Ghosts of Yorkshire

by Karen Perkins

  ‘Thanks, Vikram.’

  ‘No problem, goodnight.’

  ‘Did you see the way he looked at you when he was talking about staff being on the premises?’ Jayne asked once the door had closed behind him. ‘He was after an invite to stay!’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘I’m serious – he’s definitely interested.’

  I shook my head. Vikram had warmed up since Monday, but he was very definitely not interested in me. ‘Shall we go see if the fish and chip shop is open?’ I asked to change the subject. ‘Then we don’t have to bother with that camping stove.’

  Jayne wasn’t fooled, but let it slide. We wrapped up and stepped out into the freezing December evening.

  ‘It looks so eerie,’ Jayne said. ‘The way the streetlights look like old gas lamps, and the haze around them; all the stone and cobbles, it really wouldn’t have looked much different a century ago.’

  ‘Longer,’ I said. ‘I think the gas came in the 1860s, so that’s a hundred and fifty years at least.’ I shivered as we walked. ‘You can almost feel the history embracing us.’

  ‘You’re not kidding,’ Jayne said. ‘If not for the odd parked car, I honestly wouldn’t be sure when we are.’

  ‘We should walk back through the graveyard,’ I suggested. ‘If you think this is atmospheric, try that place at night!’

  ‘You’ll not get me in there after dark! It was spooky enough in full daylight.’

  I smiled. I wasn’t sure ‘spooky’ was the right word – it was something more than that; something heavier.

  ‘Thank goodness, they’re frying,’ Jayne interrupted my reverie. ‘What are you having?’

  ***

  Half an hour later, with hot food before us, glasses of wine poured, Jayne’s lamps brightening my apartment, and wrapped up in sweaters and blankets, I felt at ease. I wasn’t concerned about Haworth’s ghosts, not in Jayne’s company. I smiled at the thought that she’d shooed them away.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I was just thinking how glad I am you’re here.’

  She grinned. ‘What else are friends for but to freeze to death with you in a haunted house four days before Christmas, eating fish and chips and swilling wine?’

  I laughed. ‘I do appreciate it, Jayne, honestly. More than I can say.’

  ‘I know, love.’

  ‘Oh don’t you bloody start calling me love, too!’

  ‘That’s better! I was surprised to hear you take it from Vikram.’

  I ignored her raised eyebrows. ‘I’ve given up. Anyway, one of the builders calls everyone “mush”, so being called love doesn’t seem so bad now. I’ve decided to ignore it.’

  ‘Oh my God, it would drive me crackers!’

  ‘How are Jenny and Michael?’ I asked when the laughter had died down.

  Jayne’s smile relaxed and she sipped her wine. ‘They’re fine – great. Jenny’s well on with her final year assignments, and Michael seems to be settling down at the ad firm okay.’

  ‘Will you be seeing them over Christmas?’

  ‘No. It’s their father’s turn for Christmas this year, I’ll catch up with them in the New Year.’

  I nodded, careful not to comment. Jayne had been divorced fifteen years and still hated her ex with a passion.

  ‘Next year, there’ll be rooms here for them too,’ I said and leaned over to squeeze Jayne’s hand.

  She shook me off and took another bite of battered fish, making me wait until she’d finished her mouthful before replying. I refilled her glass while I waited.

  ‘That would be lovely – I just hope they won’t be too busy in their new lives. They’re literally only going for the meal this year, apparently John’s furious.’

  She smiled and gulped her wine. I followed suit and refilled again.

  ‘But I guess that’s what happens.’ Jayne visibly pulled herself together – sitting more upright and squaring her shoulders. ‘They grow up, don’t they, boy?’ She ruffled Grasper’s fur and fed him some fish.

  The subject of children was still too raw for me too. ‘I wonder if he’ll come tonight.’

  ‘Who, Vikram?’

  ‘No!’ I slapped her arm with the back of my hand. ‘Behave. I meant the dream man.’

  ‘Ah, Heathcliff.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t call him that.’

  Jayne smiled. ‘Well, I hope he isn’t Heathcliff,’ she said, standing up and clearing away the empty plates. ‘You’ve had enough of dysfunctional men. Ow!’

