Ghosts of Yorkshire

by Karen Perkins

  ‘Orbs?’ the girl asked. ‘What orbs? What did you see?’

  Lara showed her the video, which she watched in silence.

  ‘Well, I’ve never seen owt like that before,’ Tess said. ‘Will you show me mam? She’s behind the bar – if there are any stories, she’ll know.’

  She didn’t wait for an answer but shouted across the bar, her Yorkshire accent broadening further.

  ‘Ey up,’ her mam said after viewing the clip. ‘Now there’s a thing.’ She turned and went back to the bar, and the three of us looked at each other in confusion.

  ‘Don’t worry. She takes a while to warm up to strangers. If she knew anything, she’d have said. But she’ll find out, you can be sure of that. Are you ready to order?’

  Subdued, we ordered food and wine – and an apple juice for Hannah. When we were alone again, Lara reached over and grasped my forearm.

  ‘Don’t worry, Verity. You’ll have Grasper with you tonight, and I’ll cleanse the whole building for you in the morning. You’ll be fine.’

  I shuddered. Spirits were unknown and unknowable, and I hated the idea of strangers in my new home. Then I grinned at the absurdity of that thought. In a few months, I’d be running a guesthouse – constantly inviting strangers into my home. I raised my glass and took a long gulp, realising I was committed. The Rookery was my home and would soon be my livelihood. I had nothing else. I was stuck here, ghosts or no ghosts.

  4.

  The camp bed creaked as I turned over, and I startled awake, the image of a man clear in my mind. Dark-haired with black eyes and sun-baked skin. I shivered, rolled over again, and went back to sleep.

  He beckoned to me and I joined him, walking across the car park behind my guesthouse, wincing as my bare feet found stones and the debris of tourists.

  Towards the parsonage then down Church Lane to the graveyard, I followed the enigmatic figure in shirt and breeks – barefoot like myself.

  I chided myself at every step, yet could not halt my feet. He pulled at me, beseeched me, drew me in, yet never touched me.

  Past the early graves, the slabs of stone flat against the earth and butted up to each other so closely, Nature had no chance to exert a living presence. Some altar graves, then the newer, tall, carved monoliths standing sentinel and guarding the valley below.

  I hesitated, shivering again as the man I followed disappeared into fog. What was I thinking?

  I took a couple of hesitant steps backwards, but was too late; the fog was quick, falling down the hillside, enveloping me until I could see naught but grey and white swirls of cloud.

  Then light, and I moved towards it, the misty tendrils releasing me, and I saw him again.

  Standing with the sun behind him, shining on him, he spread his arms wide as if to show me something. I looked past him and gasped at the majesty of the moors: grim, yes, but also beautiful in their barrenness.

  But no, not barren. Buzzards, hawks, even red kites circled above. I spotted a kestrel, hovering in place despite the wind, then diving down on to its prey.

  I looked closely at the ground, a mixture of heather and tough, tussocky grass, and spotted rabbits playing, then scattering as a young fox cub bounded into their midst – too young and unskilled to do anything but scare them away. That would soon change.

  The man pointed, and I twirled to see a herd of deer run past on the hillside below me. I grinned in utter delight, clasping my hands together, and watched the hardy beasts until the last flash of white from their hindquarters disappeared. I turned back to the man.

  He beckoned again and I stepped forward, but he turned and walked away. I followed, hardly thinking about what I was doing, back into the swirling, enveloping fog, then jerked to a standstill as it cleared and I found myself perched on a rocky ledge at the edge of a precipice, the man’s hand on my arm to steady me.

  I opened my mouth to berate him, to tell him to be more careful, but he gestured to the valley below, and my complaints died in my throat.

  The moors stretched out in all directions, a seemingly endless and full palette of browns and greens, yellows and oranges, maroons and purples, all swirled together as if by the hand of a great master in a grand passion of artistic creativity.

  I pulled my gaze down and looked over the valley, only now seeing the towering, elongated chimney stacks belching black smoke to mingle with the clean moorland mist.

