Ghosts of Yorkshire

by Karen Perkins

  A horse loomed above me, whinnying crazedly, and I screamed as the cart it pulled bore down on me.

  White faces stared at me, and Jayne and Lara both put hands on my arms.

  ‘Verity? Are you okay?’

  ‘What happened?’

  I gaped at the strange faces watching me with a mixture of curiosity and contempt, and apologised. ‘It’s nothing, I just got a bit carried away.’

  The tour guide moved the group on, past the Black Bull, the King’s Arms and the White Lion, but I barely listened, still spooked by the experience I’d had in Gauger’s Croft.

  It had seemed so real; the smell, or the memory of it, still stung my nose, and I had honestly believed I was about to be trampled.

  Hannah’s squeal brought me back to the tour, and I saw we were outside The Rookery. I was one of the stops on the ghost tour.

  Flanked by Lara and Jayne, I listened in fascination as Top Hat described numerous sightings of the Grey Lady, painting a picture of exactly what I had seen, although there was no mention of orbs of light, or people being pushed.

  ‘Auntie Verity’s seen her, twice,’ Hannah informed the tour guide. ‘That’s her house and she keeps seeing the ghost. Mum’s seen her too, but I haven’t, not yet. I’ve only fallen on the floor in that other place, the White Lion, that’s the only ghost I’ve seen,’ she continued, oblivious of Top Hat’s irritation at this interruption to his narrative.

  His eyes narrowed as he shifted his gaze to me and I nodded, then shrugged in apology. His expression grew thoughtful and he moved us on, introducing the ‘witch’s house’ at the end of West Lane.

  ‘I don’t like it here, Mummy,’ Hannah said. ‘I feel funny, I want to go.’

  ‘Shush, we’ll be moving on in a minute,’ Lara said. ‘I want to hear the story about the witch.’

  ‘But I don’t like it,’ Hannah cried. ‘I really don’t like it.’

  ‘I’ll take her back to the White Lion,’ Jayne said, taking Hannah’s hand. ‘We’ll have hot chocolate by the fire and wait for you there.’

  ‘Okay, Aunt Jayne, let’s go.’ Hannah almost dragged Jayne away, casting an accusing glance back at her mother, and Lara met my eyes.

  I couldn’t decipher the expression in them, and wondered if she was feeling the same sensation I was: my chest tightening so much I was having to make a conscious effort to deflate and inflate my lungs for air.

  Top Hat raised his voice as he came to the climax of his story – either that or he was just sick of the interruptions caused by me and my friends. I heard the words ‘hanging from the rafters’ and reached my limit. I glanced at Lara, who nodded, and we placed our lanterns on the low wall bordering the path, walked away from the tour, and hurried after Jayne and Hannah.

  ‘Whatever that is in there, Pendle witch or not, it does not come from the light,’ Lara said. ‘That’s a dark energy, thank God Jayne took Hannah away so quickly. I should never have brought her on this tour.’

  I said nothing. I’d had enough of ghosts; I wanted hot chocolate by the fire with my friends.

  11.

  Martha glanced into the churchyard as she passed, able to see the site of the Sutcliffe grave where they had lain Baby John to rest before he had seen his first year out. She sighed at the memory of him, then turned her attention back to the living and stooped to pick up Edna – her little legs not quite up to the full walk to Harry’s workshop. Mr Barraclough was handing more and more of the work to Harry these days, and he was fast gaining a reputation as a master stonemason in his own right.

  Not surprising, all the work he does in that churchyard, Martha thought. Memorial stones had grown more intricate in latter years, the more successful families opting for altar stones rather than the more usual flat slabs laid directly on the ground, and were happy to pay for elaborate carvings to commemorate the passing of their loved ones.

  Martha stopped in her tracks at the sound of voices rather than the regular percussion of hammer and chisel. That’s a woman’s voice.

  She hefted Edna in her arms, and strode to confront her husband – the pail of bread and cheese she was bringing him for his dinner swinging, despite the coughing the exertion brought on.

  Her expression hardened when she recognised the interloper’s voice. Emily Brontë.

  ‘It’s a travesty,’ she was saying, ‘throwing Richard Oastler into The Fleet.’

