Parliament of Rooks

by Karen Perkins

‘Did you dream about him last night?’

  ‘No, not really. He took me to the mill and left me there. It was frustrating actually – I couldn’t get a proper look at him.’

  ‘Mum, Auntie Verity, the waterfall’s just up here.’ Hannah grabbed the hands of both Lara and myself, and tugged us up the path to the Brontë Falls. I glanced to the side where the path fell away into a steep valley, and felt a touch of vertigo, but Hannah pulling my hand kept me steady and we allowed her to drag us along.

  Sunshine had greeted us this morning and we’d come up Penistone Hill to make the most of a perfect winter’s day. Blue skies contrasted with the grim brown moor, and pockets of frost lingered in the hollows. The wind was biting, but luckily not too strong, and was no match for the layers of cotton, fleece and Gore-Tex we all wore. Although Lara and Hannah – and no doubt myself – sported red noses; their eyes were bright and skin glowed with health and fresh air.

  I reflected that this was the very land that the Brontës had loved so much and thought I could understand how it inspired such wild and dramatic novels in the young girls.

  From where we stood, the moors stretched for miles over rolling hills, bare but for the hardy heather and the odd weather-battered tree or farm standing sentinel and providing the only shelter for the creatures that made their home here. I spotted a couple of farmhouses – in ruins now – and I wondered which one was Top Withens – the farm Emily had supposedly used for Wuthering Heights. Probably neither – that one would be further ‘oop dale’, I thought, coining the Yorkshire expression as I stared at the horizon: a dark, unbroken, unwavering line of hills against the blue.

  ‘Just how much further is it, Hans?’ Lara asked.

  ‘Not far, just up past this big stone. Look, there they are!’

  I stared at the small stream tumbling over little rocks and shrugged at Lara as she mouthed, waterfall?

  The falls we had trekked to see were little more than a stream cascading through a cleft in the moor. Pretty and quite dramatic after the recent snows, the waterfall was not as large as I’d expected.

  Lara perched herself on a nearby rock.

  ‘Your throne, madam?’ I asked.

  ‘Just keeping an eye on things,’ she said, watching her daughter, and swinging her feet to tap against the stone.

  ‘Have you forgiven me yet for making you wear walking boots?’

  Lara lifted her legs to regard her feet and frowned. ‘I suppose I’d better get used to clodhoppers now you’ve moved to the country.’

  I laughed then sobered as I thought about one of my early dreams – the bog burst – and remembered it had probably happened near here. I decided not to remind Lara about it.

  ‘You didn’t tell me how the evening ended,’ Lara said. ‘Did you ... ?’ She left the question hanging.

  I kept her in suspense a moment then shook my head. ‘It was a close run thing, though.’ I laughed, remembering my parting from William. We had stood, still talking, outside the Black Bull for an hour, neither of us wanting to separate, neither quite daring to take the next step so soon.

  I was sure the bereft expression of regret on his face as I finally broke away from his arms, had been echoed on my own face.

  ‘When are you seeing him again? Tonight?’

  I shook my head, although the temptation had been almost unbearable. ‘Tonight is for my girls.’ I smiled. ‘Jayne’s back this evening, and I thought we could all try out the ghost tour.’

  ‘And tomorrow?’

  ‘Well, he did let slip he’d be in the Black Bull, but we really should make the most of New Year’s Eve, don’t you think? There’s a torch-lit procession planned – all in Victorian fancy dress, it should be very atmospheric, and a bit different.’

  Lara grinned. ‘A torch-lit walk to the Black Bull it is then. I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Everything’s just so ... odd. And sudden. I don’t know what to make of it all. The dreams, the orbs and birds at the house, the ghost. And now him. One minute I’m overjoyed, the next I’m terrified.’

  ‘To be fair, that’s normal for anybody falling for someone new.’

  ‘Who said anything about falling for him?’

  By way of reply, Lara arched her eyebrows.

  ‘Well, okay, maybe I did give that impression, a bit,’ I admitted.

  ‘Aren’t you falling for him?’

  I looked at her, helpless, unable to deny it yet afraid to confirm it.

