Alys was disappointed when the café’s china collection had reached capacity and Moira had to beg her to stop buying. ‘There’ll be no room for our customers at this rate,’ she said, laughing. But Alys simply couldn’t bear to pass by when she saw a particularly nice piece of vintage china or porcelain for sale and the collection of cups, saucers, plates and bowls continued to grow. Her delight in vintage styling had tapped in to something she hadn’t even suspected about herself, and she was hungry for a further challenge. Her disappointment at being urged to stop collecting was relieved a little when, following up on a customer’s tip off, she took the train from Nortonstall to Saltaire, and paid a visit to the vintage clothing and fabric stall in Salts Mill. There she snapped up starched white cloths, lovingly preserved and intricately decorated with crocheted panels, lace and embroidery. They were too fine to be laundered for daily use in the café, but Alys had a plan – she was going to offer to supply vintage china and complete table dressings to the weddings for which Moira created towers of cupcakes, or tiered iced sponge cakes, garlanded with sugar-paste roses and iced tendrils and vines. Before long, crates of linen and china were packed and held at the ready in the store room, ready to dress the tables at the many summer weddings for which Moira had already taken orders that year. Alys felt her creative spirit unfurl and spread its wings, rather like the angel’s wings that she was hoping to persuade Moira to introduce to the company logo and the cake boxes. It seemed as though each day her brain was buzzing with a new idea to try out and Moira, now back at work full-time, had to suggest quite forcibly that she should take a day off that didn’t involve anything at all to do with the café or with baking, in an effort to get her to switch off and relax. So, as spring turned into summer, Alys went less frequently in search of vintage treasures and began to explore the countryside all around Northwaite, as she had started to do on her very first evening in the village.
Chapter Ten
‘Bogbean and myrtle. Pulmonaria,’ recited Alys to herself as she meandered down the path to the bathing pool. It was her favourite path, the one with the stone she called the fairy slide, where the granite had been worn so smooth by the passage of feet that it was scooped in the centre, with raised sides. It undulated down the hillside, reminding her of the long slide at a theme park somewhere in Cornwall that she’d been to many years before, as a child.
She knew that she was mixing up common and Latin names for plants, but the sound of the words pleased her, making their own kind of rhythm to accompany her as she went along the path. Her aunt had been teaching her, surprised by her lack of knowledge of anything other than the most basic garden flowers. Alys made a point of taking photos of flowers on her phone when she was out and about, then taking them back to Moira so they could check them out against the hand-drawn illustrations in Moira’s battered copy of The Concise British Flora in Colour.
The pool was in sight below, glinting invitingly through the trees on this late-spring morning. The water would be freezing, fresh off the moors. She shivered in anticipation. It should be just the right depth at the moment. Any deeper, and she would start imagining moorland monsters lurking down there, their presence protected by the locals who told not a soul about them. Alys smiled to herself. First fairies and now monsters. Her imagination was definitely running away with her. There was something about this area, this valley, though. It felt as though it held so much history, so many secrets.
She shivered again, and shrugged her shoulders in an attempt to break free of the spell it had cast over her. It was a beautiful day, the sort that May offers to seduce you into thinking that summer has truly arrived. The sun was high, the sky all but cloudless and a bright clear blue that stretched upwards into infinity.
Alys crossed the bridge over the stream and stretched out on her back on the grassy bank a little way from the pool. She’d discovered it two or three weeks ago, on one of her walks along the river bank. It was located a little further than she had travelled during her previous explorations, but she soon realised that it could also be reached via the path down the hillside, although this route was less appealing for the journey home when it seemed unaccountably steeper. The pool was a perfect natural formation: a basin formed by rocks, before the water funnelled away and tumbled over stones downstream to Nortonstall, a couple of miles away. The pool always seemed to be calm and still, the water dark and peaceful, and it had suggested itself as the ideal spot for a swim to Alys one day when she realised that the only thing she missed about her trips to the gym back in London was the chance to go swimming. Hauling around sacks of flour, baking, carrying trays of dirty crockery and sweeping the café floor gave her enough of a workout, she reasoned. Swimming would offer some of that nice, gentle relaxation that Moira was recommending.
