The Drowned Village

KATHLEEN McGURL lives near the sea in Bournemouth, UK, with her husband and elderly tabby cat. She has two sons who are now grown up and have left home. She began her writing career creating short stories, and sold dozens to women’s magazines in the UK and Australia. Then she got side-tracked onto family history research – which led eventually to writing novels with genealogy themes. She has always been fascinated by the past, and the ways in which it can influence the present, and enjoys exploring these links in her novels.

When not writing or working at her full-time job in IT, she likes to go out running. She also adores mountains and is never happier than when striding across the Lake District fells, following a route from a Wainwright guidebook.

You can find out more at her website: http://kathleenmcgurl.com/, or follow her on Twitter: @KathMcGurl.

Also by Kathleen McGurl

The Emerald Comb

The Pearl Locket

The Daughters of Red Hill Hall

The Girl from Ballymor

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Kathleen McGurl 2018

Kathleen McGurl asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008236984

For my husband Ignatius.

May there be many more Lake District

walking holidays ahead of us.

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by Kathleen McGurl

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1: LAURA, PRESENT DAY

Chapter 2: JED, APRIL 1935

Chapter 3: LAURA

Chapter 4: JED

Chapter 5: LAURA

Chapter 6: JED

Chapter 7: LAURA

Chapter 8: JED

Chapter 9: LAURA

Chapter 10: JED

Chapter 11: LAURA

Chapter 12: JED

Chapter 13: LAURA

Chapter 14: STELLA, JULY 1935

Chapter 15: LAURA

Chapter 16: STELLA

Chapter 17: LAURA

Chapter 18: STELLA

Chapter 19: LAURA

Chapter 20: STELLA

Chapter 21: LAURA

Chapter 22: STELLA

Chapter 23: LAURA

Chapter 24: JED, JULY 1935

Chapter 25: LAURA

Chapter 26: STELLA, JANUARY 1936

Chapter 27: LAURA

Chapter 28: STELLA, 1956

Chapter 29: LAURA

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Prologue

It was the same dream. All these years, always the same dream. It was cold, snowing, and she was wearing only a thin cardigan over a cotton frock. On her feet were flimsy plimsolls. The sky was white, all colour had been sucked out of the countryside, everything was monochrome. There was mud underfoot, squelching, pulling at her shoes, threatening to claim them and never give them back. On either side of her were the walls of the houses – only half height now, reaching to her waist or shoulder at most. All the roofs were gone, doors and window shutters hung off their hinges, everywhere was rubble, the sad remains of a once happy life.

And then came the water. Icy cold, nibbling first at her toes, then sloshing around her ankles, and up to her knees. She was wading through it, struggling onwards, reaching out in front of her with both hands, stretching, leaning, grasping – but always it was just out of reach. No matter how hard she tried, she could not quite touch it, and always the water was rising higher and higher, the cold of it turning her feet and hands to stone.

Ahead, in the distance, was her father’s face. Torn with anguish, saying – no, shouting – something at her. She couldn’t hear his words; they were drowned by the sounds of rushing water, rising tides, a burst dam, a wall of water engulfing everything around her. She knew she had to reach it – that was what he wanted. If only she could get hold of it; but still, it was tantalisingly beyond her reach.

Now the water was up to her chest, her neck, and she was trying to swim but something was pulling her under, into the icy depths, and still she couldn’t reach the thing she had come here for. Her chest was tight, burning with the effort to breathe as the cold engulfed her and panic rose within her.

As always, just as the water washed over her head, filling her lungs and blurring her vision, she awoke, sweating, her heart racing, and her fingers – old and gnarled now, not the smooth youthful hands of her dream – still stretching out to try to touch the battered old tea caddy . . .

Chapter 1

LAURA, PRESENT DAY

The TV was turned up so loud that Laura could hear it clearly even from the kitchen, where she was preparing the evening meal of shepherd’s pie. She popped the dish into the oven and went through to the living room.

‘Laura, love, you must watch this! Wait a moment, while I wind it back a bit.’ Stella picked up the remote control and began stabbing randomly at buttons.

‘Let me, Gran,’ Laura said, gently taking the remote from her. ‘What do you want me to see? Should I go back to the beginning of the news?’ Thank goodness you could pause and rewind live TV, she thought. Her grandmother’s hearing was not so good any more, and despite having the sound turned up so loud, she still often needed to watch snippets again, or turn on the subtitles.

‘No, just this bit,’ Stella said, peering intently at the screen. ‘There. Play it from now.’

An image of mountains and moorlands, purple heather and dry brown bracken appeared on the TV, then the camera panned round to show a dried-up lake, where a reporter was picking his way across a bed of cracked mud. Here and there were low stone walls, an iron gate, tree stumps.

The reporter stopped beside the remains of a building.