  She jumped down from her stone throne and hugged me. ‘It’ll be okay, Verity. Just take your time, don’t do anything before you’re ready, be careful of your heart, but above all, enjoy it! The last year has been hell, you deserve a bit of fun, you deserve smiles and laughter; you deserve to love and be loved.’

  ‘But what about all the weird stuff?’

  ‘Well, if he’s connected to the man you’ve been dreaming about, which he must be, somehow, then he’s likely to be connected to the answers too. But I think you need to decide now – do you want to understand what it’s all about?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘If I don’t, it’ll drive me mad, and someone’s likely to get hurt too.’

  ‘Then we spend New Year’s Eve, or at least part of it, at the Black Bull,’ Lara said. ‘And we travel this road wherever it takes us.’

  ‘Jayne may not like that idea – what if it makes everything worse?’

  Lara met my eyes, then said, ‘That’s a risk we have to take, Verity.’

  ‘A risk I have to take, you mean.’

  ‘No, I meant what I said. Jayne and I are in this with you, wherever it takes us.’

  10.

  ‘Aunt Jayne,’ Hannah cried, waving madly before dashing to hug Jayne.

  I smiled as Jayne’s face lit up in an expression of pleasure I’d seen nobody but Hannah evince in her since her own son and daughter had left home. Hannah had been the one who had convinced her to join us this evening.

  Escaping Hannah’s clutches, Jayne greeted Lara and me, waiting patiently on the church steps.

  ‘Auntie Verity’s got a boyfriend,’ Hannah announced before we’d barely had chance to say hello. ‘He’s going to paint my picture. And Mum wore walking boots without heels. All day!’

  ‘Are you serious? I’ve been gone less than a week!’

  ‘We’ve got a lot to tell you,’ Lara said, then approached the gentleman dressed in top hat and tails to collect a couple of lanterns he was handing out.

  Jayne squeezed my arm and looked at me. ‘Verity?’

  ‘Not now,’ I said, nodding at the top-hatted man. ‘The tour’s about to start, we don’t have time – I’ll fill you in later. I could do with your advice.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jayne drawled. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m not sure, to be honest.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,’ Top Hat said, forestalling all conversation for the moment. ‘The ghosts of Haworth welcome you and invite you into their world.’

  ‘Had enough of that already,’ I hissed to Lara.

  The man glared at me, then bade the small group across Main Street to Gauger’s Croft.

  I leaned against the stone wall of the narrow, covered passageway and relaxed as I listened to the man weave his story of inns and slums, horses and carriageways, ladies in full skirts dropping small curtseys in response to the lifted top hats of gentlemen’s greetings.

  I peered out at Main Street; it seemed to have grown darker, much darker, and I blinked when I realised the modern-day streetlamps – fashioned to resemble olde worlde gaslights – had disappeared. In their stead were the broad, dancing naked flames of pitch torches.

  I gasped and clamped my hand over my mouth as I emerged on to Main Street to investigate further. The place stank. The underlying smell of burning pitch and coal fires added a singed accent to the overpowering stench of raw sewage and rot.

&nb
sp; I lifted my foot to investigate what I had stood in, and realised the entire street was filth. The cobbles were gone and muck flowed down the steep hill.

  I jumped backwards to avoid the two gentlemen about to walk into me, and shouted after them, but they did not acknowledge my presence.

  Turning to Lara, my mouth dropped open. She was gone, as were Jayne, Hannah and the rest of the ghost tour group. They hadn’t passed me, so they must have moved deeper into Gauger’s Croft. I hurried after them and was again halted by the overpowering stench of sewage.

  Horses were crammed together so tightly the air could barely circulate around them, and I did not want to think about the constituents of the stinking piles the dim torchlight revealed.

  Midden heaps, I thought. Those are midden heaps.

  Fear solidified into a twisted ball in my stomach and I stepped back into the passageway then whirled around at the crack of a whip and a shout behind me.

  A horse loomed above me, whinnying crazedly, and I screamed as the cart it pulled bore down on me.

  White faces stared at me, and Jayne and Lara both put hands on my arms.

  ‘Verity? Are you okay?’

  ‘What happened?’

