Ghosts of Yorkshire

by Karen Perkins

  When he returned, I thanked him for the drink and apologised.

  ‘No, it’s fine, it’s a fair question. The man terrorised the area – I can remember my sister being banned from going out alone, most lasses were – thank God he’s rotting in Broadmoor or wherever they moved him to. I just hate that we share a surname, does me no good on dates.’

  I smiled at the sight of his dimple.

  ‘Tell me about your family,’ he said. ‘Why did you choose Haworth?’

  ‘Well, I got divorced about a year ago – the details have only just been finalised.’

  ‘So you’re starting over?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Why here?’

  ‘My dad was from Keighley, we used to come here at weekends when I was a child – this place holds my happiest memories – in fact, my dad’s family may have originated here, they definitely worked in the local mills.’

  ‘Have you never looked into it, ancestry.com and all that?’

  ‘Have you tried sticking “Earnshaw” and “Yorkshire” into any search engine? There are millions of hits thanks to Wuthering Heights.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that would be a problem.’ He smiled. ‘Maybe Emily based Catherine on one of your ancestors.’

  ‘God, I hope not!’

  16.

  ‘Your turn,’ I said when I rejoined him, fresh drinks in hand. ‘Have you always lived in Haworth?’

  ‘Born and bred,’ he said, his pride evident in the smug cast of his smile – no dimple. ‘Apart from three years at art school. This is my home – I hated being away, and I can’t imagine living anywhere else. We can trace the family back here over three hundred years. I love the moors, the people, the way of life here, both past and present. I just have to paint it, all of it.’

  ‘Wow, so you’re not an adventurous breed then?’

  I cringed, wondering if I’d been inappropriate again, but he continued without a flinch.

  ‘My grandda and his before him, and his before him, were stonemasons – carved most of the stones in the churchyard they did, and built most of the houses of their time.’

  I felt cold and faint headed, but if I’d paled as well, he didn’t notice.

  ‘The business struggled when they stopped burying people in the churchyard.’

  ‘Why did they stop?’

  ‘Overcrowding, and the stones were laid flat, so the gases and rot from decomposition were trapped in the ground. Some of those graves are twelve corpses deep, and there’s no spaces between them. Supposed to stop in the 1850s they were, after the Babbage Report pretty much condemned the village. But nobody took much notice – folk want to be with their folk, it takes a lot to come between family in these parts.’

  I nodded. ‘Who was Babbage?’

  ‘An inspector in the 1850s from the General Board of Health – Patrick Brontë had him come out, actually, the sisters’ father. Anyways, the living conditions here were atrocious: life expectancy early-twenties; at least one funeral every day; over two thousand people sharing four wells and twenty five privies. Not good.’ He shuddered, and I joined him.

  ‘One of the wells was out back here by the graveyard, and another next to the morgue, where the Tourist Information is now. Can you imagine? Even the cows wouldn’t drink from it, folk had no chance. Anyroad, things started improving after he came, and eventually they stopped digging graves.’

  ‘Not before time, by the sounds of it.’

  ‘But it meant no one needed new headstones. I think it was a blessing really when the museum people bought the parsonage – they knocked down the old mason’s workshop to make room for the car park.’

  ‘That must have been difficult for your family,’ I said. ‘The stonemason’s workshop must have been a big part of Haworth’s history, especially with it having been so close to the parsonage.’

  ‘Aye, just not the sort of history that brings in the tourists,’ William said with a smile – dimple evident this time – and took a long drink.

  ‘Anyway, they didn’t do too badly from the sale of the land, enough to set the family up in other businesses. My father had the shop on Main Street – shoemakers it was in his day, then when he retired, I took it over and reopened as an art gallery.’

  ‘What did he think to that?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ William admitted, ‘but he’s starting to come round now.’

  ‘How long have you been open?’

  ‘About ten years.’

  I laughed. ‘And he’s just starting to come round to the idea?’

  William shrugged. ‘Yorkshire folk don’t like change. Things are best done the way they’ve always been done.’

