‘Aye, thee’s said that afore! Weren’t going to see year end, were I? But here I is. Thy curses mean nowt, witch!’
‘Lass, hush now, come away!’ Mary Farmer dragged me off. She may be old, but a lifetime of tending sheep on the moors, wrapping fleeces, carding and spinning wool had kept her strong. I collapsed in a heap and raised my face to the sky, feeling utterly hopeless.
The rain fell harder and washed my tears away.
‘See, it’s nearly out! Thee were lucky, lass, thy house’ll be saved!’
I looked back at my home. The turf-house were still smoking, but there were only water pouring out of the front door now, not smoke.
‘See, I told thee! A witch! She called the rain down, did thee see that?’
‘Shut up, Little Rob!’ Richard Ramsgill clouted him. ‘Thee had better not have had anything to do with this!’
‘Or what, Richard?’ Big Robert Ramsgill, asked. ‘Is thee accusing my son of summat?’
‘Care, Richard,’ Thomas warned.
Richard shook his head and fetched more water. He did not look at me.
The buckets were being emptied on to the remains of the turf-house now, and I shook Mary off to go back inside. I stared at the ruins of my home.
Everywhere were black with soot and running with water. There were no staircase and the boards above me were charred. I had nowhere to sleep, nowhere to sit, nowhere to eat. It were all gone.
‘Walls are sound, lass, don’t despair. Thee’ll stay with us till we can get this cleaned up.’
I leaned my head on Mary’s shoulder and sobbed. I had lost everything.
Chapter 50 – Emma
12th February 2013
‘Emma!’
I jumped, splattering ink over my notebook and clothes.
‘Alice! What are you doing here?’
‘I haven’t seen you for ages – we’ve hardly spoken since you cancelled Christmas, I was worried.’
‘Oh.’ I realised she was right. We normally spoke two or three times a week and met up for lunch regularly. I’d been neglecting her, too.
‘I’ve been banging on the front door for ten minutes, didn’t you hear me?’
I shook my head. ‘How did you get in?’
‘The kitchen door was open. You need to be more careful, Em, especially when Dave’s in Scotland. Anybody could have walked in.’
‘Yes, you’re right. Hang on, how do you know where Dave is?’
‘I rang him, I was frantic. I’ve been trying to talk to you for weeks – you’ve not taken any of my calls.’
‘I’m sorry, Al, I’ve been writing non-stop. I don’t have a phone in here.’ I waved my arm around the office to demonstrate.
‘I’ve left loads of messages, Em. On your landline and your mobile, you’ve not returned a single one.’
‘I’m sorry, Alice, I guess I have been a bit lax lately.’ I felt terrible. How could I have been so swept up in my life that I’d forgotten my family? It was Jennet’s fault. I ground my teeth together. I hated her.
‘Em? You ok?’
I nodded, tears pricking my eyes. ‘I’m glad you came, Al. It’s good to see you.’
‘Mm, it’s been a while. Come on, leave that, put the kettle on and we can catch up.’
‘Great idea.’ I threw the notebook and quill on to the table – by now it was more ink than bare wood – and stood.
‘Em!’
I looked down at my belly, and cupped my hands around it. I grimaced. ‘I’ve got a lot to tell you.’
‘You’re not kidding.’ Her voice was cold. She looked furious.
We walked downstairs to the kitchen in silence. I could feel Alice’s eyes burning a hole in my back. So that was everybody. Jennet had hurt everybody in my life: my husband, my sister, Kathy. No doubt my nieces would be upset too. The sooner she was gone, the better.
*
‘Why didn’t you tell me? It was hell trying to explain to the girls that you’d lost the baby and they wouldn’t have a baby cousin after all! We’ve all been walking on eggshells around you, but don’t you think we’ve been grieving too? It would have been wonderful to share this with you and support you! And what about Dave? He’s been doing his best to look after you, who’s been looking after him? I’ll tell you who, nobody!’
I stared at my coffee in silence and led the way to the sofas in the lounge.