  I leapt to my feet at the exclamation, Grasper’s frantic barking, and crash of dropped plates. ‘What happened? Are you all right?’

  ‘Someone pushed me!’

  ‘What? Who? There’s no one here!’

  We looked at each other.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I asked. ‘It was definitely a push?’

  ‘Yes! Two hands on my back. I was lucky I didn’t fall.’

  ‘The floor’s pretty uneven, are you sure you didn’t just trip?’

  Jayne stared at me, worried, then shrugged. ‘Maybe. I must have done. It’s just this place, it’s got me spooked.’

  We both jumped at a bang from the window.

  ‘Just a bird,’ she said.

  I gave a shaky laugh. ‘Now you know how I feel.’

  We both looked at Grasper who was still very vocal and seemed to be doing a little dance; leaping and twisting, his eyes following something neither Jayne nor I could see.

  ‘Is there more wine?’ Jayne asked.

  ‘Plenty.’

  19.

  ‘What have you found, Emily?’ Branwell called from further down the hill. ‘Don’t go too far away, you know Papa said I’m in charge and I’m staying over here with Anne.’

  Emily gave no sign of hearing her brother, and crouched motionless in the heather over the treasure she’d found.

  ‘Can you hear them?’ she asked.

  ‘Only a little bit. How did you know I was here?’ Harry asked.

  Emily looked at his wooden-soled clogs, and he understood.

  ‘I ran away from mill again,’ he confided.

  Emily made no reply. Harry watched her, intrigued as she studied the lapwing nest of chicks. She didn’t speak to him very much, but he didn’t take offence. She didn’t speak to anybody very much, except her brother and sisters, and then only when she had a mind to.

  He liked her silence; his world was normally filled with noise: the spinning machines at the mill, and the constant clack of the handlooms in the weaver’s gallery which took up the entire top floor of the row of cottages where he and his family had their home. The clop of horses, rumble of wagon wheels and shouts of draymen on the street. And of course the little ones’ cries and Ma’s sobs at the house.

  He lived with his eight brothers and sisters – seven now. The baby had died before even earning a name, and someone was always sickly. It was Mary and Robert at the moment, keeping everyone’s nerves on edge with their constant coughing and crying. As if on cue, Harry himself coughed, feeling the tickle of the fluff from the spinning room within his throat.

  ‘Hush.’ Emily rounded on him, her little face fierce. ‘You’ll scare them!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Harry whispered. ‘Can I see?’

  Emily regarded him with large, round eyes, considering whether he was worthy of the sight, then nodded and moved aside.

  Harry took her place then gasped as the dull, grey drizzle that had offered no respite for over a week turned to a sudden, drenching downpour.

  The sky turned so black it almost seemed night, high on the moor above Haworth, despite it yet being early afternoon.

  Harry regained his composure and bearings in the violently changed conditions, then lost them again as he saw Emily Brontë twirling in the heavy rain, arms outstretched and face turned to the sky.

  ‘Emily, Emily, come on, we have to find shelter or we’ll catch our deaths,’ Branwell called, to no avail.

  Branwell’s small face, turned up tow
ards them, was serious and worried, but he had Anne to take care of, and the seven-year-old took his duty very seriously. Besides, he knew just how stubborn Emily could be.

  ‘Emily!’ Harry saw him scream. Saw because nothing could be heard over the enormous, thunderous roar that exploded around them.

  Lightning flickered, followed by a lesser thunder.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Harry looked uphill and his mouth dropped open in shock. It was moving. The hillside was moving.

  Peat, heather and rock slid towards them.

  ‘Emily!’ Harry shouted, and ran to grab her. She had seen the danger, but instead of running for safety, she was trying to gather the lapwing nest with its brood of chicks into her hands.

  Harry pulled at her, but she resisted, and he had no choice but to pick up the child – thankfully small and thin for even her young age – and run, stumbling out of the path of the relentless, tumbling moorslide.

