Ghosts of Yorkshire

by Karen Perkins

  We stared at each other again and tears rolled down my cheeks. Dave opened his arms and I fell into his embrace. He held on to me, hard, as I sobbed, then led me back to the bedroom.

  *

  A few hours later, I woke to my husband depositing a steaming cup of coffee on the bedside table. I smiled at him and wrapped my arms around his neck when he leaned over to kiss me.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘I think you got more than three hours sleep for once!’

  ‘I actually feel like I’ve slept,’ I said. ‘I’d forgotten what that was like.’

  ‘You needed the rest – you’re working far too hard. Just take it easy this morning, hey?’

  I nodded. ‘What about you, are you coming back to bed?’ I asked, peering up at him from under my lashes.

  ‘Ah, I’d love to,’ he replied, then glanced towards the front of the house, ‘but young Alex is outside, digging a garden for us – it wouldn’t be right. Anyway, I need to go to Harrogate – I’ve some important papers that need to go to the post, and we need a supermarket shop too – there’s barely any food in the house.’

  I nodded, dropping my arms from around his neck and accepting the reprimand. I realised Dave had a point, I had neglected things lately.

  ‘We need to be more careful – it’s isolated here, the nearest shop’s miles away; we need to make sure we have plenty in. Gas is getting low too, I’ve rung and ordered more cylinders.’

  ‘Sorry, I’ve just been—’

  ‘Busy,’ he finished for me. I dropped my eyes, guilty. He had been driving to Edinburgh almost weekly for meetings and site visits. He’d driven nearly two hundred miles home the day before, and now he was getting into the car again to drive the fifteen miles to Harrogate to stock up the fridge.

  I’d spent my time writing. Oh, and fucking the neighbour – can’t forget that.

  I reached over and burnt my lips sipping the hot coffee. I could not look at him.

  ‘I’ll leave the front door open so Alex can come in and get himself a drink.’

  ‘Ok.’

  He gave me a peck on my forehead and left.

  *

  I waited ten minutes and went to the window to make sure his car had gone. Alex was outside the front door digging the first flowerbed, and I watched him a moment, his young muscles bulging under his tight T-shirt. I sighed, just what I needed – another bloody Ramsgill.

  I turned away from the window and got into the shower, trying to drench the past month and all its implications away.

  It didn’t work. I felt terrible: tired, stressed and guilty. I went into the office to escape my world and write.

  *

  ‘Have you got a minute?’

  I jumped and dropped the quill on the carpet, splattering ink everywhere.

  ‘Mark, you scared me!’

  ‘Sorry, the door was open.’

  ‘What do you want?’ I hadn’t forgotten the last time I’d seen him, the way he’d treated me and what he’d said.

  ‘To apologise. I made out it was all your fault and it’s not, I just ... I just don’t understand what’s happening.’

  ‘No, me neither.’ I shook my head, tears flooding my eyes once again.

  He hesitated, then crossed to the sofa and put his arm around me. I stiffened, then leaned into his familiar body.

  ‘This can’t go on, it can’t happen again, it can’t. Dave and Kathy – they don’t deserve this.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  We sat for a moment in silence, then I pulled back from him, my tears calmed. His hand gripped my shoulder, and I stared at him. It felt like a tug-of-war – we were trying to pull away from each other, but instead were being hauled together.

  Then a door slammed and I heard Dave’s shout from downstairs, ‘Emma!’

  I jumped back from Mark. ‘Shit!’

  ‘It’s all right, we weren’t doing anything,’ Mark said.

  I knew he was right – this time – but it felt a lie.

  ‘There you are, I might have known.’

  ‘Hi, Dave.’

  ‘Hi, oh hello, Mark, what are you doing up here?’

  ‘Just bringing Emma some books I promised her – local history, that kind of thing.’ He lifted a carrier bag from the floor. I hadn’t noticed it before and I wondered if they were the ones I’d already seen or new ones.

  ‘Hmm.’ Dave frowned. ‘That’s very kind, but she’s working too hard, look how pale she is.’

