The Drowned Village, page 28
‘Miss Pendleton? It’s lovely to meet you.’ Laura held out her hand, and the old lady shook it. Her grasp was remarkably firm.
‘Nice to meet you too, Miss Braithwaite. Now then, I know a lot of people. Who is your grandmother?’
‘Her name is Stella Braithwaite. Her maiden name was Walker. It’s kind of a long story. May we come in for a moment?’
‘What time is she coming, did you say?’
‘Half past three, Gran. Go and sit down, please. Have a little rest. I’ll get everything ready.’ Laura ushered Stella out of the kitchen and into the sitting room, where Jasper was prowling, waiting for Gran to sit down and cuddle him. She was, understandably, nervous. It was only to be expected. It wasn’t every day you met your long-lost sister. ‘Sit down, Gran. I’ll show her in as soon as she arrives. Tom will be here soon as well.’
‘All right, if you’re sure you don’t need my help. What about that cake? Have you put it out on a plate?’
‘Just about to do that, Gran. Don’t worry, it’ll all be ready for her.’
Stella gave her a worried look but did as she’d been told, seating herself at one end of the sofa, twisting her fingers together. Jasper made himself comfortable on her lap. Laura smiled to see her reach for yet another tissue and tuck it up her sleeve, in readiness. There must be at least four up there by now.
Laura returned to the kitchen and completed the preparations. She was as nervous as her grandmother, but did not want to let on that she was. Not just about how the reunion between the sisters would go, but also about seeing Tom. Now that the mystery was solved, would this be the last time she saw him? There’d be no reason to meet up again. Perhaps they’d keep in touch for a while on social media but that wouldn’t be the same. The feeling of his lips on hers, on that perfect romantic evening under the stars, came unbidden to her mind. And that night after she was discharged from hospital, lying close to Tom in his tent. There had been a spark between them, she was sure of it. She could not have imagined it. She asked herself again if she felt ready for another relationship, after Stuart. Perhaps, just perhaps she could, if it was with Tom. But he’d said he was keeping clear of matters of the heart, since Sarah’s betrayal. If only they were both unscarred, they could have had a future together.
Just as she was thinking this, the doorbell rang. She glanced in the hall mirror on her way to the door, and pushed back a stray strand of hair before opening it to Tom.
‘Hi, Laura,’ he said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. ‘How’s your gran? She must be very excited.’
‘She is. Nervous and excited. Come and meet her.’ Laura showed him into the sitting room and made the introductions.
Gran’s eyes sparkled as she reached up and shook Tom’s hand. ‘Lovely to meet you. I hear you were very helpful to Laura in the Lake District. Thank you very much.’ Laura winced as she noticed Gran wink at Tom. ‘I hope we’ll be seeing a lot of you.’
Tom smiled. ‘Yes, I hope so too.’
He was being polite, Laura could see. Before she could say anything more, the doorbell rang once more. This was it. This would be Clara Pendleton. Gran looked suddenly stricken.
‘I’ll get it,’ Laura said, and Tom began making small talk with Stella. Calming her down, giving her something else to think about. Laura was hugely grateful to him for his sensitivity.
Clara was dressed today in a neat navy trouser suit with a pale pink blouse. She looked as though she had taken great care over her appearance. As had Stella. A taxi pulled away as Laura welcomed Clara into the hallway. ‘I’ve asked him to come back again at five. I hope that’s all right?’ Clara said. Her voice sounded a little wobbly.
‘Of course it is,’ Laura said. Impulsively she took hold of Clara’s hand and squeezed it. ‘She can’t wait to meet you, you know.’
Clara smiled nervously in response, and with her free hand patted her hair. ‘I can’t wait either.’
‘Come on, then.’ Laura gently pulled her towards the sitting-room doorway, and then stood aside to let her enter first.
Gran had got to her feet. Tom was standing at her side, ready, Laura thought, to support her if she needed it.
‘Jessie?’ Gran said, her eyes wide and glistening.
‘Clara, these days,’ Clara smiled. ‘And you are Stella?’ She took a step forward.
‘Yes, Stella Braithwaite. Stella Walker as was. You were Jessie Walker. My little sister.’ Gran held out her hands.
Laura realised she was holding her breath as Clara took another step forward and then took hold of both of Gran’s hands.
‘When I was very young, in India,’ Clara whispered, ‘I had an imaginary friend. She was older than me. Her name was Stella and I loved her very much.’
‘Oh, my . . . my dear sister!’ There were tears running down Gran’s face. Laura felt her own eyes welling up and rubbed the back of her hand across them.
‘Stella . . . my sister! I always wished I had one. And all along, I did!’ Clara hugged Stella tightly, her diminutive figure reaching only to Gran’s shoulder.
‘Please, sit down, will you? I’ll go and put the kettle on in a moment,’ Laura said.
Both women sat on the sofa, not letting go of each other’s hands, and not taking their gaze from each other’s eyes.
‘I would have known you, you know,’ Gran said. ‘You look just the same.’