Alice sighed. ‘So when did you decide to start trying again?’
‘We didn’t.’
‘Oh! It was an accident?’
‘You could say that.’ I made a strange laughing noise – more like a cackle, really. ‘Al, the baby ... it’s not Dave’s.’
She stared at me, her mouth hanging open.
‘It’s not mine, either.’ I made that strange cackle again, then lost my battle with tears.
‘What do you mean? Of course it’s yours! And what about Dave? If it’s not his, whose is it?’
I held my hands over my face and fought to regain control of myself. Eventually I faced Alice and took a deep breath.
‘Since the miscarriage, I’ve hardly been able to write.’
‘What about the baby, Emma? Who’s the father?’
‘I’m coming to that, please listen, Al.’
She closed her mouth and sat back, arms folded, and raised her eyebrows at me.
‘I hoped that would change when we moved in here, but you know what they say, careful what you wish for.’ Alice’s expression did not alter. I carried on.
‘It started with dreams – nightmares – and I kept hearing church bells.’
‘Em!’ Alice knew as well as I did that the church had been flattened before the reservoir had been filled.
‘No, listen Alice, please.’ I filled my lungs again. ‘Then we went for dinner to Mark and Kathy’s – they live in the haunted house.’ Alice didn’t react. ‘They told us about Jennet, apparently she used to live there in the 1770’s.’
‘And?’
‘She was supposed to be a witch, and hearing the bells means she’s back.’ I held my hand up to forestall Alice’s tut. ‘She’s been making me write her story – I’ve been in a frenzy writing it. It turns out she was in love with Mark’s ancestor, and she made us have an affair.’
‘Oh Em, as excuses go, that’s pathetic!’
‘No, it’s true! It’s like she’s possessed me, Alice. I didn’t sleep with Mark, Jennet did. She’s got into me somehow, my body isn’t my own – it hasn’t been since we moved here.’
‘That’s ridiculous, Emma.’
‘I know how it sounds, but it’s true. Just ask Dave – he walked in on me writing back in September. I was writing in the dark and he said my eyes were rolled up to the whites. I had no idea, Alice, none at all!’
‘What were you writing or was it just scribbles?’
‘It was Jennet. I was writing Jennet. It wasn’t scribbles, it was legible, but it wasn’t my handwriting.’
‘Has anything else happened?’
I laughed, but with no humour. ‘Isn’t that enough?’
‘Have you talked to the doctor?’
I cackled again. ‘That’s what Dave said. Yes, I’ve been to the doctor’s, I’ve seen a counsellor, but they can’t help. I need to get rid of Jennet.’
Alice leaned forward and put her mug on the coffee table. ‘But ... things like this just don’t happen!’
‘Yes, Alice, they do.’
‘But why? How?’
‘You remember that day at the haunted house when I found the inkpot?’
‘So it’s my fault for daring you?’
‘No, of course not. It’s Jennet’s fault. It’s her inkpot.’
Alice thought a moment. ‘Do you still have it?’
I nodded.
‘Then get rid of it.’
‘It’s not that simple, Alice. I’m using it. I need to write Jennet out.’
‘But assuming what you’re telling me is true, if she’s getting to you through the inkpot, get rid of
it.’
‘No!’
We stared at each other, both of us startled by the vehemence of my refusal.
Chapter 51 - Jennet
8th January 1778
I looked down the valley at the reds, pinks and oranges splashed across the sky ahead of the sun as it woke. If I just kept my eyes on that beauty, maybe I could forget everything that had happened.
I sighed, even that beautiful sky were a harbinger of more storms to come. I turned to look at my ruined house and walked towards it.
The turf-house and its contents were destroyed. The wooden shutters were damaged and my front door were nowt but a few hanging pieces of wood. Those could be repaired. Mary and John Farmer would help feed my sheep over the coming winter, but at least the sheep themselves had been well away from the danger.
I walked inside. This were what I could not replace. Everything of Mam and Pa’s had gone up in flames. All the furniture were destroyed. I would need a ladder to get upstairs, and my home stank of charred wood and burnt fleece. Everything were filthy black – covered in soot and ash.
