The wind was behind now and too light to run before, so I hardened up to a reach and practised gybing back and forth across the lake, heading southish towards the dam. I’d never been much of a light-weather sailor; I’d always preferred a blow, and now that the wind was dropping off I was getting bored. I turned my mind back to the Caribbean.
*
I grinned in triumph. I had my battle and knew how they’d fight. Now I had to get ashore and write it down before I forgot – I should have brought pen and paper out with me. Never mind, I’d remember next time. I had a brief image of me drifting around Thruscross, laid across the boat writing, then looked about me to get my bearings.
Oh no. Oh no. I looked wildly at the banks, but of course there were no transit poles to mark the danger – they’d gone with the sailing club. I looked at the dam again. It was far too close. I could see the water pouring over the outflow and hear it falling down the sheer drop on the other side. I pulled the sail in desperately, but there was even less wind than there had been earlier, and all I did was shake what little I had out of the sail in my panic. I knew in the depths of my mind that I had to stay calm and move carefully to get out of this, but calm was difficult to achieve this close to the dam.
I threw Guinevere into a tack, forgetting to roll her, and cursed when I got stuck. Head to wind and being pulled closer by the current of water flowing over the impossibly high dam, I had a flash memory of how the dam looked. On this side, a concrete wall with five overflows, blue sky shining through them. On the other, a concrete hell slide, one-hundred-and-twenty-feet long to a concrete sluice. Going over it would kill me.
*
I bit back my panic; I had to get the boat sailing. The closer I got, the harder it would be to get away. I remembered the nightmares I’d had as a child when I’d sailed on this reservoir every week, after I’d seen what was on the other side for the first time. They would not come true. They wouldn’t. They couldn’t.
I backed the mainsail across the wind so it could help the rudder turn me, and belatedly heeled the boat, but it wasn’t enough. There was no wind, the water was glassy, and by the looks of it there were no gusts heading my way.
Why hadn’t I paid more attention? I examined the banks. I was too close to the dam and the shore was too far away to swim for. If I didn’t get out of the current, I’d be swept over and killed for sure. If I swam, I’d still have to get out of the pull of the middle opening, then two more. Even if I managed it, then what? Was that dead water beyond the overflows, or a swirling eddy that would keep the rocky shore beyond my reach and send me straight back into danger?
My best chance was in the boat; someone may see me and get help. There was a car park up there, people walked along the banks and they drove and walked across the dam itself, often pausing to peer over the sides. Surely someone would see I was in trouble and get help. Yes, my best chance was to stay in the boat. I started shouting in the still afternoon, knowing I should wait and save my voice until I knew someone was there to hear me, but unable to stop.
*
How could I have been so stupid? I grew up here knowing the dangers. I’d heard stories as a child of a boat going over for a dare, although I’d decided it wasn’t true – nobody could be that foolish. I’d seen a boat rescued from the lip of the overflow. Twice. But there was no rescue boat here today. I took a deep breath and tried to calm down, but all I could think was: it’s getting closer, it’s getting closer. I remembered my phone, safe in a pouch hanging from my neck and fiddled with my lifejacket and wetsuit to get it out. I powered it up and nothing. No signal. Not a single bar – I should have thought of that; of course there wouldn’t be a signal on the water, I was lucky to get one on the bank.
I yanked on the sail in desperation and was rewarded with a little spurt of speed – of course! I could pump my way out of this! But the current had dragged my bow round towards the dam; I was facing the wrong way. I thrust the tiller across again to harden back up, but nothing – no steerage.
I left the rudder hard over, stood, clambered forward to the mast and shoved the boom against what little wind there was, whilst heeling her sharply. Finally, I was turning. Not much, but the bows were coming round. It wasn’t enough though, and I realised I would have to make my own wind.
I stepped up on to the foredeck and grabbed the mast in both hands, using my splayed legs to rock the boat from side to side as hard as I could, trying to build up a rhythm and force my way to starboard. It was working.
I kept going.
