The Fleethaven Trilogy

by Margaret Dickinson

  The man shook his head. ‘No, sir. But it did sound urgent. I’ll get your coat for you, Miss.’

  Ella turned fearful eyes to Martin. ‘It must be Grandmother. Perhaps she’s been taken ill.’

  Martin took hold of her arm and steered her between the tables. ‘Come on, I’ll take you home at once.’

  But it was Mrs Trent who opened the front door to them. ‘Your father’s in his study, dear. Go in to him. He’s on the telephone . . .’

  Ella ran across the hall, the carpet in the centre sliding on the polished floor beneath her hurrying feet.

  ‘Dad? What is it?’

  He turned to look at her as she opened the door. Then he said into the mouthpiece, ‘She’s here now. Hold on a moment while I tell her.’

  He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and then said, ‘Ella, my dear. I’ve got Danny Eland on the phone . . .’

  Ella gave a little cry and her eyes widened. ‘No, oh no,’ she breathed and reached out with shaking fingers, ‘please, let me speak to him.’

  Philip handed her the receiver and, with a voice that quavered, she said, ‘Uncle Danny, what is it? What’s happened? Is it Gran? Or – or Grandpa?’ Her questions were tumbling over themselves without giving Danny chance to reply.

  ‘Steady on, lass,’ came his calming voice. ‘It’s not the worst, but ya grandpa’s ill.’

  ‘How ill?’ Her voice was high-pitched with anxiety and a feeling of dreadful guilt washed over her. Peggy had been right to be worried and Ella had ignored the older woman’s intuition. Oh, if something were to happen to Grandpa, she’d never forgive herself. Never . . . She tried to pull her reeling senses together, made herself listen to Danny.

  ‘Ya gran’s kept it from us all. She kept telling us they were both fine but then I started to get a bit worried because I never seemed to see ya grandpa; not in the fields nor about the yard. So I went across and tackled her about it. Ella, love, he’s been poorly for about a month, but your gran’s that stubborn. She’s nursing him herself. She won’t have the doctor, won’t even let any of us near him. We’re trying to help out more with the farm work now, but she’s still insisting that she doesn’t need anyone. Ella, I don’t think she’s right herself. She’s – she’s . . .’ The words came hesitantly and Ella knew instinctively that even now Danny was reluctant to say anything against Esther. ‘She seems sort of – wild.’

  ‘Cross, you mean?’ Ella prompted.

  The voice on the other end of the wire faded and crackling on the line broke up his words. ‘No, no, more that she can’t cope . . . Please come home, Ella. They need you, lass. And we – we all miss you . . .’

  Tears were rolling down her cheeks, the lump in her throat choking the words. ‘I’m coming, Uncle Danny. I’m coming. Right now!’

  She caught the first train out of York on the following morning, the Friday. Her father took her to the station.

  ‘I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you fear,’ he tried to reassure her. ‘Come back and see us as soon as you can.’

  She’d hugged him fiercely unable to make any promises, unsure just how long it would be before she saw him or her grandmother again.

  Mrs Trent had refused to believe that it was anything but a temporary set-back to her plans for Ella. ‘Don’t forget,’ had been her parting words, ‘we want you to come and live with us. I’ve organized the decorators to re-do your bedroom. They’re starting tomorrow. Pink, I thought, with curtains and bedspread to match. Yes, a pretty, soft pink . . .’

  *

  Peggy, still coughing and with her nose sore and peeling, opened the door. Without preamble she said, ‘Danny rang Rita and I gave him your father’s number.’

  Ella nodded. ‘I came back as soon as I could. I’m going straight on home . . .’ She stared at Peggy, her eyes startled with the realization of what she had just said.

  Peggy, though the worry in her eyes had deepened, nodded slowly, and quietly she answered the unspoken question that lay in the air between them. ‘My dear girl, although your head has always rebelled against it, in your heart of hearts, you know it is your home.’

  Ella flung her arms about her. ‘Oh, Aunty Peg, I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you. I should have known there was something wrong.’

  ‘Now, don’t be silly and start blaming yourself. How could you possibly have known?’ Peggy said sensibly, and hugged the girl warmly.

