Chapter Twenty

History

 

 

31st October 2016

 

THE DAY WAS almost done; the sun was already sinking westward and the streetlights were coming on, rows of little red coals lighting the way to Manchester.

“So I spent a couple of hours in the University library,” said John as she locked the front door, “and picked up a whole load of stuff. But here’s the thing: when I try to find out more, I get nowhere. I get hold of Chris Fry – and my God, there’s a man who’s still carrying a torch for you –”

“Don’t.”

“Okay, okay. But it’s true. He still thinks you’re amazing.”

And what did John think she was now? Alice was annoyed with herself for caring, but she did. “So you got hold of Chris,” she said, “and...?”

“And there wasn’t much he could tell me. There was some, but – here’s the weird part – a lot of what we need to know is held by the church.”

“St Thomas’?”

John got in the car, unlocked the passenger door. “Let’s talk on the way.”

“Okay,” said Alice, and got in.

“When I say it’s held by the Church,” said John, starting the motor, “I mean Church with a capital C. Basically a whole load of documents ended up in the care of the Church of England – mainly, I think, because nobody else wanted to take responsibility for them. Hence our appointment with Galatea Sixsmythe.”

“And who the hell is she, exactly? Can you tell me that now?”

“Yeah,” said John, guiding the Volvo down Collarmill Road. “She’s the current rector at St Thomas’. I spoke to her on the phone. She’s expecting us.” He glanced sideways at Alice. “And she confirmed that she had no idea who you were.”

“But you still gave me the third degree?”

“Hey. She might not have known you, but that wouldn’t stop you from knowing who she was. Anyway” – John made a right turn onto Blackburn Road – “you want to hear the story so far or what?”

“Fire away. Please.”

“Okay. Well, Crawbeck as a settlement goes back the best part of a thousand years, maybe further. Started out at the bottom of the hill. It expands later, and that’s when it becomes Lower and Higher Crawbeck. There used to be a church or chapel on the hilltop. But then in the early 1800s, along comes Arodias Thorne.”

“Who was?”

“A mill owner. A filthy rich one. He bought the whole damned hill. The man was loaded. Get this – not only did he build himself a brand new home – all-singing, all-dancing – on top of the hill, he actually paid for the cost of building a brand new church further down.”

“That wouldn’t have been cheap.”

“Certainly wouldn’t. You’ll have seen the church he built. Fact, there it is on the left.”

Alice turned her head, just in time to glimpse the tall black silhouette of a buttressed, turretted square tower looming above the rooftops. “St. James’ Church?” she asked.

“Just a few sidestreets down from you,” said John.

“I remember the place. Went past there one night, back in the ’nineties, when I first lived up here. It was winter – about a couple of weeks before Christmas – and there was an evening service on. You could see the windows lit up. Beautiful stained glass.”

John eyed her over the top of his glasses. “You just say something nice about religion?”

“I said the place looked nice. That’s just an aesthetic judgement.”

“Uh-huh.”

“John, do not start trying to make out I’ve found Jesus.”

“Okay, okay.” John smiled, kept his eyes on the road. On the pavement, Alice caught a flicker of red. She started, looked, but it was just a child in a scarlet devil costume, accompanied by a witch, a werewolf and a sheeted ghost. Trick or treat, trick or treat, give me something good to eat. “St. James’ is closed now. Back in 2002. Only congregation it’s got these days are the local winos. Anyway, Thorne built this huge house that covered the whole top of the hill, including the part that eventually collapsed into Browton Vale –”

“And including the bit my house is now parked on?”

“Who’s telling this story, me or you?”

“Sorry.”

“And including the part now occupied by number 378, Collarmill Road.”

“Thank you.”

“It was called Springcross House, big stone mansion with a wall around it and ornamental gardens. Quite a place, apparently. The source of the Craw is up there somewhere, culverted.”

“The Craw?”

“Craw, as in Crawbeck? It used to come out further down the hillside. Then the Fall happened and now it comes out somewhere in Browton Vale before feeding into the Irwell.”

“What happened to the house?”

“Thorne didn’t have any kids, and he wasn’t a popular sort of guy. ‘Never did a kind deed in his life,’ was what someone said about him. Actually, that’s a bit of an understatement.”

“Nineteenth-century mill owners,” Alice said. “They weren’t exactly known for being softies.”

“Even still,” said John. “A lot of them liked to play the philanthropist. You know, build a public drinking fountain, give some land to the City Corporation as a park, that kind of shit.”

“It was pretty much de rigeur in those days.”

“Uh-huh. ’Specially when you start getting older and thinking about the next life.” John chuckled. “One way of keeping yourself in the Big G’s good books, anyway. Except our boy Arodias didn’t seem to give a shit about that, because he never gave a penny.”

“That is a little bit out of the ordinary.”

“Here we are.” They came up to the Pendleton roundabout, which the A6 ran across, changing from Broad Street into Bolton Road. St Thomas’ loomed above them, lit up by floodlights. A St George’s flag fluttered from the top of its tower.

“Same design as St James’,” said Alice. “Or close.”

“Waterloo churches,” said John. “Commissioned after the Battle of Waterloo. Manchester, Salford – they were both growing cities back then.”

He pulled into the small car park. “Church used to have a lot more land,” he said, nodding to Brindle Heath Road, a small highway sloping down from the church towards the industrial estate below. “Those new houses there? That’s where the old chapel of ease used to be. And just past them, there’s the oldest Jewish cemetery in Manchester.”

“Or Salford.”

John laughed. “Or Salford. The Jews bought a plot of land next to the church for burials, used it up until they built the Great Synagogue out in Cheetham Hill.”

“Mine of information, aren’t you?”

“You look up teacher’s pet in the dictionary, baby, you’ll find a picture of me.”

Alice snorted and shook her head.

“How you doing now?” No more third degree; when she looked, John’s eyes were warm and kind.

“I’m better. Thanks.”

“’Kay. Anyway, point being, you can only see a few graves and tombs round here. There’d have been more, back in the day – including one for Arodias Thorne.”

“Is it gone now?”

“Probably. But not the man himself.” John nodded towards St Thomas’ floodlit façade. “He’s in there.”

“What? Is it haunted or something?”

“Not exactly.” John got out, walked round, and opened her door. “Thorne’s body was interred in the walls of St Thomas’ after his tomb was repeatedly desecrated.”

“Seriously?”

“No shit. This rassclaat was not popular.”

Alice grinned: John had spent a lot of time in his youth with the ‘old school’, as he called his parents’ generation; his command of patois was pretty damned impressive, and had a habit of popping up when you least expected. She’d forgotten that. She took his arm. “Thanks for bringing me along.”

His answering smile was awkward. “I kind of had to.”

“Eh?”

“Should have told you, really. Gave the Reverend a call before I came back to Collarmill Road – you know, I needed to know when I could see her. Anyway, I told her what I had on my hands here, what you’d told me, and...”

“And?”

“And she insisted I bring you with me.”

Alice swallowed hard. “Right.”

“It was all such a neat fit, like I say,” John said. “That was like the last straw, got me thinking it had to be some kind of set-up. But since it’s not, I think we’d best get in and see her. She’s expecting us any minute now.”

Alice’s stomach had clenched, fist-tight. She turned and looked out for a moment. She’d forgotten how spectacular a view you got from here, stretching out across the whole Irwell Valley. So many trees and patches of woodland; you could easily think the whole landscape was forest, with only the occasional piece of concrete escaping the green stranglehold. It would be beautiful come the summer; Alice wondered if she’d be there to see it.

“Alice?” said John.

She turned to face him, nodded. “Okay, then,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Together they walked towards the looming outline of the church.