  I raised my eyebrows and pouted. I had plenty of memories of my dad saying exactly the same thing.

  ‘I didn’t have it as bad as Rebekah, though. You should have heard my dad when she told him she was going to university to read history. Well, most of the village did hear him!’ He laughed, but with no mirth, and took another drink.

  ‘Still complains to this day, though we’re both making good livings. Not sure he means it now, though, just does it to keep up his curmudgeonly reputation.’

  I giggled. ‘He sounds like quite a character.’

  ‘Oh aye, that he is, right enough. Just beware when you meet him, he’ll have all sorts to say about you opening yet another guesthouse.’

  ‘When I meet him?’

  ‘Aye, well.’ He coloured. ‘Bound to before long, living here.’

  The bell behind the bar rang, and William jerked his head round to stare at the barman.

  ‘Bloody hell, last orders already? Can’t be.’

  I checked the time on my watch. ‘Eleven,’ I said. ‘Funny, living in Leeds, I haven’t heard a last orders’ bell in years. Everywhere just stays open.’

  ‘Aye, well, you’re in the country now. Things are done the way they always were,’ William said. ‘And we forgot to eat! Everywhere will be closed now too, dammit.’

  ‘Not to worry, let’s get a last round in, then we can go back to mine – I should be able to rustle up an omelette or something.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m only offering food, mind, it is only a second date.’

  We smiled at each other, eyes locked together, then William pulled away at the shout of ‘Last orders, please!’ from the bar.

  ***

  ‘Blimey, what’s going on?’ William ducked as a couple of birds swooped at us.

  ‘Oh yes, they seem to like roosting here – it turns out calling it The Rookery is very apt!’

  William looked up at the gable and windows of The Rookery. ‘They never used to roost here before.’

  ‘Really? They’ve been bothering me since I moved in. I’m sure there are more of them every day.’ I gave a nervous laugh and found the keyhole with my still unfamiliar key.

  ‘I’ve only ever known them roost in the churchyard,’ William said. 'My sister used to tell me they were the souls of all the babies buried there. Scared the life out of me, she did – I couldn’t go near the place for years.’

  ‘She sounds lovely!’ I laughed.

  ‘Aye, but she’s also a big sister – had to have her fun with me.’

  I switched the lights on and led the way to the stairs. ‘The only working kitchen at the moment is the one upstairs, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Vikram’s still got a lot to do, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s time. They’re doing well, actually, on schedule so far, despite the holiday season.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like him – mind you, I guess he’s only just started.’ William laughed, then realised what he’d said when I turned to him.

  ‘What do you mean? Should I be worried?’

  ‘No, no, not at all. Sorry, me and my big mouth. He’s one of the good ones is Vikram, we were at school together. When he does a job, he does it proper – even if it takes him a bit longer. He’ll see you right, don’t worry about it.’

  I nod
ded, mollified, and led the way up the narrow staircases.

  ‘So why didn’t you come to the Black Bull on Saturday – the real reason?’

  I didn’t turn. I couldn’t look at him. ‘I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have stood you up like that. I’ve taken so much on with The Rookery, and especially after all the stuff with the divorce, it just seemed too much. And Hannah was with us, too, of course.’ I paused. ‘I’m glad you and Vikram came to the White Lion, though.’

  ‘Yes, me too. I wasn’t sure if you’d turn up tonight.’

  I giggled. ‘I couldn’t do that to you again. Anyway, I enjoyed New Year’s Eve.’ Now I did turn, smiled, and led the way to my apartment.

  ***

  I opened the fridge. ‘Wine or lager?’

  ‘No bitter?’

  ‘None I’m afraid.’

  ‘Guess I’ll have to make do with lager then.’

  I glanced at him, ready to apologise, but relaxed when I saw his dimple, and passed him a bottle of Becks. I poured myself a glass of wine, then regarded the fridge once more.

  ‘Well, it looks like cheese omelette – that do you?’

  ‘Cheese? At this time of night? You’ll give us nightmares.’