She gazed up at the sky, watching swifts dart across her vision on high, then swooping low, scooping up insects and shrieking to each other with their high-pitched calls. She was looking forward to the shock of plunging into the pool’s icy water, but she wanted to lie there a while first, warming herself in the sun. Bees buzzed busily around the gorse bushes that were scattered around the edge of the grass and on the hillside, which stretched up behind her. Moira had told her about gorse’s coconut scent, and she hadn’t believed her at first. But now she could smell it quite clearly, wafting over her as she lay there, relaxing into the ground and soaking up wellbeing in every fibre of her body.
Chapter Eleven
As Alys busied herself in the kitchen that evening, chopping onions and garlic, frying, stirring, adding chorizo, tomatoes, Arborio rice and fresh herbs, and absorbing the fragrance filling the room, her mind was drawn back to her afternoon at the bathing pool. It had been an effort to swim in the end, once she’d woken, fuzzy-headed, from her nap in the warm sun. She’d opened her eyes, but couldn’t quite take in where she was at first. There was the smell of greenery, of bracken and ferns. Her mouth was dry, and to her horror she realised it was open. She sat up. Had she been snoring? Drooling? Thank goodness there was no one around to see! Her swimming costume felt hot and sticky against her skin, so she unbuttoned her dress and shrugged it off, unlacing her sneakers before she picked her way over the slippery stones at the edge of the pool. Her plain black costume was in striking contrast to her usual attire, chosen because she’d always preferred to be as inconspicuous as possible in the swimming pool at her gym.
Once in the water, she hadn’t been able to help a grin spreading right across her face despite the chill that was starting to numb her whole body. It was a spectacular spot for a swim – about as unlike the gym pool as it was possible to be. She looked up towards the wooded hill on one side of the valley, gorse banks on the other, climbing up to plateaus of fields at the top.
When she turned back, she’d noticed a figure crossing the packhorse bridge. She paid it no attention, imagining whoever it was to be a hiker, making their way over the stream to pick up the Pennine Way. So, she’d been less than pleased when they’d turned off the bridge and headed over towards the pool. With the sun in her eyes, she’d been able to make out little more than the figure of a man, with a dog lead in his hands, but no dog to be seen.
‘Hi there,’ he said. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve seen a dog go past, have you?’
Alys, treading water, felt a little vulnerable. She hoped that whoever it was would move on quickly. She didn’t relish getting out of the water in front of him, but she was also feeling distinctly chilly. She shook her head but, before she could respond further, the man went on.
‘Oh well, no matter. It won’t be the first time she’s got home before me.’ He paused. ‘I’ve been hearing that you’ve done wonders for Moira’s business. And you seem to be enjoying the countryside. I’ve noticed you out and about on your walks.’
Alys, still treading water, had manoeuvred herself so that the sun was no longer in her eyes. That, and the turn of the conversation, brought the realisation that the dog walker with the missing dog was Rob. She briefly
considered the fact that he’d noticed her out and about. What did that mean, she wondered?
A response was clearly called for. ‘D-d-do you ever swim here?’ she asked through chattering teeth.
‘Are you mad?’ Rob laughed. ‘Locals don’t come in here, except maybe in August, when the water’s low enough to paddle. I don’t think I’ve swum here since I was a lad –’ he bent to dip a hand in the water and shuddered melodramatically. ‘Now I know why!’
Alys laughed, despite herself. ‘Call yourself a northerner?’ she said. ‘I’d have thought you’d be in here every day, breaking the ice in winter to get in.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you in peace,’ said Rob, turning back towards the bridge. ‘I’d think about getting out before you catch pneumonia, though.’ And with that he was gone, whistling and calling for his dog. Alys had watched him on his way, before turning round and taking a few quick strokes from one side of the pool to the other. Then, floating on her back, she gazed up into the depths of the blue sky. She’d found herself smiling at the turn that the day had taken.
