Startled, I looked up as the rooks took wing as one, lifting from the skeletal treetops in reaction to some unseen threat.
I shivered as I realised they had done so silently – with no cawing of warning or intention – before settling once more in their roosts. Somehow it felt a portent.
I shook myself, ashamed of being so melodramatic, and I glanced around at the stone sculptures surrounding me. Well, no wonder my imagination is running away with me in here.
I stood and belatedly realised my bench was in fact an altar grave. I silently apologised to the occupants and peered at the worn letters.
After a few moments, I picked out cliff and my heart leaped. Heathcliff, really? I sank to my knees and activated the flashlight app on my phone, then shone it from the side to pick out the rest of the letters in the winter’s afternoon gloom.
Not Heathcliff, Sutcliffe.
I hung my head and snorted with laughter at my ridiculous assumption, then got back to my feet and went home.
***
I shouldered open my front door, cursing at the shopping bag straps digging into my arms and shoulders, then swore more violently as Woody barged into me and sent me flying.
He didn’t even stop to apologise, never mind help me up or pick up the food and wallpaper samples now scattered over the dusty, rubble-strewn floor.
‘What the hell?’ I shouted at Vikram as he rushed in to see what all the noise was about. ‘Your bloke just shoved me over! What’s going on?’
‘I’m sorry, love, I don’t know what’s got into him. One minute he was measuring up, the next he bolted.’
I rubbed my elbow, then pushed up my sleeve to try and examine it, but couldn’t see.
Vikram took hold of my arm. ‘That’ll bruise, you should get some ice on it.’
I snatched my arm back. ‘One of your staff assaults me, and that’s all you have to say?’
Vikram stared at me. ‘Don’t worry, love, I’m sure it was an accident, but I will deal with him, don’t doubt that. Are you hurt anywhere else?’
‘No, no, I don’t think so.’ I was mortified to hear my voice shake, and stepped forward, but winced and rubbed my hip. ‘Spoke too soon.’ I tried to smile. It was a poor attempt.
‘Get yourself upstairs and pour yourself a nip of summat. I’ll bring this lot up.’
‘What’s happened? Is everything all right?’ Sparkly appeared at the door to the stairs.
‘Where’s Woody buggered off to? What’s going on?’ Omar said, pushing past her.
‘I dunno, he just bolted, knocked Verity over.’
‘What? Are you okay?’ Sparkly asked.
‘What’s he done that for?’ Omar said. ‘What’s got into the lad?’
‘I’m fine, just a bit shaken,’ I answered Sparkly.
‘Dunno,’ Vikram repeated to Omar. ‘He never said a word, just ran. But he was as white as a sheet.’
‘I’ll go after him, find out what’s up.’
Vikram nodded and bent to gather up my shopping as Sparkly led the way upstairs, asking new questions with every step.
That nip of something Vikram had mentioned was getting more and more tempting, and I found myself praying the bottles had survived the tumble.
14.
I stared at the ceiling, alternately willing sleep to come, then doing my utmost to stay awake when I felt my eyelids falter. I desperately wanted my dream man to visit again, but at the same time he scared me. When my lids finally closed I remembered the caress in the shower this morning and snapped awake.
If I wasn’t already going mad, it wouldn’t take much longer at this rate.
I drifted awake, becoming aware that I must have succumbed, but with no idea how long ago. The mixture of relief and disappointment I felt at not having dreamt dissipated in a flash. Was that a footstep? And another?
I tried to move, but once again was paralysed, helpless to do anything but listen and wait.
There was no doubt now: footsteps climbed the stairs, growing louder and resonating deeper the closer they came.
They were in my apartment now, approaching the room where I slept. I cast my mind back, wondering if I’d closed my bedroom door – I didn’t think I had.
A floorboard creaked – that was in my room!
I still could not even open my eyes, never mind move my limbs, and now my breath faltered too. I focused on expanding my chest then pushing the air back out, trying to dismiss the creaking footsteps as imagination.