  ‘To be honest, it doesn’t seem to take cheese to have strange dreams at the moment, I’ve been having them since I moved in.’ I glanced at him, then away again as I put eggs and cheese on the worktop.

  ‘Strange dreams?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Verity?’

  I turned and looked at him properly.

  ‘I’ve been having strange dreams too,’ he said.

  ‘Really? I bet mine are stranger!’

  He grinned. ‘I’ve been dreaming about you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been dreaming about you, for a couple of weeks now. Then you walked into my gallery and I felt pretty much how you look right now. Come and sit down.’

  He took my arm and led me to the sofa. A loud crash made me scream and my glass fell, smashing and drenching the floor with Pinot Grigio. ‘What the hell was that?’

  William left me at the sofa and rushed to the window. ‘One of the birds,’ he said. ‘Must have been mesmerised by the light. I’m afraid it’s cracked the window. More work for Vikram.’

  ‘Is it dead?’

  ‘Unlikely. It landed on the tiles, probably just stunned. Best thing is to leave it to sort itself out if it can.’

  ‘And if not?’

  He shrugged. ‘Nowt we can do. Why did you look so shocked when I told you I’d been dreaming about you? It sounds like a corny pick-up line, I expected you to laugh.’

  ‘Get me a new glass of wine, and I’ll tell you.’

  17.

  ‘You romantic devil!’ Martha exclaimed as Harry presented her with a bouquet.

  ‘Well, three years to the day since we were wed,’ he said. ‘Look, I got gorse, garlic, pussy willow.’

  ‘And the honeysuckle too – the same as my bridal flowers!’ Martha held the blooms to her nose and breathed the scent in. She could just make out the delicate scent of the honeysuckle under the more powerful wild garlic.

  ‘Lizzie’s happy to have Edna, one more don’t make no difference to her now.’

  ‘What, all day?’ Harry’s sole surviving sister was not normally so free with offers of help.

  ‘Aye, well, special occasion, ain’t it?’

  ‘Thee’s paid her, ain’t thee, Harry?’

  He shrugged. ‘Special occasion,’ he repeated. ‘And we’re doing all right. I’ve plenty of work on, and there’ll be no let up, not with the smallpox rife. We can afford it, love. Relax and stop worrying, at least for today.’

  Martha did as she was bid and leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder for a moment. ‘So what does thee have in mind?’

  ‘Get out of this village, for one. I’ve bread and cheese,’ he kicked the pail by his feet, ‘and a couple of bottles of porter—’

  ‘Thee is splashing out!’

  Harry raised his eyebrows at her and she stilled her protest.

  ‘I thought we could go up to Harden Woods, it’ll be pretty there, the bluebells might be out, too.’

  ‘That sounds lovely.’ Martha smiled at her husband and kissed him full on the lips.

  ‘Hang about, woman. We’re in public! Plenty of time for all that later.’ He grinned and smacked Martha’s rump, enjoying the sound of her resultant squeal. He hadn’t heard that mock-protest in a very long time.

  ***

  Harry dropped the pail of food and beer, grabbed Martha – to another squeal – and spun her around in much the same way he usually did with Edna, then kissed her. Not like the way he did Edna.

  He pulled Martha to him as she responded, their bodies reacting to each other in the way they used to. It had been some months since they had shared more than a discreet fumble in a room full of sleeping bodies, and both wanted to take their fill of each other.

  Martha pulled back and smiled at Harry, brushing away the hair that flopped over his eyes, then stroked his whiskers.

  ‘You’re looking very distinguished these days,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I’m a master mason now. Folk expect a bit of distinguishment.’

  Martha giggled. ‘Is that even a word?’

  ‘Don’t know, I’ll have to ask Emily.’ He could have bitten his tongue. Of all the stupid things to do – mention Emily Brontë to his wife.

  He didn’t understand Martha’s antipathy towards her, apart from the usual wary regard most of the village folk had for Emily. But with Martha it was something different, something more.