  I gaped at the strange faces watching me with a mixture of curiosity and contempt, and apologised. ‘It’s nothing, I just got a bit carried away.’

  The tour guide moved the group on, past the Black Bull, the King’s Arms and the White Lion, but I barely listened, still spooked by the experience I’d had in Gauger’s Croft.

  It had seemed so real; the smell, or the memory of it, still stung my nose, and I had honestly believed I was about to be trampled.

  Hannah’s squeal brought me back to the tour, and I saw we were outside The Rookery. I was one of the stops on the ghost tour.

  Flanked by Lara and Jayne, I listened in fascination as Top Hat described numerous sightings of the Grey Lady, painting a picture of exactly what I had seen, although there was no mention of orbs of light, or people being pushed.

  ‘Auntie Verity’s seen her, twice,’ Hannah informed the tour guide. ‘That’s her house and she keeps seeing the ghost. Mum’s seen her too, but I haven’t, not yet. I’ve only fallen on the floor in that other place, the White Lion, that’s the only ghost I’ve seen,’ she continued, oblivious of Top Hat’s irritation at this interruption to his narrative.

  His eyes narrowed as he shifted his gaze to me and I nodded, then shrugged in apology. His expression grew thoughtful and he moved us on, introducing the ‘witch’s house’ at the end of West Lane.

  ‘I don’t like it here, Mummy,’ Hannah said. ‘I feel funny, I want to go.’

  ‘Shush, we’ll be moving on in a minute,’ Lara said. ‘I want to hear the story about the witch.’

  ‘But I don’t like it,’ Hannah cried. ‘I really don’t like it.’

  ‘I’ll take her back to the White Lion,’ Jayne said, taking Hannah’s hand. ‘We’ll have hot chocolate by the fire and wait for you there.’

  ‘Okay, Aunt Jayne, let’s go.’ Hannah almost dragged Jayne away, casting an accusing glance back at her mother, and Lara met my eyes.

  I couldn’t decipher the expression in them, and wondered if she was feeling the same sensation I was: my chest tightening so much I was having to make a conscious effort to deflate and inflate my lungs for air.

  Top Hat raised his voice as he came to the climax of his story – either that or he was just sick of the interruptions caused by me and my friends. I heard the words ‘hanging from the rafters’ and reached my limit. I glanced at Lara, who nodded, and we placed our lanterns on the low wall bordering the path, walked away from the tour, and hurried after Jayne and Hannah.

  ‘Whatever that is in there, Pendle witch or not, it does not come from the light,’ Lara said. ‘That’s a dark energy, thank God Jayne took Hannah away so quickly. I should never have brought her on this tour.’

  I said nothing. I’d had enough of ghosts; I wanted hot chocolate by the fire with my friends.

  11.

  Martha glanced into the churchyard as she passed, able to see the site of the Sutcliffe grave where they had lain Baby John to rest before he had seen his first year out. She sighed at the memory of him, then turned her attention back to the living and stooped to pick up Edna – her little legs not quite up to the full walk to Harry’s workshop. Mr Barraclough was handing more and more of the work to Harry these days, and he was fast gaining a reputation as a master stonemason in his own right.

  Not surprising, all the work he does in that churchyard, Martha thought. Memorial stones had grown more intricate in latter years, the more successful families opting for altar stones rather than the more usual flat slabs laid directly on the ground, and were happy to pay for elaborate carvings to commemorate the passing of their loved ones.

  Martha stopped in her tracks at the sound of voices rather than the regular percussion of hammer and chisel. That’s a woman’s voice.

  She hefted Edna in her arms, and strode to confront her husband – the pail of bread and cheese she was bringing him for his dinner swinging, despite the coughing the exertion brought on.

  Her expression hardened when she recognised the interloper’s voice. Emily Brontë.

  ‘It’s a travesty,’ she was saying, ‘throwing Richard Oastler into The Fleet.’

  ‘Aye,’ Harry replied. ‘It’s nowt to do with debts, neither, that’s just trumped up. It’s to stop him acting against the mills.’

  ‘They just don’t know what to do with him – a Tory organising strikes!’

