The Drowned Village

‘What was all that about? Hobnobbing with the gentry now, are you?’ She gave him a quirky smile as if to show she was teasing. Jed felt irritated. Why couldn’t the woman see that today, the day he buried his wife, was no time to be fending off flirtatious neighbours?

‘Stella’s tired. Mrs Pendleton has offered her motorcar to take us home.’

‘Ooh, exciting! Is there space for me, do you think?’

Jed shook his head. ‘She offered the ride to me and Stella. I wouldn’t dare take anyone else. The word’ll get back to her and she’ll think I was taking advantage. Sorry, Maggie.’

‘Hmph. I suppose I’ll have to walk, then.’ Maggie turned on her heel and marched away, leaving Jed breathing a sigh of relief. They had history, he and Maggie. Way back when they were young, just in their twenties, he’d stepped out with her once or twice. There’d been a couple of bus rides into Penrith, and visits to the cinema. A dance or two, and a Christmas kiss under the mistletoe in the Lost Sheep. But then he’d met Edie and had fallen head over heels in love with her – her easy laugh, her endless optimism and kindness, her soft grey eyes and capable hands. He’d had to let Maggie down gently, and although she’d come to his and Edie’s wedding and congratulated them, she’d never married herself, and he’d always suspected she had never quite got over losing him. Well, it couldn’t be helped. A man couldn’t influence who he fell in love with, could he? And he would never regret a second of the time he’d spent with Edie.

He sat beside Stella, inside the lych-gate, and took her hand. ‘We’ll be all right, lass. You, me and little Jessie. We’ve still got each other, and your ma’ll be watching over us from up above, like that skylark you saw.’

She turned to him and offered up a sad smile. His heart melted. She was the spit of Edie, and like her in temperament too. Jessie, in contrast, was shaping up to be more like him – impetuous, contrary, and a bit of a handful at two years old. But Stella was a darling, a good girl, a real asset. Just as well. She’d had to grow up quickly when her mother became ill, and now she’d have even more responsibilities if they were to stay together as a family, the three of them. He sighed. The future would be tough, and he had no idea how they would manage. His only consolation was that his love for his daughters was surely powerful enough to pull them through.

A crunch of gravel made him look up. The Bentley was back. The chauffeur remained sitting in the driving seat, gesturing to Jed to open the back door. He’d have got out and opened it for Mrs Pendleton, Jed thought wryly, but he was grateful enough that Stella was not having to walk. He tugged open the door, and Stella climbed in first, then he followed. Inside, the car smelt of leather and polish. If it hadn’t been the day of Edie’s funeral Jed felt he’d have enjoyed the experience. It wasn’t every day you had a ride in an expensive motorcar like this one. Usually his transport would be the bus to Penrith or a ride in a trailer towed by one of his neighbours’ tractors.

The road route back to Brackendale took them to the bottom end of the Glydesdale valley, following the stream, before turning northwards in the direction of Penrith. A little further along there was a left turn, heading westwards into the Brackendale valley. This was the new road, built by the waterworks to allow easy access for the construction traffic. It was smoothly surfaced and wide enough for two tipper trucks to pass each other. A far cry, Jed thought, from the rutted old track, more potholes than tarmac, that they’d had to use before. The new road continued past the dam worksite and as far as Brackendale Green, along the side of the valley. It marked, Jed supposed, where the new waterline was expected to be, once the valley was flooded.

‘Pa, look,’ Stella said, tugging his arm and pointing out of the window. The site of the dam had come into view as they’d rounded a corner. It had been a few months since he’d last come this way, and it was clear much progress had been made. Whereas before there’d been just a scar across the valley where the land had been cleared and dug out to house the huge foundations for the dam, now there were massive concrete structures rising up. Fifty feet wide at the base, and tapering towards the top. The highest sections were over fifty feet high but Jed had heard the dam would be up to a hundred feet above the level of the Bere beck that flowed through the valley.

‘It’s coming on,’ he said to Stella.

‘What will happen when the dam goes all the way across?’ she asked, turning to him with her wide, sad eyes. So like Edie’s, he thought, with a stab of pain at her loss.

