Ghosts of Yorkshire

by Karen Perkins

  ‘Well that’s it, lass, that Betsy Ward has a tongue in her head as no one can control, least of all hersen. The whole valley’ll ken afore sundown. Keep thy head up and say nowt.’

  I raised my chin, aware my shame were visible in my cheeks, and we walked towards them. I kept my eyes on Richard, but his expression never wavered. I were aware that everyone watched us and my embarrassment grew sharper.

  We reached them and they stepped aside at the last moment. They did not give us enough room, and I had to walk on the grass to get past.

  ‘Whore.’

  I heard the quiet whisper, and was sure everyone else had heard Elizabeth Ramsgill’s insult. I glared at her, then at Richard. His face now showed disdain, and my shame turned to anger.

  ‘Lass!’ Mary Farmer said, tugging on my arm. ‘Thee’ll only make it worse.’

  I kept my mouth shut and carried on walking. Behind us, the silence broke into whispers and titters. I realised I would have to get used to that.

  Chapter 18 - Emma

  3rd September 2012

  I studied the sky; maybe I shouldn’t have come for such a long walk after all. I wasn’t going to make it back before the storm broke, but I hadn’t written a word worth keeping in days, and I needed to clear my head. I turned to call the dogs, but they were chasing rabbits – they must have run a marathon this afternoon.

  ‘Damn it.’ A rumble of thunder reverberated round the valley and echoed off the dam wall ahead. I headed towards the trees as the first heavy drops of rain fell and lightning flashed.

  The bridge across the Washburn and to the path up the valley side was metal – there was no way I would cross it now. I was stuck here with what little shelter I could find until the storm passed.

  It was only two o’clock in the afternoon, but it seemed like dusk already: dark, heavy clouds had moved in quickly over the moors and another flash of lightning lit up the valley, the thunder that came with it so loud I thought the dam had blown up. But no, it still stood.

  I huddled in the tree line, trying to remember if this was safer than being out in the open. I decided I was less likely to be hit by lightning if there were other, taller, targets nearby. I screamed as another bolt of lightning exploded overhead, suddenly not so sure of my reasoning.

  The dogs, although used to thunderstorms, went mad: circling and barking, then running up the hill before returning to circle around me again, and I realised they were ignoring the rabbits that streamed about us. Something more than lightning was wrong.

  I eyed the dam again. Had it been hit? Surely not, there’d be all sorts of precautions against lightning strike. It must have withstood hundreds of storms in the past fifty years. I watched it a moment longer. The amount of water coming down the overflow seemed to have increased. It couldn’t all be rain, not so soon.

  I glanced again at the rabbits and the odd behaviour of the dogs, and jumped to my feet. Suddenly the decision whether to shelter in the trees or not seemed irrelevant. I wanted to be on higher ground – quickly, but realised I had a problem.

  I was at the bottom edge of Hanging Wood, which covered the valley side, and it was steep. Almost sheer. I could only climb by using the trees as a ladder; hauling myself round to brace against a trunk then reach for another, but everything was soaked and slippery already; the trunks mossy, the ground a mush of wet pine needles.

  I glanced at the dam again; there was definitely more water flowing over it. Too much. I realised that lightning must have struck the water behind it and maybe cracked the overflow.

  ‘Shit!’ I screamed in terror as I slid backwards, losing the precious few feet in height I’d gained, colliding with trees, striking my elbow and scraping my legs. I looked up at the impossible slope – almost a wooded cliff – and nearly cried. There was no way I could get up there.

  I spotted Cassie, the Irish Setter, barking at me and shouted at her to get on. She did, and I cursed her for leaving me until I realised how she managed the slope. That was it – thank you, Cassie!

  I got to my feet again and followed, this time along a diagonal line, and soon got a rhythm going. I could dig my feet sideways into the mush and brace them against the trees at the same time. That was better: six feet, twelve feet, fifteen, time for a rest. Surely this is high enough? I steadied myself astride a strong pine to catch my breath and study the dam.

