Deep Waters

by Ann Cliff

  ‘I do see what you mean,’ Susan Sutton said thoughtfully. ‘My father is the one to speak to, of course. Perhaps the Major should speak to him.’ She lowered her voice as they walked down the path to where her horse stood waiting, resting one leg. ‘Who is that man that came round with us? He’s quite – pleasant, isn’t he? There are so few educated men up here.’

  Rachel hid a smile and said that she didn’t know who the man was, but would find out. Miss Sutton said she would call again one day, to complete the tour.

  ‘Perhaps you could bring Mr Sutton with you?’ Rachel asked boldly. ‘He might like to see the house.’ And she might get the chance to whisper in his ear, although that was rather unlikely. Important men didn’t usually speak to young lasses in white aprons except to order them about.

  Back in the Long Gallery, the visitor was leaning on a window sill, looking out into the autumn garden. ‘It seems so sad that this house may be lost to a reservoir,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I wonder what the ghosts feel about it.’

  It was nearly time to fetch the cows for milking, which was usually Rachel’s job, but it was important that as many people as possible should know what was going on.

  ‘Most of us here are very worried about it, although I can’t speak for the ghosts.’ Rachel smiled. ‘If you’re staying in the area, sir, you should come to the public meeting. It’s at the school, on Thursday night. How – how did you hear about the reservoir?’

  ‘From the Ripon Herald, of course. I am the editor, as a matter of fact – Alex Finlay. I’m trying to find out as much as I can about the scheme.’ He drew a paper out of his pocket, while Rachel stood very still. ‘Two very good letters from “Concerned” have been published, you may have read them. I wonder whether you could decipher this signature for me? It would be good to meet the writer, he must live locally.’

  Should she admit it? If the editor thought a man had written the letters, he might not be very happy to find out it was only a girl. Many men believed that women had no brains, in spite of very good evidence that they had. She took a deep breath and decided to be honest.

  ‘I – I wrote those letters,’ she stammered. ‘Nobody knows it was me, please don’t tell anyone …’

  The editor looked down at her. ‘You wrote them? My word, I assumed it was a man. You write very well. So what’s your name, Miss Concerned? Where do you fit into the story?’

  The eyes behind his glasses were kind; he seemed to be genuinely interested in Firby and its problems. This was a powerful friend, Rachel thought, but he could make a dangerous enemy if he was against you. The editor would decide what was published in the Herald and even what people should think about it.

  Rachel explained that she was the assistant to her mother at the Hall, that her father was the farm manager. It affected them personally because they would lose their jobs and their home if the valley were flooded. ‘But it’s not just for us that I’m concerned,’ she told him. ‘The whole community, the little village and the good farms, will all be lost. Why can’t they choose a lonely valley with nobody in it?’

  ‘That is an important point. Well, I’m surprised that the letters didn’t come from the school teacher, or an older farmer. But why shouldn’t a young woman write good, sensible English? Women are taking an interest in general affairs, these days.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’d like to get back to Ripon before dark. Now, Miss Rachel, will you send me a report of the village meeting? I will pay you for any reports you can send me. “From our correspondent” will cover your tracks, if you prefer.’

  Shaking a little, Rachel agreed. She would have to tell Kit and Ruth eventually … but she didn’t want the rest of the village to know.

  ‘But how – do I do it? I haven’t reported on anything before. It sounds a bit like spying. People might be annoyed if they knew their words were being recorded.’

  The editor laughed. ‘If you record facts, nobody can complain. Facts usually speak for themselves. Opinions can be important, of course, if you get them from people who matter.’ He looked down at Rachel. ‘I haven’t been at the Herald for very long … and to tell you the truth, Rachel, it’s been a boring paper. Now we have the chance to liven it up a little!’

  ‘Where do I start, Mr Finlay? It’s exciting, but I feel out of my depth … oh, that’s the wrong thing to say about this subject!’

