Ghosts of Yorkshire

by Karen Perkins

  I bit, hearing a reprimand in his words. ‘You can’t be surprised, surely?’

  ‘I’m not complaining, relax. It’s great to see, I wish I could do it.’

  ‘You can, if you try. Just let go and enjoy the moment. That’s how I write and that’s what’s built this house.’ I was on my guard, expecting another lecture on responsibility, which was hardly fair. I had met most of the building costs as Dave had invested so heavily in his building project in Scotland.

  ‘Oh calm down! Why do you have to be so defensive? I know things are a bit tight at the moment, but once this Edinburgh project is finished, there’ll be a massive return – there’s plenty of interest in the flats already, even the penthouses. In a year or two I might even be able to semi-retire.’

  Silence. Most of our conversations had ended like this since the miscarriage, and had got worse with the challenge of building this place. Dave had thrown himself into his work, and I had tried to do the same with my books, but I had struggled to write so had concentrated on the house. I worried that we’d put our whole selves into building the perfect home, and had nothing left over for each other – or a future family. I couldn’t bear it if that were the case.

  I sipped my hot chocolate and waited for the atmosphere to clear. The dogs had become expert at this and jumped at us both, tongues lolling, whenever they sensed tension starting to build.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ he asked, trying again for domestic harmony.

  ‘I stuck a chicken in the oven before I took the dogs out.’

  ‘That sounds lovely. I’m going through to the lounge – I’ve lit a fire. Join me?’

  ‘No, I’ve got another couple of chapters to edit, then I’ll be done for the evening.’ It wasn’t the friendliest reply, and I felt ashamed at the downcast expression on his face. We seemed to be constantly sniping at each other at the moment, and I wanted to ease the atmosphere between us. ‘I quite fancy dinner in front of the fire though, is there anything good on telly?’

  ‘Probably not. We’ll see.’ He’d cooled again. ‘You can’t hide from life in your books, Emma. You need to face things, and live. You told me earlier to live in the moment, but you’re still living in the past!’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ I was aware of my voice rising, but couldn’t seem to stop it. ‘I’m trying to enjoy each day, because life is precious, that’s why I wanted to move here and build this house!’ I didn’t understand how he could have got over the miscarriage already, and he didn’t seem to understand why I was still grieving.

  ‘Is it? Are you sure about that? You threw yourself into building this place – negotiating with Yorkshire Water for the land, getting planning permission, then sorting out the utility companies so we’d have mains electricity and water. And then after we’d lost the baby you were here almost every day keeping an eye on the builders, it became an obsession. I think you did it to avoid thinking about what had happened. And now the house is finished, you’re obsessing over your books.’

  ‘That’s not true!’

  ‘Isn’t it? You didn’t use to work this hard. When we first met, you told me you had to stay relaxed, or you couldn’t write, that you couldn’t force the words to come.’

  ‘I’m not forcing anything. I’m not obsessing. I’m just writing and earning a living,’ I shouted.

  He sighed and shrugged. ‘Whatever you say, Emma.’

  I stared at him for a moment, but there was nothing more to add. I went upstairs.

  *

  I hesitated before I switched the light on, wanting to take in the view for a moment. I’d wrestled with the design of this room. The forty-foot long west wall was all glass to give an unspoilt view of the water, and there’d been a very real fear that it would distract rather than inspire me, and I had a lot of books still to write – I hoped.

  I thought of Dave and our argument. I didn’t know how to tell him that my latest book was not going well. I was struggling to plot it and keep my characters consistent, and had barely written anything worth keeping for over a year.

  Reluctantly, I switched the light on, hiding the reservoir in the glare. I looked up at the ceiling for inspiration. It had been carpentered in the same way as the old ships had been many years ago and, with keelson and struts laid out along the length of the house, I could imagine myself in an upturned hull of a leviathan square rigger.