  The sky was lightening and I had made no mistake, there was far too much water pouring into the valley. Another horrific crack, but this time not from the sky; masonry fell from the top of the dam and crashed a hundred and twenty feet on to more concrete. As I watched, the new V-shaped split in the centre became a U as cascading water forced the restraining wall out of the way. Water thundered into the valley. I needed to get higher, and started to scramble upwards again.

  Another rest. I must be twenty five feet up now and my legs were shaking. I wasn’t sure I could climb any higher. Cassie nosed up to me, whining, and I put my arms round her. She was terrified, poor thing, and I didn’t blame her – I felt the same way, and completely helpless.

  Suddenly, another explosion rent the air and I screamed again as a concrete boulder the size of a house fell to the valley floor. Cassie yelped and jumped, and I couldn’t keep hold of her wet fur. I screeched her name as she slid down the wet slope, careening off tree trunks. Despite her efforts to stop, her claws were ineffective in the pine mush. She splashed into water and was gone.

  I screamed her name again, but to thin air. I looked around for the two boys, but couldn’t see them in the gloom beneath the trees. I didn’t want to call them in case they tried to come to me and ended up swept away as well. I was on my own, clinging to the wet hillside above a torrent of certain death. I clung on to my tree and watched the destruction unfold in front of me.

  Poor Cassie. Where would she end up? She was a good swimmer, but there was so much debris in the water, the valley would be scarred for generations. What would those trees do to Cassie? Would she manage to climb on to one of them or would they drown her? I sobbed at the image in my mind of her fighting for her life.

  I gaped downstream after her, and imagined what was happening out of sight. Not just to Cassie, but to everyone in the path of this torrent. The road at Blubberhouses was impassable at every snowfall; this would definitely close it – and for how long? Three million gallons would surely wash it away completely. Then what? There were three more reservoirs downstream, would they hold this water? No way, surely their dams would crumble in its path. I had a brief vision of the Dambusters film, dam after dam falling away.

  Then what? Otley and the Wharfe. How much would survive? What about Ilkley, Wetherby? What about York? How many homes, towns, cities would be destroyed before this brown peaty dales water reached the sea? How many people would be swept out of their lives?

  My initial panic dulled and a horrified dread took its place. How close had I come to being swept away myself?

  I don’t know how long I perched on that hillside, watching Thruscross empty into the Washburn Valley – thrusting what was left of the dam out of the way. I’d heard of being speechless, and been afflicted that way many times, but this was the first time I’d been struck thoughtless. I couldn’t grasp the enormity of what I was seeing. This was an inland tidal wave. Except this was much more than a tsunami, because there’d be no trough, no ebbing of the waters, not until the reservoir was empty. And Otley would soon be facing four times what I’d seen.

  I checked my phone. I had to ring someone, anyone, to warn the people living in ignorance downstream. Nothing.

  I got back to my feet to climb to the top – I couldn’t afford to rest any longer, I had to get to the road at the edge of the dam where I’d have a better chance of getting a signal.

  *

  I came out on to the rocks above the road, grateful to leave the claustrophobia of Hanging Wood, and was greeted enthusiastically by two big balls of wet fur with even wetter tongues. Delly and Roddy. I hugged the two German Shepherds in te
ars, thinking of Cassie swept away. Then pushed them off to fumble for my phone. Emergency only – enough. I dialled 999 with shaking fingers, but had no idea which service I wanted. What could the fire brigade or police do?

  ‘Everyone!’ I shouted at the operator, ‘Thruscross Dam’s burst! You have to warn everyone downstream before it’s too late!’

  ‘Which service do you require?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear me? The dam’s burst, water’s flooding downstream, get whoever you can to move people out of the way!’

  ‘Where exactly are you?’

  ‘I’m at the dam.’

  ‘Where is the dam?’

