Ghosts of Yorkshire

by Karen Perkins

  ‘She had Old Ma Ramsgill’s journal.’

  ‘You didn’t show that to me until after I’d written about the curse, Mark. Don’t you remember? I showed it to you when you brought me the journal.’

  He looked away, no doubt remembering what that had led to, and I felt ashamed. What am I doing?

  ‘We don’t actually know if this family tree is correct, there’s nothing to worry about.’ I backtracked, trying to reassure Kathy and wishing I hadn’t said anything about the Ramsgill brothers and Jennet’s curse.

  ‘Aye, nowt to worry about.’ Mark had poured himself a whisky and downed it in one.

  ‘So why don’t you check it?’ Kathy asked him. ‘You’re the historian – even I know the Internet is full of these genealogy sites. Find out if these people really lived and ... died as it’s written here. Do some research.’

  Mark glanced away and I realised he already had.

  ‘Speaking of research, I must get back to mine,’ I said, suddenly desperate to get out of there. ‘Thanks for the coffee, Kathy, and send Alex down at the weekend when Dave’s back, if you’re sure he’ll be interested?’

  ‘Ten pounds an hour and no commute? Believe me, he’ll be interested,’ Kathy said. ‘You don’t need a cleaner as well do you – for Hannah?’

  I laughed, pleased the mood had broken, although a glance at Mark showed he was still brooding.

  ‘I’m not sure about that – I get distracted if anyone but Dave is in the house, but I’ll think about it,’ I promised.

  The door shut behind me and I breathed a sigh of relief. Then raised voices from inside reached me. I hesitated a moment before turning my back and walking home.

  Chapter 27 - Jennet

  20th July 1777

  It had been nearly two months since my babbies had died, and past time I showed my face in the village. I smiled the odd greeting, but none were returned. Hopefully it were just because of the rain. Lizzie Thistlethwaite, Martha Grange and Susan Gill, huddled on Street Bridge passing the time of day, stopped talking when they saw me, glanced at each other and scuttled off up past the mill. They were aware that I knew not one of them lived up that way, but they did not care. They had turned away from me as if I were poison. It had nowt to do with weather. I did not know if Mary Farmer had gossiped or if it were just one more thing to add to my run of bad luck.

  I pursed my lips and shifted the sack of grain to my other shoulder, wondering if I would have to get used to this treatment. Let them go; stupid, silly women, what did I care? I had my house, my beasts and the moors. I went to the fairy spring regularly, and Mam and my babbies were always there. I still had Mary Farmer, too, though she were a little more reserved since the babbies, and I still had my customers.

  In they crept, usually at night, anxious that nobody saw them. And they paid what I asked: a dozen eggs for a nerve tonic; a sheaf of oats for a fever remedy; a round of cheese for a love potion.

  They hated me and they feared me; but they needed me and they kept me. Aye, Mary Farmer must have gossiped. I would soon sort her out.

  *

  I reached the mill and thumped the sack down in relief – my back ached from carrying it the mile from my farm.

  I glanced up at a cough. Big Robert Ramsgill, the Royal Miller, walked out from one of the mill’s dark corners. He spoke, but I could not hear him over the rumbling and splashing of the waterwheel and the grinding of the great stones. I cupped my hand over my ear, and he came closer.

  ‘What’s thee doing here?’ he repeated.

  I stared at him in surprise and gestured at my sack of grain.

  ‘I’d like it grinding into flour. I’ve brought thy wife’s herbs – three months’ worth – Mam taught me the recipe.’

  Big Robert Ramsgill eyed the packet in my hand and the sack of oats, then shook his head.

  ‘She wants nowt made by thy wanton hands.’ He coughed again.

  ‘What? But I’ve been making them for years! And it’s thy brother thee should be insulting – not me!’

  ‘Get out of here! I won’t hear abuses against my family!’

  I watched him bend double with the force of his cough. I took a deep breath; I could not afford to lose my temper.

  ‘I could help thee with that cough an’all.’

  ‘He said leave.’