I was side on now and still going. I steadied a little and smoothed the rocking motion to go forwards. If I kept trying to turn her, I’d lose time and get pulled backwards; I needed to go for speed and get to the shore.
Is it getting easier?
Yes. I was out of the pull of the middle and strongest overflow. Two more to go. I kept pumping. My leg muscles, especially the inside of my thighs, were starting to burn, but I knew my only chance was to keep up the rhythm. I had to get more speed up and keep it going when the next current caught me. Then no stopping until I got past the third.
I glanced to my right, I could see only sky. There was nothing through that deadly concrete hole but air. Then I realised I could see more than sky, the wooded cliff face was coming into view. I was looking through the last one! I was nearly safe.
I took a deep breath and kept pumping. So much for a nice, gentle sail! I was exhausted. My legs were beyond protest, my back cramped in agony every time I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, and my arms felt like they’d done a full weights training programme as they pulled the mast over. But I couldn’t stop. I had to find more strength. I had to keep going. The force of the current grabbed me again and threw me off balance. I tried to save myself, but my legs wouldn’t respond. I was on my knees, mercifully still on the boat. I glanced round; my bow was being pulled back towards the dam.
‘No!’ I screeched. ‘No! Not after all this! No fucking way! You’re not getting me!’
I could almost see teeth around that square hole now; a concrete mouth waiting to chew me up and swallow me – although in this case it would swallow me then crush me. I was losing it. I had to pull myself together or I was dead. I pictured Dave; my sister and nieces; the dogs; my unfinished book.
I hauled myself back to my feet and hugged the mast, my legs shaking. I glanced over my right shoulder and my panic came back. Good, it may save my life.
I planted my feet as wide apart as I dared, gripped the mast hard and frenziedly rocked the boat. I was aware I was sobbing, but nothing would stop that now. Left right, left right. Port starboard, port starboard. What a time to start correcting my sailor speak. Port starboard, port starboard. I refused to look to my right, I didn’t even let myself look behind for the shore, just stared at the sail and boom swinging across the boat and the uneven wake I was leaving – I could see the disturbed water being pulled towards the dam and over the drop. Port, starboard. Port, starboard. Can I look now? No not yet, keep going. Port, starboard. Port, starboard.
My sobs calmed in the monotony of the rhythm and I kept going. I thought running a marathon would be like this – left right, left right, left right, port starboard, port starboard, on and on and on. Forever and a day.
Aargh. Thrown off balance again, I fell, rolled off the deck and into the water. I put my feet down and felt rock. No wonder I’d fallen, I’d crashed into the bank! I sobbed again, this time in relief, and scrambled backwards, my shaking legs pushing against submerged rock. I’d made it! I was ok! I’d made it! I collapsed on the rock, my hands gripping it tightly, breaking every fingernail in my desperation to grasp terra firma. I’d never been so pleased to crash ashore.
I remembered Guinevere then, what had I broken on the rocks? Centre-board? Rudder? Hull? I turned back to the water to check for damage.
Horrified, I watched Guinevere drift towards the dam. I’d betrayed her – she’d got me to safety and I’d abandoned her. I had to watch her. I couldn’t save her, but I wo
uldn’t let her go all alone. I scrambled up the steps leading to the road, my legs still working, somehow, and staggered to the far side, realising that after the struggle with not a breath of breeze to help me, the wind was getting up.
Would she catch on the lip? No. Her mast was too short to save her, and I must have damaged her foils on the rocks: all they did was heel her over as she came sideways on, through the gaping jaws. I watched open-mouthed as she slid over the waterfall, the wind of her dive catching the sail and lifting her bows up as she surfed down the dam; then she heeled a little too far to starboard and capsized gracefully in mid-air, first her mast then her hull shattering on impact. No one would have survived that.
I sank to the ground, sobbing again, feeling as if I’d never stop, only now truly understanding how close death had come.
*
I stared at the wall, confused, how could I be in my bedroom? I switched on the bedside lamp, blinked a few times and, as my senses returned, realised it had been a dream. I sniffed and wiped tears from my face, then flinched. I’d scratched my cheek. I held my hands in front of me and examined them. Every fingernail was broken and dirty. I scraped the jagged remains of one nail under another, then held my finger up to the light. There was a small mound of peaty, brown dirt on my nail – the same colour as the mud of the reservoir’s shoreline.