  ‘Dave!’

  ‘It’s true, Emma. If you won’t look after yourself, I’ll have to do it for you.’

  ‘He’s right, Em,’ Mark said. ‘I was saying the same thing the other day,’ he continued, glancing at Dave.

  He nodded. ‘You see? It’s not just me.’ He turned to Mark. ‘She needs to slow down, she’s making herself ill – this damn book’s become an obsession.’

  Chapter 31 - Jennet

  13th August 1777

  I knocked on the door of Gill Farm and glanced at the horseshoe nailed to it. I had seen a few of them as I had passed through the village – some old-style witchposts, too. I hadn’t noticed the carved wooden posts before and shivered, the appearance of the charms scared me. Marjory Wainwright opened the door and gasped. ‘What’s thee doing here? I were going to come up to thee, later!’

  ‘I felt like a walk,’ I said cheerfully, though I were hurt by her ‘welcome’. I had once counted this woman a friend. ‘Is thee going to invite me in or leave me on the stoop for whole valley to see?’

  She jumped back and ushered me in. She slammed the door behind me.

  ‘Has thee got it?’ she asked.

  I dug in the pockets of my apron and produced a packet of herbs. Marjory’s face lit up.

  ‘Thee can’t tell anyone about it, thee won’t, will thee?’

  I smiled at her, ‘Marj, thee pays for me discretion as well as me cunning ways. No bugger will hear about it from me.’

  Marjory and her husband, Bert, had been trying for a family for two years without success. They needed sons to carry on the farm, and it were said that Bert were beginning to look elsewhere.

  Marj were desperate enough to have come to me, and let me inside her front door in full view of the village.

  I held out the packet. ‘That’ll be an iron pot for the first packet. Each thereafter will cost a half-sack of flour, and thee’ll be pregnant by end of year.’

  ‘An iron pot, but, but that’s too much! And Bert will notice!’

  I shrugged. My own cooking pot were disintegrating, it were so old. I needed a new one, and this were the only way I would get one. ‘When does he ever take note of what’s happening in’t kitchen? When thy courses have stopped, tell him thee needs a new, larger one for a larger family. He’ll be so pleased, he’ll give thee anything thee asks.’

  She thought a moment, then walked through a door in the far wall. She returned carrying a large iron cooking pot with three squat legs and a handle to suspend it over the fire. She thrust it at me and I gave her the herbs.

  ‘Thee’ll need a fresh packet every four weeks,’ I told her. ‘Come to farm on’t first day of month. And don’t forget to bring flour as payment.’

  ‘They’d better work, Jennet,’ she grumbled, and I clenched my teeth. If Robert Ramsgill would not trade with me for flour, I would get it another way – preferably without an hour’s daily grind. And Marjory Wainwright would never know if some months the packets were a little light of the most potent ingredients, or that the appropriate words had not been spoken over them at the right time. No spinning work had come my way since my affair with Richard Ramsgill had become known. I had no other way of buying what I needed to survive.

  She ushered me out of the door, and I started my walk home, clutching the cooking pot, staring at the people I passed in the street. They all averted their eyes rather than meet my gaze. Except one. She were a distance away, but I knew who she were at once. Elizabeth Ramsgill. I had no choice but to pass her. She never t
ook her eyes off me, even for a second, in all the time it took me to reach her. I stared back.

  Betsy Ward pulled her to one side out of my path, and I smirked. They were scared of me. The whole village were scared of me.

  For the first time since Mam’s death, I felt like I had a place in the world. I had power – strength. They had accused me, judged me and abandoned me. Richard Ramsgill were the one who had seduced and ruined me; yet he were still a respected man in the bosom of his family. I vowed to myself that the whole Damn village would tremble at the sight of me before I were done. I hated them. I hated them all

  Betsy Ward glanced at me and hurried off, dragging Richard’s wife with her, and I realised my thoughts had been plain to see on my face. I laughed to see them run, then turned up Scot Lane for home. I paused when I saw Mary Farmer up the lane, a frown on her face. She had watched it all. Not much escaped her notice.