‘Then the water will rise up on the upper side, and the little lake we already have will grow very much bigger, lass. And they’ll control how much water flows through into the pipes that will lead all the way to Manchester.’

‘What about our village? Will the water reach there?’

‘It will eventually, lass.’

‘What will we do?’

Was this really the best time for such a conversation? On the very day they’d buried her poor mother? Jed sighed. She had to know, sooner or later. ‘We’ll have to go and live somewhere else. Everyone will.’

‘Where?’

‘That I don’t know, lass. I really don’t know.’

Chapter 3 (#ulink_10971b0f-efc3-5a2a-80be-2d49eb4153c9)

LAURA (#ulink_10971b0f-efc3-5a2a-80be-2d49eb4153c9)

It was late afternoon by the time Laura arrived at her destination. She’d researched on the internet for campsites near to Bereswater, the lake that occupied the valley where Brackendale Green had once stood. There was one in the next valley, Glydesdale, and she’d been able to book a pitch online. And finally, after a long and tedious drive up the M6, here she was, with a full week ahead to climb some mountains, relax in the sunshine, have a long hard think about her future and of course, explore Gran’s birthplace. The weather forecast predicted that the dry, sunny weather would continue for a few more days yet.

The scenery, as she’d left the main roads, entered the Lake District and driven along the narrow twisting road that led into Glydesdale, had been breathtaking. Dry stone walls lined the lane, beyond which were fields in which the year’s lambs, now four or five months old, still bleated for their mothers and tried to suckle. A pretty stream ran along the valley bottom. Either side of the valley, beyond the fertile low-lying fields, were the slopes of the mountains, or ‘fells’ as they were more usually known in this part of the country. Bracken gave way to heather higher up, then craggy rocks. Here and there scree runs tumbled down the mountainsides. A waterfall, now only a trickle after the prolonged drought, made its way down over rocks and through a ravine lined with stumpy trees. It was beautiful. Laura couldn’t wait to get her walking boots on, her rucksack on her back, and start exploring. She felt as though the countryside was already working wonders and washing away her problems. What a great idea of Gran’s it had been, to have a holiday now before the good weather ended!

At the campsite she parked outside the wooden building which served as an office and small shop, and went inside to check in.

‘You’ve come at a good time,’ the girl who was manning the desk and cash register told her. ‘The kids go back to school this week, so all the families left at the weekend. We’re half empty so you can pick your pitch. Down beside the stream is nice, and there are a few trees for shade if it gets too hot.’

‘Sounds lovely!’ Laura said, accepting a map of the campsite which showed where the amenities – shower block, toilets, launderette – were sited.

‘We open the shop at eight each morning, and there’ll be fresh bread and croissants, plus bacon butties, coffee and tea if you don’t want to cook your own breakfast. We can do packed lunches too, if you’re off up the fells.’

Laura grinned. ‘Perfect. What more could a camper want?’

The girl smiled back. ‘We aim to please. A detailed weather forecast for the next day is pinned on the door each afternoon. Worth checking before you set out, but I can tell you there’s no danger of rain until at least Friday. So, there’s your tag to hang on your tent, and a sticker for your car windscreen. As I said, take any pitch you want.’

‘Thanks so much. I think I’m going to enjoy camping here,’ Laura said. She turned to leave, and almost bumped into a sandy-haired man who she hadn’t noticed was standing behind her, waiting to pay for a pint of milk and a pack of sausages. ‘Whoops! Sorry.’

‘No problem,’ he said. ‘You missed standing on my foot, so that’s OK.’ He smiled, an attractive, slightly lopsided smile that made his grey eyes crinkle at the edges. ‘You’ve just arrived? I can recommend those pitches beside the river. Perfect to cool your feet after a hot day walking in the hills.’

‘Thanks, I’ll go and check it out,’ Laura replied, as she left the office.

‘Enjoy your stay.’ He waved, then turned to pay for his shopping.