My breath caught and I forgot to expel it. My mattress had dipped as if someone had sat on the edge of my bed. My chest strained, but I still did not breathe, then I felt fingers brush my cheek and I let out the stale air with a yell and sat up.
I scrambled to switch on the bedside light and stared around the room – eyes wide and breath now panting in and out of my abused lungs. No one. The room was empty.
I bolted out of bed, showered with no further incident, dressed and was downstairs fifteen minutes later. I’d get breakfast from the closest café.
***
When I got back to The Rookery, Vikram and the build team were waiting for me. The expected complaints didn’t come as I let them in, instead Vikram introduced the new face amongst them.
‘This is Gary, he’ll be working with Omar to replace Woody.’
‘Morning, Gary, pleased to meet you.’ I held up my hands full of coffee and bacon butty to indicate I couldn’t shake, but he wasn’t bothered.
‘Hiya, mush. That smells good.’
Mush?
Sparkly saw my expression and laughed. ‘And you thought “love” was bad! Best just to ignore them – I’ve been trying to train them for years, I’d have better luck with pit bulls.’
I smiled, still too shaken by this morning’s rude awakening to get upset about the pet name.
‘Pit bulls are very intelligent,’ I said with a smile and Sparkly gave a very loud, very throaty laugh that had the men grinning along.
‘So what happened to Woody?’ I asked.
‘He saw the Grey Lady,’ Sparkly said. ‘Freaked him out – he doesn’t believe in ghosts.’
‘Sparkly!’ Vikram admonished. ‘I thought we’d agreed—’
Sparkly flapped her hand at him. ‘She’ll find out eventually, and it’s not as if she’s evil or anything. Woody’s just a wimp. Verity, are you okay?’ Her tone changed. ‘You’ve gone as white as Woody did.’
‘Just get to work, all of you,’ Vikram barked. He dragged a sawhorse closer. ‘Here, sit on this.’
I nodded at him gratefully and perched on the paint-splattered trestle.
‘You’ve seen something too, haven’t you?’
I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said, ignoring Grasper’s antics with the orbs, then to moderate the lie, added, ‘but I’ve felt things, and had dreams. What did Woody see?’
‘The Grey Lady – he’s not the only one, plenty have seen her over the years, here and in the row of cottages next door. She’s said to be Emily Brontë.’
‘Yes, the waitress in the White Lion said something about that.’ But if The Rookery is haunted by Emily Brontë, Who’s the man with the dark eyes? I thought but did not say.
‘Oh Tess, yeah, she loves all the ghost stories, does amateur ghost hunts and puts stuff on YouTube. There’s not much evidence it is Emily, to be honest, just that she’s only seen at this time of year, and she wears the right era clothing – big bonnet with a bow, full gown, that kind of thing.’
‘Why grey? That was a mourning colour wasn’t it?’
‘I don’t know about that.’ Vikram screwed his mouth up. ‘People say there’s a grey haze around her, which is where the name comes from.’
I sipped my coffee, my bacon butty forgotten. ‘So what did Woody see? What actually happened?’
‘Right over there.’ Vikram pointed to the wall separating The Rookery from the cottage next door. ‘She walked up the wall in a diagonal, as if there
were stairs there, then disappeared through the wall.’
‘That’s all?’
‘It was enough for him.’
Despite myself, I laughed.
‘It sounds like you’ve had more scares than funny feelings and dreams,’ Vikram said.
I smiled up at him, touched by his concern, but reluctant to tell him too much. I didn’t want him to talk about me in the same dismissive way he’d spoken about Woody’s reaction to the Grey Lady.
‘Just intense dreams and a few touches. A man though, definitely not Emily Brontë.’ I laughed. ‘Probably just my imagination – new start, new home, and in a place with so much history.’
‘Not heard of anything like that here,’ Vikram said. ‘Right, better get on.’
So much for not being dismissed.
15.