  Chapter 32 - Emma

  6th October 2012

  I jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, hand clasped over my mouth.

  ‘Emma! What’s wrong?’ Dave called. I ignored him, focusing my attention on the toilet. I only just made it.

  A hand stroked my hair. Dave had followed me, and now held my hair away from my face as I continued to throw up. I was both grateful to him and embarrassed that he was seeing me like this.

  ‘Are you ok?’ What a stupid question. ‘Is it something you ate?’ I managed to shrug my shoulders. ‘I don’t see how,’ he continued. ‘You’ve hardly been eating. I’m willing to bet you’ve not eaten anything except what I’ve made you – and what I’ve given you, I’ve had too.’ He stopped. ‘Emma?’

  ‘Mm?’ I managed, face down in the toilet bowl, but at least I had stopped heaving. I flushed and sat against the wall, not yet ready to move away from the toilet, even to wash my mouth. I grabbed some toilet paper and wiped my face instead.

  Dave’s eyes dropped from my face to linger on my chest.

  Seriously? How can he possibly be feeling horny now?

  He glanced up again. ‘You know you’ve been writing at all hours?’

  I groaned. Not another lecture about working too hard and making myself ill, not now, please.

  ‘Well, have you been taking your pill properly?’

  My breath caught in my throat. My pill? I thought back, but the last few weeks were a bit of a daze; I could remember little but Jennet. I stared at him in horror.

  ‘I don’t ... I don’t know,’ I stammered.

  He stood, opened the cabinet and took down the pink foil strip. He glanced at it, then passed it to me. Numb, I took it and looked. The next pill was Wednesday’s. It was Saturday. I doubted I was only a half week amiss. I couldn’t remember the last time I had taken one.

  I glanced up at Dave. I could see that he wanted to smile, but was too wary to risk it.

  I got up, cleaned my teeth, splashed water on my face, and put on my robe. I couldn’t bear to see the rush of emotion playing over his features.

  ‘Emma?’

  I shook my head at him and went downstairs. I was terrified and needed space to think.

  I stopped mid-step on the stairs and grabbed the banister to stop my fall. Oh God, what if I am pregnant, but it’s not Dave’s? What if it’s Mark’s?

  In the kitchen, my hand hovered over the phone. I needed to see a doctor, to find out if it was really true and then to get rid of it – just like Jennet had tried to do.

  I couldn’t pick the handset up, it seemed stuck to the cradle. I couldn’t. I couldn’t get rid of it, what if it was Dave’s? I’d already lost so much, I couldn’t throw this baby away.

  I grabbed my hair with both hands and pulled my head back, growling at the ceiling. I needed space, I needed time to think – a clear head, without bloody Jennet.

  Chapter 33 – Jennet

  6th September 1777

  I stared at the ceiling, then sighed and heaved myself out of bed. I would rather stay there, nice and cosy under the brocades Richard had given me a year past. I had dug them back out of the chest where I had thrown them in disgust. Why should I not use them? Why should I not have nice things?

  I dressed slowly and made my way downstairs. I had things to do – I were falling badly behind with my chores. The oats should already be in and I had not started the harvest yet. If I did not get it in soon, I would have no grain of my own for the coming year, and would be dependent on the villagers for my bread. I could not bear that thought.

  I put new peat on the fire and poked at the sod that had been buried under the ash all night, until I had enough heat to cook.

  I stared at the flames as I ate my porridge, thinking of the village and the hurts done to me: Robert Ramsgill – both of them; Thomas Ramsgill; Richard, of course; Martha Grange; even Susan Gill running off rather than passing the time of day. So much for the village helping me after Mam and Pa died.

  I thought back to Richard’s words when he first came to me; that I were quite a catch for a second son now that I had my own farm. I snorted with laughter. The only people who did not turn from me or point their crossed fingers against a witch when they saw me were the Farmers. Oh, and Peter Stockdale; he would give me a small smile if we passed – but only if no bugger else could see him.

  I had not seen him properly since he had helped with the lambing in February, even though I could do with his help most days. A smile were not much use to me. It did not cut peat, clip beasts or harvest oats.