  ‘Aye,’ Harry replied. ‘It’s nowt to do with debts, neither, that’s just trumped up. It’s to stop him acting against the mills.’

  ‘They just don’t know what to do with him – a Tory organising strikes!’

  ‘That Thomas Thornhill has much to answer for – it’s his doing, mark my words. Oh hello, love. Has thee brought me lunch?’ Harry noticed Martha in the doorway.

  ‘What’s going on?’ She put Edna down, who waddled over to her papa.

  ‘They’ve arrested Richard Oastler, you know, The Factory King. Him who’s against young ’uns working in the mills so much,’ Harry explained.

  ‘The Yorkshire Slavery he calls it,’ Emily said. ‘Have you read about him?’

  ‘She don’t read much,’ Harry said. ‘Worked in the mill since she were not much older than our Edna here. Never got to go to school.’

  Emily nodded but said nothing more.

  Martha added embarrassment to the cauldron of emotions boiling within her. She glared at Emily. ‘Had to work for food,’ she said, her voice strident. ‘All of us did, couldn’t swan off to no fancy school.’

  Harry shot her a look of rebuke. Emily’s two eldest sisters had died as a result of their time at Cowan Bridge School, something Martha knew well.

  He noticed Emily’s expression darken, and hurried to forestall Emily’s words; trying to protect his wife from the wrath of his friend.

  ‘Mr Oastler is for the Ten-Hour Movement,’ he said, his voice unnaturally loud. ‘No more getting out of bed at four and working till nightfall. And no young ’uns to be working in mill afore their tenth year.’

  ‘But how will families manage?’ Martha protested. How will they feed little ’uns without that wage?’

  ‘Mills will have to pay a better living to them that do work,’ Emily said.

  ‘I can’t see Rooks or any of other mill owners agreeing to that,’ Harry said. ‘Law or no law. They’ve paid no mind to the Factory Act, and that’s been in place seven year now.’

  ‘Aye, but there was no way of proving a child’s age,’ Emily argued. ‘Nearly every child in the mills is “small for his age” or undernourished. Now the queen is forcing every birth to be registered, they’ll not be able to get away with it no more, they’ll have to prove their age with a certificate.’

  ‘Aye, that’s true enough, lass. Though for folks like my Martha here, there’s not a lot of point to a certificate they can’t read.’

  Martha thumped Harry’s lunch pail down and glared at him.

  He cast his eyes down in apology, but Emily didn’t seem to notice Martha’s pique.

  ‘But the authorities can read it. People like my papa write them out, and the mill owners will be kept in check. Things will come good.’

  ‘I hope so, lass, I really do,’ Harry said, then switched his attention to a safer subject by picking up his daughter to swing her round in a circle, confident Edna’s giggles would soften Martha’s mood.

  He risked a glance at his wife, and grinned when he saw his ploy had worked.

  ***

  I woke with a smile at the delightful sound of Edna’s simple joy. Then realised where I was, alone in my new bed in The Rookery. My hand drifted to my stomach, a belly that had never expanded with new life, and I felt a sense of profound loss. Surprised and feeling a little shaken, I got out of bed to start the new day.

  12.

  ‘Wow, just look at that!’ Lara exclaimed as Haworth Old Hall came into sight. Morris dancers were in full swing, their shin bells marking the steps of their dance, as they wielded their sticks in minutely choreographe
d strikes.

  Flames glanced off top hats and canes, breeks and clogs, bustles and bonnets, and I staggered as the tarry smell of the burning pitch hit my nostrils. For a moment I was back in Gauger’s Croft, the horse and cart bearing down on me.

  A tug on my arm brought me back to the here and now. ‘What’s that, Auntie Verity? Is that woman holding a dog? Why isn’t it moving?’

  I chuckled. ‘No, it’s a muff, Hans. It keeps the lady’s hands warm.

  Hannah looked thoughtful. ‘Why doesn’t she just wear gloves?’

  ‘Back in Victorian times, ladies didn’t wear big, thick gloves, only thin, dressy ones.’

  ‘But it’s like her hands are tied in front of her.’

  ‘Not really, she can get her hands out easily.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Welcome.’ It was the man who had led the ghost tour. ‘No scares tonight, hopefully,’ he said as he recognised us. ‘Just a walk back in time before we see the New Year in.’ He held his flaming torch aloft. ‘Lanterns are over there, and there’s plenty of mulled wine left. Please help yourself, and we’ll be setting off soon.’