  Alex Finlay laughed. ‘Thank you, you’ve given me a headline: OUT OF THEIR DEPTH: THE PEOPLE WHO FIGHT A RESERVOIR.’ The editor wrote it down. ‘Where to start? It’s simple, really. Take a notebook … and observe people and listen carefully. Don’t try to record unless you understand.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘You can’t write down everything, but try to get the main points. That’s harder than you think, with people who wrap everything up in too many words!’ He smiled. ‘Fortunately, they often repeat themselves.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rachel faintly. Could she manage it?

  ‘And quote the actual words people use if you can, but be sure you get them right.’ The editor beamed at her. ‘There, that’s a correspondent’s first lesson. It’s a job that you learn by doing it and of course, I can smooth out any errors of grammar. I need to know the facts, and also, I would like an idea of the atmosphere of the meeting.’

  ‘Thank you … I’ll do my best, Mr Finlay.’

  They walked down the stairs.

  ‘Is Major Potts available? I was afraid not.’ The editor ran a hand through his hair. ‘Perhaps you can tell me where the Suttons live? I should try to get an interview with Mr Granville Sutton one day.’

  Rachel wondered whether perhaps Mr Finlay was hoping to see Miss Sutton again. She was tempted to tell him it was mutual, but her boldness wouldn’t carry her that far, so she gave him directions to Cranby Chase. ‘It’s nearer to Ripon than we are, but quite a lot of their land will be flooded.’

  The editor lingered on the landing to write the address in his notebook, while Rachel went down to open the door. Guy Potts appeared from the manor stables, a whip in his hand. When he saw Rachel he dropped the whip, rushed up to her and embraced her tightly.

  ‘Now I’ve got you, and there’s nothing you can do about it,’ he jeered. ‘Nobody here but you and me, so you’ll have to be nice to me.’ His fingers dug into her sharply.

  Rachel concentrated on trying to get away from the man’s grip.

  ‘What I have in mind is a roll in one of those big beds, I’ve always fancied—’ He broke off as the editor came down the stairs, but he didn’t let go of Rachel.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Finlay asked coldly.

  ‘Mind your own business. Who are you anyway, trespassing in my house? She likes a cuddle, these women are always pestering me.’ Guy’s face was flushed. ‘Go away, before I take the whip to you!’

  ‘Please help me,’ Rachel gasped. Guy had an arm round her throat and she could hardly breathe.

  Alex Finlay bent and picked up the whip in a swift movement.

  ‘Let the girl go, or I will use this on you.’ He spoke quietly, but it was clear he meant what he said. Sullenly, Guy walked away from Rachel and up to Alex. He punched the editor hard on the arm, making Alex drop the whip. He grabbed his whip and disappeared.

  ‘That,’ Rachel said to Alex, who was rubbing his arm, ‘is Mr Guy Potts, the Major’s son.’

  ‘He has a medieval notion of his position, I gather. Has he hurt you, Rachel? The man’s a menace, he can’t be allowed to behave like that. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘I have a few scratches, that’s all, thank you. I try to keep out of his way. This is the second time he’s interrupted a tour of the house. Please come with me, Mr Finlay, my mother will like to meet you.’ Rachel led the way across from the Hall to the farm house.

  Ruth Garnett had a remedy for everything, including painful shock. She welcomed Alex to the farmhouse kitchen and prescribed a cup of sweet tea.

  ‘I am ashamed to think that the son of the Family treated you in this way.’ Ruth�
�s lips were compressed; she was angrier than Rachel remembered seeing her.

  ‘I’m grateful to you, Mr Finlay. Guy is dangerous, I must be careful to keep away from him.’ Rachel poured the tea into three cups. ‘And I worry for our maid, Janet, she will be in danger too from that man.’ The poor little maid had no confidence to begin with.

  ‘Cook looks after Janet, she’s mainly in the kitchen. But you’re a better guide than me,’ her mother told her. ‘You can remember more of the history and you have a way with words.’

  Finlay looked at Rachel and she nodded. He said to Ruth, ‘She has indeed, so I’ve asked Rachel to send me an account of the village meeting and anything else of interest. Rachel can post her stories to me and I will send her a cheque.’

  ‘You mean – Rachel’s story will be in the paper? I suppose you’ll have to correct it a lot,’ Ruth said doubtfully.

