Ghosts of Yorkshire

by Karen Perkins

  ‘She’s on the mend, stop fretting, Lizzie. The coughing’s subsiding and doctor’s happy that it ain’t consumption after all. Probably her lungs are weak from mills and soot. She’ll be on her feet again by end of week.’

  ‘That’s good news,’ Lizzie said, and put some water on to boil. ‘Will thee have some dandelion tea?’

  ‘Aye, that’d do me reet,’ Martha said. ‘Has thee heard about Bart Grange?’

  ‘Aye, dead of the consumption last week.’

  ‘Aye, but that’s not all. He were the last in line, and instead of burying him in family plot near church, Rooks have bought Granges’ grave.’

  ‘They never have! What about bones? And where’ll they put Big Bart?’

  ‘Up top of new bit – alongside parsonage by field wall.’

  ‘That’s terrible – they should be left to rest in peace.’

  ‘Aye, Harry’s livid. Reckons it’s too disrespectful, even though there’s no bugger left to mourn them. He’s shocked at parson for allowing it.’

  ‘Well, I hope he’s making Rooks pay through nose for it. Oh that’ll be Sarah.’ Lizzie bustled to the door to let her in. ‘I wonder if she’s heard about it.’

  ‘Were that Emily’s voice I heard?’ Martha queried when the two women joined her.’

  ‘Aye,’ Sarah said with a glance at Lizzie.

  ‘She’s been there every ruddy morning, and afternoon too. What the ruddy hell is she playing at?’

  ‘Oh Martha, hush. There’s nowt going on, thee can trust Harry, he ain’t one to fool around on thee.’

  ‘Thee can never tell,’ Sarah disagreed. ‘It were months afore I realised my Robert were playing away.’

  ‘Well, I’ve had enough. I’m going to find out what’s going on, and if I don’t like it I’m putting a stop to it. I’ll be up in weaver’s gallery, I’ll be able to see what they’re saying from top of steps.’

  Lizzie and Sarah shared another glance as Martha heaved herself up from her chair and clumped towards the internal stairs to the gallery above.

  Lizzie shouted after her, ‘No good’ll come of it, Martha. You’d do better staying down here with us.’

  She received only a harrumph for answer, accompanied by the thumping of Martha’s stick as she scaled the treads.

  ***

  ‘How do, Ellis.’

  ‘What did you call me?’ Emily Brontë turned on Harry, her face twisted into her fiercest scowl.

  Despite himself, Harry took a step backwards, nearly falling over the stone behind him waiting to be faced. He held his hands up, still clasping hammer and chisel, to ward her off. ‘Steady on, Emily. I’m reet then, am I? It is thee that wrote that book, thee’s Ellis Bell?’

  ‘No! No, I am not!’ Emily stamped her foot to further stress her denials.

  Harry ignored her. ‘Aye, thee is. It’s thee that wrote it. “I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free ... Why am I so changed? I'm sure I should be myself were I once among the heather on those hills.” Them’s thy words, Emily, no matter what’s written on cover.’

  Emily glared at him, her fists clenched, and Harry wondered if her basket would hold up to the force of her fingers, but he wasn’t going to let his advantage go now.

  ‘Anyroad, ain’t Bell one of the curate’s names? And if thee’s Ellis, I’m guessing Currer is Charlotte, and Acton, Anne. I’m not daft thee knows. Anyroad, no bugger else could write about the moors like that – reading Wuthering Heights were like seeing the moors through thine eyes.’

  ‘Does Martha know?’

  ‘Ha! I knew it! And no she don’t. I weren’t sure mesen till just now. I’ve been teaching her letters, and she’s reading it at moment, though I doubt she’ll work it out. She don’t know thee like I do.’

  ‘You can’t tell her, Harry Sutcliffe, you have to promise me. It’d be all round the village by noon.’

  ‘I don’t keep secrets from me wife, Emily.’

  She scowled again, and Harry gave in. ‘All right, I won’t tell her, I’ll keep thy secret.’

  Emily relaxed and Harry grinned at her.

  ‘So, who’s Heathcliff based on, anyone we know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The only lad daft enough to scrabble around moors with thee were mesen.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Harry Sutcliffe.’