  I had a sofa and coffee table positioned in front of the large glass wall and balcony, while my desk was pushed against the left wall under a large noticeboard. Book shelves took up most of the remaining wall space as they did downstairs in the lounge. You could never have enough books. Well, Dave could, but I couldn’t, and he loved to complain that they were breeding. Maybe I should turn one of the guest rooms into a library. Now there’s an idea.

  I walked to the desk and settled down in front of the computer.

  *

  I jumped and stared at the dark window. A flash had lit up the reservoir, followed by a crash of thunder. I sighed in frustration and put down my pen – I could not focus on my pirates and the tropics when I faced, literally, the raging nature of the moors. I switched off the light and stared out of the window – hurricane-rated to withstand the weather here. Lit up by bright flashes of lightning and surrounded by battered pines, the reservoir was a seething mass of waves and mini-waterspouts from the needles of rain.

  My mind flew back over twenty years to when I had learned to sail here as a child. I remembered a storm like this and everyone streaming into the clubhouse, glad to get out of it. The instructor decided it would be a good day to do our capsize drill and, surprising the seasoned sailors, he gathered his little band of aspiring mariners to the water’s edge where his oldest boat awaited, still rigged with a wooden mast.

  Apart from the sheer madness of it, the thing I remembered most was how warm the reservoir had been after the rain, and how much I had enjoyed my swim, despite the water I swallowed through all the laughter.

  I got up and grabbed a coat from the bedroom, then went back into the office and opened the balcony door. I struggled outside against the wind and cursed when papers flew off my desk, then shut the door behind me. The balcony was fairly sheltered, and if I stood close to the windows, I could just about manage to stay clear of the rain.

  I stepped forward and grabbed hold of the rail, then lifted my face to the full power of the storm. Another flash of lightning and crash of thunder. I laughed at the majesty of it, exhilarated by the force of nature, then hushed. What was that? After the thunder had reverberated away, I’d thought I’d heard ... No. I shook my head, I can’t have. I stepped back into the shelter of the house, ran my hands over my now sodden hair, and listened.

  Yes, I hadn’t imagined it. In the wake of the next thunderclap, bells – church bells. But there was no church for miles, certainly none close enough to be able to hear their bells. I stared at the water, thinking of the village that rested beneath. The only church close enough was—

  ‘I thought I’d find you out here,’ Dave said, and I jumped.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  He put his arms around me and I snuggled into his embrace to watch the rest of the storm, grateful and relieved that he’d made the first move to make up after our row.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  I stroked his arm. ‘Me too, it’s just ...’ I tailed off.

  ‘I want a family so badly, but if you’re not ready, you’re not ready. There’s no pressure.’

  ‘I do want a family, you know that, I’m just scared.’

  ‘I know, but we can adopt. You don’t have to risk another pregnancy.’

  ‘Yes, but if we adopt, we’re giving up. And I want our baby – I’m not ready, not yet. And even if we do adopt, what if something happens? What if he or she gets ill or has an accident or something? There’s so much that can go wrong – I can’t lose another child.’

  ‘Is it worth speaking to someone again?’

  ‘What, like that counsellor? I do
n’t know. How can talking help?’

  ‘Isn’t it worth trying? It helped me.’

  ‘I did try! I spent three months talking to that grief counsellor. It was all right for you, but it didn’t help me much, did it?’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose it did.’ He squeezed and held me tighter. ‘You’re not on your own though, Em, remember that. You can always talk to me.’

  ‘I know. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’ I twisted to kiss him, then settled back into his embrace to watch the rest of the storm.

  Chapter 7 - Jennet

  15th July 1776

  ‘Now then, Jennet, thee’s got to eat, thee’ll waste away.’

  I sighed. Would Mary Farmer never leave me alone? I had been grateful for her help at first, but it were getting to be too much. She were here every day, fussing about me with non-stop advice and prattle. Even while she were forcing me to eat her soup, she stood at the table putting a large mutton pie together for later. I lifted the spoon to my mouth. The easiest thing were to do as she insisted. Maybe if she saw me eating, she’d leave me alone. Anyroad, I were hungry.

