by Dee Yates
GOD’S ACRE
First published in the UK in 2019 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Dee Yates, 2019
The moral right of Dee Yates to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788545129
Aria
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.ariafiction.com
God’s Acre
Dee Yates
AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS
www.ariafiction.com
For my grandsons, Rowan, Nicol and Noah, all great readers
Contents
Copyright Page
Welcome Page
Dedication
Chapter 1. Liz
Chapter 2. Tam
Chapter 3. For Sale
Chapter 4. An Ending
Chapter 5. Jeannie
Chapter 6. The Manse
Chapter 7. Sister
Chapter 8. The Moors
Chapter 9. Snow
Chapter 10. The Land Girl
Chapter 11. Market
Chapter 12. Discoveries
Chapter 13. Meeting
Chapter 14. Two Years
Chapter 15. A Beginning
Chapter 16. The Dance
Chapter 17. The Forest
Chapter 18. The Kirk
Chapter 19. Moves
Chapter 20. Unplanned Arrivals
Chapter 21. War
Chapter 22. Howking and Shawing
Chapter 23. McColl’s Farm
Chapter 24. Mishaps and Misfortunes
Chapter 25. Consequences
Chapter 26. Holiday
Chapter 27. Enlisting
Chapter 28. The Return
Chapter 29. A Wedding
Chapter 30. Deception
Chapter 31. Visitors
Chapter 32. Confessions
Chapter 33. Prospects
Chapter 34. A Second Wedding
Chapter 35. Comings and Goings
Chapter 36. Visits
Chapter 37. Presents
Chapter 38. Bitter Times
Chapter 39. Past Hope
Chapter 40. Glasgow
Chapter 41. No Way Back
Chapter 42. The Aftermath
Chapter 43. Letters
Chapter 44. Revelations
Chapter 45. The Visitor
Chapter 46. Endings
Acknowledgements
Bibliography
About the Author
Become an Aria Addict
1. Liz
May 2002
When her spade encounters the flat expanse of stone, the woman pauses. Carefully she scrapes the dark soil off the surface, examining it for any signs of carving – names, dates, pictures of bones or skulls, such as she has seen in the nearby graveyard. Excited by the possibility that someone deemed unworthy of God’s acre might be lying below the surface of her own back garden.
But there is nothing. The texture of the slab is rough. but there are no signs of human artwork. It must have been part of the footpath that once formed a shortcut to the nearby public house. The villagers have mentioned this… and she can see for herself the network of stones that have been used to block the gap in the wall. They have been laid this way and that and interrupt the normal pattern of its fashioning.
Straightening up, she pushes a hand into the small of her back and stretches. It’s a while since she has done anything this strenuous and her muscles ache. A pair of buzzards call to one another across the valley. She looks up into the cloudless sky, screwing up her eyes against the brightness, emphasising the crows’ feet and the laughter lines that have intensified with age. When she spots the wheeling black specks, she follows their progress as they circle slowly towards the pines and disappear among the foliage.
Her blue-grey eyes refocus on the tall graveyard wall in front of her. It runs the length of her garden. One or two taller headstones tower above it, but others can only be seen from the vantage point of the cottage and the rest from a walk through the cemetery itself. The small tower of a church, deconsecrated long since, is also visible. It is the likely home of the jackdaws sharing the bird seed that she puts out each morning.
It’s a comfort to live so near to this final resting place. Not that she is expecting to join her neighbours in the near future. But it is good to see that the graveyard overlooks such a magnificent view. Her mother, so recently buried, lies in a grimy and huge urban burial ground far from the countryside. How she wishes, however irrationally, that her mother could be at rest in a place such as this and with such a view. Her garden slopes down the valley side. Beyond the wooden post and rail fence, the incline is steeper. Through the wide base of the valley, a river meanders, fed by a small tributary that runs down the hill to one side of her garden. This burn has gouged out a path for itself through a large field used for grazing, and rocks protrude from the eroded sides like a geological timeline.
On the slopes facing north, the hillside is cloaked with a dark forest of pines, within which the buzzards, the occasional deer and a myriad of small birds have their home. The trees stand dark and clear against the blue sky today. But on damp days the mist is a grey shroud that obscures the view. When it lifts, it leaves behind hazy trails, like sheep’s wool caught on a barbed-wire fence.
The square of black earth exposed by her digging is small. But she has made a start. Each day she will add to it, as long as this good spell of May weather holds. And if her back complains, she will vary her activity. Plenty of other jobs await her in the neglected plot. Flower beds, anonymous in the brown sludge of decayed vegetation, untidy grass cloaked in rotting ash leaves, bushes unpruned, whippy stems surrounding a central body like a bad haircut.
She smiles and the skin of her face creases again. Oh, yes! There is plenty to be done. But it is for this reason… among many others… that she has bought the cottage. She loves to get her hands dirty. Her last garden was as big as this and even more neglected when she bought the property, but slowly and painstakingly she had planned its rejuvenation. And although she had needed help with the heavier jobs, the majority of it was her own hard labour. Everything she planted there had grown to gigantic proportions. Little chance of the same happening here on this exposed slope on the side of an upland valley. But it is nevertheless a challenge.
