Deep Waters

by Ann Cliff

  ‘Better get it right, son,’ he had said. ‘Once we start demolition it’ll be too late.’

  One of the office workers told him that they’d underestimated the cost of moving all those villagers and small farmers out of the way. The moorland site was more expensive in terms of piping water to Leeds, but it would be cheaper to build and the rainfall would be higher.

  Roger thought that there was another advantage; a proper survey would probably find that a Woodley Crags reservoir would store more water.

  He smiled to himself when he thought of Rachel’s letter to the press, the letter that had sparked off a chain reaction. If she’d been a man, she would have been a very good journalist. His sister had educated Roger; he understood that women were often undervalued.

  The engineer’s own attitude had changed since the day he first went to the Garnetts when he was planning the reservoir at Firby. He now firmly believed that the Firby plan had too high a cost in terms of people’s lives.

  Industry was eating into the countryside at an alarming rate. A countryman at heart, Roger hated the onward sprawl of Leeds. Perhaps he should give up engineering and become a gamekeeper.

  Thoughts of Rachel’s dark eyes rose before him, but he tried to push them away. Rachel belonged to Jim, although he didn’t seem to realize how lucky he was. Jim was very casual. Some farmer’s sons were not willing to wait to inherit; they rented a cottage, got married and settled down as best they could until the farmhouse was available. How could Jim keep a girl like Rachel waiting for years?

  To take his mind away from Rachel, he decided to estimate the distance from Firby to Woodley Crags, the extra miles that materials and men would have to travel to build a reservoir on the moor.

  ‘Good day, Roger, are you riding my way?’ A friendly voice broke into his thoughts as he passed Nathan Brown’s farm gate. The man himself was riding out, warmly wrapped in a heavy riding cape for the cold morning. When he heard Roger’s destination, he smiled. ‘I’m heading up dale myself, to see an old friend – I keep an eye on the farm for her. I suppose you’ve met Alice Bolton, if you’ve been up that way?’

  Roger remembered a white-haired woman with keen eyes, a woman who asked many questions on his previous visit. ‘Yes. I remember Mrs Bolton. If … if Leeds Corporation were to plan a reservoir at Woodley Crags, how do you think she would feel about it?’ Perhaps he would have another fight on his hands.

  ‘Let’s ask her.’

  They rode in silence for a while until Nathan said, ‘Poor Roger … you’ve negotiated and measured all up and down Firby for weeks and now it sounds as if you’re going to have to face it all over again. I suppose you’ll be disappointed?’

  Smiling, Roger shook his head. ‘I should be, Leeds has spent money on my salary and if the site changes, the time was wasted. But to tell you the truth, I will be glad if Firby is saved. From what I’ve seen of it, Woodley Crags is wild country, with only a handful of people. I’m hoping they’ll be glad to sell up and move down dale to a warmer spot.’ As though to illustrate the point, a chill wind blew round them, whirling the last of the autumn leaves.

  This area was on a tributary of the river Nidd, which wound its way down to Pateley Bridge from its source on Great Whernside. One day, Roger thought, they will build dams on the Nidd itself … and change the dale forever.

  As they went, the countryside changed; hawthorn hedges gave way to dry-stone walls and the green pastures of Firby were left behind. Moorland sheep grazed the short upland grass and grouse lurked in patches of heather. The far hills were shrouded in mist; this would be a lonely place in winter.

  Woodley Crags was a deep ravine with boulder outcrops lining the sides.

  ‘Good stone for building a dam wall,’ said Roger. ‘And the rainfall, Mr Brown – it must be higher than at Firby.’

  ‘It’s wet, right enough,’ the older man told him. ‘It often falls as snow in winter, though. Woodley can be cut off for weeks at a time.’ He pointed across the slope to where a small house stood in ruins, gradually dissolving back into the earth. ‘Folks have been leaving, moving down dale for a long time now. Only the stones are left, to show where families used to live. It’s a hard life up here.’

  ‘A perfect place for a reservoir,’ Roger said quietly. ‘Bromley – you remember my colleague? He disagrees. He worked out the extra cost of carting all the materials to the site, housing and feeding the construction gangs in the cold and wet. Work could be held up by deep snow. And then, the extra distance the water would have to travel, to get to Leeds.’ He laughed. ‘Bromley doesn’t like the idea of working at Woodley Crags.’

