Parliament of Rooks

by Karen Perkins

  Lara and Jayne said nothing, and we stood in silence for a while, contemplating the rows of individually carved millstone grit.

  ‘I don’t know which is sadder,’ Lara eventually said. ‘The stones with a long list of names, or the ones that are only half full.’

  I followed her gaze and spotted the stone that was affecting her. Two names at the top, then four feet of blank.

  ‘Their family didn’t survive,’ I said. ‘They died before they could have children.’

  ‘Can we get out of here?’ Lara said. ‘I’ve had enough.’ She shuddered. ‘There’s something about this place, something not right.’

  As one we turned and left the dead to re-join the living.

  10.

  I climbed into my camp bed utterly exhausted. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Lara so spooked. She wouldn’t leave Hannah alone, even for a second, and had said she could not ‘cope with the museum and more death’.

  Instead, we’d come back to The Rookery, Hannah had become fractious and emotional from the unaccustomed fussing from her mother, and they’d left just after an early tea.

  I missed them already. I knew I had a busy week ahead, but it seemed to stretch out emptily until Friday evening when they would return.

  The phone buzzed and I jumped, then scrabbled for it, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I wondered what had happened.

  With relief I registered that the caller was not Lara or Jayne and swiped the answer icon. I instantly regretted it when Antony said, ‘Verity? Hello?’

  ‘Hello Antony,’ I said, resigned to the conversation, but determined to keep control of my temper and emotions. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Not good, Verity, not good.’

  My heart sank. It was one of those calls: self-pitying and maudlin drunk. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing, I’m just really low. I miss you, I’ve messed everything up.’

  ‘Yes, you have.’

  Antony huffed in frustration. He wasn’t sorry, he just wanted absolution. And probably the divorce settlement back. ‘I know, I know, things were just so hard – we hardly saw each other, always on different shifts, and we weren’t getting pregnant.’

  I gritted my teeth. I would not cry. I would not.

  ‘I was lonely, Verity, so lonely.’

  ‘We worked at the same hotel, Antony, we lived in the same house. If you had put the effort into us instead of that slapper—’ I broke off and squeezed my eyes shut in frustration. The last thing I wanted was to argue with my ex-husband. Even by being on the phone he was tainting my new home; my new life.

  He said nothing for a while, then changed tack.

  ‘You can’t put it all on me, you know. You could have made more effort.’

  I said nothing, wondering if I should hang up or if that would make things worse.

  ‘You were so cold, and always complaining, it’s no wonder I looked for comfort elsewhere.’

  ‘What? You can’t put this on me! You were the one cheating!’

  ‘We were arguing all the time.’

  ‘Probably because you were chasing other women!’

  ‘Verity—’

  ‘No! No, I’ve had enough. Please, it’s over, it’s done. We’re divorced, we’re separated. You go marry your slapper, and I’ll get on with my life. Goodbye, Antony.’ I finally hung up.

  Within seconds, the phone buzzed again. I ignored it.

  And again.

  I switched it off, lay back down, and stared at the ceiling somewhere above me in the dark.

  Tears rolled down the sides of my face and pooled in my ears. I stifled a sob, furious with myself for allowing him to upset me again. I’d cried a river since that day. It was time to move on, to get over it, over him.

  But how did you get over a broken heart? How did you put the pieces back together again? How did you ever let anybody in again?

  I sobbed once more as a lonely, empty future stretched out before me. Would there ever be anybody to share it with me?

  A face swam in front of my vision. Dark, handsome, piercing eyes, infectious smile. He held out a hand to me. I took it, and sank, swirling into a dark mist, letting go, drifting away from the bleak reality of my life.

  11.

  I woke with the image of those same eyes staring into mine, and lay frozen for a moment, my heart beating hard. My chest seemed to be the only part of me able to move as my breathing matched my heart in its intensity, clouding the air above me with evidence of life. For a moment I had been so disorientated I’d been unsure if I were alive or dead.