  ‘I can’t help but notice there’s a similarity in the name an’all.’

  ‘There’s similarities to most names in village. It doesn’t mean folk are in the book. It’s just a story, with characters not neighbours.’

  Harry raised his eyebrows, and Emily shrugged.

  ‘Well, happen I did get some inspiration from the goings on in Haworth.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Harry grinned at her.

  Emily shook her head at him, opened her mouth, then with a glance upward, shut it again and began to climb the stairs to the weaver’s gallery, basket over her arm. Halfway up, she paused, started to turn, then changed her mind and continued upward.

  ***

  Martha stepped forward into the doorway, blocking Emily’s entry to the gallery. She smiled at the smaller woman, who was further disadvantaged by having to pause on a lower step as Martha loomed over her.

  Emily glared at her, but Martha did not move aside.

  The background noise of the looms working softened then tailed away as the weavers realised something was happening and they paused in their work to watch and listen.

  ‘I can’t get past.’

  Martha made no reply, but crossed her arms, strengthening her position.

  ‘Please stand aside.’

  ‘It’s time we had a little chat, Miss Brontë. Thee’s spending far too much time with my husband and I would prefer it if you would desist.’ Martha looked at her in triumph at her well-worded demand. No one would be able to say she wasn’t polite.

  Emily flushed a deep red, and moved forward until there was just one step between them. Martha did not move, but Emily was not one to be cowed.

  ‘There’s nowt improper happening, you know that well, just as everyone else does. If you don’t like Harry talking to folk, maybe you should try talking to him yourself.’

  It was Martha’s turn to colour, but she was aware she had an audience and stood her ground.

  ‘I can still lip-read from me days in the mill, thee knows. Comes in reet handy it does.’ Martha grinned at Emily. ‘I’ve read that book an’all. Some of it, anyroad, I’m not quick with me letters like thee and Harry.’

  Emily gasped. ‘Martha, no!’

  ‘Harry’s my husband; he ain’t thy Heathcliff. Thee’s made me a laughing stock with that ruddy book!’

  ‘Then stop talking and don’t tell anyone,’ Emily hissed. ‘I don’t want folk to know. As far as the world knows, Mr Ellis Bell wrote that book, and that’s the way it can stay.’

  ‘Well.’ Martha uncrossed her arms and rested her hands on her hips. ‘If it’s privacy thee wants to keep, thee’ll have to do summat for me to keep me mouth shut. Stay away from my Harry!’

  ‘Martha!’ Harry had noticed the quarrel and rushed up the steps.

  Emily took advantage of Martha’s momentary distraction, and pushed by the larger woman, then hurried through the gallery.

  ‘What the ruddy hell’s going on here?’ Harry stared after his friend as she reached the far steps and scurried down them.

  ‘Is Martha reet? Did Miss Emily write that book everyone’s been on about?’ Alf Thackray asked.

  Harry turned to his wife. ‘What has thee done? What was thee thinking? Thee’s full of spite, Martha Sutcliffe, and there’s nowt worse than a spiteful woman!’

  ‘She’s writing ruddy love stories about thee!’ Martha protested. ‘And having whole world read ’em. The pair of thee have humiliated me! Even Robert Butterworth tried to keep his dalliances private – thine are ruddy published. Ruddy Heathcliff, my arse!’

  Harry stared at his wife, barely recognising her as the woman he’d
fallen in love with ten years ago. Now he felt only disgust at the woman she’d grown into, and grieved for the woman she could have been had life been kinder; or if she’d chosen different words and actions over the years.

  ‘Well, if I started out as Heathcliff, I reckon thee’s the inspiration for the monster he becomes at end. That there lass,’ he indicated the direction in which Emily had rushed, ‘has more kindness, more sense, and an hell of a lot more goddamned plain decency than you ever had. And she sees people true; she sees me, and she ruddy well sees thee for who thee is!’

  Martha gasped in shock as his words ignited lightning in her heart that tore her apart, setting fires of rage, jealousy and humiliation burning through her, consuming her. The emotion exploded from her and she screamed as the world spun; she couldn’t make sense of what she saw: stone steps, the still looms, and Harry’s face, spinning away from her.