  ‘That’s understandable, for a city man. You’re different, Roger. A Pateley lad will feel right at home, up here.’ Nathan reined in. ‘Here’s the gate, let’s call on Alice Bolton.’

  The farm track led down from the road into the shelter of the valley. The horses were tied up in the stable before they knocked; Roger guessed Nathan Brown must be a frequent visitor.

  Mrs Bolton, resident farmer of Woodley Crags, had decided opinions of her own, Roger found when they called at her house. She was pleased to see Nathan, it was clear and she was very grateful for the couple of rabbits he’d brought her.

  ‘That’s grand, Nathan, I’m ready for a bit of fresh meat.’

  She invited them into the kitchen and almost before they had sat at the well-scrubbed table, the kettle was boiling over a bright fire on the hearth. It was wonderful to find this oasis of comfort in such a wild landscape.

  After toasted teacake and two cups of tea, Roger was ready to face another inquisition, but Mrs Bolton was ready to deliver her verdict.

  ‘Well, Alice, tell us what you think about the dam,’ Nathan encouraged her. ‘I know you’ve given this a lot of thought.’ An old sheepdog crept up to Roger and licked his hand.

  ‘If you want my opinion,’ she said, fixing Roger with her clear grey eyes, ‘this is the best place to build a dam, I have come to realize. I suppose it would cost more than Firby, but once it was built, there would be more water. And only a few of us live here.’ She smiled.

  This was going to be easier than he’d expected; Roger waited for more.

  ‘I’ve decided that it’s time to go, to live down dale. Since Ernest died, it’s been hard to keep going. Nathan here helps me with the sheep from time to time, but he has his own farm to run. And I have neighbours over the other side of the crags, but the days are long in winter. I hated the idea of the dam at first, but now I can see it would be a good thing. Not just for me, but for all of us here in Woodley. And for the poor Leeds folk, short of clean water.’

  Roger leaned back in his chair. He had expected opposition, but here was a woman who took a wide view. For most farming people, there must come a time in life when they have to make the hard decision to leave the life they love, to let younger folk shoulder the responsibility and hard work of a farm. He wondered whether Nathan had faced the prospect. He was looking over at his friend now with kindly eyes.

  ‘Of course, we’d all be sorry to leave.’ Mrs Bolton cleared the cups from the table. ‘It’s been our way of life, a good life for the most part. In the old days we had a little community here and a Methodist chapel, we all helped each other. But the young folks have gone, they have to earn a living. And we old ones have to realize that Woodley Crags is finished.’ There were tears in her eyes.

  Nathan said gently, ‘Ernest Bolton was a friend of mine, a very good sheep man. He would want you to have an easier life, Alice, and so will your bairns.’ He stood up. ‘Well, I’d better check the sheep and maybe move them to fresh ground.’

  ‘Will you lads stay for a bite to eat, later? I’ve plenty of ham and some eggs.’ Alice Bolton looked hopeful and the old dog wagged his tail, looking up from his place on the thick rag rug.

  This was Yorkshire hospitality and they risked offending her by refusing it. ‘Thanks, Alice, but it’s going to be a foggy night, we’ll need to get home in the daylight,’ Nathan
apologized. ‘The tea and toast was champion, just what we needed.’

  Roger added his thanks. ‘I’ll ride home with you, Mr Brown, but first I must look at the valley,’ he said.

  Before they left, he would ask Alice Bolton for the names of the other residents of Woodley Crags. Once Leeds was satisfied, he would need to negotiate with them. He could suggest that Mrs Bolton might have a talk to them, too. She seemed likely to have influence with her neighbours.

  Walking down from the house, Roger peered up at the towering crags. The farmhouse stood on the upper slope of the valley, a ravine carved out by glaciers in ages past. A beck ran musically over stones on its way to join the river. There were trees here in the more fertile soil of the valley floor, bright with autumn colours and here and there, the scarlet berries of rowan. Perhaps these were the trees that gave the place its name.

