I sipped my coffee, my bacon butty forgotten. ‘So what did Woody see? What actually happened?’
‘Right over there.’ Vikram pointed to the wall separating The Rookery from the cottage next door. ‘She walked up the wall in a diagonal, as if there were stairs there, then disappeared through the wall.’
‘That’s all?’
‘It was enough for him.’
Despite myself, I laughed.
‘It sounds like you’ve had more scares than funny feelings and dreams,’ Vikram said.
I smiled up at him, touched by his concern, but reluctant to tell him too much. I didn’t want him to talk about me in the same dismissive way he’d spoken about Woody’s reaction to the Grey Lady.
‘Just intense dreams and a few touches. A man though, definitely not Emily Brontë.’ I laughed. ‘Probably just my imagination – new start, new home, and in a place with so much history.’
‘Not heard of anything like that here,’ Vikram said. ‘Right, better get on.’
So much for not being dismissed.
15.
I had to admit, despite the problems, Vikram and his team had made good progress. The new floor plan downstairs was coming on – the walls that we’d finally decided would come down were down, although there was still a lot of tidying up to be done. The new dividing walls should be in place by the end of the week, then Omar and Gary would start on the bedrooms after Christmas, although finding workable room for all the en-suites was going to be a challenge.
Sparkly was happier with the wiring. She’d found most of the existing network and had enthusiastically ripped out every wire. Which meant I was reliant on candles, torches and woolly jumpers until she could get lights and sockets working in my apartment again.
My candles flickered and I switched on the torch and looked around. I really had not thought this through. Instead of a romantic adventure, this was far too spooky. I liked a good ghost story – but not when there was the possibility I was featuring in it.
I unscrewed my bottle of wine and poured my first glass. I didn’t normally drink alone on a Tuesday evening, but I told myself the circumstances were exceptional. It would keep me warm and was quite possibly the only way I would sleep tonight. If I drank enough, I might not even dream.
I’d called Lara and Jayne earlier to give them the news that the place was definitely haunted, and wished I’d made Jayne my second call for her calming, logical reassurance. Instead, I’d been left with Lara’s excited squealing and talk of Ouija boards and more séances. Just what I didn’t need.
I took a big gulp of wine and called Jayne back.
She answered my call, laughing. ‘You called Lara didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘How badly has she freaked you out?’
‘Well, I’m sitting in a hundred-and-fifty-year-old haunted house. I have no electricity. I’m drinking wine by candlelight, one of the builders was so scared he ran, even though it might cost him his job, and the man in my dreams keeps touching me. I’d say I’m about nine out of ten on the freaked-out scale.’
‘What? The man in your dreams, plural? And he’s touched you? You didn’t tell me that before.’
I winced and took another gulp of wine. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to tell you now – it’s probably just imagination. It’s always when I’ve just woken up and my subconscious is probably dealing with all the Antony stuff.’
‘So is the man in your dreams Antony?’
‘Well, no.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Dark, handsome – very handsome!’ I giggled and had another drink. ‘And his eyes – the complete opposite to Antony’s – they’re dark too, I feel like they’re looking straight through me, into the core of me. I know I’m only dreaming him, but it’s like he’s staring into depths of me I don’t even know are there.’
Jayne was silent a moment. ‘You know who you’ve just described, don’t you?’
‘Who?’ Although I knew what she was going to say.
‘Heathcliff.’
‘Great, I’m being haunted by a fictional character!’ I laughed and sipped again.
Jayne was the first to stop laughing.
‘What?’ I said into the silence on the line.
‘I just had a thought. He’ll have been inspired by somebody, the Brontës did draw on the people in Haworth for their characters – more than a few of their neighbours were upset when they realised who authored those novels.’
‘So who inspired Heathcliff?’
‘Exactly.’
I drained the bottle into my glass, a little embarrassed at how quickly I’d emptied it, and made Jayne promise not to tell Lara about the dreams. I ended the call but dropped the glass before I’d brought it halfway to my lips.
There was a figure, glowing grey, almost brighter than the candles. A woman, and slim. She wore a large bonnet, and a dress tight about the upper torso and gathered in the back to accentuate her shape. A bustle, I thought, it’s called a bustle.
She carried a basket over one arm – I could see it was full, but not what the contents were – and as I watched, she calmly disappeared into the wall.
I stared open-mouthed. Have I just seen Emily Brontë?
Or have I just had too much to drink?
This was too much. Feeling completely sober despite the wine, I grabbed my handbag and coat and left. Hopefully the Old White Lion Hotel had an empty guest room as well as a warm, comfortable bar with real, live people.
16.
The boy bolted and was on the moors before the mill bell had stopped ringing to announce the end of the children’s long working day. There was still a glimmer of the late spring daylight left, but the shadows were fast encroaching on the bleak landscape.
He lost his battle with the tears he’d been fighting all day and ducked down behind an outcrop of millstone grit to give in to them in privacy.
He gasped for air between sobs and fell into a violent coughing fit as fresh moors’ air hit his wool-fibre-lined lungs. Only one day at the mill and his chest hurt. The fibres had prickled the back of his throat all day, and nobody had paid any attention to his complaints.