‘Eighty years older!’ laughed Clara. ‘But I suppose I never really grew up. Still tiny.’
‘So tell me all about your life, Jessie – I mean, Clara! I’m sorry, but all my life you’ve been Jessie. It’ll take me a while to remember to call you Clara.’
‘That’s perfectly all right. I rather like the name Jessie. And if it’s what our parents named me, then of course I don’t mind at all. You must tell me all about our parents. Laura didn’t say very much yesterday. I always knew I was adopted, that I’d been born in Brackendale and that my real parents had died when I was very young, but that’s all I knew, really.’ Clara looked expectantly at Stella.
‘Well, yes, that’s all there is to it, really,’ Gran said hesitantly. Laura had advised her not to tell all the detail of exactly how Clara had been adopted or how Jed had died. She wondered now how Gran would explain it. ‘Our ma died, and Pa struggled for a while to look after us both, as well as looking after our grandpa. You were Grandpa’s favourite, you know. The dam had been built and Pa was trying to find somewhere else for us to live before the village was flooded. Mr and Mrs Pendleton, um, kindly offered to look after you while Pa searched for a house, but then he died suddenly, so the Pendletons adopted you and took you to India. I went to live with an aunt, Ma’s sister Winnie.’
Nicely done, Gran, Laura thought, catching Gran’s eye and giving a slight nod of approval.
‘How did our father die?’ Clara tilted her head on one side, her eyes full of sympathy for Stella.
‘Um, well, it was an accident. Terrible. I don’t like to . . . think about it.’
‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I suppose I was too young to be affected by it but you, of course – it must have been so hard for you, at such a young age.’ Clara leaned over to hug Stella again. ‘I am glad you had an aunt to look after you. I wish, though, that Mama and Papa had adopted you as well as me.’
‘I wish we’d been able to stay together too. We were far apart in age but best of friends nonetheless,’ Stella said, and both women were silent for a while, just drinking in the sight of each other. ‘Oh, I have something for you.’ Stella reached into a pocket and pulled out the butterfly brooch.
‘That’s beautiful! But I couldn’t possibly . . .’ Clara began, but Stella waved a hand to cut her off.
‘It’s nothing. It’s just something I feel belongs more to you than to me. Please take it.’
Laura quietly left the room then, to make the tea. Let the sisters get to know each other again. After eighty years apart, it would not be easy. She’d had a hard time yesterday initially, explaining to Clara who she really was and how she’d tracked her down. Thankfully, as Clara had known she was adopted and came from Brackendale, she was more willing to listen than Laura had feared.
Tom had followed Laura out. ‘Well, that seems to have gone well,’ he said. ‘Can’t be easy after eighty years. I had a tear in my eye then, when Clara said about her imaginary friend.’
‘Me too,’ Laura said. There’d be a tear in her own eye again before the end of the day, she was sure, after she’d said goodbye to Tom. As long as she managed to hold it together until he’d left. She filled the kettle and switched it on, and began putting teacups and saucers on a tray.
‘What can I do to help?’ Tom asked.
‘Nothing, it’s all right. You’re a guest here too.’ Laura filled a sugar bowl and added it to the tray.
‘Ah, don’t treat me as a guest, Laura. I’m more than that, aren’t I?’
She turned to smile at him. ‘You’re a good friend.’
He frowned slightly, and seemed to slump a little. She crossed the kitchen to the fridge, took out a milk carton and filled a dainty jug with it.
‘Should I go?’ Tom said suddenly. ‘I feel I’m in the way, not being part of the family. I’m glad I’ve seen your gran reunited with her sister, but now that’s over, I probably shouldn’t stay.’
Laura bit her lip. It looked as though the farewell was coming sooner than expected. ‘If you like. It’s up to you. I imagine you’ve got lots to do today.’
He stared at her, and she had to look away. She didn’t want him to see that her eyes were brimming with tears.
‘All right, then. I’ll, um, be off. Say goodbye to your gran for me. I don’t want to interrupt them.’ He left the kitchen.
Laura scurried after him. ‘So, well, I guess I’ll see you on Facebook, then. Thanks for everything.’
Tom opened the front door, then paused. ‘You don’t want to get together again, perhaps, I don’t know, next weekend? I was thinking of getting out of the city, maybe a walk on the South Downs or something?’
God, that was a tempting offer. But being with Tom and not being able to be with him would just be too difficult to bear. Better a clean break. She gave him a tight smile.
‘It sounds lovely, but I’ll have to say no. I think I’m working all next weekend.’
‘Oh. Some other time then, perhaps.’
He turned to go, his hand on the door, one foot already over the threshold, and then she couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t just let him go. Not like this. One more hug, one more kiss, and then. She reached out a hand to his arm, pulled him back, and before she was fully aware of what she was doing her arms were around his neck, her body was pressed against him and her lips were upon his. This was no chaste friendly hug and kiss. This was full on, and she felt her body respond. It felt so good, it had to be right. As she kissed him she realised two things simultaneously. One, that he was kissing her back just as fervently, and two, that enough time had passed since Stuart. She was ready, if only Tom was!
