D: Whitby's Darkest Secret

by Turnbull,Chris

  The street was also filled with large groups of adults, many of which were dressed in their Sunday best – the ladies in beautiful floor-length dresses and their best Sunday hats, the gentlemen in jacket and tie, and most of them wearing hats of a variety of sizes. I could see bowler hats, top hats and even the occasional flat cap and straw hat.

  As we continued along I took in my surroundings; the buildings that lined Church Street were all irregularly shaped and were very different in size and appearance. The street was so narrow in places that the buildings would cast deep shadows onto the cobblestoned road below. I was fascinated by all the little shops, and every couple of buildings you would come across another tiny alleyway that snuck between the tightly packed shops and houses.

  Half way up Church Street we came to Market Square, in the centre of which was an impressive structure: a stone building that stood out from all the other buildings in the area because of the column posts erected on all sides. The ground floor of the building was open and I could see straight through to the buildings behind. I presumed this was where market traders would set up stalls. Large glass windows dominated the first floor, overlooking the street below, and finally atop the building was a small tower, a beautiful white wooden frame that perfectly mounted the blue and gold clock face upon it.

  Without realising it we had become part of a crowd, and everybody was headed in the direction of the church. I took Albert by the hand. I was afraid to lose him in the mass of people; and as we came to the end of the street and turned the final corner I was astonished by the sight before me. Clung to the side of the cliff was what must have been the largest stone staircase I had ever seen, it gripped perfectly against the cliff side as though it had been there forever. I suddenly recalled reading about these steps, ‘The 199 Steps’ as I believe they are known.

  As we approached the bottom step I was astonished at just how vast they were – standing at the bottom I could not see the top as they disappeared around the corner. Edging closer to the first step I figured you could easily fit four, if not five, people across them and still walk up comfortably. Whitby is certainly not as busy as London, yet seeing so many people ascend one stairway was indeed an impressive sight. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before.

  We began our climb and before long, I was out of breath. I was pleased that despite all the steps being different lengths apart, thankfully none were too high; my dress was heavy enough on its own without having to lift it even higher.

  Children began to race past us, counting each step as they went, their parents calling after them to slow down. I was pleased to see I was not the only person struggling with the steep incline, as we began to pass people stopping to catch their breath. Along the edges of the steps was a thin black metal handrail that I found very cold to the touch, even through my gloves. Thankfully the morning frost from breakfast had now started to melt and the sky above looked less threatening of rain. At various points along the stairway were what looked like small benches built into the inner railing, all occupied by numerous people catching a breath, we had already passed one or two by this point.

  Another passing child raced passed us counting steps, ‘125, 126, 127…’ We still couldn’t see the top, but I was thrilled to hear we were past the halfway point; by this stage my legs were beginning to burn with the pressure of climbing. As the steps continued around the cliffside I was increasingly eager to see the top; by now Albert, as well as most of the other gentlemen, was taking two steps per stride. Yet the ladies in their large gowns were forced to take each step in turn. I was now more than ready for a short rest and was thrilled to see a space on an upcoming wooden bench like perch.

  ‘Did you know,’ an elderly man perched on the bench spoke less than a second after I had seated; addressing me as though he knew me well, ‘these are not seats you know.’ He raised his grey bushy eyebrows and nodded his head matter-of-factly.

  ‘Really?’ I questioned, genuinely interested in what the elderly gentleman had to say.

  ‘Oh yes my dear, these are not benches, they are for coffins.’ I looked at him as though he was mad, and clearly my expression was clear to him also.

  ‘You see,’ he continued, ‘when the coffin carriers got tired carrying the heavy load, they would place them on these wooden planks while they rested their arms.’ I gave the elderly man a smile as he rose to his feet and took off back along the steps. Albert gave me a look that had within it a hidden smile. He laughs at the fact I always seem to get people talking to me, and it is more often than not quite useless topics. Albert finds it highly amusing and teases me, saying it is because I have an innocent face that always looks as though I am interested.

  It was now that I finally realised just how high we had climbed. From my perch I could see over the entire town of Whitby. The River Esk below leading out towards the sea was lined with hundreds of fishing boats, and the rooflines of all the buildings were a striking burnt orange colour, each of which displayed large chimneys on top, puffing out grey soot filled clouds from coal fires within. The cliff facing us on the opposite side of the river seemed to be dominated by very large beautiful white washed houses, so grand they looked comparable to those found in London.

  The harbour entrance met the open ocean by an enormous double pier, one stretching from the east cliff side of the shore, and the other the west side; these impressive piers with a lighthouse atop of each were very domineering and added grandeur to the harbour entrance.

  I could have easily sat and watched Whitby from this angle for hours, and I almost forgot myself if it wasn’t for Albert asking me if I was ready to continue.

  Every few steps I could not resist looking over my shoulder again at the stunning view. The sea was calm and the noise of the seagulls calling out across the harbour suddenly hit me, and as we reached the top of the 199 stairs I took one last look at the view before turning towards St Mary’s Church.

