the Publisher
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 . . .
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