A smile that was echoed now, then quickly erased as she realised that she’d stopped stirring and was in danger of burning the risotto.
Alys was quiet as she and Moira ate. She poured a glass of red wine for her aunt, but just water for herself.
‘Nothing for you this evening?’ Moira raised an eyebrow. If her niece was anything to go by, young people had become very abstemious. In her day, you never passed up the opportunity of a glass of wine. Alys had seemed to drink less and less each day since she’d arrived. She was looking better by the day, though, so perhaps there was something to be said for abstinence, Moira thought ruefully. Alys had a light tan, her hair was a little blonder, with threads of red and gold in the mix, and today she positively seemed to glow. She said she’d been for a swim in the bathing pool. Moira couldn’t begin to imagine doing such a thing herself. All that water off the Pennines – too bracing by half! Alys was definitely more relaxed in herself, too. No more nervous twisting of rings and bracelets. Although tonight she was a little quiet, a little on edge, perhaps? Moira wondered if something was up – perhaps with that boyfriend back home that Kate had mentioned? Alys herself hadn’t mentioned him once in the weeks that she’d been there. But before Moira could think of a way to pose the question without appearing to be nosey, Alys stood up and started to clear the table.
‘If you’ll be all right, I think I’ll just pop out for a bit of a walk. I’ll do the washing up when I get back. It’s such a lovely evening, but I don’t think it’s going to last. The forecast said rain for tomorrow. I’d like to make the most of it while I can.’
Alys left via the garden, drinking in the scent of the early roses tumbling on trailing stems along the garden wall. Swifts swooped and called above her, coming closer to the houses as the evening wore on. Jackdaws chack-chacked from the church tower. With no clear idea of where she was heading, Alys let herself into the graveyard through the wooden gate and followed the path as it curved around to the back of the church. It was very peaceful, with just the calling of the jackdaws and the occasional hoo-hooing of a woodpigeon to disturb the stillness. Some of the older gravestones had fallen, and the words carved on the headstones around the edges of the graveyard, where it was more exposed to the elements, were illegible.
She settled herself on a seat beneath a yew tree at the heart of the graveyard. Her eye was drawn to a headstone draped in trailing ivy, close to her seat. The setting sun picked out an arched design, carved on top of the stone, which looked strangely familiar. Curious, she got up to take a closer look. The stone was quite weathered, and coin-like shapes of yellow and grey-green lichens spotted its surface. Suckers of ivy had left silvery scars on the stone, an indication that someone had cleared it away in the past. Alys could just make out the name and the date:
1875–1895
Alice Bancroft
Alys felt a chill run through her. She’d died so young! Only twenty years old – fifteen years younger than Alys herself was now. And she had the same first name – well, almost. She shivered. She looked again at the surname – Bancroft – it wasn’t familiar to her. But the design on the stone was. She traced it with her finger. Fat seed pods intertwined with trailing tendrils and vines, rather like something that she’d seen on a William Morris print. Surely it was the same as the distinctive carving that she had noticed on the gatepost and around the door of the last house at the top of the village? But why was the stone so intricately carved, and yet there was no message of remembrance? It seemed odd, especially for someone so young. On impulse, she pulled out her phone and took a photo in the fading light, then headed back to the house, resolving to see if she could find out more.
Chapter Twelve
The thought of the gravestone that she had spotted had bothered Alys for a day or so. She examined the photo on her phone, enlarging it as if it might offer up some clues. Was it just that it was always a shock to come across the grave of someone young? That sense of a life lost before it had even been lived?
As the days passed in a blur of early morning baking and serving in the café, followed by the rigorous cleaning demanded by Moira at the end of each day, Alys thought about it less and less.