That bloke was right, Laura thought, as she drove slowly around the campsite, checking out the available pitches. The area beside the stream was definitely the most inviting, and there was a large pitch free beside a spreading oak tree. She pulled out her compass to check which way was east. Always good to have some shade in the mornings, or the heat of the morning sun could drive you out of your tent before you’d had a chance to have a decent lie-in. Looked like the tree would do the job, so she parked her car, opened the boot and began setting up camp.

The tent was brand new. As was her sleeping bag. In the end, she’d avoided a possible confrontation with Stuart by treating herself to new kit. For summer camping, cheap festival gear was good enough. It only took her half an hour to get everything set up, and her little camping gas stove (also new) up and running to make a cup of tea. She unfolded a deckchair she’d found in Gran’s shed, set it in the sunshine and sat down to wait for her pot to boil. Behind her, the little stream was chuckling to itself like a giggling child as it bubbled over stones down the valley. Ahead of her was the most amazing view, framed by branches of the oak, across the valley to the fells. She’d need to pull out her detailed map of the area to work out which ones they were, but already she could see an enticing-looking path zigzagging its way up one of them. But that would have to wait – tomorrow she wanted to go to Brackendale. She sighed with contentment. It was shaping up to be a very good week.

It was years since she’d last been camping. Stuart’s style was more suited to package holidays in Ibiza – sunshine, booze and partying. She’d gone along with it because she loved him and loved being with him. And they’d had fun. At least, she’d thought it was fun at the time. Looking back, she wondered why she’d never pushed for them to try a different type of holiday. One that didn’t involve daily hangovers. Would he have agreed? Who knew? If he had, it might have left them with a healthier relationship – one in which they were more of a partnership. She could see it more clearly now they’d been apart a few months – theirs had not been a relationship of equals. She’d always done whatever Stuart wanted, as though she was his pet lapdog. Perhaps it was as well it had finished the way it had, allowing no way back, although she did miss the intimacy. She missed having a best friend, too, and knew it would be ages before she could trust anyone fully again.

She spent the evening lounging outside her tent, cooking a simple meal of pasta with grated cheese, which tasted amazing when accompanied by a glass of Pinot Noir. She read books until the sun went down behind the mountains, took an evening walk around the campsite, called Gran to check she was all right, then put herself to bed early, just as it was getting dark, tired after the long drive north. Maybe the Lake District was already working its magic, as she managed to doze off without crying herself to sleep.

The following morning dawned bright and clear, but despite the shade of the oak the inside of the little tent was stifling hot by eight o’clock. Laura dressed quickly in shorts and a T-shirt, and bought coffee and a bacon butty from the campsite shop. As she ate them she studied her map, and realised the zigzag path she could see going up the fells on the other side of the valley led into Brackendale. It was marked on the map as the Old Corpse Road. ‘Interesting name for a footpath,’ she muttered to herself, making a mental note to google it at the next opportunity. It looked to be about three kilometres to walk, with four hundred metres of ascent, from the campsite to Brackendale, and on a day like this why not walk it rather than drive around? She packed her rucksack with a bottle of water, a hastily made sandwich and some snacks, donned her walking boots and set off.

To begin with her route took her along the lane going further up the valley, past a church with its overgrown graveyard, full of lopsided lichen-clad gravestones. A little further on, a public footpath sign pointed the way to ‘Brackendale via Old Corpse Road’.

The track wound its way between acres of waist-high dried-out bracken, then began the zigzags she could see from the campsite, where heather and outcrops of rock flanked the path. As she climbed higher the temperature seemed to increase as there was no shade and very little breeze. The land smelt dry and dusty. She sat to rest on a flat-topped rock that was just to the side of the path, wondering whether it was natural or had been placed there for some reason. She took a gulp of water from her bottle, wishing she’d brought more than one as she was not at the top of this climb and it was half gone already.