  ‘You seemed to know though, didn’t you? That’s why you were so worried when his letters were late and when his writing looked funny.’

  Peggy sighed. ‘I thought I was fussing unnecessarily.’

  ‘Well, you weren’t and now I wish I’d taken it more seriously.’

  ‘Never mind that now. Get yourself ready. You’re in good time to catch the six o’clock bus out.’

  As Ella hurried upstairs to unpack and repack her suitcase, Peggy followed her. ‘I wish I could come with you, but this cold’s gone on my chest. I went to the doctor this morning and he said on no account must I go out for a few days. Perhaps if I—’

  ‘No,’ Ella said firmly. ‘I can’t do with two of you ill, Aunty Peg. Get yourself better first and then come over if you can. I’ll ring Rita first thing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Promise?’

  Ella kissed her cheek. ‘I promise. And try not to worry. I’ll sort Gran out when I get there. I won’t half give her what-for. How dare she not tell us?’

  At this moment, in her determination, Ella prepared herself to do battle with Esther Godfrey.

  Thirty-One

  Ella caught the six o’clock bus out of Lincoln travelling all the way to Lynthorpe. Before leaving, she sat down and scribbled a letter to her employer saying that she would not be returning to them on Monday. On her way to the bus stop she dropped it in the letter box.

  The journey seemed to be taking for ever. Ella rubbed the steam from the bus window with her finger-tips and peered out into the blackness of the evening. It was still raining; it would be wet and windy walking the coast road from the bus station in Lynthorpe out to Fleethaven Point. But she didn’t care. She’d walk anywhere, even if it took all night, just so long as she was in time. As the bus rocked and swayed along, Ella stared out into the black night watching the grey grass verge and hedges rushing past. The other passengers were chatting, dozing or reading and taking no notice of the girl huddled in her seat.

  Her eyes glazed, she no longer saw the other people or heard the prattle around her, or felt the rocking motion of the bus; instead before her mind’s eye was the kindly face of her grandpa, in her ears was his deep, gentle voice. She was remembering so many incidents: his outstretched arms enfolding her, carrying her to the hayloft and comforting her tearing grief after the death of her mother; gently explaining about Lady and the ways of farming life; his softly spoken words when he thought her gran too hard on her, ‘Oh, let the lass have some fun, Esther.’ And even, when all the world had seemed against her, when her grandmother had refused to believe her, even then, Grandpa had had faith in her.

  Oh, please let him be all right, she whispered to herself and closed her eyes, willing the bus to go faster, faster . . .

  ‘There’s a flood . . .’ Dimly, she heard the words and cried out as she lurched forward banging her head. She heard someone scream, ‘The sea. It’s the sea!’ and realized the words had come from her own mouth. Visions of huge waves rolling in, engulfing the land, sweeping away everything in its path – drowning . . . It couldn’t be happening again. Was it a punishment for leaving her elderly grandparents to cope alone with all the heavy farmwork? That was it; she was going to be drowned too . . .

  ‘It’s not the sea, lass.’ A calm voice spoke beside her and she turned frightened eyes towards the man, who touched her elbow gently and pressed her back into her seat. ‘It’s only the river flooded the roadway. We saw it earlier today on our previous trip. Very swollen, it was. I’m not surprised it’s happened, though how we’re to get through I don’t know.’ Ella blink
ed at him foolishly and looked about her. Then she remembered where she was: in a bus travelling home to Fleethaven Point, though the vehicle was now stationary, the passengers worriedly craning their necks to see out into the darkness.

  ‘But my grandpa – he’s ill. I have to get to Lynthorpe. I have to get through.’

  ‘Well, sit tight. I’m just going to have a word with Ron, the driver, and see what he reckons.’ The conductor left her and went back to his platform at the rear of the double-decker bus. Holding the handrail, he leaned out of the side, staring ahead into the night.

  The passengers clamoured for explanation. ‘What is it? What’s the matter? What’s happening?’

  The conductor raised his voice. ‘Please keep calm, ladies and gentlemen . . .’