  ‘Thruscross!’ I shouted. ‘Blubberhouses! Oh my God, there’s a car! Get people up here quickly!’ I dropped my phone and scrambled down the rocks to stop the car before it drove off the end of the road. Luckily the sight of a mud-covered, raving woman half falling towards them was enough to make the driver hit his brakes.

  ‘Stop, stop, stop – the dam! Stop!’

  ‘Are you all right? What’s happened to you?’

  ‘The dam!’ I waved wildly. ‘The dam’s gone!’

  ‘Oh my God.’ The driver had got out of the car and was staring, horror-stricken. ‘I wouldn’t have been able to stop in time. There’s nothing there! We’d have gone over the edge!’

  ‘Steve, look! Bloody hell!’ The woman passenger had jumped out and pointed at a car coming from the opposite direction. But there was nothing we could do to warn them.

  There was a sharp bend just before the dam, they wouldn’t have seen the gap until they were on the dam itself. We watched helplessly as the car slewed across the road, aquaplaning on the wet tarmac, then it hit the wall and scraped along the concrete towards the drop.

  There was a moment at the very edge when I thought the car had caught, but its momentum was too much. I blinked as the headlights blinded me for an instant, then it plunged into the abyss.

  The driver, Steve, rang 112 again. There was nothing else we could do. We couldn’t get over there to warn traffic. Neither of us had enough signal to ring anybody to get down to the road before another car drove over the edge, even if I had known any numbers to ring. I hoped no one else would appear around that corner. At least it was afternoon mid-week and the road should be fairly quiet.

  I walked out a little way on to the remains of the dam and peered over the wall at what was left of the reservoir. There was plenty of water at this end, but further up where the floor of the valley rose, mud-shrouded lumps had emerged. The village was rising again.

  It was an eerie sight – tumbledown houses and bridges resurfacing after fifty years underwater. I realised with a jolt that Jennet would be there somewhere. The bodies from the cemetery had been moved, but she wouldn’t have been buried in consecrated ground. Nobody in the 1960s would have known the site of her grave. Her waterlogged bones would be drying out, somewhere in all that mud.

  I knew I had to write her story.

  *

  I sat up with a jolt. It was pitch black and I was completely disorientated. I remembered needing to see the village, wanting a closer look at the water-worn stone, but why was it so dark? Then I realised, and got out of bed fighting a panic attack. Gasping for breath, I stumbled to the window and pulled the curtains. The reservoir appeared peaceful and beautiful in the moonlight. I grasped the windowsill and stepped back, then bent over with a sob. What’s happening to me? It was so real.

  ‘Another one?’

  I went back to the bed and Dave, and he rubbed my arms. I turned and sank against him, sobbing hard.

  ‘It was so real, Dave! It was her – Jennet! I feel like I’m losing my mind, I don’t know which reality is the true one, I don’t know if Jennet is real.’ I sobbed.

  He held me and stroked my hair. ‘You know, I don’t know which is more frightening: the thought of you having a breakdown or being befriended by an eighteenth century witch,’ he said in a misguided effort to cheer me up.

  ‘Nor me,’ I whispered. I wasn’t cheered. There was nothing remotely amusing about this.

  Dave kissed the top of my head. ‘They’re only dreams, Emma, she’s not real, she can’t be.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Logically, I accepted he was right, but it didn’t help. My heart still beat madly in my chest, and I was convinced something was very wrong. ‘Go back to sleep,’ I told Dave. ‘No point in us both being awake.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, lie back down then, snuggle up.’ He patted my pillow.

  ‘Maybe later.’ I got out of bed. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep and was afraid it would worry Dave even more if he could feel me shaking next to him in bed. I stroked his arm to reassure him and went to the office to put the kettle on. I left the lights off and sat on the sofa, staring out at the moonlight reflected on the water. I knew exactly what was underneath that mirror-like surface. I could picture all the muddy humps and bumps, and had a clear picture of the village as it had been in my mind.

  I didn’t hear the kettle boil. I was already writing.