  I turned. His son – Little Rob – stood at the door and glared at me. As we stared at each other, his twin sister Jayne joined him – one either side of the doorway. They were a year older than I and we had never got on. As the son and daughter of the Royal Miller, and Ramsgills to boot, they looked down on me. Even now with my own farm, I did not engage their interest – my farm were not large enough.

  I glanced back at Big Robert Ramsgill. He had recovered from his coughing fit and stood firm again, though was dwarfed by his son. I sighed and bent to heft my sack on to my shoulder.

  I staggered through the door and felt hands on my back. They shoved and I fell. The sack split open when it landed, and my precious oats scattered in the muck of the street.

  ‘No!’ I cried and turned to remonstrate with the Ramsgill twins.

  They stood and laughed. ‘That’s it, slut, thee lay down in dirt where thee belongs!’

  ‘What’s going on here?’ I turned to see Thomas Ramsgill, and my heart sank.

  ‘How do, Constable,’ his nephew stressed the word. ‘This one’s disturbing smooth running of King’s mill. She’s been asked to leave but refused – we were helping her on her way.’

  His father joined him at the door, and the brothers glanced at each other.

  ‘Why thee!’ It were all I could think of to say in my rage and surprise.

  Little Rob smirked and his sister giggled behind her hand.

  ‘Be off with thee now, Jennet, there’s a good lass.’ Thomas Ramsgill said. ‘We don’t want no trouble now, do we?’

  I got to my feet and gathered the remnants of the sack around the grain I could save. I glared at Little Rob.

  ‘I know what thee did, and I’ll remember. Thee ain’t heard the last of this, I promise thee that.’

  He laughed. ‘What kind of curse is that? Thee has to do better than that, witch!’

  ‘What did you call me?’ I stepped towards him and Thomas caught my shoulders.

  ‘Home, Jennet. Now, or I’ll have to put thee in stocks.’

  I looked at him. ‘Me? He’s the one pushed me in dirt!’

  He stared back and I gave up. I could not win here; I would have to find another way to deal with Little Rob.

  I bent to pick up my grain best I could, and turned away. I paused when I saw Margaret Ramsgill at the door of Mill House. She would not meet my gaze and dropped her eyes.

  I started the long trudge home – with only half a sack of grain left. I would have to grind it by hand.

  *

  I dumped the sack in the garden and went in to find the quern-stones. I poured myself a jug of ale, downed it in one, then carried the heavy, round stones outside. I were angry – I might as well use that anger in the grinding.

  Ten minutes later, I paused and stretched. My back, shoulders and arms were agony, and I would have to grind for near an hour to get enough flour for a day’s-worth of oatcakes.

  I bent back to the grind, but knew I could not do this every day. I would have to find another way to get my daily bread.

  Chapter 28 - Emma

  22nd September 2012

  ‘Emma!’

  I jumped and stared at Dave.

  ‘My God, Emma, I’ve been calling you for ages, didn’t you hear me?’

  I glanced at my notebook, then back at my husband, disorientated.

  ‘Sorry, I was engrossed.’

  ‘You’re telling me! But you need to take a break. You’ve been writing since the early hours and it’s nearly lunchtime. You’ve not eaten or washed, I’m getting worried about you.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you? Have the dogs been out?’

  I st
ared at him, he knew what my reaction would be if he hadn’t taken them out. Then I sighed, feeling guilty. I was neglecting the dogs, neglecting my husband, maybe even myself, but I just – had – to – write.

  I pulled my eyes away from Dave. His look of concern should have filled me with guilt, but I only felt irritation.

  ‘Emma ...’

  ‘What?’

  He hesitated.

  ‘Dave, what is it?’

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, I know you’ve tried counselling before, but what do you think about talking to Kathy?’

  ‘Talking to Kathy?’ I froze, does he know about Mark?

  ‘Yes. Well, she’s a counsellor, isn’t she? She knows how to listen. Not only that, she’s a friend, she might be able to help.’

  ‘I don’t need help, I just need to write this book!’