  I caught my breath. What was that noise? And again! Footsteps? I listened until I had to release air and take in fresh – the action violent enough to shake me out of my torpor. I laughed at myself – in silence and without mirth – of course it hadn’t been footsteps; just an old house on a winter’s day, and the remnants of a nightmare.

  I remembered Antony’s call last night. That would have been enough to spark all sorts of weird and frightening mirages in my sleeping brain.

  Shaking it off, I forced myself out of my warm bed into the cold morning air – the sooner the heating system was sorted properly, the better.

  Shuffling to the shower – thank goodness for fluffy slippers and fleecy onesies! – I remembered the eyes I’d woken to. They hadn’t been Antony’s blue irises; they had been dark, brooding, intense.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Verity, it was a bloody dream, stop spooking yourself!’

  I laughed at the sound of my own voice in the emptiness and switched the shower on. Time to be thinking about the day ahead, not the night behind. I undressed and stepped under the thankfully warm spray, then lifted my face to the waterfall.

  The builders would be here before too long, ready to start work on making the place mine.

  I soaped myself, thinking about my plans, my dream of how the next part of my life would be.

  The Rookery would have five bedrooms, and I was determined to make it spectacular, going that extra mile to make people feel welcome and valued. After living and working in the centre of Leeds for so long, I wanted to embrace country living: fresh air, a real community, and a slower, more enjoyable pace of life.

  I loved the Brontës’ books, and couldn’t be closer to the parsonage – one of the reasons I’d chosen this property – and I wanted to reflect the history of this place in my design and management decisions.

  The house was attached to a row of weaver’s cottages, so I’d use plenty of local textiles, and it stood to reason that Emily Brontë, and then Charlotte would have been regular visitors to the people who lived and worked here. In the 1840s, Emily had returned to live with her father and Branwell, and carried out the duties of curate’s wife – even though she was daughter. Then Charlotte when she returned to Haworth after a small taste of fame and the city life in London to care for her father, then as Arthur Bell Nicholls’ wife until her own premature death in childbirth in 1855.

  I sighed at the tragedy of so many talented and driven siblings dying so young. Poor Patrick; first burying his wife, then seeing all six of his children in their graves. Maria, his firstborn, at age eleven through to Charlotte, the most famous of his brood, at thirty eight.

  The pain and unfairness of it had me close to tears and I lifted my face to the spray of water and leaned back into the comforting hand around my waist. It had been a long time since Antony had joined me in the shower.

  Then I remembered and spun around, my grasping hand on the tiles only just saving me from a nasty fall.

  I yanked the shower curtain back and used it to cover myself in one movement, then peered into the small bathroom as I fumbled around for the shampoo bottle. Not much of a weapon, but all I had to hand.

  I listened hard to silence as the steam cleared, then stared at empty tiles, mirror and closed door.

  There was no one there.

  12.

  Chaos had never felt
so safe. Noise, people, dust, destruction, rubbish. If I couldn’t have Jayne and Lara, Keighley Building Services would do until the girls could get back to Haworth.

  I handed out mugs of strong, sweet tea and looked at what had been accomplished so far. The build team – Omar and Woody – had ripped out a couple of internal walls in the lobby, covering everything with rubble and curses.

  They had not yet managed to find a single level surface – on any plane – and had launched into a constant bicker with each other and the project manager, Vikram, about how to go about turning the drawn plans into reality.

  Sarah, or Sparkly as she seemed to be quite happy to be called, was the only female electrician within twenty miles and very proud of it. She was not taking the state of The Rookery’s wires very well; mainly because she was struggling to even find them, and she took every frustration out on poor Snoopy, her apprentice, real name Charlie Brown.

  Thick, stone walls were introducing themselves at most inopportune moments, and two hours in, nobody understood the original construction or subsequent alterations of the building.

