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.

‘Where will you go?’ asked Martine. She at least had the grace to look mortified, unlike Stuart who seemed merely annoyed that he’d been found out.

‘Why the fuck should you even care?’ Laura swept an assortment of toiletries, make-up and jewellery from the top of the chest of drawers into a carrier bag. She leaned over the bed to grab her half-read book from the top of the bedside cabinet and Stuart cringed as though he thought she was about to hit him. ‘I’m going. You can move your stuff in tomorrow when I’ve cleared it out properly.’ And with that, she’d stormed out of the flat, banging the door so hard that their downstairs neighbour stuck his head out to see what was going on.

In her car, she’d sat breathing deeply for a few minutes. She’d left the cold and flu remedies she’d bought in the flat, and was feeling worse. Not surprising, really, she told herself. It’s not every day you lose your boyfriend, your best mate and your home all while trying to battle the onset of a cold. Where would she go? And then the tears had come.

Now, finishing drying up the dinner things and with unbidden tears trailing down her cheeks at the painful memories, she recalled it was at that moment, her lowest, most despairing point, that a text had arrived, from her gran. Dear Laura, the text read, Stella being of the generation that felt all written communication should be properly spelt and punctuated, if you get the chance could you pick up a pint of milk for me and drop it round? Clumsy old thing that I am, I dropped the carton all over the floor, and now there’s none for my bedtime Ovaltine. Thank you, with love from Gran.

And that was when she’d worked out her plan. She would ask if she could stay with Stella until she could work something else out. What that something else would be she had no idea. In return she could help with Gran’s care, reducing her costs. She’d bought more cold remedies and the milk, and turned up on her grandmother’s doorstep, her eyes red and her nose streaming. Stella had been horrified by what had happened but delighted by the idea of having Laura to live with her, telling her she could stay for as long as she wanted.

Laura put away the last of the dishes, splashed water on her face and dried her eyes, then picked up her wine glass and went through to the sitting room where Stella was quietly knitting squares for a blanket. The cat, Jasper, was curled up beside her, battling with himself. He knew he was not allowed to play with the knitting wool but oh, how he wanted to! His eyes watched the yarn dancing across Stella’s lap, and every now and then he would twitch as though he was about to go for it.

‘Do you realise I’ve been living here with you for two months now?’ Laura said, as she gave Jasper a stroke and sat down.

‘Nearly three months, dear. You arrived on June the sixth – I remember because it was the D-Day anniversary – and now it is August the twenty-eighth. Are you fed up with your old gran yet?’

‘Not at all – I love being here!’ Laura wasn’t lying. It had all worked out better than she could have hoped. Gran had offered a sympathetic ear, some gently given advice, a comfortable room to sleep in, and was great company when Laura wasn’t working. No matter that her parents lived in Australia – when you had a gran like Stella! And although Laura had not yet done much about rebuilding her life, she knew that her sojourn with Gran had at least given her time to get over Stuart. Was she over him? She hoped so, but did still find herself crying herself to sleep sometimes, even though she knew he wasn’t worth it.

‘But you do need a holiday,’ prompted Stella, with a questioning glance at Laura.

Laura smiled. ‘Yes, I am owed loads of leave, and it would be lovely to see where you lived. I’ll call round to the flat tomorrow and try to retrieve my tent and sleeping bag that I left there, and I’ll talk to Ewan in the office about booking the time off, and getting someone to cover your care. Ewan’s a mate of mine. He’ll sort it out for me, even though it’s short notice. Thanks for the suggestion, Gran!’ And while she was away she’d have a good long think about her future and make sure she was fully over Stuart, she decided.

She held up her wine glass and Stella clinked it with her knitting needles. The old lady’s expression held something that Laura couldn’t quite read. She seemed pleased Laura had decided to go to Brackendale Green but at the same time, it was as though she was fighting an internal battle. She was definitely hiding something.

Chapter 2

JED, APRIL 1935

Jed held tightly to his daughter Stella’s hand as they walked up the steep track that led up on to the fells behind the village. Three dozen mourners followed behind them. The coffin containing his beloved Edie had been taken by road, in the hearse, to Glydesdale in the next valley where she would be buried, but Jed had chosen to walk the old way, the traditional route over the hills, to reach the church.

‘All right, lass?’ he asked Stella, and received a mute nod in reply. The poor mite, of course she was missing her ma. No child of ten years old ought to be left motherless. No child of two, either, Jed thought, thinking of little Jessie whom he’d left behind in Brackendale Green being cared for by a neighbour. But Edie had died, of cancer, leaving Jed and the two girls alone.

It broke his heart that they could not bury her in St Isidore’s Church in Brackendale Green, where generations of his family had been buried. But the dam-building had begun, there were compulsory purchase orders on every house in Brackendale, and the village’s days were numbered. In another year or maybe even less everyone would have to move out. Where he, Stella and Jessie would go or what he would do for a living Jed had no idea. He could not think that far ahead. The last year had been taken up with caring for Edie, and now she was gone he would need to figure out how he could manage to look after the girls and still work. And then there was his father, Isaac, who was increasingly frail and also dependent on Jed for support.