I had to admit, despite the problems, Vikram and his team had made good progress. The new floor plan downstairs was coming on – the walls that we’d finally decided would come down were down, although there was still a lot of tidying up to be done. The new dividing walls should be in place by the end of the week, then Omar and Gary would start on the bedrooms after Christmas, although finding workable room for all the en-suites was going to be a challenge.
Sparkly was happier with the wiring. She’d found most of the existing network and had enthusiastically ripped out every wire. Which meant I was reliant on candles, torches and woolly jumpers until she could get lights and sockets working in my apartment again.
My candles flickered and I switched on the torch and looked around. I really had not thought this through. Instead of a romantic adventure, this was far too spooky. I liked a good ghost story – but not when there was the possibility I was featuring in it.
I unscrewed my bottle of wine and poured my first glass. I didn’t normally drink alone on a Tuesday evening, but I told myself the circumstances were exceptional. It would keep me warm and was quite possibly the only way I would sleep tonight. If I drank enough, I might not even dream.
I’d called Lara and Jayne earlier to give them the news that the place was definitely haunted, and wished I’d made Jayne my second call for her calming, logical reassurance. Instead, I’d been left with Lara’s excited squealing and talk of Ouija boards and more séances. Just what I didn’t need.
I took a big gulp of wine and called Jayne back.
She answered my call, laughing. ‘You called Lara didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘How badly has she freaked you out?’
‘Well, I’m sitting in a hundred-and-fifty-year-old haunted house. I have no electricity. I’m drinking wine by candlelight, one of the builders was so scared he ran, even though it might cost him his job, and the man in my dreams keeps touching me. I’d say I’m about nine out of ten on the freaked-out scale.’
‘What? The man in your dreams, plural? And he’s touched you? You didn’t tell me that before.’
I winced and took another gulp of wine. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to tell you now – it’s probably just imagination. It’s always when I’ve just woken up and my subconscious is probably dealing with all the Antony stuff.’
‘So is the man in your dreams Antony?’
‘Well, no.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Dark, handsome – very handsome!’ I giggled and had another drink. ‘And his eyes – the complete opposite to Antony’s – they’re dark too, I feel like they’re looking straight through me, into the core of me. I know I’m only dreaming him, but it’s like he’s staring into depths of me I don’t even know are there.’
Jayne was silent a moment. ‘You know who you’ve just described, don’t you?’
‘Who?’ Although I knew what she was going to say.
‘Heathcliff.’
‘Great, I’m being haunted by a fictional character!’ I laughed and sipped again.
Jayne was the first to stop laughing.
‘What?’ I said into the silence on the line.
‘I just had a thought. He’ll have been inspired by somebody, the Brontës did draw on the people in Haworth for their characters – more than a few of their neighbours were upset when they realised who authored those novels.’
‘So who inspired Heathcliff?’
‘Exactly.’
I drained the bottle into my glass, a little embarrassed at how quickly I’d emptied it, and made Jayne promise not to tell Lara about the dreams. I ended the call but dropped the glass before I’d brought it halfway to my lips.
There was a figure, glowing grey, almost brighter than the candles. A woman, and petite. She wore a large bonnet, and a dress tight about the upper torso and gathered in the back to accentuate her shape. A bustle, I thought, it’s called a bustle.
She carried a basket over one arm – I could see it was full, but not what the contents were – and as I watched, she calmly disappeared into the wall.
I stared open-mouthed. Have I just seen Emily Brontë?
Or have I just had too much to drink?
This was too much. Feeling completely sober despite the wine, I grabbed my handbag and coat and left. Hopefully the Old White Lion Hotel had an empty guest room as well as a warm, comfortable bar with real, live people.
16.
The boy bolted and was on the moors before the mill bell had stopped ringing to announce the end of the children’s long working day. There was still a glimmer of the late spring daylight left, but the shadows were fast encroaching on the bleak landscape.
He lost his battle with the tears he’d been fighting all day and ducked down behind an outcrop of millstone grit to give in to them in privacy.
