The Stranger House

‘Only in a wet winter when the Skad overflows down the valley. Got in the cellars at the Powderham three years back,’ said Mrs Appledore not without satisfaction. ‘But there’s definitely no local family called Flood. So when did your gran leave England?’

‘Your spring, 1960. February or March, I think.’

‘Spring 1960?’ echoed the woman.

‘Right. Does that mean something?’ asked Sam, detecting a note of significance.

‘Only that I turned fifteen in the spring of 1960,’ said Mrs Appledore rather wistfully. ‘Mam died the year before and I’d started helping Dad in the pub. Against the law, but I was big for my age, so strangers didn’t notice and locals weren’t going to complain. Point is, I knew everyone in the valley then. Definitely no local family called Flood. Sorry, dear. You sure it’s Illthwaite you’re after?’

Sam shrugged and said, ‘I’m short on detail, so maybe not. But I’ll check the church out anyway. What about the local school? They’ll have records too, right?’

‘Would do if we still had one. Got closed down three years back. Not enough kids, you see. The few there are get bussed into the next valley. When I was a kid, the place was really buzzing. Thirty or forty of us. Now the young couples get out, go where there’s a bit more life and a lot more money. Can’t blame them.’

‘Looks like it will have to be the church then. Is it far?’

‘No. Just a step. Turn right when you leave the pub. You can’t miss it. But you’ve not finished your sandwich. It’s OK, is it?’

‘The ham’s lovely,’ said Sam carefully. ‘I’ll take it with me. And one of these.’

She helped herself from a small display of English Tourist Board leaflets standing at the end of the bar as she slipped off her stool.

‘By the way, I tried my mobile upstairs, couldn’t get a signal.’

‘You wouldn’t. It’s the fells. They wanted to build a mast but Gerry wouldn’t let them.’

‘Gerry?’

‘Gerry Woollass up at the Hall.’

‘The Hall?’ Her mind went back to some of the old Eng. Lit. stuff they’d made her read at school. ‘You mean he’s like some sort of squire?’

‘No,’ said the woman, amused. ‘Gerry’s not the squire. He’s chairman of the Parish Council.’

And just as Sam was feeling rebuked for her archaism, Mrs Appledore added, ‘Gerry won’t be squire till old Dunstan, his dad, pops his clogs, which he’s in no hurry to do. If you need to phone, help yourself to the one in my kitchen.’

‘Thanks. I wanted to ring back home, tell them I was still in the land of the living. I’ll use my credit number so it won’t go on your bill.’

‘Fine. Through here.’

The landlady led her out of the bar and down the hall. The kitchen was a strange mix of old and new. Along the left-hand wall it was all modernity with a range of white kitchen units incorporating a built-in electric oven, fridge, dishwasher and stainless-steel sink. A coal fire glowed in a deep grate set in the end wall and from one of the two massive black crossbeams hung a pair of cured hams on hooks held by ropes running through pulleys screwed into the beam and thence to geared winding handles fixed into the walls. The floor was flagged with granite slabs which bore the marks of centuries of wear, as did the huge refectory table occupying most of the centre space. One of the slabs, a rectangle of olive green stone which ran from just inside the door to twelve inches or so under the table, had some carving on it, almost indecipherable now.

‘Latin,’ said the landlady when Sam paused to look. ‘Old Dunstan says it’s St Matthew’s Gospel. Ask and it shall be given, that bit. Sort of a welcome. This was the room that the monks fed the travellers in. Phone’s at yon end by the fireplace.’

As Sam made her way down the narrow corridor between the table and the units she had to pause to shut the dishwasher door.

‘Bloody nuisance,’ said Mrs Appledore.

‘Why not get something smaller?’ asked Sam, looking at the huge table.

‘No, not the table, those units,’ said the woman. ‘The table’s been here since the place were built. The units were Buckle’s idea.’

‘Buckle?’

‘My husband.’

Sam tried to puzzle this out as she made the connection home.

‘Yeah?’ said a familiar voice.

‘Pa, it’s me.’

‘Hey, Lu, it’s Sammy!’ she heard him yell. ‘So how’s it going, girl?’

‘Fine, Pa. How’re things back there?’

‘No problems,’ he said. ‘The new vines are looking good. Here’s your ma. Missing you like hell. Take care now.’

This got close to a heart-to-heart with her father. When he said you were missed, it made you feel missed clearer than a book of sonnets. Her eyes prickled with tears but she brushed them away and greeted her mother brightly, assuring her she was well and having a great time seeing a bit of the country before getting down to work.

Despite this, Lu needed more reassurance, asking after a while, ‘Sam, you sure you’re OK?’

‘I told you, Ma. Fit as a butcher’s dog.’

‘It’s just that a couple of times recently I got this feeling…’

‘Ma, is this some of your my people stuff?’

‘Mock my people, you’re mocking yourself, girl. I’m just telling you what I’ve been told. You watch out for a stranger, Sam.’

‘Ma, I’m in England. They’re all bleeding strangers!’

Mrs Appledore had left the kitchen to give her some privacy. When she finished her call, Sam blew her nose, then headed for the door. The winding gear to raise the hams caught her eye and she paused to examine it. Instead of a simple wheel-and-axle system, it had three gearing cogwheels. Between two blinks of her eye, her mind measured radiuses, turned them into circumferences, counted cogs, and calculated lifting power.

‘Real antiques those. As old as the house, they say. Ropes been changed of course, but ‘part from a bit of oiling, they’re just the same as they were when some old monk put them together,’ said Mrs Appledore from the doorway.

‘Clever old monk,’ said Sam. ‘This is real neat work. Did they have bigger pigs in those days? With this gearing you could hoist a whole porker, if the rope held.’

‘Bigger appetites maybe. Talking of which, you left your sandwich on the bar. I’ve wrapped it in a napkin so you can eat it as you walk to the church. And here’s a front-door key in case I’m out when you get back. And I thought this old guidebook might help you if you’re looking round the village. Better than that useless leaflet.’

She proffered a leather-bound volume, almost square in shape.

‘That’s kind,’ said Sam, taking the book and opening it at the title page.

A GUIDE to ILLTHWAITE and its ENVIRONSbeing a brief introduction to the history, architecture,and economy of the parish of Illthwaite inSkaddale in the County of Cumberland,with maps and illustrations,prepared by the Reverend Peter K. Swinebank DDVicar of St Ylf’s Church, Illthwaite,assisted by Anthony Woollass Esquire of Illthwaite Hall.Printed at the Lunar Press, Whitehaven mdcccxciv

‘Eighteen ninety-four,’ she worked out. ‘Isn’t this valuable? I’d love to borrow it, but I’m worried about damaging it.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ said the woman comfortably. ‘I’ve loaned it to worse than you and it’s come to no harm.’