Mind you, nobody could hear him over the relentless cacophony of the spinning jennies and mules.
It had been worse than thunder, and there had been no let-up; not from the mill bell at five that morning until the children’s bell at six that evening. Even the worst thunder didn’t send merciless steel backwards and forwards, threatening to crush unwary hands, feet, or heads.
Fresh tears flooded down his cheeks as the seven-year-old realised he would have to do the same tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, for the rest of his life; however short that may be.
‘Why are you crying?’
The boy startled and rubbed his face at the thin but strident voice, then peered at the girl in confusion, unable to decipher her words through the ringing in his ears. She repeated her question and Harry studied her lips to understand what she was saying, then recognised her as water cleared from his eyes.
Emily, one of the parson’s daughters. He cringed; to show such weakness in front of a girl!
‘I’m not, I just have soot in my eye. I started working on mill floor today.’
‘Is that why you’re covered in black dust?’ Emily asked. ‘You’ll get the moors dirty.’
He looked down at himself. She spoke true; he was covered in sooty wool fibres. He shrugged. ‘Maybe Mr Baalzephon will clean mill up.’
She hooted with laughter. ‘Old Man Rook? He’ll do nowt of the sort!’
The children laughed, united against the owner of Rooks Mill.
‘What’s thee doing here?’ the boy asked, remembering Emily was a couple of years younger than he. ‘Where’s thy brother or thy sisters?’
‘Oh they’re in the parlour,’ Emily said, dismissive. ‘I crept out, I wanted to see if the lapwings had hatched.’
‘Lapwings?’
‘Aye, t
here’s a nest over yonder with eggs. Listen, the mama and papa are calling! Do you want to see?’
‘All right then, happen I do.’
‘But you’ll have to be quiet or you’ll scare them away. Why are you shouting, anyroad?’
The boy stared at Emily. ‘I’m not shouting.’
‘Yes you are, you’re really loud.’
He thought for a moment. ‘Is thee sure lapwings are calling? I can’t hear them.’
‘Yes!’ Emily stamped her foot. ‘Listen! There, did you just hear her peewit?’
The boy cocked his head but still heard nothing. ‘I think mill’s made me deaf already,’ he said, then looked at Emily in alarm. ‘Has mill taken lapwing’s call away from me forever?’
Emily stared up at him. ‘They’re this way,’ she said in lieu of answering his question, and ran up the hill.
The boy followed Emily through the bracken and grass of the lower moor, then through the heather until the little girl turned with her finger to her lips.
She pointed ahead and the boy squinted. There she was! Difficult to see unless you knew she was there, her brown plumage camouflaged her well against the heather stalks, her crest imitating the new growth above that sheltered her and her eggs from the overhead threats of owl, buzzard and kestrel.
‘How does thee know there are eggs? It’s late in season to be laying,’ the boy whispered.
‘Shh,’ Emily hissed, but too late, the lapwing hen took wing.
‘There, see?’ Emily said. ‘You’d better not have scared her away for good or the chicks won’t hatch. I wish I’d never shown you. Come on, come away.’
The boy followed his diminutive young guide back down the hill.
***
I woke with tears flooding down my face. I could feel the despair of the boy and somehow understood exactly what it was like for the child to crawl underneath the working spinning mule, brushing down its moving parts, as well as the floor, as it operated; the metal frame clanging into its final position, then making its return journey; back and forth three times a minute, every minute, of every working hour. And there were an awful lot of working hours. No wonder employment of children in the mills had been termed The Yorkshire Slavery.
As I grew more aware, I shrank against the wall before remembering where I was. The Old White Lion. I clearly didn’t need to be at The Rookery for Heathcliff, or whatever his real name was, to visit. He could find me anywhere.
17.
Sitting in comfort, having breakfast served to me and my coffee cup refilled regularly was exactly what I needed and went a long way to bolstering my spirits.
I didn’t want to leave the comfort of the White Lion and return to my building site, but it had to be done, and eventually I settled up and walked home.
The build team had beaten me again and were sitting in their vans outside, waiting.
‘Morning,’ I said as they exited their vehicles and trooped into The Rookery. I received a few grunts in return and a reluctant ‘how do’ from Vikram.
My good feeling from breakfast disappeared and I wondered what was going on now.
‘None of ’em slept well.’ Vikram had recognised the look on my face. ‘They all had nightmares, but none of ’em will talk about it.’
‘So it’s catching.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. How about you, did you sleep okay?’
He shrugged. ‘Well enough. What happened here?’
I followed his gaze and saw the shards of broken wine glass. I’d forgotten about that – they still lay where they’d shattered before I’d fled last night. ‘Woody’s Grey Lady paid another visit.’
‘You saw her?’
I glanced away from him, then back. ‘I-I think so. But I was spooked after the Woody thing, and had no lights but candlelight. Now it’s daylight, I-I’m not so sure.’
‘What did you see?’
‘Well, what you said. A woman glowing grey with a big bonnet, a gown gathered at the back into a bustle, and carrying a basket.’
Vikram said nothing.
‘What?’
‘I don’t remember telling you about the basket.’
‘What?’