  ‘Emma, you’re not sleeping, you’re always irritable, and now you’ve forgotten to take the dogs out. I’m getting worried – this is beyond obsession!’

  I threw the quill on to the coffee table and stood. ‘Fine. I’ll take the dogs for a walk.’

  Dave said nothing, just stared at the mess of ink splotching the coffee table. He glanced up and nodded. ‘Just think about it, please.’

  My irritation dimmed; he must be worried not to complain about the ruination of a perfectly good (and fairly expensive) table.

  *

  ‘What the hell were you thinking the other day? Kathy’s in a right state!’

  I didn’t turn. Shep had run past me to greet my three – I had known Mark wouldn’t be far behind.

  ‘You said you would be there – I was taken by surprise to be welcomed by your wife!’

  ‘You’re a writer – you make up stories for a living, couldn’t you have found something better to talk about?’

  ‘I’m consumed by this story, Mark!’ Now I turned to face him. ‘It’s taking me over – every waking moment I’m either writing her or thinking about writing her – it’s driving me mad!’

  He grabbed my arms and shook me. ‘Get a grip, woman! It’s a story – a tale! She’s been dead two hundred year! You sound like Kathy now, going on about how Jennet walks again. It’s just a bloody tale, get it in perspective!’

  ‘Let go of me!’ If anything, his grip tightened. ‘Let go!’ I shouted, shaking my arms free. I stared at him, then nodded past him. ‘Dave might see.’

  He sighed and glanced to his right, then walked to the trees. I hesitated a moment and followed.

  The gloomy day was positively dark under the pines and I paused, unable to see Mark. Suddenly, he thrust my body against a tree and kissed me roughly. I pushed against him, then gave in and returned his kiss.

  His hands scrabbled at my waist and he shoved my jeans down past my hips. His own soon followed. He grabbed my hips and spun me round and I grabbed hold of the tree trunk, then took a couple of steps back, the air cold on my backside.

  I caught my breath in anticipation, then cried out with the force of his entry and quickly bit my lip to stop any more noise escaping me. It was fast, furious and very, very good, yet I was relieved when it was over.

  I straightened up and buttoned my jeans, still with my back to Mark.

  ‘I love my wife,’ he said. ‘In nearly twenty year, I’ve never cheated on Kathy, never! And now this. I can’t help meself. I don’t know what the hell this is, but it has to stop. Whatever you’re doing to me, it has to stop!’ He turned and walked away.

  Tears rolled down my face and I stared after him open-mouthed. I wasn’t doing anything to him. He was the one doing this to me. He was the one who had started it, who kept starting it. I loved Dave. I did. I did not love Mark – I didn’t even fancy him! Yet this kept happening. And I didn’t know how to stop it.

  I emerged from the trees and threw stones into the reservoir for the beasts to jump after. I sat on the shore to watch the dogs swim, and tried to make sense of the mess my life had become.

  Once my tears had dried and I thought I could argue the flush in my cheeks and red-rimmed eyes were due to the fresh air, I went home to Dave, none the wiser about anything.

  Chapter 29 - Jennet

  4th August 1777

  The rain had stopped. After two solid weeks of water, the sun at last showed itself. I threw my shawl around my shoulders, picked up my basket and set off. I needed feverfew, foxglove and a number of other plants that grew in the lush meadows down the hill.

  I did not want to ruin my day, so I turned left at the Gate Inn to avoid the village and followed Street Lane towards the mill. I would turn off at the bridge and follow the river downstream towards Hanging Wood. With any luck I would meet no one.

  I turned the last bend in the lane and stopped in surprise at the sight of a lake. The River Washburn were in flood. I waded through on to the hump of Street Bridge to get a better view, and gaped at the sight in front of me.

  I could not make out the millpond, it were part of the river now. The mill and Mill House were awash, and I smirked when I saw both Robert Ramsgills bailing water.

  The grain started the grind by being hoisted up to the top of the mill, then made its way through the grinding stones until it reached the ground floor as flour. I could only imagine the mess in there.

