night by the kitchen fire. She was overjoyed to see him and made a lot of noise. He clipped her lead on and they set off along the village street towards the church. Prill thought his fascination for graveyards was morbid, but Colin quite fancied being an archaeologist, and if you wanted to work out the history of a place you should begin with its church, according to Dad.
Every cottage seemed to have two or three cats and Jessie barked systematically at every single one. As he walked past the village shop a man flung open an upstairs window and bellowed, “Keep that dog quiet, will you!” The shop front was very shabby, and all the blinds were down. “Edge Brothers, General Provision Merchant, High Class Butchers and Poulterers” was written across them in white. It looked anything but “high class”. It was nearly nine o’clock but there were no signs of life at all, and it wasn’t Sunday.
The man at the window was still in his pyjamas. His eyes followed Colin along the street and watched him turn up into the lane that led to the church. The boy’s neck prickled. One quick, backward glance had revealed the Edge face again. It was as if some demon farmer had gone round Stang with a giant butter pat, stamping