  ‘That Thomas Thornhill has much to answer for – it’s his doing, mark my words. Oh hello, love. Has thee brought me lunch?’ Harry noticed Martha in the doorway.

  ‘What’s going on?’ She put Edna down, who waddled over to her papa.

  ‘They’ve arrested Richard Oastler, you know, The Factory King. Him who’s against young ’uns working in the mills so much,’ Harry explained.

  ‘The Yorkshire Slavery he calls it,’ Emily said. ‘Have you read about him?’

  ‘She don’t read much,’ Harry said. ‘Worked in the mill since she were not much older than our Edna here. Never got to go to school.’

  Emily nodded but said nothing more.

  Martha added embarrassment to the cauldron of emotions boiling within her. She glared at Emily. ‘Had to work for food,’ she said, her voice strident. ‘All of us did, couldn’t swan off to no fancy school.’

  Harry shot her a look of rebuke. Emily’s two eldest sisters had died as a result of their time at Cowan Bridge School, something Martha knew well.

  He noticed Emily’s expression darken, and hurried to forestall Emily’s words; trying to protect his wife from the wrath of his friend.

  ‘Mr Oastler is for the Ten-Hour Movement,’ he said, his voice unnaturally loud. ‘No more getting out of bed at four and working till nightfall. And no young ’uns to be working in mill afore their tenth year.’

  ‘But how will families manage?’ Martha protested. How will they feed little ’uns without that wage?’

  ‘Mills will have to pay a better living to them that do work,’ Emily said.

  ‘I can’t see Rooks or any of other mill owners agreeing to that,’ Harry said. ‘Law or no law. They’ve paid no mind to the Factory Act, and that’s been in place seven year now.’

  ‘Aye, but there was no way of proving a child’s age,’ Emily argued. ‘Nearly every child in the mills is “small for his age” or undernourished. Now the queen is forcing every birth to be registered, they’ll not be able to get away with it no more, they’ll have to prove their age with a certificate.’

  ‘Aye, that’s true enough, lass. Though for folks like my Martha here, there’s not a lot of point to a certificate they can’t read.’

  Martha thumped Harry’s lunch pail down and glared at him.

  He cast his eyes down in apology, but Emily didn’t seem to notice Martha’s pique.

&n
bsp; ‘But the authorities can read it. People like my papa write them out, and the mill owners will be kept in check. Things will come good.’

  ‘I hope so, lass, I really do,’ Harry said, then switched his attention to a safer subject by picking up his daughter to swing her round in a circle, confident Edna’s giggles would soften Martha’s mood.

  He risked a glance at his wife, and grinned when he saw his ploy had worked.

  ***

  I woke with a smile at the delightful sound of Edna’s simple joy. Then realised where I was, alone in my new bed in The Rookery. My hand drifted to my stomach, a belly that had never expanded with new life, and I felt a sense of profound loss. Surprised and feeling a little shaken, I got out of bed to start the new day.

  12.

  ‘Wow, just look at that!’ Lara exclaimed as Haworth Old Hall came into sight. Morris dancers were in full swing, their shin bells marking the steps of their dance, as they wielded their sticks in minutely choreographed strikes.

  Flames glanced off top hats and canes, breeks and clogs, bustles and bonnets, and I staggered as the tarry smell of the burning pitch hit my nostrils. For a moment I was back in Gauger’s Croft, the horse and cart bearing down on me.

  A tug on my arm brought me back to the here and now. ‘What’s that, Auntie Verity? Is that woman holding a dog? Why isn’t it moving?’

  I chuckled. ‘No, it’s a muff, Hans. It keeps the lady’s hands warm.

  Hannah looked thoughtful. ‘Why doesn’t she just wear gloves?’

  Back in Victorian times, ladies didn’t wear big, thick gloves, only thin, dressy ones.’

  ‘But it’s like her hands are tied in front of her.’

  ‘Not really, she can get her hands out easily.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Welcome.’ It was the man who had led the ghost tour. ‘No scares tonight, hopefully,’ he said as he recognised us. ‘Just a walk back in time before we see the New Year in.’ He held his flaming torch aloft. ‘Lanterns are over there, and there’s plenty of mulled wine left. Please help yourself, and we’ll be setting off soon.’