  A flock of hens scattered at his approach, squawking and then came back, looking for grain. A few geese splashed into the stream. Woodley Crags was more attractive than Roger had realized on his first visit; he could see why the area had been settled long ago, by self-sufficient people who had little need of the town. He could see, too, why it could break their hearts to leave such a beautiful place.

  Then the mist swirled down from the moor above and brought with it a sense of utter loneliness. With her husband and her children gone, Alice Bolton had probably stayed too long in this place. It needed human life, strong men and the voices of children.

  As he walked, Roger found that the valley widened, but it was still narrower and deeper than the Firby site. He paced out the length that would be needed for a wall to contain the stream and hold the floods of winter rain. From above, he heard a dog bark and saw sheep pouring down the fell side in a woolly tide, as Nathan moved them into a lower pasture.

  Bromley would disagree with his proposal, but Roger could now see that a Woodley reservoir would be cheaper to build than the Firby dam. He would argue that the road from Pateley would carry the materials if the surface was improved and a few culverts strengthened. After the dam filled, the present road would still be above the water level since it kept to the ridge, whereas Firby would need a completely new road.

  They had roughly calculated the cost of compensating people for losing their land and homes at Firby; the cost here would be much less. There remained the long journey the water would take from here down to Leeds. However, that cost would be offset over the years by the greater volume of water he believed would be available from Woodley.

  As he walked along the bottom of the valley, looking at the rock formations and assessing the site, Roger heard a bleat and soon he came upon a tethered goat, with a horse grazing close by. Tucked into a curve of the valley side was a gypsy caravan. It was not noticeable at first, being painted green, but the large yellow wheels gave it away. Through the open door he could see a richly decorated interior, with scrolls of colour on the walls.

  ‘Good day, kind sir!’ A woman was watching Roger from her seat by a small fire.

  ‘Er – good day, I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone here,’ he said.

  ‘We come down from Appleby Horse Fair to Pateley for the show every year, and then up here.’ The woman’s dark good looks were enhanced by large gold earrings, which flashed when she moved her head. ‘The Mistress here lets us stay for some of the winter, we try to help her.’ She paused.

  ‘An interesting life, I’ve read about it,’ Roger told her. ‘George Borrow, as I remember … The Romany Rye.’

  The gypsy laughed. ‘You’ve read a book about us? A lot of folk are against us, o’ course, hate all travellers. But even worse are the ones with notebooks that want to know all about how we live, and our language, and come round asking questions like we was animals in a zoo. But you look like a man with book learning, yourself! Maybe you’ll be one o’ them coves.’

  Roger grinned. ‘Not I! There’s a lot of interest just now in the Romany way of life, I know,’ he said. ‘You used to be called Egyptians – did you really come from Egypt?’

  ‘There you go, asking questions! Nay, we’re from Darlington,’ the woman said flatly. ‘We dunno where our folk came from way back, but we’re not exactly English, are we?’ She looked down the valley and then back at Roger. ‘My man and the two boys are out after rabbits, they’ll be back soon.’ She lifted an iron pot onto a tripod and suspended it over the fire.

  ‘Mrs Bolton will be glad of some help in winter,’ Roger said, to show that he didn’t hate travellers.

  ‘Aye, my man kills a sheep for her and she gives us some meat. And we make baskets and that, give one or two to her.’

  ‘You earn a living from making baskets?’ The Gypsy Lore Society would love all this; Roger had met a member once, full of admiration for the exotic race.

  ‘That and pegs – you’ve no call for clothes pegs, kind sir? I thought not. But then my man mends pots and pans, we get by.’ She looked at him closely. ‘And sometimes, I tell fortunes. But only if I can see the way. I don’t make them up, like some folks.’ She laughed again, a pleasant carefree laugh. ‘Some old women in the towns, they get dressed up as a Romany and take money off folks and spin a yarn, but it means nowt.’

  Roger prepared to move off. ‘Very interesting… .’

  ‘I can tell your fortune if you like,’ the woman said in a low voice. ‘I think I can see a little, just a little … come and sit here by the fire, bonny lad.’

  Rather unwillingly, Roger sat down on a stool beside her and felt in his pocket for a coin. The woman took it swiftly and then retained his hand, gazing at it. He decided to give her no clues and to see what she came up with.