Gathering up spade and fork, she stands a minute, drinking in the view. Her mop of white hair is untidy now, her cheek smeared with the mud she has wiped across it from her glove. She is not good-looking, her teeth irregular and her nose exhibiting a tendency to redness. The skin of her face has begun to sag. Sometimes she stares at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and gently pulls the skin back towards her ears, as she knows they do in plastic surgery. The effect is immediate. She loses fifteen years in an instant. She gives a wry smile. Her face in repose makes her look sad. But when she smiles, her cheeks dimple. Then, like all who smile, she is beautiful.
Liz cleans the garden implements and returns them to the shed. The phone is ringing when she steps into the kitchen. She hurries to the windowsill.
&nb
sp; ‘Hello, Elizabeth Deighton speaking.’
‘Hi Liz, it’s me. Are you alone?’
She toys with the idea of a sarcastic response, but sarcasm always leaves her feeling mean-spirited. So she merely replies, ‘Of course.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m about to make a cup of tea. Care to join me?’
‘Have you been busy?’ he asks, ignoring her question.
‘Yes. I’m starting to sort out the garden. How about you?’ Knowing what the answer will be.
‘Awful! Loads of work piling in at the moment. Can’t seem to get on top of it. And the study’s a tip. I need to get that sorted out before I start.’
She smiles. How many times has she heard that before? Remembering the days when she used to visit and he would heave piles of books and papers onto the floor to make room for her to sit.
‘Oh, sorry.’ The tone becomes businesslike. ‘The meal’s ready. I’ll speak to you later.’
The line goes dead. She stands a moment, the handset clamped to her ear.
‘Goodbye,’ she replies coolly into the silence and clatters down the phone.
She stares out of the window in a bad humour, surprised that the sun is still shining as brightly as it was. Taking off the old jacket that she uses for gardening, her feet search for the slip-ons that she discarded under the table at breakfast time. Not that she stayed still for more than a couple of minutes. Breakfast has become a time of snatched mouthfuls while she dries her hair or feeds the cat or rakes the ashes from the grate. She can’t sit down. The sound of the news programme grimly detailing its latest catalogue of misery is too impersonal a companion. At other meals, the computer or the television gives her a face or at least a screen. At breakfast she cannot afford to idle, for fear her thoughts will uncover the heart-heaviness that lurks always just below the surface.
She fills the kettle and switches it on. While she waits for it to boil, she takes down a circular biscuit tin from the shelf and cuts a generous slice from the fruit loaf contained within. She pours boiling water onto a teabag and milk into a small jug and carries her snack through to the conservatory. Placing the tray on the floor, she drags two heavy books from the shelf and kneels on the mat, running her finger down the index of one. Planning your Garden. It sounded like a good place to start.
Munching on the fruit cake, Liz reads about Climate and Location and then the section on Avoiding Problems. Lastly, her eyes scan the suggestions for Exposed Sites, Sloping Sites and Acid Soils. It is obvious that she will never be able to recreate the nooks and crannies of colour and rampant greenery to be found in her last plot. But the extensive list of drawbacks fails to dent her enthusiasm. It may take twice as long as usual to grow anything remarkable in the sloping, windswept area that is her garden, though the previous resident of the cottage obviously had, at some stage, green fingers. But she has plenty of time to make her own mark. She has no intention of going anywhere, not now, perhaps not ever. That is, until such time as she joins her silent neighbours in their final resting place.
She glances at the wall and the top of the headstones beyond it, one of them topped with a cloth-draped urn, and grins. Her garden soil might be more fertile than anyone imagines. After all, the graveyard has stood for at least three hundred and fifty years. Ample time for a collection of those considered outwith the mercy of God – or at least outwith the mercy of the established church – to be buried deep beneath the surface of her garden. Just as long as she doesn’t come across any of them. She would much rather their contribution to her garden remained anonymous.
2. Tam
September 2001
Tam opened the door of the cottage and sniffed the air. He took a cautious step outside, feeling the frozen ruts of the mud uneven beneath his feet. He scowled. Why hadn’t he dug potatoes from the ground yesterday, before this hard frost set in, making the salvaging of this late crop a difficult, if not impossible, task? He hesitated, but then, with a sigh of resignation, plodded to the small outhouse tacked onto the end of his cottage. If he didn’t make the effort, there would be no dinner. Lifting his fork from the two nails that held it clear of the mud floor, he swung the metal bucket off the ground and made his way with slow steps to the vegetable plot.