  The decision was taken to try to drive through the water to the market place in the centre of the town. Everyone peered out of the window as the bus, moving at a steady rate, drove into the flood, swirling the water aside with its huge wheels, and sluiced a way through.

  Now that common sense had reasserted itself after those first frightening moments, when all the horror of seven years earlier had for an instant been so real again, Ella thought, This is daft. First the ’fifty-three floods, and now this. There must be something about me and water.

  The bus reached the square and came to a stop on an island of cobbles in the centre of the market place. The driver jumped down from his cab and he and the conductor went towards a policeman. After a few moments’ conversation they came back to the bus.

  ‘We can’t get any further at present,’ the conductor informed his passengers. ‘The bridge we normally use has been washed away and the river is still flooding.’

  There were cries of disbelief and anxious enquiries. The man spread his hands apologetically. ‘I am sorry, ladies and gentlemen. All I can suggest is that you go across to that café over there to wait. The police will let us know . . .’

  The market place was busy with people; stranded motorists and rescue services were using the higher ground as a meeting point. Inside the café, Ella perched herself miserably on a stool and sat watching the figures rushing to and fro outside.

  ‘Here, love, have a cup of tea.’ She looked up to see a young man holding out a cup towards her.

  ‘That’s very kind of you. Thanks,’ she said, and suddenly realized how dry her mouth was.

  ‘Looks like we might be stuck here for a while,’ the young man said, quite cheerfully, sitting down beside her.

  ‘I hope not,’ Ella said anxiously. ‘I’m trying to get home to Fleethaven Point. My grandpa’s ill.’

  ‘Oh, that’s tough luck. Will they be expecting you?’

  Ella shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, and her voice was only a whisper. ‘They don’t know I’m coming.’

  ‘Oh well, at least they won’t be worried about you.’

  No, she thought sadly, they won’t be worried at all. Her gran hadn’t even bothered to let her know her grandpa was ill. They didn’t know – none of them would know – that she was caught in the floods, just like her mother all those years ago. She gazed out of the café window into the night, watching the black water lapping at the cobbles of the market place, shining wet in the lights streaming from the café window.

  ‘I’ll put the wireless on,’ the café owner said in a loud, hearty voice. ‘Cheer us all up a bit, eh?’

  He twiddled the knobs on a brown bakelite radio on a shelf behind the service counter and the deep tones of a male singer softly bade her to hurry home to his waiting arms, aching to hold her . . .

  Ella groaned inwardly and closed her eyes against the tears that suddenly threatened.

  Two hours later, a policeman in wellingtons came into the café. ‘Right, ladies and gentlemen. You’ll be pleased to know we’ve got a single-decker bus that’s going to take you out by another route . . .’ Voices clamoured and, once everyone had decided whether to board the bus or not, they set off. Steadily the driver inched the vehicle through the water and, taking a left-hand turn instead of right over the bridge, they left the market town and drove up out of the flood and into the countryside.

  ‘Do you know where we are?’ Ella asked peering out. All she could see were hedgerows, the rain still slashing against the window. Completely lost and utterly dependent upon the man at the wheel, Ella stared forlornly into the black void.

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ the young man said airily, his nose now buried in a book. ‘Long as he gets us to Lynthorpe this side of tomorrow morning, I don’t much care.’

  The bus must have doubled back and joined its normal route, for they came to a stop Ella recognized and three passengers alighted, calling out a cheery ‘goodnight’ to those left on board. Eventually, after what seemed a lifetime of anxiety, the driver called out, ‘Next stop Lynthorpe,’ and Ella sent up a silent prayer of thankfulness.

  It was well after midnight when Ella alighted at the bus station and by now she knew everyone would be in bed and asleep at Rookery Farm. It wouldn’t be fair to phone Uncle Danny and ask him to come and pick her up at this time of night. Hitching her rucksack into a more comfortable position on her shoulders, she set off to walk to Fleethaven Point.

  With every step of the way along the road running beside the sand-dunes, the wind whipping across the flat fields and clouds scudding across the moon, the words were running through her mind.

  I’m coming, Grandpa. Hold on, I’m coming home.