‘I didn’t tell you about the basket. Everybody sees it – sometimes that’s all people see – but I realised when I got home I hadn’t told you about it.’
‘Oh.’
Vikram made his habitual shrug. ‘It seems your imagination isn’t quite so rampant after all.’
I sighed. ‘Thanks for that. I feel much better.’
Vikram’s answering smile was gone before it was complete as a crash echoed from upstairs and Sparkly’s voice carried through the building.
‘You daft bugger! I told you to hold on to them wire strippers! Where the hell are they?’
‘Sorry, sorry, I don’t know where they’ve got to. I just had them!’ Snoopy said. ‘Sorry, Sparkly.’
‘And why the hell does everyone have to call me Sparkly? My name’s Sarah, and I never wear bloody sparkles!’
‘You’re a female sparky, lass, so you’re Sparkly. Get used to it,’ Omar butted in.
‘I’d better go calm things down before Gary calls her “mush”, and she really loses it,’ Vikram said, finally smiling and hurrying through the broken glass still on the floor, towards the stairs.
‘What on earth is going on here?’
I twirled at the sound of her voice. ‘Jayne! What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.’
‘It sounded like you needed a friend, so I pulled a sickie. Lara can’t make it today because of Hannah’s school, but she sends her best and wishes she was with us.’
I embraced her and hung on tight. ‘Thank you,’ I whispered. ‘It’s so good to see you.’
She hugged me back a moment, then pulled away. ‘Right, well, we’d better get that glass cleaned up and then you can fill me in properly on what’s been happening.’
‘Okay, but not here. Let’s take Grasper for a walk – I need to get out of this place.’
***
By the time we had completed a very slow stroll to the bottom of Haworth Main Street, it was almost lunchtime.
‘Let’s try Haworth Old Hall,’ I said. ‘I haven’t eaten there yet.’
‘Lead the way, Verity. I hope that place isn’t haunted!’
I slowed my step. ‘In a place this old, with this much history, everywhere is probably haunted,’ I said, aware my chest was tightening again.
Drinks and menus in situ on the table, Jayne sat and stared at me.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘I think you’re worrying too much.’
‘Okay,’ I drawled, hoping she was right but knowing deep down in the pit of my stomach that she wasn’t.
‘Antony’s put you through hell in the past year, it’s no wonder you’re having weird and vivid dreams, especially about a man, and especially about a man who’s the opposite in looks to Antony.’
‘But what about the touches? The footsteps and sitting on the bed?’
‘You said yourself, you were either still half-asleep or had only just woken up. You were probably still dreaming.’
I thought back to the caress in the shower. That had not been a dream, I was sure of it. I’d been fully awake for that one. Although, if I was honest, I had been daydreaming about Antony, hadn’t I? Maybe Jayne had a good point.
‘What about the Grey Lady – seeing her last night?’
‘Power of suggestion. You’re already on edge with the dreams and sleeping alone in a strange house – and a very old one at that. That builder bloke had already freaked out about the Grey Lady – more suggestion, judging by the legend that’s passed about. And you’d been drinking by candlelight. It wasn’t real, just a shadow.’
‘But I knew about the basket.’
‘Lucky guess.’
I pursed my lips. ‘Maybe.’
I’d run out of arguments, and I really, really wanted her to be right.
; 18.
‘ ’Scuse me, love.’
I stepped aside for a strange man carrying plastic piping and watched him climb The Rookery stairs. The plumbers had arrived.
‘Does that mean central heating?’ Jayne asked.
‘I think it might,’ I replied, and knocked three times on the closest door frame.
‘Wonderful.’
‘I doubt it will be operational by tonight.’ I laughed at the crestfallen expression on her face. ‘We’ll still be camping upstairs around the fan heater, I’m afraid.’
Jayne shrugged. ‘Why is it so quiet?’
I stopped and listened, confused, then realised what Jayne meant. Whilst there was plenty of banging and clattering – plus the constant rumble of the generator – there were very few voices, and none of the banter I’d become used to.
‘I’m not sure I want to know,’ I said, glancing at the wall where I’d seen the apparition the night before. ‘Come on, let’s go up, out of their way.’
***
‘Why can’t you leave the generator running for us?’ I asked Vikram. ‘There’s plenty of cable to run lights and heater.’
‘Sorry, love. Health and safety. Can’t run it when there’s no staff on the premises – insurers won’t let us.’
‘But ...’
He shrugged. ‘Nowt I can do about it, love, sorry.’
‘It’s okay, Verity, the lamps have plenty of batteries and I’m sure we can work out how to get the camping stove running,’ Jayne said.
‘They’ll have rooms at the White Lion or Black Bull,’ Vikram said.
‘No, they’re booked up for Christmas,’ I said. ‘I was lucky to get a room last night, but it was the last one.’
Vikram nodded. ‘I’ll stop in later, if you want – make sure you’re okay.’
‘We’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘But thank you.’
‘Sparkly’s not far off getting the wiring sorted,’ Vikram said. ‘If she doesn’t finish it tomorrow, she won’t be going home Friday till you have lights and heat for Christmas.’
Ghosts of Yorkshire Page 49
