Parliament of Rooks

by Karen Perkins

  Parliament

  of Rooks

  Haunting Brontë Country

  Karen Perkins

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Glossary of Yorkshire Terms

  Acknowledgements

  Fiction by Karen Perkins

  About the Author

  For Louise Burke and Louise Turner

  True Friends.

  Author’s Note

  To reflect both setting and characters as accurately as possible, a flavour of the Yorkshire dialect is used in the dialogue and some narrative.

  For those not familiar with the accent, there is a short glossary at the back of the book with some of the more – interesting – linguistic attributes of Yorkshire, although all meanings should be clear from the text.

  “You are my Demon.

  This is my Exorcism.”

  – Verity Earnshaw

  One for sorrow,

  Two for mirth.

  Three for a funeral,

  Four for birth.

  Five for Heaven,

  Six for Hell,

  Seven for the Devil, his own self.

  – Old English nursery rhyme

  Parliament of Rooks

  Prologue

  Haworth, March 1838

  Martha hitched up the bundle strapped to her front. Satisfied Baby John was secure, she grasped the handle and began to haul the full bucket up the well shaft.

  John barely mewled in protest at the violent, rhythmic action, already used to the daily routine, and Martha pushed thoughts of the future out of her mind. Her firstborn was sickly, and she was surprised he had survived his first two months. He was unlikely to live much longer.

  She stopped to rest, her body not yet fully recovered from the rigours of the birthing, then bent her back to her task once more. She had too much to do to indulge in a lengthy respite.

  Once she had the water and had scrubbed their rooms clear of coal dust and soot, she’d be up to the weaver’s gallery to start on the day’s pieces.

  She stopped again, took a couple of deep breaths, then coughed as fetid air filled her struggling lungs. Bracing herself, she continued her quest for water, cursing the dry February that had caused the well to run so low.

  At last she could see the bucket, water slopping with each jerk of the rope. Reaching over, she grasped the handle and filled her ewers.

  Adjusting Baby John once more, she bent, lifted, and embarked on the trudge homeward.

  ‘Blasted slaughterman!’ she cried, just catching herself as she slipped on the blood pouring down the alley past the King’s Arms and on to Main Street. She’d forgotten it was market day tomorrow. The slaughterhouse was busy today.

  Another deep breath, another cough, and Martha trudged on, the bottom of her skirts soaked in blood.

  She heard the snort of the horses and the trundle of cart wheels on packed but sticky earth just in time, and was already jumping out of the way before the drayman’s warning shout reached her.

  ‘Damn and blast thee!’ she screeched as she landed in the midden anext the King’s Arms, which stank of rotten meat and offal from the slaughterhouse next door.

  She clambered back to her feet, checked Baby John was unharmed, then noticed her empty ewers lying in the muck beside her.

  Covered in blood and filth she ran after the dray, cursing at the top of her voice, then stopped. That wasn’t the drayman sat atop his cart of barrels. It was a trap carrying a passenger.

  She watched the carriage come to a halt by the church steps, and a jealous rage surged in the pit of her stomach as the passenger alighted.

  Emily Brontë had returned to Haworth.

  Part One

  December 2016

  “I wish I were a girl again,

  half-savage and hardy, and free.”

  Wuthering Heights

  Emily Brontë, 1847

  Haworth, West Yorkshire

  1.

  ‘There she is, about bloody time! I have better things to do than hang about here,’ the van driver said, just loudly enough for me to hear.

  At the same time, he returned the rude gesture of the Range Rover driver who had just squeezed past the van on the narrow, cobbled lane.

  Out of breath from my steep climb up Main Street, I smiled weakly and jangled my new keys at the man and his mate.

  ‘At least there’s not much to shift,’ I heard one of them say as I unlocked the front door. I wondered if I’d been meant to hear this comment too, but decided I didn’t care. No, I didn’t have much to shift – just clothes, books, a laptop and a few personal things I could not bear to leave behind in the ruins of my marriage.

  I had taken only the furniture and furnishings I’d had when I met Antony; none of the joint purchases. I’d left our CD and vinyl collection alone – the CDs were already in my iTunes library and I had nothing to play the vinyl on anyway – and had even left all the kitchen paraphernalia. Everything held memories; memories I knew I had to leave behind else turn mad.

  The only thing I had brought out of the divorce was money – enough to buy the old restaurant, turn it into a guesthouse, and start again. That was all I wanted.

  ‘Them bloody roads ain’t fit for vehicles,’ the driver’s mate said. ‘Some bugger’s knocked the wing mirror off!’

  I landed back in reality with a bump – the actuality of my dream move was car horns, angry men and chaos. Not quite what I’d hoped for from this quaint West Yorkshire village clinging on to a steep hillside in Brontë Country.

  I tuned the noise out again and smiled. Brontë Country. Charlotte, Emily and Anne had lived a minute’s walk away from where I now stood and lived. I could see the parsonage from the top windows of my new home. I’d been a fan of their books since discovering them at school, and had dreamt of living here one day.

  ‘That’ll be going on the bill,’ the driver said, stomping through the entrance, arms full of suitcases.