  Alex laughed and then winced. ‘That’s what editors are for, Mrs Garnett, they edit stories to make them fit. But we do need a correspondent in Firby. I haven’t the time to ride up here very often, much as I would like to.’

  ‘It would be a wonder if you ever came back, after today.’ Ruth shook her head. ‘Someone should teach that lad a lesson. He can’t go round punching strangers.’

  Rachel walked out with Finlay to his horse and she felt that she owed him something, after the way he had stood up to Guy.

  ‘Miss Susan Sutton,’ she began diffidently, ‘when I walked down the stairs with her, asked me who you were.’ She paused, then said, ‘She said there aren’t many intelligent men in this area.’ It seemed strange to be talking to an editor like this.

  ‘Really?’ He smiled. ‘I hope she included me in their number. I do hope to visit them soon and, you know, talk to them about the human cost of this project. Perhaps we can persuade Mr Sutton to fight against the dam.’

  He mounted his horse and as he left Rachel said, ‘It is very good to know that you are on our side, Mr Finlay.’

  That night, Kit Garnett heard about Guy’s behaviour during supper.

  ‘We can’t let him go on molesting poor Rachel, quite apart from upsetting a tour of the house,’ Ruth said.

  Kit was quiet until he’d heard the whole story. ‘I will speak to the Major, he’s the only person who can do anything about it. I hope he will send Guy away – the youth obviously wants to go to London. He hates living here.’ He smiled grimly. ‘I’m glad he’s not my son. I feel sorry for the Major and Lady Agnes.’

  The next day, the Major went with Kit to inspect a group of fat cattle.

  ‘I want you to see them,’ Kit explained, glad to have found his employer in a quiet frame of mind. ‘If you like, we could sell them as required to the Masham butcher and ask him to send some of our beef to the Hall as part of your regular order.’

  They were sleek Shorthorns, grazing quietly, a pleasant and soothing scene in the autumn sunshine. It was a good time to bring up a difficult subject.

  The Major admired the cattle and agreed to the plan. On the way back through the pasture, Kit said quietly, ‘I would like to talk to you about Mr Guy, sir. I am worried about him.’

  The Major looked at Kit for a long moment as though he would like to dismiss him on the spot. ‘Not your business, Garnett, you are insubordinate,’ he barked.

  Kit looked straight in front of him and said nothing.

  The Major sighed. ‘Selling the estate is my main concern and I do it against my will. Guy is young and has much to learn, but his future is not here. He will be an infantry army officer.’

  Heaven help the poor bloody infantry, thought Kit, who never swore.

  SEVEN

  There was a buzz of conversation in the room, but no heads turned as the Herald’s special correspondent took her seat on the night of the village meeting. Rachel wondered whether anyone would notice a farm girl taking notes, but for now the notebook was hidden under her warm shawl.

  Paraffin lamps cast a mellow glow at intervals down the room. It looked like the start of a village concert, with school desks cleared away, a platform at one end of the room and at the other, the fire stacked high with logs. Sitting between Kit and Ruth, Rachel tried to count the number of people there. That would show the level of concern and should be reported.

  Her scones had been delivered to the kitchen but were totally eclipsed by a row of deep yellow sponge cakes with their filling of cream. The real depth of feeling in Firby, Rachel knew, was represented by those magnificent sponges. The women who made them had felt that this was an important occasion and they had brought out their best. Should the cakes be mentioned in the report? Perhaps not, but they were truly a sign of the atmosphere in the village.

  Ruth had respectfully told Lady Agnes about the meeting, but Her Ladyship had curled her lip. She never attended village events unless she was the star, the opener of the fête. Lady Agnes had nothing to say about the reservoir, for or against.

  The Major had been away in the army for so long that he hardly remembered anyone in Firby, or cared about them. He did seem to care about the estate, though, according to Kit; he had talked about planting more trees just before planning to sell.

  It was good to see that the Major’s friend Judge Rupert was there, leaning on a stick. He was one of the “people with influence” and he’d been a lawyer. Surely that meant he could see what was fair and right?

