Ghosts of Yorkshire

by Karen Perkins

  ‘Thee were beautiful, lass, and so sad, me heart just ... melted. I should’ve been stronger, I knows that, but I couldn’t help mesen.’

  ‘I loved you, Richard,’ I whispered.

  ‘Aye, lass. I loved thee too, but it were impossible.’

  ‘Why?’

  He stood and threw his arms out, indicating the village. ‘Thee knows what Thores-Cross is like – folk talk. Eventually, too much talk fell into Elizabeth’s hearing and she’s canny – too canny.’

  ‘What does thee mean?’

  ‘She never said owt to me, went to me Pa and me brothers first. They beat crap out of me, and threatened to take farm off me, wool business an’all.’

  ‘I thought they were thine?’

  He shook his head. ‘It all belongs to Pa. Won’t be mine till he’s passed.’

  Now I began to understand.

  ‘So thee abandoned me. I were grieving and alone, and thee abandoned me!’

  ‘I had no choice, lass.’

  ‘Then you knocked me to the ground, kicked me and called me whore – told me to kill our child!’

  Finally, he looked ashamed. ‘I had no choice,’ he repeated. ‘I’d a lost everything.’

  ‘I did lose everything – look at me!’

  He looked – his eyes locked on mine.

  ‘This is what’s become of me! Due to thy cowardice and weakness! Mam died and Pa followed her. Then thee abandoned me and ...’ I could not finish. Sobs wracked my body.

  ‘I told thee to get rid of child!’ he said. ‘It would’a been all right had thee got rid of child! No bugger would’a known. Instead ...’

  ‘I tried!’ I screamed. ‘I tried – it didn’t work!’

  He sat down again. ‘Oh, lass ... I’m sorry. I thought thee’d carried on with pregnancy to spite me.’

  I shook my head, then rested it on the stocks. I could barely look at him. I had destroyed my life for this man, and he thought I had set out to destroy his.

  He nodded in understanding, but said nowt more. He stared at the road in thought and did not raise his head till dawn.

  *

  ‘Richard! What the bloody hell is thee doing here?’

  ‘None of thy business, our Thom. Now let her out, thee’s made thy point, she’s had an Hellish night.’

  ‘Where does Elizabeth think thee is?’

  ‘I neither know nor care. Get a move on, the poor lass is crippled.’

  Thomas Ramsgill glared at his brother, then motioned to Will Smith to free the locks.

  He lifted the wooden bar up and gently took my numb hands out of their grooves. I glanced up at him and he smiled. I did not return it.

  I straightened slowly and winced. It hurt, but I were not going to give these men the satisfaction of crying out.

  ‘Come on, lass, let’s get thee home.’ I looked at Mary Farmer, grateful to see her. A friendly face.

  She put her arm around my waist and I rubbed at my wrists; then stopped and studied them in surprise at the sharp pain. Dozens of needle-prick splinters were embedded in my skin.

  ‘We’ll sort that out at home, lass, come on.’

  Mary urged me on with her arm, and we struggled up the hill. I could not straighten up and my legs were weak, but eventually we reached my front door and I fell into the house. Mary half carried me up the stairs to my bed, then fetched up warm ale, a bucket of warm water, cloths and some of my comfrey salve. She sat on the floor next to my mattress and started pulling splinters out of my wrists.

  She barely said a word to me; an occurrence I found more frightening than a night in the stocks.

  Chapter 38 - Emma

  20th December 2012

  ‘Emma Moorcroft?’

  I stood and followed a nurse from the waiting area into an examination room.

  ‘Hop up there and loosen your clothes, love, the midwife’ll be here in a minute.’

  I unfastened my jeans and shirt and got on to the small bed. The nurse bustled about me, pulling at my shirt. ‘She needs to get to your belly, love.’

  I laughed, nervous.

  ‘Is your husband not with you?’

  ‘No, he’s away on business.’ I didn’t tell her we had barely spoken for the past two months and I had no idea whether our marriage would survive.

  ‘Morning.’ Another woman came in and walked to the machine next to the bed.

  ‘Any problems?’ She picked up a plastic bottle.