  The small church nestled perfectly on the cliff top was indeed very pretty, surrounded by hundreds of gravestones made it also slightly eluding. Yet the focal point of this scene was not the charming little church, but the breathtaking Abbey sitting quietly in the background. Although now in ruins the structure itself was incredible to look at; I wished I had more time to take a closer look but Albert was dragging me into the church as the service was nearly ready to start.

  As we took our seats I soon realised that I was most happy for the rest. The vast 199 steps were indeed impressive, but I did not plan on making climbing them a regular habit.

  Chapter 5

  D.

  I knew she would go to Sunday service. Just to look at her I could tell she was the kind of person who regularly went to church without ever missing a week, she had a goodness about her that cried out ‘innocent do gooder’. She was clearly one not to break the rules.

  I rose early to ensure I would catch a glimpse of her. I imagined that even early in the morning, with her hair uncombed and her nightgown on she would still look radiant. I was extremely disappointed when her oaf of a husband was the one to open their bedroom curtains. Thankfully he did not see me staring up at him and he returned his attention back into the room without taking notice of the street below.

  I purposely hung around Church Street all morning until I had seen her. I knew roughly the time she would need to leave for church, and right on cue she emerged from the White Horse and Griffin. Her long floral dress came in at her thin waist beautifully; she looked so delicate, like a single flower bursting with colour among the dingy bleak madness on the street.

  I watched her from a distance as she took in her new surroundings; she seemed quite taken by the children playing in the street, yet her husband seemingly walked straight past them as though he hadn’t noticed them. He walked with authority; with his head held high he took large strides along the road and barely looked at the people he passed – the complete opposite to her. I watched as she took in everybody she passed; walking slower she admired the buildings and
the people as if she was seeing life for the first time. It was fascinating to watch her; she was clearly very interested in taking in her surroundings and was enjoying every second of it. Her smile was beautiful and I caught myself smiling too. My desire to learn her name grew evermore; I suspected it to be a name that would complete her beauty seamlessly.

  I cautiously followed her all the way to the 199 steps, keeping my distance and blending in behind the growing crowds. It was cold out this morning, and everybody was dressed in their warmest winter clothing. I looked at her in the dress she was wearing; I hoped she wouldn’t get cold in the slight coastal breeze.

  She marched up the steps at a good speed; many had stopped for a rest more than once by the time she finally decided to stop. By now she was visibly out of breath from the large incline to the top of the cliff. I was already ascending the steps after her, and with some many people also climbing the steps I could not turn back. I could hardly stop and look out of place; she would surely see me. I had no other choice but to continue, looking down at my feet in the hope to pass by undetected. As I passed her, now sitting happily on a seat, she was admiring the views of the harbour below and I was pleased when she didn’t notice me as I walked straight past her. My leg brushed against her enormous dress, and I could smell her sweet perfume fill my nostrils with the delight of spring flowers; never have I felt so attracted to a woman in all my days.

  As I made my way past her husband, his deep dominating voice suddenly called out, ‘Victoria, are we ready to continue? The service will be over by the time we get to the top.’ Her response was vague, and as I continued up the remaining steps I could sense her only a matter of feet behind me, following closely behind.

  Victoria, a perfect name for such an amazingly beautiful creature. The name suited her well, a name of beauty and charm. Fate has brought her to me.

  At the top of the steps I continued as if to enter the church, but before doing so I briefly glanced over my shoulder to look at her. She had again stopped at the top of the steps to take in the view. I knew this was my opportune moment to skip the church entrance and leave. I knew exactly where she was going to be for the next couple of hours.

  Chapter 6

  Victoria

  My feelings towards the church were changing. I used to enjoying going to Sunday service, especially when growing up as it was the only time I would see my father out of his work clothes, and into something my mother would call ‘respectful’. I would find myself laughing as he would always fidget with his shirt collar, complaining that it was far too tight, despite the truth of it being actually quite loose fitting. My sister and I wore matching dresses when we were very young, often made by my mother every couple of months when we had outgrown them. Finally my mother would wear her best dress, the only smart one she owned. I can never recall her wearing any other dress to church during my childhood, which I never gave a second thought of until I was old enough to understand the value of money, and realise that my mother didn’t have much. The little money she did have would be spent on new fabric for my sister and myself. Her enjoyment at making us new dresses was plain; yet she would never get anything for herself.

  My father owned his own farm, and numerous men from the village would come to work the land. My mother would always be found in the kitchen baking and cooking. Her food was always a delight, a large pot hanging over the open fire could often be seen bubbling away, and the kitchen was always filled with the most enchanting fragrances; the smell of freshly baked bread was one of my personal favourites.

  My mother has always loved going to church, but I suspected it was more to do with fact she got the chance to socialise then with other women from the village. At a young age I didn’t really understand. My sister and I would always attend Sunday school whilst my parents attended the main service. I used to feel going to church regularly was part of who I was; but now I was beginning to feel disconnected from it. After all these years I feel as though all I am getting are the same stories told to me over and over again; however, despite these feelings and uncertainties I still consider myself a strong believer.