  ‘Can’t we have a torch?’ Hannah asked.

  ‘No, ’fraid not. Only the organisers have those – health and safety.’

  Ten minutes later, the procession of tourists and locals, all dressed in a sometimes curious mix of nineteenth-century fashion, began the climb up Main Street, the flickering torchlight reflecting off dark windows and wet slate lending an eerie atmosphere to the walk, despite the mulled wine and music, as Top Hat weaved his tales of the history of each building we passed.

  The pace was slow, and slowed further the higher the cobbled street rose. The distant sound of a brass band urged us on, our feet trying to march in step to the deep beat of the tuba, although with little success, until we neared the church.

  We reached the church; rebuilt in 1879, the base of the tower and the crypt below were the only parts of this building that the Brontës would have known. The sandstone almost glowed in the light of half a dozen torches, and the Haworth Band was arranged on the steps and into the square at the top of Main Street with a full complement of tuba, trombones, and trumpets.

  We paused to listen. There was something almost magical about the music in this atmosphere of biting cold, pitch torches, and centuries-old buildings. I could almost imagine the Brontës enjoying a similar spectacle, and wondered if they had even listened to the same tunes.

  ‘Well, I’ve worked up a thirst now,’ Jayne said, hitching up her skirts yet again after catching the heel of her ankle boots in her extravagant petticoats. I smiled, she’d been very quiet since Jenny had called to say she and her brother Michael had decided to go to Edinburgh’s Hogmanay celebrations for New Year, and would call in to see her on their way back south.

  ‘What those women went through,’ Lara said, pulling at her stays. ‘Corsets hurt – and that’s without the tonne of cotton silk and lace we’re hauling about. Everything digs in and pinches, and squeezes. Who thought it would be a good idea to climb that hill in this lot?’ She flared her skirts in a sulk.

  ‘We’ll be at the pub soon, then you can loosen up. Your corsets, I mean,’ I added quickly at Lara’s glare and Jayne’s laugh.

  Lara gave a pretend swipe at my head with her palm, then giggled. ‘I can’t wait to get back into jeans. Even bras don’t seem so bad anymore.’

  ‘So,’ Jayne said. ‘Black Bull, King’s Arms or White Lion?’

  ‘Verity’ll want the Black Bull,’ Lara said.

  ‘William will be there,’ Hannah said, drawing the name out, then her face grew serious. ‘Should I call him Uncle William?’

  ‘No!’ I said, too loudly, then, ‘Sorry, Hans, I didn’t mean to startle you. Just William is fine, he isn’t your uncle.’

  ‘But you’re not really my aunt, and I still call you Auntie Verity.’

  ‘That’s because your mum and I have been such good friends for so long, we’re sisters in all but blood. We’ve only just met William.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So,’ Jayne said, ‘Black Bull, then?’

  They moved in that direction, but I hung back.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Let’s make tonight about us,’ I said. ‘No men, no ghosts, no dreams, no complications, just us. It’s New Year’s Eve – I want to celebrate with you, not William, or Harry, or whoever he is.’

  Lara and Jayne walked back and linked arms with me.

  ‘Verity, are you crying?’

  I wiped awkwardly at my face, almost dislodging Lara’s arm, surprised to find it wet.

  ‘I-I—’ My breath hitched in a sob.

  ‘Verity, it’s okay,’ Lara soothed.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I got a tenuous grip on myself. ‘I don’t know what just happened.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, and there’s nothing to apologise for,’ Jayne said as Lara rubbed my back. ‘You’ve had a lot going on. Getting divorced and moving house are two of the most stressful things you can do. Add to that starting your own business, the renovations, and the hauntings, I’m surprised you’re not having a breakdown!’

  ‘Oh, a breakdown sounds good,’ I said, forcing a laugh. ‘Can I go somewhere quiet and have a rest?’

  Lara laughed. ‘That’s what a guesthouse is supposed to be about – quiet and rest!’

  My chuckle was genuine this time. ‘I suppose you have a point, but that tends to be the guests, not the proprietor.’