The familiar smell of brassicas greeted him on his arrival at the bottom of the garden. Sinking his hand deep into his trouser pocket, he retrieved an ancient, bone-handled penknife and sliced through the stem of a hearty cabbage. He wiped the knife on his trousers and paused, looking at it, his hand on the blade, before folding it into its sheath and dropping it back into the fluffy, soiled depths of his pocket. He stood a long moment, gazing unblinking down the valley side, where, below him, the burn from the village fed into the river. When his eyes began to water with the cold, he wiped the sleeve of his jacket across them, picked up the fork from its resting place against the trunk of the cherry tree and jabbed it into the ground, levering up the soil in unyielding lumps to reveal the firm creamy potatoes beneath.
When the bucket was half full, he stopped abruptly. With a swift intake of breath, he clutched his hand to his chest, his face creased with pain. He remained motionless, knowing from experience that this was the quickest way to disperse the discomfort. He should have known better than to have left the relative comfort of his house on a day such as this. After a few minutes, the tightness ebbed away like a tide on the turn. He stood a minute longer, unwilling to risk too soon a movement, his eyes turning again to a perusal of the field and the tinkling burn below his garden. At last, he bent, picked up the remaining two or three potatoes and threw them into the bucket, where they came to rest with a clang and a thud.
His walk up the slope of the grass was slower than the outward journey and by the time he reached the shed he was panting for breath. Always methodical, he hung the fork back on the nails and shut the door, picking up the bucket again and carrying it to the cottage. Neighbours would have suggested he leave the potatoes in the shed until needed. But why give the mice the opportunity of feasting on his dinner before it had even reached his plate? He stepped into the entry, wiped his feet on the rough mat and shut the door firmly against the cold.
Beneath a shelf that ran the length of the kitchen hung several pans, ancient and blackened with use. Tam unhooked one and steadied the heaviness of it with his hands. They had been his mother’s, these pans, and, for all he knew, her mother’s before that. He filled it with cold water, placed it on the wooden draining board and began to peel the potatoes. It was quiet in the cottage. The only sounds were the occasional grunt from the old man and a soft plop as another potato was added to the water.
At last he was done. He picked up the peeled potatoes and turned to lift them onto the stove when a second spasm of tightness gripped him. Letting go of the saucepan so it hit the ring with a jolt that sent water cascading over its rim and down the front of the oven, he sat down abruptly on the kitchen chair behind him. A cat put its head round the door and, strolling over, wound itself round his legs. At first, overwhelmed by the paroxysm, he took no notice of it, but as the pain once more ebbed away, he bent down and fondled the creature’s neck.
‘Come to look after your old friend in his hour of need, have you, Tabitha? Aye, at times like these, it’s good to have a woman about the house, so it is.’
The cat gave an answering purr, rubbed herself against Tam’s boots one more time and walked sedately to her bowl.
‘Oh, so it’s milk you’re wanting, is it? I didnae think it was only to show me love and affection that you were here.’
He reached for an enamel jug that stood on the table, sniffed it out of habit and, with a shaking hand, began to pour a small amount into the cat’s bowl. The milk slopped over the edge onto the lino and the cat obligingly began to lick up the spill, before starting on what was in her dish.
Tam withdrew a grimy handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his brow and then blew his nose loudly before putting the hanky away. He looked at the pan that he
had filled.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, addressing the potatoes. ‘I’m no’ feeling like anything to eat just now. Later, perhaps.’ He shook his head sadly and smiled. ‘Must be going stupid – it’s bad enough talking to the cat!’
With an effort, he levered himself from the chair and set off towards the living room. Pausing, he reconsidered, turned and pushed open the bedroom door that was standing ajar.
‘I’ll just have a wee minute or two on my bed and then I’ll get on with cooking my dinner,’ he said to no one in particular.
Lying back, he closed his eyes, too weary even to unlace and remove his boots.
Tabitha finished her bowl of milk before following with dainty steps the direction her master had taken. Unperturbed by finding him in the spot she had so recently vacated, she jumped onto his stomach, circled twice slowly and deliberately, sat down and began to clean her whiskers.
The old man didn’t move.
3. For Sale
January 2002
Liz can’t believe her luck when she sees the ‘For Sale’ sign attached drunkenly to the front gate. It is unclear from the dilapidated state of the cottage whether its most recent resident is living in a similar state of neglect or has given up the unequal battle and departed to pastures new, either in this world or the next. What is clear is that the cottage, whatever its current decrepit appearance, has the best view in the village. And although Liz has often heard quoted the maxim ‘Never buy a house for the view’, she feels certain that, in this case, there will be a queue of would-be purchasers.
The estate agent seems taken aback by the speed of her response. He agrees to show her round and they arrange a time and a day.
When, two days later, she steps into the cottage she sees that the description of it being ‘in need of some modernisation’ is no exaggeration. But she is not put off by the paucity of rooms – two in fact, with what is little more than a corridor squeezed between, quaintly described in the brochure as a galley kitchen. The meagre space of the cooking area is further depleted by a rusty metal ladder that leads up into the attic. Liz peers up the ladder and is met by darkness and a cold draught of musty air.