‘Usually, if I was standing here, the water level would be over my head. But the extended drought this summer means that Bereswater Reservoir has almost completely dried up, exposing the ruins of the village of Brackendale Green, once home to a couple of hundred people before the dam was built.’

‘There! Brackendale Green!’ Stella’s eyes were shining.

‘What about it, Gran?’

‘It’s – it’s where I was born! Where I grew up! Until I was eleven or so, when they built the dam and then Pa was . . . Pa went . . . and we all had to move out.’

‘Wow, Gran, I never knew.’ Laura watched with renewed interest now. She knew her grandmother came from the Lake District originally but realised in shame that she had never asked exactly where. Stella had never talked much about her early life, although she was always happy to recount stories from her days as a young actress in London, before she’d married and had her son, Laura’s father.

‘That’s the main street he’s walking down,’ Stella said, her eyes still fixed on the flickering screen. ‘The pub – oh now what was it called? Oh yes, the Lost Sheep! Silly name for a pub in the fells. Sheep were always lost, but they’d find their way back, most of them. Those dear old Herdwicks, they knew their way home. What was I saying? Oh yes – the pub was there. Right about where he’s standing now. Pa did like a pint of ale in there of an evening.’

‘In the 1930s, the population of Brackendale Green was approximately one hundred and fifty residents, men, women and children,’ the reporter went on. ‘This number was briefly swelled when the dam-building began, but in later stages the workers were housed in prefab buildings nearer the site of the dam. The village itself was demolished just before the valley flooded, but as you can see, the lower parts of the walls are still clearly visible. Here, there’s a stone bridge that crossed the stream that ran through the valley. Over there, an iron gate lies in the dried mud, presumably once the entrance to a field. In here –’ he passed through the remains of a doorway – ‘some of the floorboards survive beneath the mud. The fireplace is intact, and there’s even a small stove set within it.’

The camera panned round the room, showing the items he’d spoken about.

‘Funny, seeing it again after all these years,’ Stella said, her voice cracking a little. ‘When you think of all that happened there . . .’

Laura glanced at her in concern. ‘What happened there?’

‘Oh, I mean all the people who lived and worked there, were born there and grew up. That’s all I mean, love. Nothing more.’ Stella watched as the news programme cut back to the studio and the presenter began talking about the state of the economy. ‘Switch it off now, love, will you?’

‘Sure.’ Laura silenced the TV. ‘Gran, you’ve never mentioned this before. I’d love to know more about it. What was the village called? Bracken-something?’

‘Brackendale Green. Oh, it was all so long ago.’ Stella’s eyes misted over and she stared at the blank TV screen, deep in thought.

‘Fascinating, though. Will you tell me more about it?’ Laura glanced at her watch. ‘There’s about twenty minutes till dinner’s ready. I’ll go and set the table for us now, but then I’d love you to tell me more about your childhood. Will you?’

There was a strange look on Stella’s face. Laura supposed it must be a bit of a shock, seeing the ruins of the place where you’d been born, exposed to the elements after more than eighty years underwater. But there was more to it than that. Stella looked as though she was hiding something, fighting with herself over whether to confide in Laura or not.

Well, maybe she’d talk, over dinner or afterwards. Laura went back out to the kitchen to set the table. It was a Friday, and they’d begun a tradition of opening a bottle of wine together. Stella only ever drank a glass a night, so one bottle would do them both Friday and Saturday nights. Laura chose a Pinot Noir and uncorked it. Another Friday night in with her ninety-year-old grandmother. Most women of her age would be out partying, if they weren’t married with small children yet. And up to a couple of months before, Laura would have been out clubbing on a weekend night too – with Stuart and Martine. She’d thought she had a perfect set-up – renting a flat with her long-term boyfriend Stuart, with her best mate Martine subletting the spare room. Lots of fun and giggles, and if sometimes Stuart had complained at her for being late back from work after a client had needed extra care, or if Martine had bitched at her for not always wanting to go clubbing every weekend, on the whole it had been good. At least, it had been good until she’d come home unwell one day, and found Stuart in bed with Martine. Laura grimaced as she remembered that day. Her life had fallen apart, and if it wasn’t for Gran, and having to hold herself together for her clients, she was certain she’d have had a full breakdown.

Stella made a much better flatmate. At ninety, she needed a lot of care, but that was Laura’s job anyway, and so she’d taken over most of her grandmother’s needs. The agency sent other carers to cover on the days when Laura’s own agency needed her elsewhere. So far it had worked out well. And Laura felt she’d done a good job keeping cheerful – on the outside at least.

The oven beeped, and Laura removed the pie from the oven and set it to rest for a few minutes on the table. She poured two glasses of wine.

