Kathleen McGurl

The Drowned Village


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      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.

      The Emerald Comb

      The Pearl Locket

      The Daughters of Red Hill Hall

      The Girl from Ballymor

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      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

       Dedication

       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

      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,