  ‘She’ll likely not know either,’ he added in an attempt to undo the harm. He kissed his wife again, melting her heart towards him once more, and grabbed her rump to pull her close.

  He was rewarded with another squeal and he hooked her legs, bent her body, and landed her on the ground with a thump. He got slightly more than a squeal for that, but there was no real sting in her slap.

  He straddled her and gazed down at his wife of three years. Why can she not accept that I love her and no other?

  Along with the grief of losing their firstborn, John, that was his only sorrow, knowing that she had no real faith in him. God knew, he had done nothing to deserve her distrust; had always been true to her, unlike many of his peers. But nothing would persuade her of his fidelity and loyalty.

  He pushed the thoughts away and smiled down at Martha. Today may well help in that regard.

  ‘You’re as pretty as a picture,’ he said, and meant it. Her flaxen curls framed her face, and she was surrounded by the greenest grass which brought out the little flecks of green in her otherwise blue eyes, a similar hue to the bluebells which nodded their trumpet heads in the April breeze.

  The smile he was granted warmed his heart and he bent his lips to worship it.

  ***

  I woke, blinked and groaned. I tried to move my arm to grasp my aching head, but it was trapped. I shifted and tried to roll, then realised my body was not the restraint.

  Wide awake now, I scrambled to a sitting position, throwing away William’s embrace and startling him to wakefulness.

  ‘What the hell?’

  I stared at him, stricken, then relaxed in the warmth of his smile and the slow realisation that he was still dressed. I glanced down. So was I.

  Thank God.

  William wiped his face with his hands, then seemed to be brushing something away. He looked at his hands, bemused, then turned his gaze back to me and shrugged. ‘Felt like cobwebs, but there’s nothing there, must be the remnants of a dream.’

  ‘Cobwebs?’

  He smiled and showed his hands. ‘No. Nothing there. Good morning.’

  I relaxed a little more. ‘Morning.’ I smiled, shy. I had not woken up with a man since Antony. It had been a long time since I had been so intimate, even if we were still fully clothed.

  Slowly, the events of the evening before materialised in my memory. The rook s
triking the window and cracking it, the draught, the cold. Me freaking out, knowing those birds were just outside that broken pane of glass.

  We’d made omelettes so quickly we could qualify for the Saturday morning omelette challenge, scarfed them down, then brought the rest of the alcohol into the bedroom, closing the door on the cracked window.

  Then we’d talked.

  And talked, and talked.

  I’d fallen asleep in William’s arms and, thinking back now, hadn’t felt so safe for a very long time.

  Then I’d panicked when I’d woken in those same arms.

  Ashamed, I cuddled up to him. ‘I had the strangest dream.’ I blushed, remembering the bluebell wood.

  He gave a humourless laugh. ‘I’m not surprised, with everything that’s been going on, I had a weird one too. Very interesting it was.’ Our eyes met, and I saw he was as embarrassed as I was.

  As one, we reached for each other and kissed. Lips soft against mine, tongue gently exploring, his breath feathering my cheek. My heart thumped then settled into a faster rhythm and I could feel his matching mine.

  My hands moved down his arms as his crept down my back and cupped my waist as I reached his hips.

  Then we broke apart – together – and rested our heads on each other’s shoulders, panting hard.

  Again as one, we sat up straight and found each other’s eyes.

  ‘I can’t quite believe I’m saying this—’

  ‘But I need to wait,’ I interrupted.

  William nodded. ‘This is something – I mean really something. I don’t want to rush it or get it wrong. I want to do things right.’

  ‘Me too,’ I whispered. ‘These old-fashioned values are quite romantic, really,’ I said with a smile, brushing my thumb over his lips.

  ‘Hmm. Not quite sure when I adopted them, though.’ He laughed.

  ‘Nor me.’ I lowered my face with a smile and glanced up at him through my lashes. ‘Coffee?’

  18.

  I opened my front door the following Friday evening, and flung it wide to usher in Lara and Jayne. I cast a suspicious glance upwards, but the rooks were no threat.

  Today, at least.