  I laughed. Yes, I had problems.

  ‘With the pregnancy, I mean,’ she added, squinting at me, and the nurse gave my hand a squeeze.

  Yes, the baby isn’t mine and it’s parents are over two hundred years old. I didn’t say it, just shook my head.

  She nodded. ‘This will feel a bit cold.’ She squirted my belly with gel, and I flinched despite the warning.

  She picked up the ultrasound wand and placed the head on my belly, squishing the gel around.

  She paused, moved it, paused, moved, paused again.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ I asked, suddenly concerned. If there was something wrong, what would Jennet do next?

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m just trying to get a clear picture,’ she said. I glanced up at the nurse who gave me a reassuring smile.

  The midwife pressed a button and a rhythmic sound filled the room.

  ‘The heartbeat?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes – good and strong,’ the midwife said, then moved the wand. The sound faded and grew loud again. She met my eyes for a moment. ‘And that’s the second.’

  ‘The second?’ I felt cold.

  ‘Congratulations, you’re having twins.’

  ‘Twins,’ I repeated.

  ‘Do they run in the family?’ the nurse asked.

  Numb, I shook my head. There were no twins in my family or Dave’s. Only Mark Ramsgill’s.

  ‘A bit of a shock, isn’t it? Don’t worry, you’re not alone, identical twins are completely random and can be born to anyone – it’s only fraternal twins that tend to run in families, and even that isn’t set in stone – and they are more common in women your age.’

  ‘Which are these?’ I asked the midwife.

  ‘Fraternal – there are two amniotic sacs.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the midwife asked. ‘It can be a bit frightening. We do have people here if you want to talk to someone?’

  I shook my head. I wanted to go home. What will I say to Dave? No matter what these women said, he would see it as proof that these were Mark’s babies. I knew it proved they were Jennet’s. My blood turned cold at the thought. I was sure now that I carried Jennet’s babies. I still would not have a child of my own.

  Then another thought struck me, what will Jennet do? Will she try to claim them? I held my belly as tightly as I could, terrified. She couldn’t have them. I would not lose these babies too.

  *

  I poured hot water on to the camomile teabag and stared at the phone. Maybe I just wouldn’t call him.

  The phone rang and I jumped.

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Hello, Dave, how are you?’

  Silence, then, ‘Fine. How did it go?’

  ‘Ok. No problems. It’s a boy.’ I stared at the wall; I hadn’t realised I had decided to lie. Will this save my marriage, or imperil it further?

  ‘I see,’ said Dave. ‘And is everything all right with it?’

  ‘Yes.’ A pause. ‘When are you coming home?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Will you be back for Christmas?’

  ‘No. I’ll stay with Ben.’ His brother. I gripped the phone hard, trying not to panic. ‘The roads’ll be heaving, and I need to be back in Edinburgh early in the New Year. I might as well stay here,’ he continued.

  ‘I see.’ Alice and the girls were supposed to be coming for our first Christmas in our new home. What will I tell them? My breath hitched in my throat.

  ‘Oh, don’t cry, Emma!’

  I held my breath, tryi
ng to get my sobs under control, at least until we finished the phone call.

  ‘I’ll pass Ben and Julie your regards, shall I?’

  ‘Yes.’ My voice sounded strangled.

  ‘Ok then, I’ll call again soon.’

  ‘Love you, Dave.’ The phone went dead. I stared at it, put it back on its cradle, picked up my mug and hurled it at the wall.

  Chapter 39 - Jennet

  16th November 1777

  I opened my eyes and shivered. Despite sleeping in woollens under sheepskin, I were frozen. I did not need to see the snow piled up at the window to know it had been a heavy fall. The wind whistling round the house and through the chimney had kept me wakeful most of the night.

  I sighed. I were torn. I did not want to leave the bed – I knew however cold I were now, it would be nowt compared to the temperature downstairs.

  Yet I enjoyed the crispness of a new snowfall, and then there were the Farmers to think about. They were getting old and John were running low on his remedy for his aches and pains. The cold made it so much worse for him, until he could barely walk. And Mary were getting frail an’all. I had made up a tonic for her, too, to help her through the winter chills – I just had not expected it to snow this heavily, this soon.