Chapter 9 - Jennet
19th August 1776
I opened my eyes and stared at the timbers above me, picturing scenes from my dreams – bright sunshine on the moors, heather in bloom ... and Richard Ramsgill. Bathing in the beck ... and Richard Ramsgill. I smiled, despite myself, and threw off the sheepskin I used as a blanket. Time to start the day.
*
‘Ey up, lass, he’s here again!’
I looked up from scrubbing the floor and stared at Mary Farmer standing at the open door. She had finished sweeping and had gone outside to knock the dust from the besom.
‘Richard Ramsgill, he’s only coming up lane again!’
I could not explain why my heart beat a little faster.
‘Thee needs to watch him, lass. I don’t trust him an inch. Just promise me thee’ll take care with him.’
‘Don’t fret theesen, Mary, he’s helping me sort tenure out so I can stay on here – for Mam’s sake – they were friends when they were nippers.’
‘Aye, I remember,’ she said, paused, then turned back to me. ‘Promise me thee’ll take care. He offers a good bargain, but however much he gives with one hand, his other’ll take back more. Whatever he’s offering, he’ll come out ahead on’t bargain, thee mark me words!’
‘Umm,’ I said, threw my scrubbing brush into the bucket and stood, brushing off my skirts.
‘I means it, lass, take care in thy dealings with him.’
I glanced up at her. She seemed serious. ‘Aye, Mary, I’ll take care.’
She watched me, then turned as Richard Ramsgill loomed behind her. ‘Mr Ramsgill,’ she said, in a completely different tone.
‘Mary.’ He nodded his greeting at her.
‘What can we do for thee?’
‘Thee can do nowt, Mary, though I’m heartened to see thee caring for Jennet like this.’
‘Aye, well, her mam were a good friend, ’tis the least I can do.’
They stared at each other awhile, then Mary Farmer dropped her eyes. ‘Aye, well, happen I’ll be off now, John’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’ She turned to stare at me. ‘Think on what I said, Jennet.’ She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and hurried away.
I walked towards the fire, unsettled by Richard Ramsgill’s company again so soon, and offered him a posset. He laughed and took out his hip flask. ‘Don’t forget secret ingredient, Jennet!’
I smiled and took the flask from him. I raised my eyes to his when he kept his grip on it.
‘I meant what I said other day, Jennet, if thee needs any help – owt at all – thee can come to me.’
I dropped my eyes, shy, and thanked him. Why were he being so nice to me? He let go of the flask and I poured a measure into our jugs, then filled them with posset from the bubbling pot.
‘By heck, lass, thee’s got an heavy hand there!’ He laughed and I joined in. I passed him his jug, took a sip of my own and choked – I had enjoyed the heat of the drink before, but had not seen how much whiskybae he had added. This must be three times as strong. I tried to apologise, but could not get the words out for spluttering.
Richard Ramsgill took my jug off me, picked another off the shelf and poured half the thick liquid into it, then topped mine back up from the pot. He handed the diluted drink back to me and sipped his own. I noticed he had only diluted mine. I sipped the posset, tentative now, and smiled my thanks. Better. I sat down at the table, wondering what to say to him, reddening as I remembered my dreams.
‘I thought a lot of thy mam when she were a lass.’ He sat next to me. ‘Might even have married her if thy pa hadn’t turned up.’
I looked up at him in surprise. Mam had never said anything like this – she’d hardly ever mentioned Richard Ramsgill.
He chuckled to himself. ‘Aye. Swept her off her feet, he did, and never left valley again. Her pa, thy grandpa, weren’t best pleased, he’d have much rather seen her married to a Ramsgill than a poor journeyman from Scotland. But one thing thee could say about thy mam were that she knew her own mind. Not even thy grandpa could turn her head from a path she were set on following.’
I grimaced – I knew that all too well.