‘Gran? Dinner’s ready.’ She went back through to the sitting room where Stella was still staring at the blank television. She placed the walking frame in front of her and steadied it while Stella pushed herself to her feet and took hold of the frame.

‘Ooh, my old knees,’ she said with a smile. ‘You’d never think I used to be able to jitterbug, when you look at me now.’

‘Gran, you’re doing brilliantly. Hope I’m as fit as you when I’m your age.’ Laura helped the old lady to sit down at the kitchen table, and began serving the meal.

‘I’ve had a thought, Laura, dear.’ Stella put down her cutlery before she’d taken so much as a mouthful, and fixed her granddaughter with a firm stare.

‘Oh-oh. What is it, Gran?’

‘It’s time you had a holiday. You haven’t had one this summer, and after all that nastiness, you need to get away.’

‘I need to look after you!’ But that ‘nastiness’, as Gran put it, had almost swamped her, she had to admit it.

‘The agency can send someone else. I managed perfectly well before you moved in. Don’t get me wrong, Laura, I love having you here, but you need to live your own life as well. You’ve barely been out since you moved here.’

She was right, but there was no one Laura wanted to go out with. All her friends had been Stuart and Martine’s friends as well, and seeing any of them would mean hearing about how loved-up they were, how they were made for each other and how great it was they were able to be together at last, as if she, Laura, had been purposefully keeping them apart! When she’d lost Stuart she’d lost the whole of her old life. And she had not done much about building herself a new life yet. It was too soon, she kept telling herself, although she knew that sooner or later she’d need to get back out there making friends again. Perhaps in time even meet a new man. Someone who wouldn’t discard her like a used tissue as soon as he’d had enough. But right now she couldn’t even contemplate that happening.

‘Respite care, they call it – to give you a break. From me.’

‘Aw, Gran, I don’t need a break from you. You’re easy to look after.’ Laura reached across the table to take her grandmother’s hand.

‘Oh, I’m not really. Well, I may be easier than some of your clients, as I’ve still got all my marbles, but I’m under no illusions about how difficult your job is. You do it all day, then come home to more of it in the evening with me. So, as I said, I think it is time you had a holiday. And I have an idea of where you might like to go.’

‘Really?’ Laura raised her eyebrows in amusement. Stella wasn’t usually this bossy. But it was a thought – a holiday might do her good. Stella was right that she hadn’t been away anywhere since the previous summer, when she and Stuart had spent a long weekend in Barcelona, before travelling along the coast to the beach resort of Lloret de Mar where they’d met up with Martine. For all she knew, Stuart and Martine’s affair had started there. Perhaps a holiday on her own would help her forget them and move on.

‘The Lake District,’ Stella said triumphantly. ‘I know how much you love the mountains. You could do a bit of walking. And . . .’

‘And?’ Get her head together and her life sorted out?

‘Maybe you’d like to visit Brackendale Green,’ Stella said, looking at Laura out of the corner of her eye as if she was unsure what the reaction would be.

‘The drowned village where you were born, that was on the news earlier?’

‘That’s the one. I mean, I know you’re into family history and all that. So I thought, perhaps now’s the chance to see the place. And maybe it’d help you . . . you know . . . move on. Since all the nastiness it’s as though you’re just treading water, living here with me, not going out at all. At your age there ought to be more in your life. A holiday might help you – what’s that modern computer phrase you young people use? Reboot. Reboot your life. What do you think?’

‘I think, eat your dinner before it goes cold, and let me consider it,’ Laura said, smiling. Dear old Gran – always had her best interests at heart. But she was probably right in that it was time for a reboot.

Stella glared at her, then broke into a broad smile. ‘Yes, you think about it, love. But don’t take too long or it’ll rain and the village will be underwater again.’

Laura considered Stella’s proposal as she ate. Gran was right – she did love the mountains. And it would be fascinating to see the remains of the village where Gran had been born. If she could get some time off next week, perhaps, and arrange alternative care for Gran, she could pack up a rucksack, dig out her old tent and sleeping bag from pre-Stuart days, and drive up there. If she camped then the whole trip would be pretty cheap. There was a campsite in Patterdale where she’d stayed a few times years ago. Or maybe there’d be another one closer to Bereswater and Brackendale Green. She could look online. As long as there was a pub that did food nearby, she didn’t mind where she stayed. She could do some hiking, think about her future and try to put the mess with Stuart and Martine fully behind her. Just a few months ago she’d thought it was only a matter of time before Stuart proposed. She’d assumed they’d marry and Martine would be her bridesmaid and hen-night organiser. Huh. How blind she’d been!

‘Well?’ Stella put her knife and fork neatly together on her plate. She hadn’t eaten everything but these days her appetite was tiny, and Laura had learned not to try to persuade her to eat more. That worked with some of her clients but Gran would just dig her heels in.

‘What?’

‘Have you decided? Will you take a holiday?’