  The four children, Emily still clutching the lapwing chicks, hurried along a path that would take them out of danger, and also bring them back together; Branwell dragging a screaming five-year-old Anne alongside him, and Harry still carrying Emily.

  He put her down, his arms shaking, and she barely looked at him, her attention still wholly occupied by the birds. Did she not understand the danger she had been in herself?

  ‘Emily.’ Branwell sank to his knees when he reached his sister, and he and Anne clung to her. ‘Is all well?’

  ‘I think so,’ Emily said, holding out the nest. ‘I don’t know how their parents will find them, though, they had better come home with us.’

  Branwell and Harry looked at the way home. It was a river of gloopy, rocky mud.

  ‘How will we get home?’ Anne asked, her voice small and terrified.

  Branwell didn’t answer, but looked at Harry.

  ‘We’ll have to go round,’ Harry said.

  ‘No,’ Branwell said. ‘We’d have to go right round by Top Withens. That’s too far, especially in the rain and with Anne. Ponden Hall is much closer. We’ll go there and the Heatons can get a message to Papa. He shall come to fetch us.

  ***

  ‘Whoever heard of an earthquake in Haworth?’ the parson said when he arrived, having ascertained those of his children not yet in the custody of a school were all present and unharmed.

  He stared at the lapwing nest, still protected in Emily’s hands, then glared at Harry.

  ‘Mam says it were the bog that burst,’ Robert Heaton said.

  ‘Nonsense, did you not hear it? It was an earthquake,’ the parson dismissed him and his mother. ‘Now, who is this?’

  Harry stayed silent, scared of the stern cleric who thundered from the pulpit every Sunday. A tall figure, dressed in black with high, white collar, Harry had always been scared of him.

  ‘Harry Sutcliffe,’ Emily said. ‘He works at the mill but keeps running away.’

  ‘Does he now? You know you’ll be beaten for that, boy?’

  Harry nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘He saved Emily, Papa,’ Branwell said, unhappy at being left out of the conversation. ‘I was with Anne, looking after her like you told me to, Papa, and Emily was up the hill with her lapwings. I told her to come, but she didn’t, Papa. And then Harry came, just before the big roar, and Emily was dancing in the rain and she wouldn’t come and she saved the lapwings and Harry picked her up and ran away from the bogslide.’ Branwell stopped, out of breath.

  His father regarded him in silence a moment, no doubt making sense of his son’s rushed monologue.

  ‘I see. Well, young Harry, it appears I and my family owe you a great debt.’

  Harry looked up at him in hope. Mrs Heaton had fed them all pork and apple with hot posset when they’d arrived, soaked to the skin and shivering. Dare he ask for more food to take home for his family?

  ‘You work at the mill, boy?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Rooks, sir.’

  ‘And you do not like the work?’

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘But is it not good to have work so your family have food and shelter and cloth on their backs?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Then why do you run away?’

  ‘It is so loud, sir. I can’t hear the lapwings call, and I cough all the time, and my brothers and sisters cough all the time, and I keep getting hurt.’ He held out an arm showing thick red weals on the pale skin. ‘And—’

  ‘Enough.’ Patrick Brontë held up a hand. ‘I have heard enough.’ He glanced at Emily.

  ‘Do you miss the lapwings’ call, Harry?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Well, I cannot find you work with birds,’ the parson said, and Mrs Heaton tittered. ‘But the mason is looking for an apprentice. There is just too much work for him these days ...’ He lapsed into a thoughtful silence, then blinked. ‘It is hard work, but skilled work and would give you a trade. Would you like that, boy?’

  ‘Yes sir, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Very well, report to the mason’s workshop behind the parsonage first thing tomorrow morning. I shall inform your father and Mr Rook.’

  ‘Yes sir, thank you, sir,’ Harry said again, so overjoyed at not having to return to the mill, he had not yet considered that he would be carving memorials for the remainder of his life.

  ‘What about me, Papa?’ Branwell asked, a little sulkily. ‘I looked after Anne and saved her. I dragged her away out of the danger, didn’t I, Anne? Didn’t I?’

  Anne nodded. She had not spoken since reaching safety.

  ‘I should expect nothing less from you, Branwell. It is your duty to care for your sisters.’

