Read Online Long Lankin by Lindsey Barraclough - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lindsey Barraclough
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mortal.”
“Anyway, there’d always be somebody like that Stephen Mylord,” I said. “He’s so holy, he never misses church ever, and he’d tell on me to Sister just for another gold star.”
“What’s all this mortal stuff anyway?” said Cora.
“It’s the worst sin there is,” said Pete importantly. “If you do one, you’ll go to hell.”
We looked up at the arch where CAVE BESTIAM was written.
“If only we could find somebody to tell us what it means,” said Cora, shading her eyes with her hand.
“Yeah, that’s what we were thinking,” I said. “The only clever people we know are the Treasures. He’s a headmaster.”
“Crikey!” said Pete. “I’m not blinking well going round there. It’s like Buckinum Paliss.”
“I know — we could try Father Mansell. He’s nice. He lets Pete and me and Dennis go to the big Christmas party in the big room at the back of the pub even though we don’t go to his church — though he might not this Christmas because last year Dennis threw his jelly at the girl who won the musical chairs.”
“But Father Mansell lives round the back of the Treasures,” said Pete. “You’ve got to go in their garden first.”
Father Mansell was the Church of England priest in Bryers Guerdon. He did services down at this old church, All Hallows, and over at Saint Mary’s in North Fairing as well, and he took the Scouts on Monday nights in the Scout Hut. There was Wolf Cubs on Wednesdays, and Mrs. Aylott was the Akela. Grandma Bardock wouldn’t let Pete and me join the Wolf Cubs because it was Protestant, but Tooboy let us tag along and help him out when it was Bob-a-Job Week.
Pete held the wide gate open for us. We’d started up the path towards the church when Cora called out, “What’s this?”
She was standing beside the remains of a low fancy iron railing enclosing a large overgrown rectangle of ground that stretched all the way to the old chained gate. A gnarled elder tree was growing in the middle, stripped clean of its berries by the birds.
“Don’t know — most probably graves,” I said, joining her.
“I’m going in. Coming?”
We stepped over the railing.
“You gonna be long?” Pete called, showing Mimi how to stamp through the grass by the path to make the grasshoppers jump out.
Cora and I made our way slowly across the plot, trying to avoid stepping on the flat gravestones, some almost completely hidden by the weeds.
“What a poor old thing,” she said, pushing her way past a clump of brambles to reach a straggly rosebush near the far railing, almost at the gate.
Cora knelt and softly touched the single pink bud that drooped on the end of its spindly stem.
“Look at this.” Cora seemed lost in thought. “Once this has flowered and gone, there won’t be any more. It’s the last one.”
She began parting the long dry grass beneath the rosebush with her hands. A shallow mat of roots had spread itself over a flat stone slab. I helped her tear the grass away, and with her fingers Cora scraped out the soil from the carved letters of the inscription.
“Oh.” She sat back on her heels. “It says — it says
Guerdon
.”
“There’s something else,” I said, clearing the stone farther down. ‘The time’ . . . er, ‘the time of the’ . . . er, ‘the time of the singing’ . . .”
“Let’s go in the church,” said Cora, getting up quickly.
Her face had paled. She ran her hand over her forehead and tramped back the way we had come.
“Most probably all Guerdons in this bit, then,” I said, following her over the railing.
“We’re going in the church,” said Cora, pushing Mimi firmly up the path towards the porch.
“Don’t like it,” said Mimi, and she planted her feet hard and wouldn’t move.
“You’re a blimmin’ nuisance!” said Cora, grabbing her sister’s hand and dragging her up the path.
When we got to the porch, Mimi started to cry again.
“You’re the flippin’ limit!” Cora said. “If you
“Anyway, there’d always be somebody like that Stephen Mylord,” I said. “He’s so holy, he never misses church ever, and he’d tell on me to Sister just for another gold star.”
“What’s all this mortal stuff anyway?” said Cora.
“It’s the worst sin there is,” said Pete importantly. “If you do one, you’ll go to hell.”
We looked up at the arch where CAVE BESTIAM was written.
“If only we could find somebody to tell us what it means,” said Cora, shading her eyes with her hand.
“Yeah, that’s what we were thinking,” I said. “The only clever people we know are the Treasures. He’s a headmaster.”
“Crikey!” said Pete. “I’m not blinking well going round there. It’s like Buckinum Paliss.”
“I know — we could try Father Mansell. He’s nice. He lets Pete and me and Dennis go to the big Christmas party in the big room at the back of the pub even though we don’t go to his church — though he might not this Christmas because last year Dennis threw his jelly at the girl who won the musical chairs.”
“But Father Mansell lives round the back of the Treasures,” said Pete. “You’ve got to go in their garden first.”
Father Mansell was the Church of England priest in Bryers Guerdon. He did services down at this old church, All Hallows, and over at Saint Mary’s in North Fairing as well, and he took the Scouts on Monday nights in the Scout Hut. There was Wolf Cubs on Wednesdays, and Mrs. Aylott was the Akela. Grandma Bardock wouldn’t let Pete and me join the Wolf Cubs because it was Protestant, but Tooboy let us tag along and help him out when it was Bob-a-Job Week.
Pete held the wide gate open for us. We’d started up the path towards the church when Cora called out, “What’s this?”
She was standing beside the remains of a low fancy iron railing enclosing a large overgrown rectangle of ground that stretched all the way to the old chained gate. A gnarled elder tree was growing in the middle, stripped clean of its berries by the birds.
“Don’t know — most probably graves,” I said, joining her.
“I’m going in. Coming?”
We stepped over the railing.
“You gonna be long?” Pete called, showing Mimi how to stamp through the grass by the path to make the grasshoppers jump out.
Cora and I made our way slowly across the plot, trying to avoid stepping on the flat gravestones, some almost completely hidden by the weeds.
“What a poor old thing,” she said, pushing her way past a clump of brambles to reach a straggly rosebush near the far railing, almost at the gate.
Cora knelt and softly touched the single pink bud that drooped on the end of its spindly stem.
“Look at this.” Cora seemed lost in thought. “Once this has flowered and gone, there won’t be any more. It’s the last one.”
She began parting the long dry grass beneath the rosebush with her hands. A shallow mat of roots had spread itself over a flat stone slab. I helped her tear the grass away, and with her fingers Cora scraped out the soil from the carved letters of the inscription.
“Oh.” She sat back on her heels. “It says — it says
Guerdon
.”
“There’s something else,” I said, clearing the stone farther down. ‘The time’ . . . er, ‘the time of the’ . . . er, ‘the time of the singing’ . . .”
“Let’s go in the church,” said Cora, getting up quickly.
Her face had paled. She ran her hand over her forehead and tramped back the way we had come.
“Most probably all Guerdons in this bit, then,” I said, following her over the railing.
“We’re going in the church,” said Cora, pushing Mimi firmly up the path towards the porch.
“Don’t like it,” said Mimi, and she planted her feet hard and wouldn’t move.
“You’re a blimmin’ nuisance!” said Cora, grabbing her sister’s hand and dragging her up the path.
When we got to the porch, Mimi started to cry again.
“You’re the flippin’ limit!” Cora said. “If you
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