As she walked she found herself thinking about her clients, and wondering how they were getting on without her. Of course the agency would be sending alternative carers, but some clients always told her how much they looked forward to Laura’s visits. Like dear old Bert Williamson, who always had a joke ready for her every time she came. As often as not it’d be one she’d heard before – usually from Bert himself the previous week, as his memory was not the best – but she’d chuckle anyway and tell him he was such a card, as she got him washed, dressed and ready for the day. And lovely Ada, where her morning calls would always include helping the old lady pick out earrings and a necklace to match her outfit for the day. Her job paid poorly but it was so meaningful and worthwhile, and people like Bert and Ada made it enjoyable. The worst moments were when she arrived at a client’s home to find them very sick, and she’d need to call an ambulance and send them off to hospital, knowing there was a strong chance they wouldn’t come home again. Her training had taught her not to get too involved with clients, but sometimes she couldn’t help it.

At last the gradient levelled out and she found herself crossing a rounded hilltop, land that might be boggy in a wet season but currently was formed of hardened mud, with the path winding its way through. The view changed – now she could see a new range of higher hills that must be on the far side of Brackendale looming on the horizon. Eventually the path began to lose height and then suddenly, as it turned a corner, there it was – the whole valley of Brackendale laid out before her. She gasped at the sight. Away over to her right she could just see the dam, and a small lake, not much more than a pond, this side of it. A huge expanse of muddy lake-bed covered the rest of the valley floor, just as she’d seen on the TV news report. Around the edges was a fringe of pebbles, as though normally the reservoir had a bit of pebble beach. The valley sides were lined with trees. She squinted, trying to pick out the ruins of the village amongst the dried mud, but from this height it was difficult to be sure what she was seeing. It would be nice to have a companion, someone to talk to about what they could see, but of course there was no one. Stuart would never have come on this type of holiday. Neither would Martine. With a jolt Laura realised those two were probably well matched after all. She sniffed back the tears that threatened to fall, pushed all thoughts of Stuart out of her mind and picked up her pace on the descent, desperate to get down to the lakeside and start exploring.

The bottom of the track led into a car park, after crossing a stile. There were a number of cars parked there, presumably either hikers or tourists who’d come to see the empty reservoir. An information board beside the car park gave a few sketchy details about the history of the valley and the building of the dam, complete with a grainy photo of what the village of Brackendale Green looked like in the early 1930s. Laura peered closely at this, noting the church, a pub, a bridge over a stream, a group of cottages tightly packed in what was presumably the village centre, and then some more scattered cottages and farm buildings further out. She lifted her head to look at the dried lake-bed, where she could now clearly see the low, broken walls that the TV reporter had pointed out. She tried to map buildings shown on the photo against the ruins but from where she was standing it wasn’t possible. Time to venture onto the dried mud and explore it properly.

She crossed the car park, walked a little way along the lane that would normally hug the shores of the lake, then when she was near to some of the ruins she left the road, crossed the band of pebbles and tentatively set foot on the grey mud. It was rock solid, criss-crossed with cracks from the weeks of sunshine, and smelt a little of rotting vegetation, as any aquatic plants the lake had hosted had long since perished in the dry heat. More confident now that she’d discovered how firm the mud’s surface was, she set out across it to the nearest piece of wall. It was about waist high, with mounds of rubble inside, and a clear doorway. On the opposite side to the door were the remains of a window, complete with some green-glazed tiles on the inside ledge. Laura entered the cottage, and immediately felt the surface beneath her feet change, as though there were only a couple of inches of dried mud on top of a more solid base – stone flags, she presumed.

The next cottage felt different underfoot. She knelt down and rubbed at the dried mud with her fingertips, discovering wooden floorboards beneath. Presumably pretty rotten after eighty years underwater, so she left that cottage quickly.

There was someone else crossing the lake-bed towards the ruins. As he approached she recognised the sandy-haired man from the campsite. He was heading directly for her, and raised a hand in greeting.

‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ she said, when he was within earshot.

He smiled, and pushed a hand through his hair. ‘Certainly is. To think people once lived here, walked up this street, went into their homes or shops or pubs.’ He turned and gazed across the remains of the village, then pulled a bottle of water out of his rucksack and offered it to her. ‘I can’t believe how hot it is, either.’

‘I know. Boiling. But I’ve got my own water, thanks.’

They began walking along what must once have been the main street through the village, with remains of buildings tightly packed on both sides. ‘I’m Tom, by the way,’ he said, holding out his hand for her to shake.