‘Aye. Hated thy pa for a bit, I’m ashamed to say.’
I glanced at him again, this time in disgust.
‘Oh, sorry lass, but he were a lucky bugger to have the love of Alice; and me ... I had to marry Elizabeth Cartwright. Oh, don’t get me wrong, lass, lovely woman, Elizabeth, but she ain’t Alice.’
He lapsed into silence and I stared at my posset, touched. He had loved Mam. I took a deep drink then turned my attention back to him. ‘What were she like? As a lass I mean, before I were born?’
‘Ahh, Jennet, she were a lot like thee – really bonny, loved the moors. Out there all hours, she were, just walking and digging up plants. Always laughing, she were, never had a bad word to say about anyone. But, by heck, she could talk a lad into trouble.’ He paused and shook his head, laughing.
‘What does thee mean? What trouble?’
‘Well, I remember one time, she had me and our Thom sneaking into Pa’s cellar – for a jug of this actually.’ He picked up the hip flask then put it back on the table. ‘Pa’s best whiskybae – guarded it something fierce, he did. Daft thing were, if me and our Thom had worked together, we’d have done it, no sweat, but we didn’t. Scrapping with each other to be the one to bring it to her, we were. When Pa came down to see what all noise were about, jug were broke on’t flags with me and our Thom rolling around in his whiskybae like a couple of fox cubs. By heck, we got such a whipping!’
I laughed, trying to imagine Mam sending two Ramsgills to get whiskybae for her. I took another drink.
‘Thee remind me so much of her, thee knows.’ He put his hand on mine and I glanced up at him, startled. ‘Thee has her laugh. And her eyes. The most beautiful eyes in Yorkshire I’ve always thought.’ He tightened his grip on my hand and leaned towards me. I felt his rough skin against my face, his whiskers on my chin and my lips forced apart by his tongue.
I froze. His other hand stroked my hair, then my back. He took his face from mine, held me tightly for a moment, then pushed his stool back hard enough for it to clatter to the floor.
‘Sorry, lass,’ he mumbled and rushed out of the door.
I stared after him, flabbergasted, but also disappointed. It had been nice to be held. I picked up the other posset and drank deeply, my breath shuddering, tears running down my face, wishing I knew why I were crying. Because he had kissed me? Or because he had fled?
Chapter 10 - Emma
29th August 2012
I looked across at Dave, fast asleep and oblivio
us of my distress, and my breathing calmed. It had seemed so real – I still wasn’t sure if it had been a dream or a memory. I studied my fingernails again and gasped when I realised they were clean. Was I still dreaming?
I got out of bed and walked to my office. I kept a kettle in there for when I was too wrapped up in my writing to make it downstairs to the kitchen. I needed camomile tea. Well, no, I needed brandy, but I’d make do with camomile tea while I wrote the dream out – it would help me let go of it and you never knew, it might turn into a good story.
I left the light off – there was more than enough moonlight to work the kettle – and stood at the window, watching the water. I loved it here, always had, and adored this room with its view over the reservoir. But I didn’t understand why the same water that calmed me; that made this place home and was the source of countless happy childhood memories should also be the source of my nightmares.
The silver light reflected off the water had a shine more beautiful than diamonds, and I felt myself relax as the kettle came to the boil. I made my drink and took it out on to the balcony. The shore and trees were black – made darker by the bright beauty of the water, even the rocky, muddy shore of the half-full reservoir added to the beauty; the uneven shapes and hint of old roads giving the place character. I smiled and sipped my tea – too hot. I put the mug down and touched my burnt lip. And froze.
What the hell?
It couldn’t be.
I turned back to the reservoir in disbelief. But there it was again. Church bells. Deep and ... slow somehow, as if being rung underwater. I shook myself. I was being silly, my nightmare lingering. But no – I heard it again. Church bells, definitely.
‘What are you doing?’
I screamed before realising the hand on my arm was Dave’s.
‘Sorry, Emma, I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘No, it’s all right – bad dream. And I thought I heard – there it is again! Did you hear that?’
Ghosts of Yorkshire Page 4