  Chapter 19 - Jennet

  1st December 1776

  The sheep scattered before me in the moonlight as I trod through the heather, and I watched them go. The new stone walls snaked over the fields and lower moors, and it would not be long before these sheep would have nowhere to run. I knew it would make the farming easier in some respects, but they would be restricted to the same patch of field or moor, unable to roam to find better grass, and I doubted I would be allotted prime grazing land.

  The barriers would also make my nightly wanderings harder. A number of the plants I used were best picked under a full moon, and the work were tiring enough without having to clamber over piles of stones or detour to go through gates. I bent to pick a clump of mushrooms and straightened, my gaze on the village below and the church.

  I paused for a moment, watching the site of my humiliation that morning. How could he have treated me that way? How could he? And why were all the sneers and gossip directed at me alone? I might be carrying the child, but he had planted it there; how could he and his wife get away with calling me whore? Why were people not sniggering, pointing and whispering at him?

  I sighed, determined not to cry any more – I had been doing that all day and did not think there was a drop of water left inside me – and carried on my search for useful plants. They were hard to find at this time of year, but I had been doing this all my life and knew where to find the most sheltered spots and the treasures they hid. Some of Mam’s old customers – Marjorie Wainwright, Susan Gill and Martha Grange amongst them – had on occasion knocked on my door over the last few months asking for cures for their ailments, and in return they had helped with the sheep or paid me in winter fodder. I had hoped that word would spread that my remedies were as effective as Mam’s had been, but that seemed unlikely now. Would I lose even the few customers I had? Would they turn their backs on me and make the long walk to Peggy Lofthouse at Padside? She were the next closest cunning woman to Thores-Cross, but Mam had always said she were no good. How would I manage if Mam were wrong and Old Peg took all my custom?

  I pulled my shawl tighter against the cold night and tried to concentrate on the ground in my search for the ingredients I needed. If I did not, what else would I do?

  I walked off the moors and trudged through the more fecund fields just above the village, stopping and bending every so often. Hazelnuts, mushrooms, rosehips and more – my basket were nearly full by the time I reached the graveyard. I closed my mind to the memories of the day and crossed to Mam and Pa’s graves, the bare earth stark in the moonlight – it would be spring before nature covered them with a carpet of green.

  I knelt down and pulled away the few weeds that had taken root ahead of the grass.

  ‘Oh Mam, what am I going to do? They all hate me – Richard hates me. He never loved me – did he ever love thee, I wonder? Or did he just want what thee wouldn’t give him? Oh Mam,
I’m so sorry, I’ve been such a fool. Mary Farmer is the only friendly face left – thee can imagine!’ I smiled through my tears – I did have water in me, after all.

  ‘What am I going to do? I’m struggling with the beasts already – what am I going to do with a babby as well? Mary Farmer’s getting on, she won’t be much help.’

  I had visions of tramping around the moors, chasing down sheep, with a child strapped to my back. I cried harder, then sat up as the wind caressed my cheek. It felt like fingers – Mam’s fingers. I put my palm to my face. ‘Mam,’ I whispered. I sat in silence for a while longer, knowing Mam were near. I felt at peace for the first time since Richard had failed to visit.

  Chapter 20 - Jennet

  24th December 1776

  I leaned on the garden wall and peered down at the village. A constellation of candle and lantern flames moved from house to house as the wasaillers endowed songs and blessings on their neighbours.

  Every house but mine. They would not come here. They would not bless my home. The only one in the dale to be left out, and all because of an innocent child who had not yet been born. I caressed my belly. I shed no tears. The time for tears were past. I had no more upset, no more frustration, no more shame or pity in my soul.

  All I had now were hate. Hate for Richard Ramsgill, hate for his wife and hate for every single villager who had pledged their condolences when Mam and Pa died, who had told me I could come to them if I needed anything. But when I needed a little compassion, a little human kindness, they all turned their backs and called me names.