Well, all those worries would have to wait until Edie was safe underground in Glydesdale churchyard. He took a deep breath. At least the weather was fine for her burial. It was the kind of day Edie had always loved – springtime, with blue skies, clear air, bright green foliage on the trees and bushes, and down in the valleys, an abundance of fluffy black Herdwick lambs on their spindly legs. A time of rebirth and hope for the future. But not this year. This year it was a time of death and fear of what was to come.

‘Is it much further?’ Stella asked. She was usually a good little walker, but the past few weeks had been hard on her. Jed had relied on her to prepare food and look after her sister, while he sat at Edie’s side.

‘Not so far now,’ he replied with a reassuring smile. They walked on in silence, but a moment later when Stella stumbled on a rough section of the track, he scooped her up onto his broad shoulders. ‘I’ll carry you for a bit, lass, to give you a rest.’

‘Thanks, Pa,’ she said, as she tucked her feet under his arms and held his upraised hands for balance. He gritted his teeth with the effort of walking uphill with her weight on his shoulders. He’d not carried her like this since she was smaller, and it was tough going, but she was his daughter so she could not be a burden. He could do this.

‘Stella, get down, you’re a big enough girl to walk it yourself without making your father carry you.’ It was Maggie, Jed’s neighbour, who’d caught up alongside them.

‘Ah, she’s all right up there, Maggie. The poor lass is exhausted so I don’t mind carrying her a while.’ Maggie had been a good friend throughout Edie’s illness. She’d helped nurse her, she’d brought in pots of mutton stew for their dinner, and once, she’d cared for Jessie while Stella was at school, to allow Jed to stay with Edie.

‘She looks so heavy, such a burden for you. Well, we’re almost at the top – then perhaps she can walk by herself. You can’t be carried all the way to your own mother’s funeral, now can you?’

‘Pa, I’ll walk now,’ Stella said wearily, and Jed hoisted her down again. The child hung back behind him with some of the other mourners, as Maggie fell into step alongside him. Stella didn’t much like Maggie, he knew.

‘That’s better,’ Maggie said. ‘Now we can talk as adults. Jed, you’ll need help managing the girls, won’t you? I mean, I’ll do what I can for you, but long term, you’ll need someone living in. You’ll need to take another wife.’

‘For the Lord’s sake, Maggie, I’ve not yet buried my first wife!’ Jed could not help blurting out the words. ‘Give me a chance, woman.’

Maggie had the grace to hang her head. ‘I’m sorry. You know me, Jed. Sometimes I speak my mind before I think it through properly.’ She reached out to touch his arm. ‘I want only the best for you, never forget that.’

Jed softened his expression. ‘Aye, Maggie, I know that.’

They walked on. Maggie paused to flick a stone out of her shoe, and Stella then ran up to take her place beside Jed once more, slipping her little hand into his roughened one.

‘I was thinking, Pa, that Ma would have liked this walk, and with all the village coming too. Perhaps we should have carried her over this way to the church.’

‘It’d have been a struggle, lass. But you know, a hundred years ago that’s what the people of Brackendale did with their dead. Before St Isidore’s graveyard was consecrated, coffins were carried over here all the way to Glydesdale for burial. That’s why it’s called the Old Corpse Road. See that flat stone, there?’

Stella looked where he was pointing, at a large flat-topped stone just off the path.

‘It’s a lych-stone. The men would have placed the coffin there for a rest. There are a few of them on this route, and then the final one in the lych-gate of the Glydesdale church.’

Stella shuddered. ‘Are there ghosts up here, then? If so many dead bodies were carried along this path?’

Jed smiled sadly at her. ‘Who knows, lass? Perhaps there are. Well, we need to walk a bit faster if we’re to get to Glydesdale in time to meet your ma’s coffin there. Can you manage it?’

She nodded solemnly, and quickened her pace. Jed matched it, and the crowd behind did too. So many from the village were coming to the funeral. Everyone except Janie Earnshaw, Maggie’s mother, who’d offered to stay behind and take care of little Jessie as she had to stay to look after her sister Susie anyway. A funeral was no place for someone like poor Susie.

The sun was climbing higher and the day was warming up from its frosty start. Jed checked his pocket watch – the one that his father, Isaac, had passed on to him. They would be on time, as long as they didn’t slow up at all. In any case, the vicar would surely not start the service without them. Jed was still glad he had chosen to walk rather than ride in the hearse with Edie, or in a motorcar following it. The fresh air and exercise after the days stuck indoors at Edie’s sickbed were doing him good, helping him to realise that life would still go on and it was up to him, for the sake of the girls, to make the best of it. Though how he would manage it he didn’t know. He’d lost his wife and soon he would lose his home, his workshop, his business as a mechanic, and indeed his whole community, the village where he was born and had lived all his life. Times were tough. But he’d promised Edie, as she lay dying, that he would give the girls a good life. They’d want for nothing, if it was within his power to provide it.

