by Clara Barley
She makes it sound as if she must travel just to write about it. She talks of her readers as if they already exist. I suggest she should perhaps complete the article about her mountain ascent first and see how it is received, but this just riles her and she says it will not sell as Europe is not exotic, it’s not far enough away. All I see is that she still has something to prove, to whom I’m not sure: herself, her sister, the Halifax set, her London friends, the world? Her solution is always to leave, to run away. But where can she ever truly run to and not find herself there?
Miss Lister
Without the world looking on we cannot be measured, examined, labelled, misunderstood or insulted. I see the appeal of building high walls and with this new venture overseas I will cut any remaining local ties. I shall finally forgo my pew at the church, and if we return I will build us our own chapel. I shall be satisfied with all I am fortunate enough to have and not seek again to meet new acquaintances. Shibden Hall itself will be our Moss House, our sanctuary, our private place.
Little Halifax is not ready for us. It cannot cope with anything but the ordinary and so will never grow to much. It shall remain a nondescript town on the route to nowhere with its layer of smog and forlorn buildings and sense of a prosperous past which it could not maintain, its simple-minded people going about their dull daily lives. There can be no real progress when half the population is still shackled to men, with no rights of our own, denied education and any chance to make the world anew. The new Queen has done nothing to change that, despite my high hopes.
Miss Walker
We’ve talked more of plans for when we return which comforts me, makes the trip sound more temporary, something I can endure knowing we will come home again once and for all. We talk of how we will remain at Shibden, possibly even sell Crow Nest and use the money to improve the Hall even more and for the first time in my life, never returning to Crow Nest does not fill me with dread or sorrow. After my years here at Shibden, it feels like home. When I visit Crow Nest these days it feels like a hotel.
After this trip we will live out our days contentedly, she assures me. We’ll have her book published and we can put travelling behind us.
Hopefully Marian will come back to us and my sister will visit more often on our return – oh, how I miss her! I will be abandoning her for years with no one to even correspond with, for once we reach Russia, it could be weeks or months for post, and I will miss everything and be unable to help in any way. I can see why so few people travel; it is all-consuming, to be plucked from one’s life and transported elsewhere with no definite return date, no idea what life will bring, both for us, the travellers, and those we leave behind. What if either of us falls ill, and the other is left to nurse them, to try to bring them home? I shall make myself ill with the worry of it. Both of us are now leaving our sisters to their fates, even though they are all we have left – a sister each whom we abandon for our own adventure. If only they could come too.
With no last-minute reprieve, no last-minute letter from Marian to rescue me by coming home to us, no letter from Elizabeth to say Sutherland has died and she is free to return, the day is upon us.
I check my bags and my trunk again. How is it possible to know what to take for two years? Everything, ideally, but nothing that can be too easily damaged or crumpled or suffer in adverse weather. Nothing too valuable in case it is stolen. Nothing too precious in case it is lost. I should just place myself in the trunk and have done. Lock myself inside it until we arrive.
I detest journeys. The confines of the carriage, the rocking of the ship, the packing and unpacking along the way, never being able to find what you need and the language around you that you do not understand. Eyes on you, judging you, no different from here at home, wondering who these two pale women are, arm in arm, and what we are doing in their country.
So fearful to leave but also to be left. I have become so reliant on Anne as if she is the very sun, and without her all I can see is darkness. To be left here without her is inconceivable. But so is Russia! A dark unimaginable place to which she forces me to accompany her.
I cannot stay here alone, but I cannot shake this feeling of foreboding that hangs over me about leaving.
Miss Lister
She enters the carriage as if being dragged to an asylum. I am not forcing her to come! I have given her fair chance to remain, offered to employ more staff, find a new companion for her, even convinced her aunt and Mrs Priestley to visit her more, take her under their wing. Yet she insists on coming with me.
I am accustomed to travel and so I shall be the husband, the tour guide, the guard of precious Ann once more. I squeeze her hand in reassurance and glance back at Shibden. The near-completed tower in which I cannot wait to place my books and write up the travels on which I am about to embark.
I am excited by the journey before me, but sad to leave Shibden behind. I will see you again soon, Shibden. I open the compass from Father, which I carry at all times; the needle turns and finds North. It will help me find my way home again, he said, but what is home when it is empty?
Now I had best reassure Ann, so we can at least be out of our own grounds before she starts to cry.
Miss Walker
I look once more at Shibden Hall through the carriage window as we set off down the driveway. Our home, our safe place, our Moss House, and suddenly the thought comes to me that only one of us will ever return here again.
Anne takes hold of my hand and, before we have even passed the gatehouse and joined the main road, I cannot help but cry.
Miss Lister
Dear God, what have I let myself in for?
Miss Walker
Dear God, please do not ever let her leave me.
Epilogue
Anne Lister and Ann Walker set off from Shibden Hall on the twentieth of June 1839 for their trip to Russia. They went to Belgium, Germany, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Finland, Russia and Georgia, where Anne Lister died on the twenty-second of September 1840. Ann Walker was left alone to return with her partner’s body, which was interred at Halifax Parish Church on the twenty-ninth of April 1841, seven months after Anne’s death.
Ann Walker returned to Shibden Hall, which she had inherited from Anne, but on the ninth of September 1843 her brother-in-law Sutherland had Doctor Belcome forcibly remove her from Shibden and take her to an asylum in York. Sutherland moved into Shibden himself, seemingly alone. Elizabeth died in 1844.
On the twenty-fifth of February 1854, Ann died aged fifty at one of the Walker properties, Cliffe Hill. She left Marian an annual sum in her will and the rest of the Walker estate to Elizabeth’s son, George. After Sutherland’s death and a range of tenants while Ann was alive, Shibden’s ownership returned to distant Lister family members in 1855. Marian Lister never returned to Shibden and died unmarried on the sixth of August 1882. Shibden was occupied until the last Lister resident died childless in 1933, and it was donated to the town of Halifax as a museum and public park. Mariana Lawton died without an heir in 1868.
By the time of her death, Anne had written over five million words in her diaries, along with fourteen volumes of travel notes and countless letters. Anne’s diaries were first read by John Lister, the last Lister to live at Shibden, who published many edited extracts in the local newspaper. He also cracked Anne’s secret code but never revealed any of its content. Anne’s diaries, including the coded sections, were read again over the years by several different people. However, Anne’s lesbian relationships remained secret until Helena Whitbread published sections from Anne’s earlier diaries in 1988. Few people have ever read the diaries in full and no transcripts have yet been published or digitised. Very little is known about Ann Walker.
This fictional account is based loosely on known key dates and events. You can find out more about the real Anne Lister on Shibden Hall’s website and in the introductory book Anne Lister of Shibden Hall, published
by Calderdale Museums who look after the Hall.