  I threw the covers off and dressed, then went downstairs to stoke up the fire. The Farmers were the closest thing I had to family, and the only people in the world I could call friends. I remembered the kindness they had shown me when Mam and Pa had died – I had to go to them.

  *

  I grunted as I pulled my leg out of another thigh-high drift and planted it down, then paused to get my breath.

  The moors were beautiful. Rolling hills of sparkling, unblemished white. Well, nearly unblemished. Those new dry stone walls were creeping closer and closer; black lines snaking through the snow like poisoned blood running through veins.

  I pulled the coat away from my neck for a moment, sighing in the blast of cold air. Trudging uphill through this snow were hard work, and I were sweating. Well, the top half of me were anyroad. My legs – despite being wrapped tightly with sheepskin under my skirts – were numb.

  I started at a sudden movement to my right and gasped. An owl! It flew past me on silent wings and soared over the moor. It were rare to see them in daylight, but snow this deep made finding food difficult – for everyone.

  I scanned the hillsides again, thinking of the beasts, but couldn’t spot any sheep against the white backdrop.

  I had fodder for them at the house, but even if I knew where they were, I could not get it to them; they were on their own unless they made their way home. I knew they were hardy and bred to survive the winters up here, but I worried about how many would be left come spring – especially of the youngest.

  That reminded me of another problem, and I stared at the walls again. When the tups were released in November to service the ewes they would roam free and I could expect a new generation to replace those lost. But what about next year when the lower moors were crisscrossed with these walls?

  The tups’ owners would keep them close, penned in with their own flock of ewes – and no doubt get a higher birth rate, but what about the rest of us? What about me? Where were I going to get a tup from? The best I could hope for were a shepherd with a very ill wife or child who would have my ewes tupped in return for my remedies.

  I sighed again. That were next year’s problem – a long way off.

  I pulled my coat tight again and glanced up at the Farmers’ house. I enjoyed the crisp, clean coldness of the winter air, but the smoke from their chimney looked heaven-sent.

  *

  ‘Ey up, lass! What were thee thinking, coming out in this?’ Mary Farmer greeted me. I smiled at her as she stood aside to let me in, then bustled about getting a third stool up close to the fire.

  I sat down, grateful.

  ‘I brought John’s remedy, and a little something to strengthen thee up, an’all.’

  ‘Ah lass, thee’s a good ’un at heart thee is,’ Mary said. ‘We could have managed till snow’s gone, thee knows.’

  ‘Could thee? This won’t go overnight, Mary. I couldn’t rest easy, knowing John would be in pain. I worry about thee both.’

  Mary looked away and John Farmer held his hand out for the herbs. He rarely said much. He left the talking to Mary.

  ‘Here, have some posset to warm theesen up,’ Mary said, ladling some into a jug from the large pot hanging above the fire.

  ‘Thank thee,’ I said, taking it then wrapping my hands around it. ‘And thee knows how I love moors, Mary, in all seasons. It were worth it, just to see them like this.’

  ‘Thee’s a rum ’un, lass,’ John said, and I shrugged. He nodded and lapsed back into silence.

  ‘Aye, he’s right. It ain’t normal, Jennet. Most folks are worried sick at this time of year – over food, how sheep are faring and plenty more besides. Thee be careful who thee says owt like that to – thee knows what folk round here are like!’

  I laughed. ‘Mary, who does thee think I talk to? Who does thee think in this village wants to pass time of day with me? Apart from two of thee, that is.’

  ‘Aye, well, just goes to show. They’re already against thee over that Ramsgill business, if anyone hears thee going on about how wonderful it is out there like this, they’ll likely blame thee for snow an’all. Take care, lass, is all I’m saying.’

  I nodded and sipped my posset. She were right. I were bewildered by how people I had known my whole life had turned against me. I had been fifteen, newly orphaned and barely a woman – I had known nowt of such things beyond a ram tupping a ewe. He were a middle aged man – a family man – who knew it all. Yet he were respected, and I were shunned.