  Little Rob paused in his work and stretched his back. He spotted me watching from the bridge and shook his fist in my direction. My smile grew broader and I waved at him. He said something to his father and pointed at me. The more diminutive Big Robert stopped what he were doing to glare, then turned away and waded back into the mill.

  I laughed out loud and turned to see downstream, then leaned on the parapet to get a better look. A flock of sheep were trapped by water, and the small hillock of land they had gathered on were shrinking by the minute. The whole village seemed to be on the river bank, Richard Ramsgill at their head, trying to get them on to dry land.

  I peered closer and realised they were his wethers and tups – the most prized of his flock – put to graze on the lushest, most nutritious grass by the river before market.

  I waded back through the water pooled over the edge of the bridge, skirts held high, and made my way down to join my neighbours.

  As I got closer, I realised the sheep were all clean and closely shorn. My suspicions were right – they had deliberately excluded me from the washing and clipping this year. I gritted my teeth against a sob and took a deep breath. I would not let them get to me.

  I had clipped my girls myself – not the neatest job, but I knew I would not be able to sell their wool anyroad, not when Richard Ramsgill were the only wool merchant for miles around. I would need to card and spin it for my own use – I had to be self-sufficient now.

  But they were my neighbours and customers, and to live out here on the moors, we had to help each other. Maybe if I lent a hand now, some of these folk would also see themselves right to helping me some time?

  ‘What’s happening?’

  Susan Gill turned to me. ‘They got trapped by flood, the men are trying to get them to swim over.’

  I watched the fast flowing water a moment. I knew sheep could swim, but I did not think they could swim well enough to get over that without being swept away, and said so.

  Martha Grange turned to me. ‘We don’t need thee ill wishing us! Thee’s done enough! This is thy fault – thine! Thee cursed this village and thee cursed Richard Ramsgill – and now look, his best tups and wethers are drowning!

  I backed away in alarm, both at her outburst and Mary’s betrayal. She were the only one who knew. She must have gossiped. I had thought she were my friend, how could she tell the village about that day? How could she turn the worst day of my life into tittle-tattle?

  ‘Thee did this!’ Martha Grange had not finished. ‘Thee cursed Ramsgill and thee cursed this village, I heard thee!’ she said again, her voice rising, and everybody stopped what they were doing to stare.

  What? I stopped moving and gaped at her in confusion.

  ‘Thee
were screaming blue bloody murder that day. I were coming up to see if I could help and I heard thee curse.’ She dropped her voice a little. ‘Aye, saw what thee did an’all. Them poor babbies.’

  She spat at me. I realised everyone else were silent and staring. It had not been Mary Farmer who had spread gossip about me after all. It had never occurred to me that Martha Grange had seen me. I turned and ran home in shame.

  Chapter 30 - Emma

  29th September 2012

  ‘Emma! Emma!’

  ‘Wha ... ?’ I blinked in the bright light and glanced up at Dave. ‘What’s wrong? What is it?’

  He sat on the sofa next to me and held his head in his hands.

  ‘You really scared me, Em. This isn’t normal, this is ... I don’t know what this is, but I’m scared.’

  ‘Scared? Why?’

  He stared at me. ‘You have no idea, have you?’

  I stared back, not wanting to admit I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

  He sighed. ‘I woke up and you weren’t there – again. You were sitting in here – the office – in the dark, writing.’

  ‘In the dark?’ I looked at him, did he mean it or was he teasing me?

  ‘Yes, Emma, in the dark.’ His face was haggard – he was serious.

  ‘But that’s not the worst of it.’ He paused, took a breath. ‘When I put the light on, you didn’t notice. Em, your eyes ...’

  ‘What? What about my eyes?’ I was starting to panic now.

  ‘They were rolled right back – only the whites were showing. Emma, you were writing in the dark – blind!’

  We stared at each other, then our eyes dropped to the notebook in my lap. The writing was not only legible, but neat and straight, although it didn’t quite look like my handwriting. There were fewer ink blots on the page now as well, although I noticed my fingers were still covered in ink from the quill.