  All that burning coal to produce the steam needed to run enough jennies, mules and looms to clothe gentlemen and ladies alike in the finest worsted wools.

  I counted what now looked like vents from Hell as I pictured the children crawling about under that relentless machinery, literally risking life and limb with every crash and rattle of iron, every yard of yarn. A dozen, no, more – eighteen – factories of slavery and torture littered the valley, and I realised they must provide work for the occupants of near every house I could see.

  The small slate roofs jumbled together in clusters, mimicking the outcroppings of ancient rock that interrupted the swathes of colour on the moorland above.

  How many people lived and worked in those tiny cottages? Streets swimming with filth, children close to starvation, disease rampant.

  I shook the dreary thoughts away; the vista was so beautiful, why did I feel sad?

  I gasped as the man pulled me, and mist eddied around us once again until we were on the edge of the moors and I recognised the parsonage by the church – although something was wrong. The parsonage was missing a gable; the museum buildings at the back, as well as the car park, were not there. Neither were there any trees in the churchyard, and all the memorial stones were flat. Everything seemed very ... bleak.

  Six children walked up the lane and I smiled, charmed by their fussy Victorian clothing, the smallest girls looking the cutest of all in bonnets, clogs and aprons over full skirts.

  I looked more carefully and realised they were all close in age; no more than a year or two between each, and they were not all girls – a boy walked in the middle, herding and shepherding his charges along. Well, trying to; his sisters did not appear to appreciate his efforts.

  It struck me who they were, and I turned to my companion to confirm my suspicion of the identity of the family, but he was entranced by the large black rook perched on his wrist.

  It took flight, was buffeted by the wind, but soon righted itself and swooped low to the gaggle of children.

  One of the smaller girls – Emily, I decided; there was only one younger who would be Anne – raised her face to the bird in delight and stretched out her arm.

  The rook alighted on its new perch, shuffled and flapped its wings, then settled.

  The children stepped back from Emily in amazement, either scared of frightening the creature away or of its sharp, curved beak, but Emily took the visit in her stride. She lifted her arm close to her face to whisper a few words to the bird, then looked up at us and waved with her free hand.

  The man waved back, and a smile – the first expression I had seen from him – broke across his harsh features, softening them, animating them, and my heart thumped hard at the sight of the crinkles around his eyes, the love and sheer delight reflected in his pupils, and the shape his mouth formed.

  I gasped at the crushing pain in my chest and clawed my way to a sitting position, blinking in utter confusion at my surroundings. Then I realised I’d been dreaming.

  The sense of crushing disappointment was accompanied by a strange smell – one I could not place, but knew belonged to the moors – and I felt in the bed next to me for Antony.

  Reality coalesced as I touched no husband nor soft, luxurious bedding; merely a sleeping bag and the frame of a camp bed. A moment of sadness, then I remembered the man from my dream and identified the still-lingering smell as wild garlic.

  Heathcliff, I thought, smiling. I just met Heathcliff.

  I hugged myself tightly, and realised a wide smile – a smile to match his – stretched across my face, despite the absurdity. I was
in Brontë Country after all; I’m sure plenty of women dreamed of meeting Heathcliff when they visited this village.

  Feeling lighter and more positive than I had for many years, I disentangled myself from my sleeping bag, eager to get on with the day.

  5.

  ‘Coo-ee, Verity, are you here?’

  I made my way downstairs to greet my friends. ‘Goodness, you’re early, couldn’t you sleep?’

  Jayne gave me a funny look. ‘Verity, it’s nine thirty, we were expecting you for breakfast an hour ago, are you okay?’

  ‘What? Nine thirty?’ I fished my phone out of my pocket to check and saw I’d missed three calls from them.

  ‘Goodness, I’m sorry, I completely lost track of time and I didn’t hear your calls.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Lara asked. ‘You look a bit flushed.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I blushed a deeper red – I’d been fantasising about Dream-Heathcliff. ‘I slept really well, got up early and took Grasper out, then started cleaning. I only meant to do half an hour, then meet you for breakfast. I guess I got carried away.’