The Christmas celebrations, such as they had been, were finally over, and there were nowt for it but to start. I grabbed a piece of wood from by my feet – a table leg – and dragged it outside. Then another and another. The fourth and the tabletop itself had disintegrated.
I used a rake to scrape the smaller debris out of the door into a pile in what had been my garden – now trampled into mud by my neighbours.
Three hours later, the ruins of my possessions were cleared – I had not had much to start with. Now I had nowt but stone walls and a few sheep. I had managed to salvage the iron- and stoneware, though it would all need a good scrub, but my wooden implements and fabric were beyond salvage – at least downstairs; I would have no idea what the situation were above my head until I could find some ladders.
‘How do, lass.’
I turned quickly. Peter Stockdale had arrived with Matthew Hornwright and a cart loaded with stone to extend the enclosure wall. Nobody from the village were here to help me after my house had burnt down, but men were here to wall me in. I nodded to Peter.
‘Sorry for thy troubles, lass.’
I stared at him and he stared at the ground, embarrassed. Matthew jumped off the cart beside him, stared at me, then turned to Peter.
‘Got no time for thee to be courting, Stockdale! Give us an hand with this stone!’
Peter Stockdale winked at me and turned to heft stone from the cart to the ground. I took Mary’s besom (mine had burned) to sweep the floor clear. Then all I had to do were scrub the soot from the walls, rinse off the floor, pull some new heather to thatch the turf-house – at least it were the right season for it – then cut peat to fill it. Oh, and find some new furniture and a ladder from somewhere – and some grain, of course, to feed me till the next harvest in August.
One thing at a time. I picked up my buckets and went back outside to fill them from the well.
*
I turned to the front wall – with two windows and the front door, it were the most awkward and I wanted to get it out of the way. Every stone had to be scrubbed. Soot had got into every crack and join, and the stone were rough-cut to begin with. At this rate, it would take weeks if not months to get every wall clean.
I started with the window – now little more than an empty hole in the stone. I worked my way round from the top, down each side, then the ledge. I jumped when something fell and bent to pick it up. My thumb rubbed at the soot and ash caking it – it were Mam’s inkpot. I dumped it in the bucket and scrubbed the rest of the soot off, then put it in my pocket.
At least I had salvaged something that were special to me, although it were not of much use. I had nowt to write on or with. I picked up Mary’s scrubbing brush and attacked the window ledge again.
*
Arm, shoulders and back aching, I finally allowed myself a rest. I watched Peter Stockdale and Matthew Hornwright pick up stones, examine them and discard them for others. They were making a right palaver of building that ruddy wall.
I sat on the filthy floor, back against the filthy wall and stared at the remains of my home. I took out the inkpot again, turned it round and round in my hands. My story needed to be told. Just because I could no longer write it, did not mean that somebody else could not.
I looked around for something sharp, but could not see anything. I went outside to my pile of ruined belongings, and found a knife. I went back in and cleaned it as best I could, then drew it hard and fast across the pad of my thumb. Blood dripped into the inkpot. I sucked my thumb, then went back outside and examined the ruins of my herb garden.
‘Can thee salvage anything, lass?’
I glanced up with a start, then shook my head. ‘No idea. I’ll have to wait for spring, see what sprouts.’
‘Shame,’ Peter Stockdale said. ‘Crying shame it is, lass.’
I nodded, then spotted what I were searching for, bent and snapped a sprig of rosemary off the bush lying in the mud. Back inside, out of sight, I pushed the rosemary into the inkpot and held it tightly in both hands next to my heart. I whispered the most powerful words I knew; begging, no, demanding that somebody tell my story, wishing and praying with my deepest soul that what were happening to me would someday be known.
I put it back in my pocket, rinsed off the wall and window alcove I had scrubbed, then went back outside carrying the empty buckets.
When I got close to the new wall, I stumbled and dropped them.