  ‘You can always come and stay with us – anytime things get too much,’ Lara said, and Jayne agreed.

  ‘Vikram seems very capable, I’m sure he’d cope if you spent a few days with one of us,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you.’ I gave them both a squeeze. ‘Even the thought of it makes me feel better. Look, no tears!’ I raised my face up and showed them first one cheek then the other. ‘But I am ready for a large glass of something.’

  Arm in arm, we crossed the road and made our way to the White Lion, only now realising Top Hat was standing nearby, awaiting the return of his lanterns.

  13.

  ‘Ah, that’s better, loose corsets and wine,’ Lara said, sinking down on to her seat, her skirts narrowly avoiding knocking drinks off three tables as she did so.

  ‘Saucy,’ I said. ‘Careful, you’ll give people the wrong impression.’ I smiled at the family on the next table.

  ‘Or the right one,’ Jayne said, deadpan.

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ Lara said, unfazed, and lifted her glass. Giggling, Jayne and I joined in.

  ‘Better?’ Lara asked me.

  I nodded. ‘Things just got a bit much,’ I said. ‘Plus it’s New Year’s Eve, and that always gets me – especially this year with the divorce and everything.’

  ‘Yes, it’s definitely been a year of big changes,’ Jayne said. ‘But you’re moving forward positively. New home, new business, new man ...’ She raised her eyebrows and smirked.

  ‘Ghosts, spooks and nightmares.’ I aped her expression.

  ‘We’ll fix all that,’ Lara said. ‘It’s only frightening at the moment because we don’t understand what’s going on. But don’t forget, the cleansing and protection I did doesn’t work.’

  ‘You say that as if it’s a good thing,’ Jayne said, eyebrows raised.

  ‘It is,’ Lara insisted. ‘It means the spirits, whatever or whoever they are, mean no harm.’

  ‘Is that why one tried to push me down the stairs?’ Jayne shot back. ‘Or destroyed Verity’s kitchen and sent Antony running.’

  ‘Maybe that was the point – getting rid of Antony,’ Lara said. ‘Protecting Verity.’

  ‘And me? Does Verity need protecting from me, too?’

  ‘Of course not. What was going on when it happened though?’

  Jayne paused, then a strange look crept across her face. I remembered at the same time.

  ‘We were talking about my dream man. Don’t you remember, Jayne? You were wondering if he was Heathcliff, and warne
d me off dysfunctional men.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ Lara said.

  ‘Enough,’ I said, forestalling Jayne’s reply. ‘Sorry, but can we just have a break from it all tonight, please?’

  Lara nodded as Hannah climbed on to her lap. She stroked her daughter’s hair as Hannah’s thumb found its way into its owner’s mouth. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go to bed, Hans?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘She’s determined to stay up till midnight,’ Lara said with a smile. ‘First time ever.’

  ‘Sunday tomorrow,’ Jayne said. ‘We can all have a lie in and a quiet day.’

  ‘Actually, I wondered if it would be a good idea to go to church tomorrow.’

  ‘Church?’ I repeated.

  Lara shrugged. ‘Can’t do any harm, and a bit of prayer may help.’

  ‘I’m willing to try anything at the moment,’ I said.

  ‘Talking of willing,’ Jayne said, indicating the door behind me. ‘I didn’t know they were friends.’

  I turned to see William and Vikram standing at the door looking awkwardly around the room.

  ‘I almost didn’t recognise him,’ Lara whispered, and I pulled my eyes away from William’s to consider Vikram. He looked more the artist than William did, and without a trace of builder. His chunky black collared sweater hugged his body and suited him almost as much as his black flat cap and dark-rimmed glasses. I smiled; Lara and Jayne would be fighting over him before the year was out.

  My eyes slid back to William. He hadn’t made as much effort as Vikram, but was simply dressed in a white, open-necked shirt and jeans. The ensemble set off his dark eyes perfectly, and his freshly shaved jaw took years off him.

  Thank goodness he hasn’t got dressed up, I thought, shifting uncomfortably in my Victorian-style gown, I’d have thought him to be Harry.

  Vikram led the way to our table, but before the greetings were completed, William escaped to the bar and I stared after him, my heart beating hard, then glanced at Vikram in consternation.

  Vikram shrugged and looked embarrassed. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’