  Part Four

  April 2017

  “He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

  Wuthering Heights

  Emily Brontë, 1847

  Haworth, West Yorkshire

  1.

  The shrill staccato shriek spears through my skull, accompanied by a dull, throbbing roar. Over and over, piercing the darkness; the sound a lightning strike on my brain; the roar the thunder of my pulse. The storm isn’t just overhead, it’s in my head. Gratefully, I sink back down into dark, silent oblivion.

  ***

  A new lightning strike shocks me back into awareness. I lie still, trying to make sense of the sounds. Regular, clipped, like the piping call of a lapwing, only much louder.

  There are more, beyond the loud one – quieter birds calling their rhythm. That’s right, I commend myself on the realisation. It’s a rhythm – this is no song. So why are they singing so drearily?

  ***

  I rise from the darkness once more, cognisance seeping into me like the dawning sun’s rays – gentle at first, then more insistent. It’s quiet! No lapwings! Instead, a new pain; my eyes now. In place of darkness, all is red; a bright, resolute red – not like the dawning sun at all but a setting one the night before a glorious summer day.

  I squeeze my eyes tight against the unrelenting light. That’s better.

  ‘Verity? Verity are you awake?’

  My breath freezes. Who’s here?

  ‘Lara, I think the light’s too bright, will you close the curtains?’

  Movement, the scrape of a chair, then the redness dims and I relax my eyelids.

  That name again – Verity. It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. Who is Verity?

  ‘Can you open your eyes?’

  All of a sudden, it feels imperative that I do so. At least two people – strangers – are sitting over me as I lie here helpless. I need to see; to assess the danger.

  I try to lift my lids, without success. They’re stuck! What’s happening to me? Again – some small success – a chink of light. Too bright. I squeeze my eyes shut again.

  ‘Come on, Verity, you can do it. Come back to us.’

  A hand strokes my arm, another my face. Don’t touch me!

  I draw in a breath, gather my determination around me and force my lids open. It’s like prizing apart two woolcombs.

  The lids on my right eye give way and I immediately shut them again. I can feel my breath coming faster, as if I’d walked up Main Street. Just from opening an eye for a second? I think with terror. What’s happened to me?

  As my breath calms, I try to make sense of the indistinct image my eye records before snapping shut. It’s no use, everything’s blurred.

  I flinch when a cool cloth is placed over my eyes, then gently drawn away.

  ‘There, that’s better,’ one of the voices says. ‘Wiped the sleep away, it should be easier now. Try again, Verity.’

  My fear eases. There is gentleness in that voice and action; concern.

  Obediently, I try again. Now they open, the cloth has done its work. I slam them shut again, but this time in a blink; a series of blinks as I allow light into my world and thoughts, giving my eyes time to get used to it.

  Two heads appear over me. Strange heads. Women, but not women. Angels? No, angels would not have such blood-red lips and blackened eyes. Devils.

  A small cry escapes me and the darkness rushes back to claim me, then a child’s voice, following me down: ‘What’s wrong with her, Mummy? Why isn’t she Auntie Verity anymore?’

  ***

  ‘Welcome back.’

  It’s one of the she-devils. I slowly turn my head to look at her.

  ‘Sorry we crowded you yesterday. It was too much, overwhelming. We were just so pleased to see you awake.’

  These are not the words of a devil. I blink, then blink again, trying to focus on her features.

  ‘Jayne’s taken Hannah to get a cup of hot chocolate, it’s only me here now,’ the woman says. ‘It’s quiet now, they’ve muted the machines – finally, all that beeping was driving me mad!’ I flinch as she laughs, showing teeth.

  ‘It was worse on the ward, a dozen of the things, all going off – a right racket. But they moved you into a side room when you started to show signs of waking. It’s much better in here. Sorry, I’m babbling.’

  The woman laughs again, this time without showing her teeth. I realise she’s holding my hand. I stare into her face. She looks familiar somehow. But who ...

  ‘We’ve been so scared, Verity. When you and William collapsed like that, and then just lay here, day after day. Thank God you’re awake. Oh Verity—’ She breaks off, tears running down her face, leaving strange, dirty lines. Coal dust?