  It had been a week since I’d buried Pa and I still felt as if made of ice. I did my chores, kept the house clean, fed the chickens – the sheep took care of themselves at this time of year and were loose on the moor behind the house. It were lambing season in February when they would need my attention, and I could not think that far ahead yet.

  ‘By heck, summat smells good!’

  I glanced up in surprise. Richard Ramsgill had walked through the open door unannounced. I stood in greeting.

  ‘Mr Ramsgill! What’s thee doing here?’ Mary Farmer said at the top of her voice.

  ‘Come to see young Jennet, Mary. Business.’

  I smirked as Mary Farmer struggled to find words. He raised his eyebrows at her and glanced towards the door. Mary Farmer turned red as a rosehip and clapped the flour from her hands.

  ‘Well ... Well ...’ she muttered.

  ‘Private business,’ Mr Ramsgill stressed.

  ‘Very well.’

  I watched in amazement as Mary Farmer’s nosiness battled against her deference to the man who controlled all our lives as the local wool merchant – and lost.

  ‘It ain’t seemly,’ she muttered, just loud enough for us both to hear, as she picked up her shawl. ‘Ain’t seemly for a young lass to be alone with a grown man, not at all.’

  Richard Ramsgill stared at her, waiting for her to leave, then closed the door. I shut my eyes for a moment in relief and opened them in surprise when he laughed.

  ‘She can be a bit much, can’t she?’

  ‘She means well.’ I leapt to her defence. ‘She helped me all through Pa’s illness, and every day since.’

  ‘Oh, aye, I’m sure she has. Likes nowt else than to feel important, that one.’

  I smirked at him. He pointed to the other stool in question and I nodded, embarrassed that I had not asked him to sit.

  ‘Would thee like some soup?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not for me thanks, lass. A jug of posset wouldn’t go amiss, though.’

  I busied myself at the fire, pouring some of the curdled milk and ale that Mary Farmer had prepared earlier. ‘There’s not much spice in it I’m afraid, just some herbs from moor.’

  He took a flask from his jacket and poured a little of the amber liquid into his jug, then took a sip. ‘Mm, that hits the spot.’

  I knew he were just being polite, but dipped my head at the compliment nonetheless. I sat back down in silence and studied my soup.

  ‘I’ll come straight to point,’ Richard Ramsgill said after a short, awkward silence. ‘I said at shearing that I’d look into thy situation for thee.’

  I looked up at him. Would I be forced to leave the farm?

  ‘Don’t look so scared, lass.’ He laughed and took another sip. ‘I’ve been to London with our Thom since I last saw thee, to sort out enclosures.’

  ‘Enclosures?’

  ‘Aye, them new walls thee’s seen going up? It’s on King’s orders, he’s enclosing land and selling it. Our Thom’s in charge of placing walls and allotting land, and me and me brothers are putting in to buy what we can. Anyroad, I had a word with land folk, and pleaded thy case. It took quite a bit of wrangling, but I finally got sight of papers and it seems farm belonged to thy mam – it were passed to her from thy grandpa and she had copyhold of inheritance on land.’

  I did not react. What did that mean?

  ‘It means thee can stay, lass. It means her tenure passed to thee on her death as her sole heir, even though neither of them made a will. And when these enclosures are done and land’s awarded, it’ll be thine for life.’

  I sagged in relief. I had not realised until now how scared I had been that I would be turned out on to the moor – or on to Mary and John Farmer’s hospitality. ‘I can stay?’

  ‘Aye, thee can stay, lass. Can thee manage farm does thee think?’

  I thought of all the work involved in rearing the sheep, plus the haymaking and maintaining the farm. Pa had handled all that, with a little help from me and Mam. But the two of us had also been busy all year round with carding and spinning wool, gathering and drying our herbs, plus cutting peat and pulling heather, growing and gathering food and many more chores besides. How would I manage on my own? I were embarrassed anew to find tears in my eyes.