  Speaking of which ... I got up, rinsed my bowl and ale jug in a little water, then collected my weeding hooks from the toolshed out back. Inside again, I packed some oatcakes and cheese for my lunch, picked up the baskets and set off into the dawning day.

  The oat fields were downhill, near the church, and I had put off tending it. I had not wanted to see anyone, and I sighed in relief when I got there – my strip were the only crop still standing – I would be working alone.

  I put my baskets down near the stones that marked the strip as mine, hefted my weeding hooks and bent to my task.

  The wild flowers that grew amongst the stalks were thick – I should have done this many times over the summer – and I would need to pull them all before I could cut the oats themselves. They were all useful to a cunning woman: poppy for pain; mullein for cramps and convulsions; mallow for sore throats and bruises; dandelion for upset bellies.

  I would pull them, collect them, take them home, sort and dry them. Tomorrow I would be back to harvest the oats, although – I fingered a few stalks – it looked like somebody had already been helping themselves. A lot of seed heads were missing.

  Fighting tears, I gritted my teeth. I would cut what they had left me, and take the stooks home to dry in the garden. I could not leave them here. All it meant were that I would have to ask for larger amounts of flour in payment for my preparations.

  I looked up the hill and sighed. Pa had always borrowed Robert Grange’s dray horse to haul the crops up to the farm. After Martha’s outburst when Richard Ramsgill’s sheep drowned, that were not possible for me. I would have to drag it up the hill myself.

  I sighed again. I also had a hay crop to harvest; what state would that be in? It had been a wet summer, and hay did not do well with a lot of rain.

  I pulled another clump of poppy out of the ground and frowned. My hook had caught something else and thrown it in the air. I bent to pick it up.

  A corn dolly. Crudely made, but unmistakable. Arms and legs wide open in invitation, large breasts and a grotesque hole between its legs.

  I stared at it, fury boiling my insides. Then I tucked it into my apron – I would deal with it when I got home.

  I finished weeding after lunch and stood to stretch my back. I winced when I heard a crack, then made my way back to the start of the strip to swap weeding hooks for baskets.

  By the time I had collected every precious flower, leaf and root it were growing dark and I trudged home, exhausted. I remembered the corn dolly tucked into my apron and picked up my pac
e – my anger feeding me energy.

  Baskets on the table, I pulled a stool closer to the fire and poked it back into life.

  I threw a handful of dried herbs on to it – rosemary, bay and sage – and held the corn dolly tightly in my hands.

  ‘Let the one who made this lose her man to another.

  ‘Let the one who made this never know the feel of a babe moving in her barren womb.

  ‘Let the one who spited me know the loneliness I suffer.’

  I threw the corn dolly on the fire and watched the flames flare up as they consumed it.

  I pulled out a few ears of oats.

  ‘Let the ones who stole from me know hunger this winter.’

  I threw the oats on the fire, then more herbs, and smiled.

  Chapter 34 - Emma

  20th October 2012

  I hung up the phone. My doctor had confirmed it – I was six weeks pregnant.

  I stared out of the window of my office at the reservoir – water sparkled in the autumnal sun, but today it could not cheer me. What was I going to do?

  What if this baby was Mark’s? I couldn’t have Mark’s child, I couldn’t. But then again, it might be Dave’s. I’d lost so much already, I couldn’t imagine getting rid of any child, even if it were Mark’s. I had to do everything I could to give life to this baby. Whatever it took - it had to live.

  What was I going to do? Please let this baby live. Please let this baby be Dave’s, I prayed.

  I put my hands on my belly. Instead of thinking about loss; now I thought about laughter, about cuddles, about watching my son or daughter explore the world. I thought about teaching him or her to talk, to walk, to read. I thought about taking delight in their milestones and achievements; wondering what a child of Dave and mine could achieve; what difference he or she would make in the world. I dared to hope, and finally, I dared to smile.

  I turned to the sofa and coffee table, then back to the view. Jennet could wait – just for a little while.