‘By heck, lass, is thee well? Thee should be resting after all this, not working theesen hard like thee’s doing!’
I smiled up at Peter Stockdale. He had always been decent to me, although I had not seen much of him after Richard.
‘Here, rest theesen. I’ll fill them for thee.’
I thanked him, then stepped over to Matthew Hornwright, who barely glanced up at me.
‘It looks so strong! How does it stay up without mortar or anything?’
Matthew straightened up, stretched his back and looked admiringly at the length of wall.
‘It’s all in’t stones, lass. See? Pick right shape and fit it in snug like.’
I peered closer. ‘Oh, it looks like two walls!’
‘Aye.’ He seemed friendlier now that he were talking about walling. ‘See, thee’s building a double wall, fitting stones together close and angled in towards each other. Then thee fills in space in’t middle with smaller pieces, top it with a nice solid capstone and wall’ll still be standing one, two hundred year from now.’
‘No! Two hundred year?’ I could not wait that long, but I did not believe him. I were sure it would fall down long before then with the winter storms up here. And no matter how well he chose his stones, there were nowt holding them together!
‘Does thee want me to take them inside for thee, lass?’
‘Aye, that’d be grand,’ I answered Peter and, as he bent to pick up the brimming buckets again, I added, ‘But what am I going to do once thee’s finished wall? It’ll cut me off from well!’
Peter glanced behind him at the well and frowned. ‘By heck, thee’s right, lass.’ He looked at Matthew, then back at me. ‘Don’t fret, we’ll build thee a stile so thee can climb over, ain’t that right, Horny?’
Matthew Hornwright frowned at him and Peter waved his hand in Matthew’s general direction. ‘Oh, stop thy mithering, this here lass has had enough trouble to be going on with. We can’t cut her off from her watter an’all. We’ll stick some flat stones in, so they jut out.’
Matthew’s brows drew together as he thought over the idea, then he turned and walked to the cart, presumably to choose some appropriate stones. Peter winked at me and bent again to pick up my buckets and take them to the house. I turned, took the inkpot out of my pocket and shoved it hard into the gap in the middle of the wall. Just another piece of rubble, unremarkable, hidden – until the right person came along: my storyteller.
I hurried after Peter Stockdale and
thanked him, even putting my hand on his arm in the wave of relief and hope I felt knowing that my story would be told.
He ducked his head, but not before I saw the blush that stained his cheeks. I stared after him in wonder. After everything that had happened, Peter Stockdale had blushed at my touch. I put my hands to my face and were surprised to feel tears – but, for the first time in a long time, they were not tears of despair.
Chapter 52 - Emma
18th February 2013
I ran; my four legs just long enough to lift me free of the heather with each bound. As a cub it had been hard work, running through this stuff; more like a series of jumps than a run.
I reached the stream and drank deeply, then lifted my head. I’d heard something. I sniffed the air. Yes, I had not been mistaken. An animal – a young one, and alone. I took off in its direction; I were hungry.
The lamb had been easy prey. I lay beside the carcass and licked blood from my muzzle. It had been a while since I had eaten so well – the villagers had started to protect their flocks by setting traps outside the new walls; some of them even patrolled with guns.
I glanced up at the tree I lay under, and a shiver rippled my body. It weren’t natural: a single big oak alone in the barren moor. It were a freak of nature, and I normally avoided the place. It stank of death and were just – wrong.
I got to my feet and trotted off. I would not have approached the death tree if it hadn’t been for the promise of a meal and now I’d eaten my fill, I did not wish to linger. I headed in the direction of the village – not to cause trouble, or even to enter it, but to keep an eye on it and what they were up to. They were my enemy; I needed to know what they were doing.
The wind changed and brought a strange scent. I lifted my snout to it and sniffed deeply. I did not understand. The village normally brought smells of peat-smoke, rotten meat and human waste, but this breeze smelled clean, even fresh. A bit peaty, yes, but there were none of the disgusting elements that usually signalled the humans.
Perplexed, I carried on, speeding up a little. By the smell of things I did not need to take as much caution.
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