  As I sat in St Mary’s church I found my eyes wandering, taking in the beauty of the old building, memories of growing up and my father all rushing through my mind. My father had passed away three years ago this coming spring – how time does pass by in the blink of an eye. It seems like only yesterday I was by his bedside, comforting my mother and sister and trying to stay strong for them both; only to crumble into a hysterical mess the moment the doctor confirmed my father had gone. My eyes began to water as these memories flooded my mind. I managed to catch myself and quickly turned my thoughts to something else.

  Being in this unfamiliar church somehow made the service seem fresh and new somehow; for a start seeing different faces was a delight, and my eyes were continuing to admire the quaint building. I was also enjoying the fact that we were miles away from home.

  As the service ended and people began to leave I was taken aback by the number of people who wanted to speak to Albert. I knew none of these people yet for some reason they felt the need to shake Albert’s hand and formally introduce themselves. I had heard about northern people being very friendly, but I was surprised to see exactly how friendly, smiling and talking to us both as though we had known them a long time.

  Descending the 199 steps was a lot easier than climbing; however I still had to be careful not to trip on my dress. As we made our way back along Church Street the crowd of people began to disperse and we were once again back outside the inn. Mr Walker had promised us a hot meal upon our return to the White Horse and Griffin; and as promised the food was ready the instant we stepped though the door. The dining room was layed out exactly as it had been for breakfast, large wooden tables all with fresh white linen tablecloths and a single candle in the centre of each, silver cutlery that sparkled in the candles’ glow and wine glasses so pristine they could have easily been mistaken for new. In total there were only eight tables, but we were once again the only couple to enjoy the magnificent open fire in the corner of the room, crackling away and glowing a deep orange warmth that filled the room with an intimate cosy feel. I had barely noticed it this morning, but now as I stared at it I wondered how on earth I could have missed it, after all it dominated the entire wall.

  The dinner we had was roast chicken, served with boiled potatoes, vegetables and home made Yorkshire pudding, which I had to admit were the best I had ever tasted. We also received a fruit crumble dessert with a pot of tea to finish. I was full to the brim and had to leave a small amount of pudding; Albert on the other hand never seems to be full and I could even see him eyeing up the remainder of my crumble.

  With church over I felt like our holiday was now starting, and my mind began to think about all the things I wanted to see and do whilst in Whitby.

  ‘Would you care for a walk later today maybe, once we have freshened up?’ I asked Albert, hoping he would be keen. I wanted to take advantage of the clear fresh air whilst the weather was dry; and of course I wanted to see more of what Whitby had to offer. I was pleased that Albert was fast to agree; he seemed just as keen to take a walk around the town.

  ‘Tomorrow my dear,’ he then went on to tell me, ‘I have arranged for a carriage which will take us out to Robin Hood’s Bay.’ He smiled at me with such conceitedness, as though I was to be flabbergasted by his brilliant idea; the problem was I had no idea where Robin Hood’s Bay was, and had certainly never heard of it. But a day trip out, just Albert and I, sounded perfect, wherever we ended up. I had no idea how much business he planned while we were here, so I was certain to take advantage of as much time together as possible.

  It was close to 2 o’clock when we finally left the inn for our walk. The sky was again overcast and the streets were a lot quieter than they had been in the morning. Having already walked down Church Street we decided to turn left out of the White Horse and Griffin where we quickly came back onto Bridge Street. Being a Sunday nothing wa
s open, all the shops and businesses were in darkness. It was nice to experience the town in such a way; I imagined that the streets were a different place during the busy working week.

  We quickly found ourselves strolling over the Whitby swing bridge, with its large stone built supports coming up from the river bed, that had a metal framed bridge hanging between, the river Esk silently flowed beneath our feet as we crossed the impressive channel. We stopped in the centre of the bridge for a minute or two to take in our surroundings; the river edge was lined with fishing boats of all different shapes and sizes, tightly held to the dock side one behind the other. The salty air left a gritty taste in my mouth and felt fresh as it entered my lungs. The slight breeze coming straight from the open ocean beyond, it felt crisp and pure, even if it did have a subtle odour of seaweed about it. I was in awe looking down the river towards the mouth of the harbour which lead out into the sea: it looked a lot like a portal into another world, the two large piers came together in perfect symmetry, leaving just enough gap to see the turbulent dark ocean beyond, a scary desolate world in which I would hate to be stranded.

  We continued walking along to the opposing side of the river, from here I could see St Mary’s Church nesting perfectly upon the east cliff, and the colossal 199 steps snaking its way up the side of the cliff, the base of which was hidden behind the tightly packed houses.

  As we continued along the harbour I suddenly realised that Albert and I had not spoken a single word to one another since leaving the Inn. True, we were both enjoying taking in the new sights around us, but it was very unusual for him to be this quiet.