imaginary dawned on her a short time later. Past the house the road wound out of the woods and climbed the steep bank of a bare hillside; a mile beyond the rise they came to the first of many gates in drystone walls. Mr Dodd climbed down and opened the gate. Then he led the carriage through and shut it. Mrs Flawse searched the horizon for a sign of her new home but there was not a house in sight. Here and there a few dirty sheep showed up against the snow but for the rest there was emptiness. Mrs Flawse shivered.
‘We’ve another ten miles yet,’ said Mr Flawse cheerfully. For the next hour they bumped along the broken road with nothing more enchanting to view than an abandoned farmhouse standing within a garden wall and surrounded by fireweed and stinging nettles. Finally they arrived at another gate and beyond it Mrs Flawse could see a church standing on a knoll and around it several houses.
‘That’s Black Pockrington,’ said Mr Flawse. ‘You’ll do your shopping there.’
‘There?’ said Mrs Flawse tartly. ‘I most certainly won’t. It doesn’t look big enough to have shops.’
‘It has a wee store and the cholera explains its size.’
‘Cholera?’ said Mrs Flawse, somewhat alarmed.
‘The epidemic of 1842 or thereabouts,’ said the old man, ‘wiped out nine-tenths of the population. You’ll find them buried in the graveyard. A terrible thing, the cholera, but without it I doubt we Flawses would be where we are today.’
He gave a nasty chuckle that found no echo in his wife. She had not the least desire to be where she was today.
‘We bought the land around for a song,’ continued Mr Flawse. ‘Dead Man’s Moor they call it now.’
In the distance there came the sound of an explosion.
‘That’ll be the artillery wasting good taxpayers’ money on the firing-range. You’ll get used to the noise. It’s either that or they’re blasting over Tombstone Law in the quarries.’
Mrs Flawse hugged her travelling rug to her. The very names were filled with dread.
‘And when are we getting to Flawse Hall?’ she asked, to drive away her fear. The old man consulted a large gold Hunter.
‘About another half an hour,’ he said, ‘by half past four.’
Mrs Flawse stared out of the window even more intently, looking for the houses of neighbours, but there were none to be seen, only the unbroken expanse of openmoor and the occasional outcrop of rock that topped the hills. As they drove on the wind rose. Finally they came to another gated wall and Mr Dodd climbed down again.
‘The Hall is over yonder. You’ll not get a better view,’ said the old man as they drove through. Mrs Flawse wiped the mist from the window and peered out. What she could see of the home she had set such store by had nothing to recommend it now. Flawse Hall on Flawse Fell close under Flawse Rigg lived up to its name. A large grey granite building with a tower at one end, it reminded her of Dartmoor Prison in a miniature way. The high stone wall that surrounded three sides of the house had the same air of deliberate containment as that of the prison and the gated archway in the wall was large and ominous. A few stunted and wind-bent trees huddled beside the wall and far away to the west she caught sight of dark pinewoods.
‘That’s the reservoir over there,’ said Mr Flawse. ‘Ye’ll see the dam below.’
Mrs Flawse saw the dam. It was built of blocks of granite that filled the valley and from its base there ran a stone-sided stream that followed the valley floor, passed under a gated bridge, wound on another quarter of a mile and disappeared into a dark hole in the hillside. All in all the prospect ahead was as grim as nature and nineteenth-century waterworks could make it. Even the iron gate on to the little bridge was spiked and locked. Again Mr Dodd had to climb down and open it beforethe carriage moved through. Mr Flawse looked up the hill proudly and rubbed his hands with glee. ‘It’s good to be home
‘We’ve another ten miles yet,’ said Mr Flawse cheerfully. For the next hour they bumped along the broken road with nothing more enchanting to view than an abandoned farmhouse standing within a garden wall and surrounded by fireweed and stinging nettles. Finally they arrived at another gate and beyond it Mrs Flawse could see a church standing on a knoll and around it several houses.
‘That’s Black Pockrington,’ said Mr Flawse. ‘You’ll do your shopping there.’
‘There?’ said Mrs Flawse tartly. ‘I most certainly won’t. It doesn’t look big enough to have shops.’
‘It has a wee store and the cholera explains its size.’
‘Cholera?’ said Mrs Flawse, somewhat alarmed.
‘The epidemic of 1842 or thereabouts,’ said the old man, ‘wiped out nine-tenths of the population. You’ll find them buried in the graveyard. A terrible thing, the cholera, but without it I doubt we Flawses would be where we are today.’
He gave a nasty chuckle that found no echo in his wife. She had not the least desire to be where she was today.
‘We bought the land around for a song,’ continued Mr Flawse. ‘Dead Man’s Moor they call it now.’
In the distance there came the sound of an explosion.
‘That’ll be the artillery wasting good taxpayers’ money on the firing-range. You’ll get used to the noise. It’s either that or they’re blasting over Tombstone Law in the quarries.’
Mrs Flawse hugged her travelling rug to her. The very names were filled with dread.
‘And when are we getting to Flawse Hall?’ she asked, to drive away her fear. The old man consulted a large gold Hunter.
‘About another half an hour,’ he said, ‘by half past four.’
Mrs Flawse stared out of the window even more intently, looking for the houses of neighbours, but there were none to be seen, only the unbroken expanse of openmoor and the occasional outcrop of rock that topped the hills. As they drove on the wind rose. Finally they came to another gated wall and Mr Dodd climbed down again.
‘The Hall is over yonder. You’ll not get a better view,’ said the old man as they drove through. Mrs Flawse wiped the mist from the window and peered out. What she could see of the home she had set such store by had nothing to recommend it now. Flawse Hall on Flawse Fell close under Flawse Rigg lived up to its name. A large grey granite building with a tower at one end, it reminded her of Dartmoor Prison in a miniature way. The high stone wall that surrounded three sides of the house had the same air of deliberate containment as that of the prison and the gated archway in the wall was large and ominous. A few stunted and wind-bent trees huddled beside the wall and far away to the west she caught sight of dark pinewoods.
‘That’s the reservoir over there,’ said Mr Flawse. ‘Ye’ll see the dam below.’
Mrs Flawse saw the dam. It was built of blocks of granite that filled the valley and from its base there ran a stone-sided stream that followed the valley floor, passed under a gated bridge, wound on another quarter of a mile and disappeared into a dark hole in the hillside. All in all the prospect ahead was as grim as nature and nineteenth-century waterworks could make it. Even the iron gate on to the little bridge was spiked and locked. Again Mr Dodd had to climb down and open it beforethe carriage moved through. Mr Flawse looked up the hill proudly and rubbed his hands with glee. ‘It’s good to be home
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