  Jim Angram leaned over Rachel. ‘See you tomorrow night, then?’ He put a casual hand on her shoulder and looked curiously at the notebook and pencil on her knee. Rachel felt more than ever like a spy, but then she reflected that Jim never knew what she was thinking.

  ‘You look well, Jim.’ Ruth smiled and the lad nodded and went to stand at the back of the room with some of the other young farmers. By this time the room was full almost to bursting point and there were no seats left. Rachel made a note.

  Mr Jackson, the head-teacher, stood on a platform with Grandfather Nathan, who looked handsome in an elderly way, his white hair neatly cut. In his Sunday suit, Nathan could easily be mistaken for a person with influence. His refined features wore their usual serene expression.

  Mr Jackson called for silence in his strong teaching voice and an expectant hush fell on the room. He outlined the reason for the meeting and then said that a well-run meeting needed an agenda. He asked people who wished to speak to put up their hands and wait their turn.

  ‘Our agenda falls into three parts,’ Mr Jackson said. ‘Firstly, we should hear from people who object to the proposal to build a reservoir here. Then, we must allow those who support the scheme to have their say. Lastly, we need to consider what can or should be done.’ That, thought Rachel, gave her the main headings for the report.

  There was a short silence; no one wanted to be the first to speak. Nathan Brown looked round the room and said in his quiet voice, ‘I will begin, although the ideas of the young folks are more important than mine. All my life, there has been talk of a reservoir here, but I never thought it would happen.’

  Older people in the audience murmured their agreement.

  ‘Some of you will know that other valleys have been flooded, other little villages lost. I made it my business to go over to one and talk to the folks who’d been displaced.’ He paused and the silence in the room was profound. ‘Those folks lost their land, they lost their way of life. They were never the same again, and for some it was hard times. I reckon that some lives were cut short even. Surely it would be better to flood a valley up on moors and only displace a few ewes?’

  Following his lead, several farmers spoke. Jesse Angram, Jim’s father, said he couldn’t understand why Firby had been chosen. ‘They’d better tell us where the water will lie,’ he said truculently. ‘I don’t know whether my farm will be lost, or whether we’ll just be sitting on the edge of a great big lake. Either way, nothing will ever be as it was.’

  The landlord of the Fox and Hounds agreed; he knew the depth of feeling in the village, at least among the men who drank beer. He was
one of those who depended on the Major’s decision. Rachel managed to record the main points of the argument.

  Of course, no woman would raise her hand, although some were there with their menfolk. If a woman wanted to make a point, convention decreed that she had to persuade a man to speak for her. And yet women were half of the population and just as important as men, Rachel believed.

  Several more men spoke, the blacksmith and the village joiner and undertaker among them. Then Mr Jackson called for item two of the agenda: what were the arguments in favour of the scheme? Villagers looked doubtful – were there any?

  The vicar rose to his feet and cleared his throat. ‘We must realize that this is God’s will for Firby,’ he said, his voice rolling round the room. The Reverend Jeremiah Jones had plenty of practice in pronouncing doom every Sunday; rarely did he mention love and forgiveness. Now, he looked round at his parishioners. ‘It has pleased God to take away our village, we will even lose our church. We must search our hearts to know what we have done to deserve this … and repent our sins.’

  Rachel stopped writing. It was too much.

  From the back of the room another voice spoke. ‘I’m a Methodist,’ a young man said, ‘and we believe the Lord helps those as help themselves.’ Several brave people clapped and the gloom lifted.

  Judge Rupert stood up, leaning on his stick. ‘I believe,’ he said in his upper-class accent, ‘in progress. We must accept progress for our great county of Yorkshire. We are leading the world in manufacture and the West Riding needs the water. It is selfish of us to want to preserve our little village and few acres, if it stands in the way of progress. Manufacture is more important than farming, in England now.’

  Rachel’s heart sank; the man of influence was going to support the other side.

  Kit said in her ear, ‘He must own a factory in Leeds.’

  Judge Rupert had not quite finished and Rachel saw that Mrs Walton was beside him, jogging his elbow. ‘My wife’s against all this, of course,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘She is devoted to her little farm.’ He sat down heavily. Sybil Walton half-rose in her seat and Rachel hoped she would say something, but she subsided.