  ‘My name is Vadoma,’ she said after a silence. ‘And yours…?’

  ‘Roger.’

  ‘Well, Roger, I can see a long life for you. A … farm with a good woman, I can see her smiling, and children … three, I think. Hardship at times, but also happiness. Yes, a farm, with fat cattle and sheep.’

  Roger laughed and withdrew his hand. ‘I’m an engineer, Vadoma, not a farmer. Unfortunately I have to work in cities for a living. I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong.’ He stood up. ‘I hope you have a good winter.’

  ‘I am sure about the farm,’ she assured him seriously. ‘You’ll see!’

  As he walked on, Roger decided that she would have taken anyone she met up here for a farmer of some sort, or a man hoping to farm. Engineers would be unusual in Woodley Crags. But shouldn’t she have known from his hand that he didn’t do regular manual work? Fortune tellers were supposed to be observant.

  Back at the farm house, Roger found Nathan ready to go home. He mentioned the gypsy and Alice Bolton nodded. ‘They’ve been coming here for years and they never cause trouble.’

  ‘Don’t they steal eggs? I thought all gypsies stole eggs,’ Nathan said tolerantly.

  ‘Vadoma helps me, so I give her eggs. That solves the problem.’ Alice smiled at him. ‘You’ll know, Nathan, that eggs are right useful, especially up here – better than money. You can trade them for whatever you need.’

  As they rode out of the yard, Alice stood at the door with her dog watching them go, a small, frail figure in that immense landscape. There was a lingering sadness about Woodley Crags, or was it just the weather?

  With the fog descending, Roger’s hair was soon dripping with moisture. Nathan smiled and handed him a cap. ‘Put that on lad, you’ll need it before we get home.’ He drew another from a pocket for himself.

  They rode side by side along the track, talking about the building of a dam. Roger found that it helped to clear his thoughts and Nathan seemed interested, putting in a question now and then. The time seemed to go quickly and when they got back to Nathan’s gate, he invited Roger in. ‘Come and have something to eat before you go home.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance,’ Roger said, thinking the older man would probably feel obliged to give him a meal. Part of him wanted to go back to the Garnetts and see Rachel again, although he should try to s
ee her as little as possible. But the fog was thickening and the cold seemed to be seeping into his bones.

  ‘Nay, lad, it’s no trouble. There’s a stew that mustn’t go to waste, and I’m glad of the company.’

  Once in the house, Nathan quickly blew the fire into life and set a pot on the stove. It contained beef, onions, potatoes and carrots, a hearty meal in one dish.

  The stew was excellent, but Nathan would take no praise. ‘Young Rachel made it,’ he admitted. ‘They look after me very well. I think they try to fatten me, Ruth and Rachel, but they haven’t a hope.’

  Nathan seemed to be interested in Roger’s career, and then they talked about their families. He remembered Dr Beckwith, Roger’s father and knew most of his relatives in Pateley. Roger’s older brother had been training to be a doctor, before he died of cholera picked up in a hospital.

  ‘We only had the one child, Ruth,’ Nathan said. ‘And a grand lass she is, as you know. A son would have been welcome. It was not to be … your father used to bring you to stay up here in the school holidays every summer, so I did have a little lad to teach to fish. We had grand times – do you remember?’

  Roger was surprised. He had happy memories of staying at the Browns’ farm, but hadn’t realized that they liked to have him there. His father had wanted him to have a taste of country life.

  ‘Of course I remember, I looked forward to those holidays so much! You made a countryman of me, I’m afraid. I hate working in the town.’ He paused. ‘How long would it take to learn to be a gamekeeper, Nathan?’

  ‘Nay, you’ve had a good education, lad. Stick to your engineering … young Rachel was only a babe then,’ Nathan reminisced. ‘You might remember her, toddling about in a sunbonnet?’

  ‘That was Rachel?’ Roger laughed. ‘Of course it must have been, but I didn’t recognize her!’

  ‘She doesn’t remember, either. Now, lad, let’s have a wee nip of whisky, to keep out the cold. You do drink whisky, I hope?’