Stella tugged on his hand. ‘Look!’ She was pointing high above them, where a skylark was singing its heart out. ‘It’s Ma. She’s telling us she’s all right, and that it doesn’t hurt any more, and that she wants us to be happy.’

Jed looked up, and blinked against the bright sunlight. ‘Yes, lass, perhaps it is your ma. We’ll do our best to be happy, eh, after today at any rate.’ His voice broke a little as he spoke. He hadn’t yet told Stella that they would have to move out of their home in a year. She knew about the dam, of course – she’d seen the land where it was to be sited being prepared, the new road being built for the workmen to use. And it had been impossible to prevent her from hearing the talk in the village. It had been almost the only topic of conversation for months, ever since that first meeting when officials from the water board had called the villagers together in the Lost Sheep and told them their valley was to be flooded to build a reservoir. The water would be piped all the way to Manchester. So Stella knew, but whether she had worked out that they would not have long left in the village Jed didn’t know. And now was not the time to talk about it.

They were descending now, into the Glydesdale valley. The familiar mountains surrounding Brackendale were out of sight, and instead there was a new vista – steep screes tumbling down to meet the lush fields of Glydesdale, a few farms dotted through the valley and a little cluster of cottages surrounding the church. Soon they would join the road at the bottom that followed the stream through the dale to the village and the church where Jed would be reunited with Edie’s coffin, before it was put into the ground. He’d be walking this route many more times over the next year, he knew, coming to visit her grave. And after that, when Brackendale was evacuated, who knew where he’d be living. He could only hope that he would still be within easy reach of the Glydesdale church so he’d be able to continue paying his respects.

Edie’s older sister, Winnie, a spinster who lived in the nearby town of Penrith, met them by the church lych-gate. Her eyes were red-rimmed. ‘One so young as Edie should never have to be buried,’ she said, between her sobs, and Jed nodded in reply, swallowing hard, not trusting himself to say anything. He did not want to break down in front of Stella, whose hand he held tightly throughout the quiet and sombre service. The girl was so brave, he thought. Only a few gentle sniffs gave away the fact that she was weeping. She held her head high throughout, and stepped forward to throw a handful of dirt into the grave when he nudged her. Only then did she have to dash away a tear.

As they walked away from the grave and people started heading back up the track that led over the fells and back to Brackendale, Jed began to regret his decision to walk. Poor Stella – the child had had enough. How could he have expected her to walk all the way here and back again? She was exhausted. He looked around for someone who might have driven the long way round from Brackendale. Perhaps someone would be able to give her a lift. But almost the whole village had walked with him, as a sign of solidarity. He had welcomed it, but right now he could do with someone who had a motor car, or at least a pony and trap. Winnie had travelled by bus, and hurried off after the service to catch the one back to Penrith, after pressing Jed’s hand and urging him to stay in touch.

‘Jed Walker, isn’t it? I am sorry for your loss.’

He spun around to see who was speaking. She was a well-dressed woman of perhaps forty, wearing a tailored black coat and a neat hat, and carrying a shiny black handbag.

‘Aye, I’m Jed Walker,’ he answered.

She held out a black-gloved hand. ‘Alexandria Pendleton. Your wife used to be my housemaid, before she married. I live up at the manor.’

Of course, he recognised her now. She was from the ‘big house’ as the village folk liked to call it. In days gone by, before the Great War, the Pendletons had owned most of the land around here. But now there was just the manor house and one farm. The current squire of the manor worked in government and spent most of the week in London, travelling up and down the country each week by rail. Jed shook her hand, ashamed of his rough workman’s hands against her soft leather. ‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am.’

‘Edie was a good worker. We missed her when she left us to get married. So tragic that she has died so young. Oh, is this your daughter?’

Stella had sidled up to Jed and once again slipped her hand into his.

‘Aye, this is my eldest. Stella, say hello to the lady.’

Stella bent her knees in an approximation of a curtsey, then stepped back so she was partly behind Jed. She was hiding her tear-stained face, he realised.

‘Sorry about the lass. It’s been a hard time for her, and we had a long walk over the fells from Brackendale.’

‘Surely you’re not going to make her walk back as well?’ Mrs Pendleton looked shocked. ‘Wait there a moment.’ She trotted off across the churchyard in her high-heeled shoes, and caught the arm of a man in a chauffeur’s cap and jacket. Jed watched as she spoke to him; he nodded, and then she returned to Jed and Stella.

‘You shall ride back to Brackendale in my motorcar. Thomas will take me home first for I have much to do, and then he will return here to take you and the child home.’ She nodded curtly, a woman who was clearly used to being obeyed.

‘Thank you. That is very kind,’ Jed replied.

‘It is nothing. You can wait by the lych-gate.’ Mrs Pendleton took her leave, and walked over to the front of the church where her Bentley was waiting.

‘Come on, lass. We’ll wait where she said, and then we’ll get a ride in a big, powerful motorcar.’ Jed took Stella’s hand and began to walk over to the lych-gate. But before they had got very far, Maggie approached.

‘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.’

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