He gasped for air between sobs and fell into a violent coughing fit as fresh moors’ air hit his wool-fibre-lined lungs. Only one day at the mill and his chest hurt. The fibres had prickled the back of his throat all day, and nobody had paid any attention to his complaints.
Mind you, nobody could hear him over the relentless cacophony of the spinning jennies and mules.
It had been worse than thunder, and there had been no let-up; not from the mill bell at five that morning until the children’s bell at six that evening. Even the worst thunder didn’t send merciless steel backwards and forwards, threatening to crush unwary hands, feet, or heads.
Fresh tears flooded down his cheeks as the seven-year-old realised he would have to do the same tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, for the rest of his life; however short that may be.
‘Why are you crying?’
The boy startled and rubbed his face at the thin but strident voice, then peered at the girl in confusion, unable to decipher her words through the ringing in his ears. She repeated her question and Harry studied her lips to understand what she was saying, then recognised her as water cleared from his eyes.
Emily, one of the parson’s daughters. He cringed; to show such weakness in front of a girl!
‘I’m not, I just have soot in my eye. I started working on mill floor today.’
‘Is that why you’re covered in black dust?’ Emily asked. ‘You’ll get the moors dirty.’
He looked down at himself. She spoke true; he was covered in sooty wool fibres. He shrugged. ‘Maybe Mr Baalzephon will clean mill up.’
She hooted with laughter. ‘Old Man Rook? He’ll do nowt of the sort!’
The children laughed, united against the owner of Rooks Mill.
‘What’s thee doing here?’ the boy asked, remembering Emily was a couple of years younger than he. ‘Where’s thy brother or thy sisters?’
‘Oh they’re in the parlour,’ Emily said, dismissive. ‘I crept out, I wanted to see if the lapwings had hatched.’
‘Lapwings?’
‘Aye, there’s a nest over yonder with eggs. Listen, the mama and papa are calling! Do you want to see?’
‘All right then, happen I do.’
‘But you’ll have to be quiet or you’ll scare them a
way. Why are you shouting, anyroad?’
The boy stared at Emily. ‘I’m not shouting.’
‘Yes you are, you’re really loud.’
He thought for a moment. ‘Is thee sure lapwings are calling? I can’t hear them.’
‘Yes!’ Emily stamped her foot. ‘Listen! There, did you just hear her peewit?’
The boy cocked his head but still heard nothing. ‘I think mill’s made me deaf already,’ he said, then looked at Emily in alarm. ‘Has mill taken lapwing’s call away from me forever?’
Emily stared up at him. ‘They’re this way,’ she said in lieu of answering his question, and ran up the hill.
The boy followed Emily through the bracken and grass of the lower moor, then through the heather until the little girl turned with her finger to her lips.
She pointed ahead and the boy squinted. There she was! Difficult to see unless you knew she was there, her brown plumage camouflaged her well against the heather stalks, her crest imitating the new growth above that sheltered her and her eggs from the overhead threats of owl, buzzard and kestrel.
‘How does thee know there are eggs? It’s late in season to be laying,’ the boy whispered.
‘Shh,’ Emily hissed, but too late, the lapwing hen took wing.
‘There, see?’ Emily said. ‘You’d better not have scared her away for good or the chicks won’t hatch. I wish I’d never shown you. Come on, come away.’
The boy followed his diminutive young guide back down the hill.
***
I woke with tears flooding down my face. I could feel the despair of the boy and somehow understood exactly what it was like for the child to crawl underneath the working spinning mule, brushing down its moving parts, as well as the floor, as it operated; the metal frame clanging into its final position, then making its return journey; back and forth three times a minute, every minute, of every working hour. And there were an awful lot of working hours. No wonder employment of children in the mills had been termed The Yorkshire Slavery.
As I grew more aware, I shrank against the wall before remembering where I was. The Old White Lion. I clearly didn’t need to be at The Rookery for Heathcliff, or whatever his real name was, to visit. He could find me anywhere.
Parliament of Rooks Page 6