  ‘Look at this,’ Omar said, gesturing at the architectural plans I’d had drawn up at great expense. I hung back, not wanting to get embroiled in yet another row.

  Vikram leaned in closer, a look of resignation on his face. He was a funny bloke; big features in a rugged face, and I suspected he’d get better looking as he got older and grew into his looks. But he definitely looked interesting. Tall and surprisingly strong – he’d heaved some pretty heavy loads out to the skip along with Omar and Woody – I was not quite sure where his lanky frame was hiding the muscle. I wondered what he looked like when he smiled – if he ever did. I’d seen no hint of one so far, not even in greeting.

  ‘Architect has us moving this wall ’ere, but its bloody stone. Then there’s this en-suite upstairs – I’ve got no idea how the plumbers are going to pipe it in.’

  ‘And the wiring will have to be completely redone,’ Sparkly put in. ‘And I can’t go off these plans, I’ll have to go through the whole place and find out for mesen which walls are stone and which I can work with.’

  This was beginning to sound expensive. I couldn’t just leave them to it. ‘But why are there so many issues? Surely the architects sorted all that out when they surveyed the place.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like they did survey it,’ Vikram said. ‘It looks like they’ve just gone off the plans that have been lodged with the Land Registry and not checked to see if they’re correct. And with a building this old ...’ He shrugged.

  ‘So what was the point of me paying them all that money?’

  Vikram shrugged again. ‘First off, you’ll have needed them for planning permission for the alterations, and to be honest, having architects come out to the property to survey it really would have cost a fortune.’

  ‘And we’d still probably have had to chuck it all out when the real work started,’ Omar interrupted.

  ‘Don’t worry, love, we’ll work out how to sort it, you don’t have to bother yourself,’ said Vikram.

  ‘My name’s Verity, and this is my home, business and livelihood. I will very definitely bother myself with it.’

  ‘All I meant was, we’ll work out how to sort it,’ said Vikram. ‘Verity. We’ve all grown up and spent our working lives in buildings like this. If we can’t understand the place and make it work, no one can.’

  I nodded, mollified. ‘That’s good to hear.’ Then, keen to ease the tension, I said, ‘So what do you think we should do about that wall?’ I pointed at Omar’s most urgent problem: the stone wall that bisected my proposed reception area.

  ‘Give us a minute, love. Verity,’ Vikram corrected, glancing up at me.

  I gave him a small smile and he held my gaze a moment, then returned his attention back to the plans and room.

  ‘Well, we can’t knock it down,’ he said at last. ‘It’s original and solid – it’s been there over a hundred and fifty years, and ain’t shifting without some serious resistance.’

  ‘So we need to work around it,’ Omar said.

  ‘How about instead of having your reception area against that front wall, you move it there.’ Vikram pointed to the left of the back wall. ‘Then that wall can stay and we can widen the doorway into an arch,’ more pointing, ‘and you’ve still got room for seating and stuff there and there. Would that work?’ He looked to Omar and Sparkly first for approval before turning back to me.

  I walked to the doorway in the problem wall and looked into the space that would have to house my guests’ breakfast room. ‘It’s a bit tight. I need five tables with chairs as well as a buffet table, and I don’t want everyone on top of each other.’ I looked at the far wall. ‘It might work if that’s moved back.’

  Vikram sighed, strode to the latest offending wall, knocked on it a couple of times then opened the door to examine the other side. ‘It’s timber and plasterboard,’ he said. ‘It can be done, but it’ll mean a smaller kitchen.’

  ‘I realise that. But I’ll only be cooking breakfasts, not three-course dinners as the restaurant did.’

  ‘Don’t forget we’ll be putting a bedroom in over there.’ Vikram pointed again.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten.’ I took a deep breath and did my best to speak builder. ‘If this wall was moved back two feet, and with the new room and en-suite at that end, what would the dimensions of the new kitchen be?’

  ‘Omar?’ Vikram barked, clearly not amused to be challenged.