Laura smiled. ‘You know, I think I might. Since you seem so eager to get rid of me! I do quite fancy a trip to the Lake District, and I’ve still got my old tent somewhere.’

‘Good! I’m really pleased. It’ll do you good. You need it and you deserve it. The dinner was delicious, by the way. I’d help you wash up, if I could, but thankfully I can’t.’ Stella grinned impishly, and Laura chuckled at the joke she made after every evening meal.

‘No problem, Gran, I’ll do it this time,’ she said, parroting the usual response.

As she washed up, a thought came to her. Where was that old tent, and her sleeping bag? She’d brought a car full of stuff to Gran’s when she’d left the flat she’d shared with Stuart, but were the tent and sleeping bag amongst it all? Not that she could remember. With a sinking feeling she remembered that she’d stored it in an eaves cupboard at the flat – the one in Martine’s bedroom – and she had not checked that cupboard when she moved out. It had all been a bit of a rush.

Not for the first time, she relived that hideous day in her mind as she worked. She’d gone home early because she could feel herself coming down with a cold. In her job, it was not a good idea to battle on through bugs and germs, as it was too easy to pass them on to her frailer clients. She’d called the office, who had been able to get someone else to do her last two care visits of the day, and had gratefully driven back to the flat, picking up some Beecham’s cold cures on the way. She’d let herself in, expecting the flat to be empty, but then had heard sounds coming from the bedroom she shared with Stuart. He ought to have been at work. Thinking perhaps someone had broken in, she’d grabbed a golfing umbrella from the hat stand as the nearest thing she had to a weapon, steeled herself, then burst in through the bedroom door, shouting and brandishing the umbrella. The first thing she’d seen was Stuart’s bare bum thrusting up and down; the second thing was Martine’s shocked face, peering over his shoulder.

Stuart looked around. ‘Fuck, Lols, you gave me a fright! What’s with the screaming and all?’

‘Laura, oh my God!’ Martine shuffled out from underneath Stuart, grabbed the nearest item to cover herself – Laura’s fleecy dressing gown – and pushed past Laura, out of the room.

Laura was speechless. How long she had stood there, staring at Stuart, she didn’t know. It could have been two seconds or twenty minutes. Her mind was in turmoil. Stuart? And Martine? Martine, who she’d considered her best friend. Stuart was scrabbling around for his clothes, which were strewn across the floor. As he stood up to pull on his underpants Laura finally found her voice. ‘How long?’

‘You what?’

‘How long – has this been going on?’

‘What?’

‘You and Martine, of course! What do you think I’m talking about? How long have you been . . . shagging her?’ She spat the word out.

‘Shit, I dunno, Lols, not long, it’s just . . .’

‘Ten months.’ Martine was standing behind her, now dressed in her own clothes. ‘Sorry, Laura. You had to find out sooner or later but I guess this wasn’t the best way. Stu, I said you should have told her.’

‘Couldn’t find the right time, hon. Well, she knows now. Sorry, Lols.’ Stuart reached out a hand, and Laura instinctively stepped forward to take it, then realised he was reaching for Martine. ‘She’s just, well, more my type, I guess. Come on, Lols, we had some good times but it hasn’t been working for a while. You know that. Martine and I kind of drifted together, as you and I have drifted apart.’

Drifted apart? Had they? Well, they hadn’t had as many evenings together as a couple lately, what with Laura’s recent shift patterns which had meant she’d been working till ten p.m. five nights a week. The other two nights if they went out Martine had always come with them. And – ten months? Ten! Laura could not seem to form any sentences to respond. It was all too much to take in at once. She’d been living a lie for nearly a year!

‘Lols? I guess maybe you and Martine should swap rooms. I mean, now it’s all out in the open . . .’ Stuart said, with a shrug.

That did it. ‘Swap rooms? You think you just move me into the spare room now you’re bored of me, and Martine into our room? It’s as easy as that? You bastard, Stuart. You are a complete and utter GIT! And you –’ Laura turned to Martine – ‘how even could you? I thought you were my friend. My best friend. Well, fuck you.’ She picked up the nearest object to hand – a ring-binder folder of Stuart’s containing details of his work projects – and flung it across the room at them both. Satisfyingly, it popped open in mid-air, showering papers everywhere.

‘Laura, for fuck’s sake, that stuff’s important!’ Stuart began gathering up the loose papers.

‘More important than me, clearly.’ Laura crossed the room, trampling across the papers, and flung open the wardrobe. She grabbed a holdall and began throwing her clothes into it.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Leaving you two lovebirds – what does it look like? You can refund me the rent I’ve paid for this month. I’ll collect the rest of my stuff tomorrow when you’re out.’ She tried to close the bag but the zip got caught in a woolly jumper she’d rammed in the top.