  ‘I told you to park in the museum car park,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not paying four quid to park the van and carry stuff further than I need to.’

  ‘Seems cheap now, though, doesn’t it?’ I smiled at him with no sincerity. He’d done nothing but complain since he’d arrived to collect my belongings. He hated the roads, hated his satnav, hated the hills, hated the cobbles, hated his job, life and pretty much everything else. I was beyond irritated, but I would not let him spoil this for me.

  ‘I want everything upstairs in one of the guest rooms. Through that door, up the first set of stairs, then left through the arch. I’ll take it from there.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want us to sort it into the right rooms for you?’ the driver’s mate asked.

  ‘No – I have a load of work to do first.’

  ‘Ain’t that the truth,’ the driver said, looking around at the empty, damp and dingy foyer. ‘Not exactly welcoming, is it?’

  I stifled a retort and forced myself to smile again. ‘It will be by the time I open,’ I said. ‘Is there much more to come in?’

  ‘Give us a chance, love, this is only the first load.’

  I nodded, my point made, and went outside, unwilling to spend any more time in the man’s company. A few seconds later, I was in the heart of the village.

  Whatever the removal men’s faults, I had to admit they had a point. These roads had not been built for cars; their narrow blind bends and cobbles were far more suited to slower horse and cart.

  I looked up, startled at the clop of a horse’s hoofs, and waved at the rider – a young gi
rl in a high-vis vest. For a moment I’d half-expected to see a nineteenth-century carrier’s cart loaded with barrels or coal sacks.

  Having left Leeds that morning – for good – I felt like I’d stepped back in time, such was the contrast.

  Instead of a bustling, modern city centre, Howarth Main Street plunged in its full cobbled glory into the Worth Valley below. The moors rose opposite in magnificent frosted green and winter shades of brown – heather, grasses, bracken and gorse – with snow heaped against the dividing dry stone walls.

  Slate roofs slanted, soot-stained and age-darkened millstone grit walls leaned, and cobbles rose to trip the unwary or infirm. Even the accoutrements of modern living – benches, telephone poles, red telephone box (yes, Haworth still had one), lamp posts and the rest – tipped, dipped and sloped, all having to accommodate at least one unexpected angle, rejecting all human effort to tame this wild land.

  Yet people were still here. They carved out a living; they enjoyed a holiday; they walked, shopped, explored.

  It was an uneasy balance, made even more precarious by the flocking tourists anxious to follow in the footsteps of their literary heroines and characters. But something told me Yorkshire was not yet done; the power of the earth was too strong here, too prevalent. Nature would yet prevail over this insidious human invasion.

  ‘Hello? Where the hell has she got to?’

  I sighed at the driver’s distant, grating voice and turned back, unable now to summon even a ghost of a smile for him as I approached.

  ‘All done, you just need to sign the worksheet, then we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘Right then,’ I said, took his pen, and hesitated. Much as I wanted this annoying man out of my dream home as soon as possible, I could not bring myself to sign without checking everything first.

  I led the way back into what would soon be my guesthouse, ignoring the heaving sigh of irritation behind me, and examined the piles of boxes, suitcases, and scraps of furniture, mentally checking everything off.

  ‘And the van is definitely empty, is it?’ I asked when I re-emerged into daylight, my head swimming.

  The driver glared at me, but his mate grinned, slid open the side door and I inspected the interior. If anything had been left behind, it wasn’t in there.

  I signed the paperwork and the driver snatched it out of my hands, clambered behind the wheel, and slammed the door.

  ‘Good luck in your new home,’ the mate said, touched his cap with a grin, then sighed before joining his colleague. I had never been so glad to see anyone drive away in my life.

  I walked back into the building and looked around me. The proud smile drained from my face as the enormity of what I had taken on hit me. I had left everything I knew behind me, and my future was blind.

  2.

  A shriek outside made me jump, then I relaxed and smiled at the sound of high heels and laughter accompanied by the rumble of trolley bag wheels on cobbles. Lara and Jayne.

  Opening the door, I stared pointedly at Lara’s feet as she tottered down the steep, icy ginnel, clutching an enormous bouquet of flowers. Jayne was pulling two cases and wincing at the ferocity of her friend’s taloned grip on her arm.

  ‘I told you to wear flats,’ I said. ‘You’ll break your leg in those things here.’

  ‘I don’t do flats, darling,’ Lara said, unconcerned. She let go of Jayne to swathe me in a floral-scented hug. ‘Welcome to your new life, Verity.’ She handed over the flowers. ‘It’s very ... you.’ She beamed, clearly pleased with her non-committal phrasing.

  I turned to hug Jayne and was almost knocked off my feet by an excited Irish terrier the colour of sandstone who’d been chased from the car park by Lara’s ten-year-old daughter, Hannah.

  ‘You need to keep hold of his lead,’ Jayne admonished, bending to pick up the leather leash. ‘He has no car sense whatsoever.’

  ‘Sorry, Aunt Jayne, he’s just so strong and excited.’ Hannah took back possession of Grasper and tried to pull him away from me and all the interesting smells around the front door. He only acquiesced when I ceased petting him and finally embraced his mistress.