  ‘There’s already rumours,’ Mary continued.

  ‘Rumours?’

  ‘Barguests and the like.’

  ‘Bah,’ John said, staring into the flames.

  ‘Barguests?’

  ‘Aye, a great wolf’s been seen on’t moor above Gate Inn.’

  ‘The moor above Gate Inn?’ I repeated.

  ‘Aye lass.’

  ‘Thee means, near my farm.’

  ‘Aye lass.’

  I stared into the fire mesen. That were all I ruddy needed.

  Chapter 40 – Jennet

  23rd November 1777

  I paused with my foot on the familiar worn step. I thought about my quiet farmhouse and the last time I had spoken to anyone but the Farmers – it had been months ago.

  I needed people. I needed to give them a chance as much as they needed to give me a chance.

  I took a deep breath then pushed open the church door and slipped inside. It were dark after the sunshine outside and I took a moment for my eyes to get used to the gloom. Rows of villagers turned their heads to stare at me. I glared at them then looked to the front of the church and the curate. He cleared his throat and continued with the service. I sat down on one of the pews at the back.

  I stared around me at the disdain and disapproval etched on my neighbours’ faces, and wondered what I had been thinking. They did not want me here. Well, bugger the lot of them. This were my church too, and I would not slink off. I stared back at the faces turned towards me, and one by one they looked away. I caught Mary Farmer’s eye and she nodded at me.

  Everyone stood for the first hymn, and I joined them. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed singing. One voice stood out above all the others; a voice I had always enjoyed hearing; a lovely deep tone that carried the words and tune like no other, and uplifted everyone in the building.

  I watched him sing and gasped when he looked up and met my eyes. Peter Stockdale winked then turned back to the front, and I were glad of the gloomy church. No one could see my blush.

  Service and sermon over, the good folk of Thores-Cross filed out into the crisp November snow. I smiled as eye after eye were averted from me. I would not let them see how much they hurt me.

  I got to my feet and followed them out – I could no
t stay here all day. No one spoke to me or acknowledged me, not even the curate. As I passed him in the doorway, he stared straight ahead and ignored my greeting.

  I moved directly in front of him – he did not shift his gaze, but stared straight through me and I grunted with laughter. ‘Love thy neighbour, Curate,’ I said. ‘Love thy neighbour.’

  I jumped as my arm were taken and relaxed when I realised it were Mary Farmer. She led me out into the sunshine, and John stood at my other shoulder.

  ‘It’s good to see thee here, lass,’ Mary said. ‘It’s good for village to see thee at church an’all.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed John.

  I shrugged. ‘Had nowt else to do today.’

  Mary narrowed her eyes, but I needed my bravado – I could not show weakness in front of all these people. She said nowt and we walked down the yew-lined path.

  We slowed before we reached the group blocking the way. Billy Gill, Johnny Ward and my old friend Little Rob Ramsgill were deep in conversation, and it seemed half the village were listening in.

  ‘Aye, that’s the third this week!’ Billy Gill said. ‘Pa went out with his gun, saw a great black dog, he said, but I were watching out window and I reckon it were a wolf!’

  ‘Never!’ Johnny Ward said.

  ‘And it’s killed three of thy sheep so far?’ Little Rob Ramsgill asked.

  ‘Aye. And Old Man Lister from Padside reckons it’s had half a dozen of his an’all!’

  ‘Grandpa and me uncles have lost a few too,’ Little Rob said.

  ‘A wolf!’ Johnny exclaimed. He sounded excited.

  Little Rob glanced up and saw me. ‘No, not a wolf,’ he said. ‘A barguest. It’s her.’ He pointed at me. ‘It’s that witch! She told us she’d do it, don’t thee remember? She said she’d turn into a wolf and come after us!’

  Billy Gill and Johnny Ward looked embarrassed. I were stunned. I could not find any words and were aware of everyone staring at me.

  ‘Everyone knows witches can turn themselves into animals!’ Little Rob continued. ‘She’s the one killing the sheep! Have any of hers had their throats ripped out? No! Her sheep ain’t been touched!’