  ‘Ey up, don’t fret so, lass! Thee’s not on thy own, thee knows. Mary Farmer’s up road—’ I cried harder ‘—and whole village’ll pull together to see thee through first year till thee finds thy feet. And I’m sure one of young lads’ll soon snap thee up – thee has thy own farm, lass, thee’s quite a catch, thee knows, especially for a second son!’

  ‘We struggled to manage with three of us, how can I do it all? I know village’ll help, but they have their own farms and families to see to.’ I sobbed harder. I ignored his comment about young men, I did not have my eye on anyone – although that Peter Stockdale always had a nice smile for me. Richard Ramsgill put down his posset and dragged his stool closer. He grasped my shoulder and I winced.

  ‘Tell thee what, I’ll let thee use one of me best tups in November, and send thee one of me best men for lambing. He’ll see thee right, and he’ll help thee with getting feed to them during winter, an’all.’

  I cried harder at his kindness. It seemed my tears were unstoppable since Mam died. ‘How can I ever thank thee?’

  ‘Ahh, no need for thanks, lass. I told thee, thy Mam and me were great friends as nippers, it’s least I can do.’ He got up, poured more posset, then added a little of his own ingredient and passed the jug to me. I thanked him and sipped, gasping at the heat that slid down my throat into my stomach. I glanced up at him in surprise and he burst out laughing.

  ‘Just a little whiskybae, lass, best thing for grief and tears in my experience!’

  I took another sip, enjoying the heat now that I expected it, and smiled at him.

  ‘See, that’s better, lass. There’s nowt wrong in’t world that a little whiskybae don’t put right.’

  Chapter 8 - Emma

  28th August 2012

  There was only one problem writing about pirates in the Caribbean – I wanted to go sailing. Writing about the wind in my face and my ship slicing through the waves, the rigging singing, made me long to experience it myself. Trouble was, I didn’t have a licence to sail on Thruscross and a white sail would hardly be inconspicuous – but what would they do? Charge me with trespass? What the hell.

  Mind made up (let’s face it, it didn’t take much) I decided to go for it. After all the rain, Thruscross was full – a rarity in August – an hour drifting around free of the shore would do me good. I put my pirates away and went down to dig out my old wetsuit (a bit tight, but it still fitted) and lifejacket, then went to the garage to check the laser, Guinevere. A small singlehanded dinghy, it was pretty rugged and good fun in a blow, yet light enough that I could enjoy the meagre ten knots I estimated to
be blowing out there. It was snug on its trailer and I hooked it up to the Discovery before driving down the old access road to the bottom. Just like old times.

  It took some manoeuvring to separate the trolley and trailer, and more to get the mast up on my own, but a bit of frustration would be worth it. I felt guilty for a moment – I should be working really, but I consoled myself with the thought that I could justify this as research – what better way to plan a pirate attack than out on the water with the wind in my hair? Maybe this would cure my writer’s block.

  *

  At last I was ready; Guinevere was in the water and I pushed off, then jumped in. It had been too long since I’d done this and I spent an age getting centre-board and rudder down, but at last I sheeted in, hooked my feet under the toe straps (a little optimistically) and made way.

  Whilst I’d never left the water in my heart, I hadn’t been in a dinghy for years. In my youth I’d sailed competitively, but life had got in the way. I’d never been able to bring myself to sell Guinevere though, and my return to a dinghy was long overdue. Perhaps alone wasn’t the most sensible way of getting back into it, but hell, that had never stopped me before.

  I felt my face stretch into a big grin, and relaxed. God, I’d missed this. Time to try a tack. Success. Gybe. Whoops, mainsheet caught round the transom. No problem, easily fixed. I unhooked it, sheeted in again and headed up towards the creek. How would my characters attack their rival? They needed to do something different, to take him by surprise. It wouldn’t be easy, he’d been pirating for a long time. How would they get an advantage over him?

  I was up at the creek already and running out of wind. It was shifty all over the reservoir – one of the reasons the sailing club had moved – and it had always been worse up here because of the high banks. I tried my hand at a roll tack – gently taking her through the wind whilst heeling sharply to help steer. Made it, not bad, apart from getting my arse wet, but that’s sailing for you.