  ‘Well, if we put the new wall in here,’ Omar laid a batten on the floor, ‘and the wall for the new bedroom will come to— Hang on a minute.’ He nipped back into the lobby, presumably to check the plans, then reappeared and paced, thinking hard. ‘Here.’ He placed another batten, then turned and spread his arms. ‘This will be your kitchen.’

  I looked at the large space, then up at Vikram. ‘Perfect. We’ll do that, then. Can I leave it with you? I have a few errands to run.’

  Vikram nodded – still no smile – but Woody grinned at me as I escaped.

  It would take more than two months to be ready for guests, and I was ready to pull my hair out after two hours. I couldn’t do this alone.

  I fished my mobile out of my bag and dialled. ‘Jayne? Tell me again why this was a good idea ...’

  13.

  ‘Oh you’ve got to be kidding me,’ I muttered as I drove down West Lane. Builder’s vans and skips had taken over and there was nowhere to park. Not the best way to introduce myself to the neighbours.

  I drove on, crawling down the almost vertical Main Street, managing not to hit any of the winter tourists – even though a fair few of them didn’t realise it was a functioning road with actual traffic – and made my way back round to the top of the village. I’d have to park in the museum car park and unload the car later.

  I glanced over at the rear gable of The Rookery and walked in the other direction. I simply could not face Vikram and his army yet. Maybe later – when they knocked off for the day. His comment about not bothering myself tickled at my memory, but I shoved it away.

  I continued walking. Past the parsonage and into the graveyard. It seemed quiet, peaceful. The odd tourist was wandering around, but the bustle of village life was absent. Best of all: no builders.

  I sat and sighed, feeling my shoulders physically drop as I relaxed. Then I jumped as my phone beeped.

  Embarrassed, I fumbled it out of my bag, pulled off my glove, and checked the text. Antony. I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t want to argue. I miss you. Call me xx

  I stared at it then switched the phone off. Why couldn’t he leave me alone? Did he not realise how deeply he’d hurt me? How much I was still hurting? Every reminder of him and his betrayal just made it worse. I shoved away the memories of that night and what might have been, took a deep breath, and looked around me; searching for the calm that had descended on me when I first sat down; furious with myself that despite it all, I
missed him too.

  The clop of horses’ hoofs broke into my reverie and I smiled – that was such a sound of the past. I realised I couldn’t hear any cars or any other noise denoting the twenty-first century, just the buzz of insects, the horses, and a cock crowing. Even the distant voices could have come from the age of the Brontës.

  I sniffed. No exhaust; no ozone; just damp fresh earth with a hint of something familiar. A distinctive smell I recognised. I’d smelled it the first morning I’d woken in my new home: wild garlic. In December? I dismissed the discrepancy as the bare trees above rattled their smaller branches in response to a gust of wind, and a rabbit shot across the path in front of me as if being chased by a ferret.

  The millstone grit slabs of stone themselves stayed stoic, whether laid on the ground or standing upright in rows. Each was a different shape, a different design, and heavily carved, but all were of a similar imposing size. Indifferent custodians of the dead.

  I shivered when I remembered 44,000 people were believed to have been buried in this vastly inadequate patch of earth; far too many of them children. I counted the names on the nearest upright stone. Twelve. Twelve people in one grave. I shuddered, remembering Lara’s question about how deep these graves must be. Had they dug it deeper every time there was a death in the family? How often in the past had this cemetery been scattered with rotting coffins as more room was cut out of the earth below?

  Was my dream man one of them? Were his bones commemorated by one of these stones? Had those forceful eyes rotted away into the earth beneath my feet?

  I caught a movement between the stones – a flash of white. Him? I stared. There it was again, but too far away to make sense of it. Then again, in the other direction.

  I shook my head. This was getting ridiculous; at best I was descending into a world of fantasy and ghosts, at worst I was losing my mind.