‘It’s no good having tables and chairs that stick to you. And crumbs hiding underneath the cushions. It’s best to clean up every night, no matter how tired you feel, then you’re all set when you come in the next morning,’ she’d admonished Alys, who had, at the end of a particularly tiring day, suggested that they could just as easily do all of this in the morning.
It was not until a quiet Thursday, when tourists and locals alike were kept indoors by an afternoon where the rain streamed constantly from a leaden sky, that Alys picked up her phone and flicked idly through her photos in search of blue skies and sunshine.
‘Can I look?’ Moira peered over her shoulder. Never a fan of the mobile, she was nonetheless captivated by the myriad moments caught by Alys, from the sunny skies snapped from Claire’s garden in Nortonstall, to the Pennine crags and wooded valleys around Northwaite.
Alys scrolled through the photos until Moira suddenly called a halt.
‘What was that?’
Alys scrolled back. ‘Oh, just a gravestone that I spotted in the churchyard here. There was something about it that drew me to it – the carving, I think. I’d seen the same carving somewhere else in the village. And her age. She was so young when she died.’
Moira was quiet for a moment. ‘It’s odd that you should have fixed on this. She was actually a relative of yours.’
‘Of mine?’ Alys’s eyes widened. ‘Here? In Northwaite?’
‘Well, yes. The family’s originally from round here. You knew that?’
Alys frowned. ‘I thought we were from Leeds?’
‘We go back a long way around here,’ Moira said. ‘As far back as I’ve been able to trace. Your mum and I were brought up in the area as children, until Dad, your granddad, found work in Leeds when we were in our early teens. Our family had lived in Nortonstall until then, but before that our links were all with this village. My grandma Beth lived here in Northwaite, in the very house I live in now. We used to come and visit her from Nortonstall. Her mother, and her grandmother, had both lived here in a house up at the top of the village. My mum said there was some tragedy linked to the family, to do with Beth’s mother – your great-great-grandmother. She’s the one whose grave you saw. She died so young – I never knew her.’
Alys digested this news. How come she hadn’t known that Moira’s house was a family one? And that the family had roots in the village? Although that would explain Moira’s presence here.
‘What did the family do? Were they farmers?’ Alys asked.
‘No, the women mainly worked at the mill, or were weavers at home before the mills were built. Although one of our relatives, Sarah, was a herbalist – quite well-known locally, by all accounts.’
‘What about my great-great-grand
ma, Alice?’ Alys was peering at the photo of the gravestone on her phone again. ‘Did she work in the mill?’
Moira hesitated. ‘Well, yes,’ she said. ‘But then she had a baby, Elisabeth, and she didn’t carry on after that.’ Moira paused. ‘I’ve got a family tree somewhere that I started. Look, let’s shut up shop and get off home. It doesn’t look as though there’s any chance of the rain stopping. I’ll dig out that family tree tonight – it might help you to make sense of all those names.’
As they set about clearing up, Alys was thoughtful. Moira had mentioned a tragedy, but had seemed rather reticent. What had happened to Alice, and when? Was there a family mystery? She felt a sense of excitement: it all sounded rather intriguing. On top of that, she had now discovered that her roots were in this actual area, something that she had never suspected before. She was looking forward to finding out more.
Chapter Thirteen
Alys had been so impatient to see the family tree that when Moira finally placed it in front of her that evening, she felt a stab of disappointment. It had been roughly drawn up on a sheet of paper torn from a foolscap notebook. The names at the bottom of the page, Alys and her siblings George and Edward, and those of Moira and Kate, plus her father David were, of course, all familiar to her, along with Eileen: Kate and Moira’s mum. The generations above that included Elisabeth, Eileen’s mother, then Alice, Elisabeth’s mother, names new to Alys until this afternoon. She skimmed over dates and siblings. Elisabeth had none, but Alice was the eldest of five, born to Sarah and Joe Bancroft. No name was given for the father of Elisabeth, Alys noticed. Beyond that, the piece of paper frustratingly provided no further clues.
Alice's Secret Page 5