At last the kiss ended and they both came up for air.
‘God, that was good,’ Tom said, still holding her, stroking her hair.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I know you’re not, well, not looking for anyone but . . .’
‘Oh Christ, I did say that, didn’t I? Halfway up Bracken Fell as I recall.’
‘Yes, after you’d told me about what Sarah did . . .’ And she’d told him about Stuart.
He pulled her close again. ‘So . . . Sarah was two years ago. I think I’m over her now, but the question is . . .’
‘. . . am I over Stuart?’ she finished for him. She looked up at him, at the question in his eyes, and smiled. ‘Yes, I think I am. Shall we give it a go then, and see where it leads us?’
‘Oh God, yes! Whoop!’ Tom lifted her off her feet, and began kissing her before he put her down.
‘Well, now I can see why our tea hasn’t arrived yet!’ Gran was standing in the doorway to the sitting room, grinning broadly. ‘Look, Jess– Clara, what the young people get up to as soon as our backs are turned!’
‘Shocking, isn’t it?’ Clara was chuckling. An infectious, bubbling giggle.
Gran laughed too. ‘Clara, you have the exact same laugh you had as a child! Like a babbling brook, Pa always said.’
‘A silly, childish laugh, I always thought,’ Clara replied, smiling. She fingered the butterfly brooch that was now pinned to her lapel. ‘Stella, dear, shall I fetch the tea things then?’
‘Oh Clara, it’s all right, I’ll do it!’ Laura reluctantly disentangled herself from Tom. ‘Give me one minute and I’ll bring it in.’ She closed the front door, went to the kitchen and this time allowed Tom to help.
A few minutes later, back in the sitting room and having handed everyone tea and cake, Laura settled down beside Tom on the small sofa. Gran and Clara were deep in conversation again. Tom slipped an arm around her, and whispered in her ear.
‘Are you really working next weekend?’
‘No, don’t think so,’ she replied.
‘Want to do a bit of the South Downs Way, then? We could stay over in a B&B, if you like, if your gran can spare you . . .’
‘Oh, of course I can spare her!’ Stella interrupted. ‘Sophia can come instead. You two go off and do your own thing. Clara, would you perhaps like to come to tea again next weekend?’
‘With my big sister? Of course I would!’ The two ladies caught at each other’s hands again. Laura smiled to see them so happy, reunited at last, and then turned back to Tom.
‘I’d love to spend more time with you. A walking weekend sounds perfect.’
He grinned, and she felt happier than she had ever been. A bright future shone before her, and she was looking forward to every minute of it.
Author’s Note
Readers who are well acquainted with the Lake District in north-west England might recognise the real-life valley of Mardale and reservoir of Haweswater in my descriptions of Brackendale and Bereswater, and they are absolutely what this novel is based on.
A couple of years ago, having parked in the Mardale Head car park, a friend and I stood reading an information board that told the story of the destruction of Mardale Green to make way for the Haweswater reservoir. ‘Here, Kath,’ said my friend, ‘you could write a novel about this.’ And that comment is all it took – I was immediately hooked on the idea and could think of nothing else.
We climbed that day up the Riggindale Ridge and on to High Street, then over Mardale Ill Bell and down via Mardale Beck – a walk repeated by Laura and Tom in my novel albeit over renamed mountains. Until 2016 golden eagles did indeed nest in this area, the only ones in England, but it is thought the last one has now sadly died of old age.
Haweswater has dried out on a few occasions over the years, revealing the remains of Mardale Green. I was able to find photos and video footage online, all of which helped inspire the novel.
The Old Corpse Road exists, running from Mardale Head over the fells into Swindale and was used as described in the novel to carry coffins to the mother church at Shap, before a burial ground in Mardale was consecrated.
While researching for this novel I came across a lovely account of a boy’s summers in Mardale in the early years of the twentieth century. The authors, David and Joan Hay, will be long gone by now, but I owe them a debt of gratitude for their beautiful, descriptive prose which brought the drowned village to life for me.
Acknowledgements
Three editors provided input into this novel, and my heartfelt thanks go to all of them – Victoria Oundjian, Kate Mills and Celia Lomas. As always, your comments and thoughts were invaluable and helped make the book the best it could be. Thanks too to the copy-editor, proofreader, fabulous cover designers and marketing team at HQ – so many people involved in getting this book out to its readers.
I’d also like to thank my husband Ignatius and son Fionn, who both read an early version of this novel and provided useful feedback. It’s so good to have the unquestioning support of my family. ‘Mum, it’s OK, you got this,’ says my other son, Connor, whenever I have a wobble. It’s much appreciated.
As always, thanks to my many writing friends – fellow HQ authors and RNA members. It’s always great to be in touch with people who really understand this writing lark, and can help with encouragement, sympathy or celebration depending on what’s needed.
Finally, my thanks to Pete Leeming, whose comment as we stood reading an information board in Mardale planted the seed for this novel in my head. I said at the time I’d put you in the acknowledgements, so here you are.
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Kathleen McGurl, The Drowned Village