  ‘Well, find somewhere to sit,’ Lara said. ‘We brought breakfast to you – a bacon butty and coffee, hope that’s okay.’

  ‘Perfect,’ I said, realising I’d built up quite an appetite. I had no furniture yet, so used the windowsill as a table.

  ‘Verity,’ Jayne said slowly, ‘aren’t the workmen coming in on Monday?’

  I nodded, my mouth full of bacon and soft, white, fluffy bap.

  ‘Then why are you cleaning now? There doesn’t seem to be much point.’

  ‘I was working in my quarters, trying to make them a bit more habitable – I’m not having too much work done up there and it would be good to set up a sleeping area and be able to use the kitchen and bathroom. The basic fittings are still here from the previous owners, and they’ll do until I can afford to upgrade.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll give you a hand – we’ll soon have it right when the three of us get going on it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I looked around, startled, just noticing the quiet. ‘Where’s Grasper gone?’

  ‘Hannah’s taken him out again,’ Jayne said. ‘How was he last night? No more weird stuff?’

  ‘He was fine, Jayne, no trouble at all, and nothing weird, don’t worry.’

  ‘And what about you, how did you get on?’ Lara asked.

  ‘I went straight to sleep, I was shattered,’ I said. ‘No ghosts, no ghouls, orbs, nothing.’

  ‘Did you dream?’

  ‘I did actually – very vividly,’ I said, then stopped. I didn’t want to share the dream man with them.

  I changed the subject to forestall what looked like the makings of another question I didn’t want to answer. ‘Weren’t you going to do a cleansing or something, Lara?’

  ‘Yes, it’s always a good idea to cleanse a new home anyway to clear it of old energies, and I brought some sage with me so I could do the guesthouse for you. We’ll get started when you’ve finished your breakfast.’

  ‘What does it entail, exactly?’ I asked.

  ‘Sage is cleaning and protective. I’ll light the smudge stick—’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Smudge stick, Jayne. Don’t look so sceptical, it’s been used for centuries.’

  Jayne grimaced but stayed silent.

  ‘Anyway,’ Lara continued, ‘I’ll use the smoke to clear out the old energies of the people who used to live and work here, and invite in all things positive for Verity. You’ll be surprised at the difference it will make to the feel of the place.’

  ‘And will it get rid of those things, those orbs, from last night?’

  ‘I don’t know to be honest, Verity. We can only try it and see.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that. There’s all sorts of things those could have been. Insects or moths, for example,’ Jayne suggested once more.

  Lara pulled her phone out and played the video again. ‘Do you see any wings, Jayne? And anyway, it’s December, not exactly bug season.’

  ‘Dust, then.’

  ‘When have you ever known dust to move like that? Plus we’d have been able to see it when we were watching Grasper without the phone. And before you say it, they weren’t lens flare, else Grasper wouldn’t be reacting to them, they weren’t torchlight or headlights, nor were they dandelion clocks or any other kind of seed in December. And we’re inside, so they’re not raindrops.’

  ‘It does smell a bit damp in here though, it could be moisture.’

  ‘When have you ever known water droplets to form and move like that? They’re orbs, Jayne, accept it. What else can they be?’

  Jayne said nothing.

  ‘All right, I’m done, let’s get started with this smudge-sticking or whatever it’s called,’ I said to break the charged silence.

  Lara smiled. ‘Smudging,’ she said. ‘Come on then, we’ll start upstairs and work our way down.’

  ***

  ‘Just what exactly is this supposed to achieve?’ Jayne asked, disapproval distorting both her face and her words.

  Lara ignored her and continued dancing around the room, waving the smoking, tightly bundled baton of sage into every nook and cranny. She finished her circuit of the window frame, then of the rest of the room before standing in front of us.

  ‘As I said before, I’m clearing out any and all energies that no longer belong here,’ she said slowly, staring into Jayne’s eyes. ‘I’m getting rid of any and all negativity so that Verity’s positivity, hopes and plans for her new life can flourish. Your attitude is not helping the process, Jayne.’