  ‘Who ...’ I try to say, but my throat is so dry no words emerge.

  ‘Here, have some water.’ The other woman’s back. And the child. ‘Support her head for me, Lara, that’s right. There, drink.’

  She’s pushing a cold tube between my lips.

  ‘It’s okay, it’s water, just suck.’

  I do as I’m bid, and cold fresh liquid floods my mouth. I close my eyes in pleasure as I swallow the liquid, then suck again.

  ‘That’s enough,’ the second woman says, pulling the strange tube from my mouth. ‘The nurse said just a little bit, your body needs to get used to it again.’

  I stare at her. ‘Who ...’ An audible sound this time. I try again. ‘Who’s Verity?’

  Silence. Before I receive an answer, I sink back into sleep – the effort of waking too much for me.

  ***

  My eyes open, gently this time. The light is dim and the room silent, and I relax back into the bedding in relief. I’m alone.

  But where am I? I wrinkle my nose at the strange, harsh smell as I look around the room. The walls are smooth and plain; no stonework visible, no wallpaper either. The curtains at the window are so thin and flimsy, I struggle to think of them as curtains; they’re far too short as well, finishing almost a leg’s length above the floor.

  And what kind of bed is this? I grasp the metal rails to each side. ’Tis half cage, and not big enough to share, even with a bairn! Yet it’s so soft and comfortable. I rub the blanket between thumb and forefinger. Thin again, but warm enough and with some kind of loose covering. Clean too – not a speck of coal dust or fluff.

  The pillows, though! I move my head from side to side. I have never rested on anything so fine and soft.

  I wrinkle my nose again. What is that smell? Sharp, stringent. Caustic soda? Lye? No, not quite. I’ve never smelled anything like it.

  Disinfectant.

  Of course. But what’s disinfectant?

  Brow wrinkling as well as my nose now, I jump as the door opens and a man walks in. Tall, clean-shaven and with no hat, he wears the plainest frockcoat I have ever seen. It’s white! How can a gentleman walk the streets in a white frock coat? It will grey with soot and coal in seconds!

  He wears numerous strange ornamentations in his top pocket. And the coat itself is too short for him. Why on earth can he not f
asten his buttons? Or wear a neck tie? He’s walking into a lady’s private room half undressed!

  ‘Ah, good, you’re awake,’ he says, with no greeting or manners at all.

  The doctor, I think – though I know not why. This is certainly not Doctor Ingram.

  He says no more, but moves to the foot of my bed, takes the clipboard hanging there and flicks through the pages.

  I furrow my brow further in consternation. Clipboard?

  Still silent, the man – this doctor – moves to the side of my bed, takes one of his ornamentations from his pocket and points it at me.

  I scream at the unexpected, blinding light.

  ‘Nothing to worry about, just look past my shoulder while I check your eyes.’ He flicks the light left and right, thoroughly confusing me. I’ve never known a doctor, or even a druggist, do such a thing. And how on earth is he fuelling the light? It cannot be candle nor gas.

  Batteries, I think, then frown again.

  ‘Watch my finger.’

  I stare at the man. Is he mad? Am I in Bedlam?

  ‘Just follow it with your eyes.’

  I decide to humour him, and watch his finger move left, right, up, down.

  ‘Hmm,’ he says, making a note on his – what is it? Ah yes, clipboard. Then he takes a seat. He is sitting on my bed! I stare at him in outrage.

  ‘Do you know where you are?’

  I continue to stare at the strange man who finds it appropriate to sit on a lady’s bed.

  ‘You’re in hospital,’ he says.

  Hospital? I look about me again. Bright, clean, too large, and this strange, rude doctor. So it is the madhouse then.

  ‘You’ve been in a coma for three months.’ He looks at me carefully and I stare back in shock.

  Three months? I’ve been in the madhouse these past three months? How is Harry coping without me? Did he put me here? What of Little Thomas?

  ‘We’ve run MRIs and CAT scans, but can find no reason why both you and your friend have been afflicted in this way.’ He pauses. ‘Can you tell me what you remember?’