  Accepting a bottle bag with a very promising gold-foil-covered offering inside, I led the way. ‘Welcome to The Rookery,’ I said.

  ***

  ‘So where exactly are we sleeping?’ Jayne asked, perched on her case and clutching a mug of champagne. She peered around the foyer. ‘Are the guest rooms at least serviceable?’

  ‘No, not yet,’ I said. ‘I’ve a camp bed set up in the best one for myself. I thought you three would put your sleeping bags out here – you did bring sleeping bags, didn’t you?’ I eyed their cases.

  Jayne spluttered champagne, Hannah clapped in delight at the prospect of camping, and Lara grinned.

  ‘Nearly had me going there, Verity,’ she said. ‘Now put Jayne out of her misery and tell her where we’re really staying.’

  I smiled. ‘Sorry, ladies, I couldn’t resist. No, I’m not inflicting this place on you – not until it’s furnished anyway. I’ve booked you into the Old White Lion; it’s literally thirty seconds down the street. I’ll take you over in a bit so you can check in, then I thought we’d have dinner there.’

  ‘Cowbag,’ Jayne said, and Hannah giggled. ‘How long will it take to get this place ready for guests?’

  ‘I have three months. I’ll make the website live and sign up to all the booking sites as soon as the wiring is done and I have broadband. With any luck, I’ll be taking bookings from the first of March for Easter onwards.’

  Lara looked around the foyer and Jayne laughed. ‘I hope you have reliable tradesmen – that doesn’t leave you much time if anybody lets you down.’

  ‘They’ve all been highly recommended and they start on Monday. I’ve been speaking to the foreman, Vikram, quite a bit on the phone and so far I’m impressed.’

  ‘Oh yes, Vikram is it? What does he look like?’ Lara said, eyebrows raised.

  ‘They’re starting the week before Christmas, are you serious?’ Jayne said.

  I chose to answer Jayne. ‘Yes, the joiners are in first to wall off part of the back there – they’ll make another guest room, then the remainder of the space will be a kitchen for the guest breakfasts, plus an office. The electricians and plumbers will do their thing too then start on the existing bedrooms upstairs, and the joiners will move up to partition off the en-suites when they’ve finished down here. I don’t have to have every guest room ready for Easter, but I do need the downstairs area, as many guest rooms as possible, and my own living quarters to be ready on time.’

  ‘Then what, you’ll have work carrying on while guests are here?’

  ‘If need be, although only after breakfast hours for as little disturbance as possible.’

  ‘But it’ll all come to a grinding halt before they even get started,’ Jayne predicted.

  ‘Only for a few days over Christmas,’ I said.

  ‘Do you really think it’ll be ready in time?’ Lara asked.

  I looked around me, unwilling to admit my doubts from earlier.

  ‘You don’t, do you?’ Jayne was far too good at reading people.

  ‘Yes, it’ll be ready. Okay, okay.’ I raised my hands to hold off more naysaying. ‘I admit when the movers left and I was here on my own for the first time, I had a moment of doubt, but I can do this, I know I can.’

  ‘Of course you can, Verity,’ Lara said, putting down her champagne mug.

  I really must get some proper glasses, I thought as she tottered across the flagged floor and embraced me.

  ‘Don’t listen to old Grumpy Drawers over there, and don’t be too hard on yourself. You’ve gone through hell with the divorce and everything. This is your new start. It sounds like you have everything organised and you’ll be on site to keep an eye on things – and we’ll help as much as we can. I know the village seems isolated, but it’s really not that far away – it only took us half an hour to get here
, we’ll be here all the time!’

  ‘Don’t forget she needs the rooms for guests.’ Jayne joined the huddle. ‘She has a business to run, you know. Sorry, Verity, I didn’t mean to come across grumpy.’ I felt her lift her head to glare at Lara. ‘I was just trying to make sure you’re on top of everything and have a good plan.’

  ‘Always bloody planning,’ Lara said.

  ‘And just as well, too – my planning has got you out of more than one scrape, remember?’

  ‘Enough!’ I laughed. Jayne and Lara were so different on the surface, one a building society manager: practical and stern; the other a complementary therapist and single mum, and one of the strongest women I’d ever met. But both of them had big hearts and matching values, and despite the outward bickering, all three of us had been best friends for years.

  ‘What’s wrong with Grasper?’ Hannah’s voice penetrated our hugfest.

  Jayne swung around in concern, then smiled at her pet’s antics. ‘He’s just bored, probably needs a walk and some attention.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Lara said, digging in her bag for her phone. She ignored Jayne’s scoffing and filmed the Irish terrier as he jumped and twirled about, tongue lolling in delight.

  ‘Have a look at this,’ she said, playing the video back.

  Jayne and I peered over her shoulders.

  ‘There – did you see it? And there – another one.’

  ‘Let me see, let me see,’ Hannah begged.

  ‘Just a moment, Hans.’ She ran the video again. They were still there: two circles of light dive-bombing and circling the dog.

  ‘Those are orbs, Verity. Spirits. You’ve bought a haunted house.’