  Jayne scowled and I hurried to speak before she could pour more scepticism on to Lara. ‘It can’t hurt, Jayne, and it might help – I like the idea.’

  ‘It smells like dope,’ Jayne said.

  ‘It’s not cannabis, it’s pure sage – grown in my own garden,’ Lara said, her irritation barely concealed. ‘Just keep an open mind, Jayne, that’s all I’m asking. Now, you’re in the way.’

  We moved from the door to let Lara finish, then she stepped into the corridor and moved on to the other rooms. Jayne and I followed behind, staying out of her way.

  ‘This will be my quarters,’ I said, taking the conversation away from Lara, herbs and energies. ‘Kitchen and lounge up here, bedroom and bathroom below.’

  ‘Isn’t that upside down?’

  ‘What does that matter? This house is four nineteenth-century cottages converted into one property – you’ve seen the maze of rooms and staircases. I can get four double and one single guest room – all with en-suites – from it without having to knock through any stone walls, apart from doorways, and this is the space that’s left.’ I spread my arms, indicating the doors around us.

  ‘I’d rather have a larger lounge than bedroom, and a bigger kitchen than bathroom, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Jayne went back into the room behind us – the lounge – and looked out of the window. Finally, she smiled. ‘It’s one hell of a view, Verity. You can see right up on to the moors. Oh, what’s that?’

  I joined her and looked down at the line of smoke. ‘Steam train. It runs from Keighley to Oxenhope. They used one of the stations to film The Railway Children.’

  ‘Oh wow, can we go on it?’

  I laughed at her transformation from stern disapproval to almost childlike delight. ‘Absolutely.’ I turned to look back into the room. ‘I’m going to paint everything white.’

  Jayne nodded. ‘A blank canvas,’ she said.

  ‘Exactly! I don’t know what my future will hold – other than this place, of course – or who I’m going to, or even want to be. I like the idea of clean, fresh walls. A new start in every way.’

  ‘What about the guest rooms?’

  ‘I’m taking my inspiration from the Brontës,’ I said.

  ‘What? Wild moors and crumbling ruins? Mad wives in the attic, that kind of thing?’

  I laughed. ‘No, from their home, the
parsonage. It’s all very tasteful and understated. The wallpapers are floral, but two-tone and are as masculine as they are feminine – delicate patterns intertwining. Classy.’

  ‘And the furniture?’

  My face darkened. ‘Well, all dark wood, nineteenth century of course, but I don’t want it to overpower the space. I’ll have to go to Ikea.’

  ‘What? You can’t be serious!’ Jayne scolded, loudly enough to bring Lara running.

  ‘What’s going on now?’

  ‘Verity has this wonderful plan for beautiful wallpaper in the guest rooms, then wants flat-pack furniture!’

  ‘I can’t afford solid wood,’ I said. ‘I can only do what I can to furnish five bedrooms.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Lara and Jayne said together, then looked at each other and giggled, best of friends once more.

  ‘What’s your budget for each room?’ Jayne asked.

  I shrugged.

  ‘Well, that’s the first thing to do. We’ll sit down this afternoon and go over the figures, work out what you can afford to spend.’

  ‘Then we’ll go round the second-hand shops and auction houses,’ Lara said. ‘I bet we’ll find some nice stuff in Ilkley and Skipton, and even Harrogate isn’t that far away. We can sand it down and varnish or paint, the rooms will look stunning.’

  ‘And everything you do have to buy new: beds, mattresses and the like, well, its sale season in a couple of weeks, the perfect time to buy.’

  All of a sudden, I felt like bursting into tears. I couldn’t afford to do everything at once, and had made the decision to focus on the basics – plumbing, electrics, structural alterations – then gradually upgrade the furniture in the rooms as and when I could. It hadn’t occurred to me to buy used pieces and renovate them. ‘That could work,’ I mumbled, and grinned at my friends.

  ‘It would add character too,’ Jayne said.

  ‘Thank you, I don’t know what I’d do without you two.’

  ‘Well, you’ll never have to find out,’ Lara said.

  ‘Probably starve,’ Jayne said, and we both looked at her in confusion.