  At Branwell’s crestfallen face, his papa ruffled his hair. ‘Now, let’s get you all home, Tabby and Aunt Branwell are very worried about you all and are making an extra special supper for us all tonight: liver and onions. And you have earned a double helping, Branwell. What do you think of that?’

  ‘That will do very well, Papa, thank you,’ Branwell said and beamed at his father. It was his favourite.

  20.

  ‘Morning, Vikram, what’s the plan for today?’

  ‘Morning, love.’

  Jayne smirked at my continued non-complaint about the generic pet name. I ignored her.

  ‘Plumbers want to finish getting the pipe laid for the central heating so they can crack on with the pipework for the en-suites after Christmas. And Sparkly’s putting the final touches to the wiring – with any luck, you’ll have light and sockets by the end of the day. But it might be best to stay out of her way. Things can get a bit ... fraught when she flicks a switch and things don’t happen quite as they’re supposed to.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ Jayne muttered, and I grinned.

  ‘I think we can all relate. Well, what do you think about visiting the museum, Jayne? I don’t think Lara’s too bothered about it, so it would be a good opportunity.’

  ‘I don’t mind where we go as long as we get out of here for a while.’

  I glanced at her, realising she was more affected by last night than I’d appreciated.

  ‘More ghosts?’

  ‘Something like that.’ I smiled at Vikram, took Jayne’s arm and led her out of The Rookery, then stopped at Vikram’s touch on my back.

  ‘Verity?’

  ‘Wait for me outside,’ I said to Jayne, then turned to Vikram, surprised at the way my heart had speeded up at the sound of my name in his voice.

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  I shrugged. ‘A bit stressful, to be honest, but that’s to be expected.’ I gestured at the chaos in the room.

  ‘Are you sure that’s all?’

  ‘Yes. I’m fine, honest.’

  He had no choice but to believe me, although we both knew I was lying, but I smiled, turned and left; at least for the day.

  ***

  We entered the front garden of the parsonage and I almost felt Jayne’s shudder.

>   ‘Jayne ...’ I started, but she shook her head, clearly not yet ready to talk about what had happened.

  ‘I didn’t realise the extent to which death surrounded the Brontë sisters,’ she said after a while. ‘They lived surrounded by gravestones.’ She indicated the churchyard bordering two sides of the garden.

  ‘I know, it must have been a very strange way to grow up, although of course the graveyard would have been much smaller then.’

  We both looked up as the resident parliament of rooks took wing and wheeled about the memorials before settling to roost once more. Jayne shuddered again and I looped my arm through hers.

  ‘Even though the front looks down over the older part and the church, the standing stones are newer, so it wouldn’t have been so obvious they lived surrounded by graves. And there would have only been a few to the side as well. It wouldn’t have been quite as grim then as it appears now.’

  ‘Yes, but still – young kids growing up here?’

  I shrugged. ‘They were different times. Death was very much a part of life and childhood then, no matter where you lived. And look at the house they enjoyed – other kids their age were sleeping nine to a room, and a small room at that.’ I gestured to the handsome, millstone grit building as we turned.

  Framed by the moors behind, it was true that the nine windows on the front aspect regarded the church and its yard, but each was made up of smaller panes, and lined with the darker stone that picked out the corners of the building. A white portico framing the front door was in vast contrast to The Rookery – once four cottages, each housing large families.

  ‘Come on, let’s go in,’ I urged. ‘Enough doom and gloom. Whatever you think about its situation, wonderful books were inspired and penned here.’

  ‘I’m starting to see why they’re so bleak.’

  ‘Come on, Jayne, this isn’t like you. And I know you love Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre.’

  Jayne sighed. ‘I know, you’re right, sorry, I’m just a bit out of sorts this morning.’

  I opened my mouth to speak as we climbed the steps to the front door, but she rushed on to stop me. ‘Not yet, I don’t want to talk about it yet, Verity.’

  I nodded, handed our tickets in, then led the way into the Brontës’ dining room and became lost in the world of Charlotte, Emily and Anne, and the tragic tale of their family and lives.