  She found she was holding her breath as she tiptoed into the farmyard. Somewhere an owl hooted and the barn door creaked to and fro, swinging in the wind on rusty hinges. The house, as she had expected, was in darkness.

  She heard a soft ‘miaow’ and, straining her eyes through the blackness, saw a dark shape walking towards her and felt it rubbing against her legs. She reached down and touched the soft fur. ‘Tibby, oh, Tibby.’

  She picked him up. He seemed lighter and, as her hands felt him, thinner than she remembered, but he rubbed his face against her chin and purred as ecstatically as always, digging his claws into her shoulder.

  ‘Well, at least someone’s pleased to see me,’ she murmured into his pointed ear. She glanced again at the house: there was no sign of anyone being awake. She would not startle them by knocking on the door now; she would wait until morning. Feeling her way into the barn, she climbed carefully up the ladder and into the hayloft, remembering wryly the last time she had been up here with Rob.

  Nestling into the dry hay with Tibby snuggled up to her, Ella dozed fitfully, for cold and fear of what she would find in the morning made restful sleep elusive.

  ‘Oh, please let him be alive . . .’

  Thirty-Two

  A door banged and Ella jumped awake. ‘Gran . . .’ she said aloud and scrambled to her feet, shaking off bits of hay as she climbed stiffly down the ladder and pulled open the barn door.

  She gasped in surprise at the sight before her.

  The yard was littered with hay and straw; she had never seen it so untidy. The tractor, parked near the barn, was not sheeted down properly and had only a piece of old sacking slung over its engine. The cockerel, about to open its beak to herald the morning, stood on the seat of the tractor. Scrawny-looking hens wandered freely around, scratching and complaining. Bewildered, Ella stepped out into the yard. There was no clattering of churns, no sound at all of the early-morning work under way. She went towards the cowshed and peered in. The floor was filthy, and in the far corner the milking machine looked dusty and unused; indeed, there was no sign that it was in daily use for milking at all now.

  Brumbys’ Farm? This was not Brumbys’ Farm; at least not how she knew it, not how she remembered it. Souters’, yes, but not the farm belonging to Esther Godfrey!

  Frowning, Ella turned away. She went to the pump in the middle of the yard. The handle squeaked protestingly as she worked it up and down, but clear water gushed out and she bent and sluiced the tiredness from her eyes. She heard a noise and slowly straightened up to see a
figure standing in the open doorway of the farmhouse.

  The water still dripping from her face, Ella stared, her mouth hanging open.

  An old woman stood there: her white hair stuck out in unkempt wisps, her blouse was dirty grey and her black skirt was stained and torn at the hem. Shocked, Ella moved forward.

  ‘Gran?’ The word was a horrified whisper; a disbelieving question. Surely, surely this was not her gran? This haggard old witch was not, could not possibly be, Esther Godfrey. As she drew closer, she could see that even the green eyes were dull, almost lifeless.

  ‘Be off with ya.’ The voice was cracked, feeble and querulous.

  ‘Gran, it’s me. Ella . . .’

  The eyes squinted and stared. Then the woman sniffed. ‘Go away. Go back where ya came from. I don’t need you. I can manage.’

  Stung to retort, Ella said, ‘Aye, an’ it looks like it an’ all.’ She swept her arm behind her to encompass the untidy yard, the neglected machinery, the empty cowshed. Her heart contracted now in fear. ‘Grandpa?’ she began.

  ‘We don’t need you. We don’t need anyone. As long as we’ve got each other . . .’

  Hope soared. Then he wasn’t dead. Not unless . . .

  But the woman standing before her was so altered, so changed, almost as if she had lost her reason, her will to live. Then was he . . .?

  Ella took a deep breath. With her feet, dusty from the night’s walk, planted firmly apart and hands on hips, she faced the old woman. ‘Well, Gran. I’m here and I’m staying, whether you like it or not.’

  For a brief instant the old eyes flickered. For a fleeting moment the fire sparked. ‘Huh, what d’you think you can do, eh? A townie! It’s a strong farmer’s lad I need. Not a townie – and a girl!’ She sniffed and turned away, back into the kitchen.