Sample  Publication date: November 2001
Author: Ruth Thompson
Company: Shaffer Novels/Poetry Company
COPYRIGHT 2001 RUTH THOMPSON
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED WORLDWIDE
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
FIRST PRINTING; ELECTRONIC AND PRINT MEDIA
US Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: pending
Return to LadybowerBy Frank James Chapter 1
On arrival in Derbyshire.
I must admit to being very pleasantly surprised by the
Derbyshire panorama. Here was I thinking nothing could
compete with the beauty of the 'Downs' but Hampshire held
nothing to what I discovered in the north. It felt as if I
had stepped into a new and wondrous place. The countryside,
almost a mixture of gentle and harsh, the weather the same.
The Winter still held a lingering claim and I was told that
it wouldn't warm 'proper' till later in the Spring. I found
none of the low regard for 'southerners' that I had expected
rather the people had a cheery pleasantness about them and
all eagerly shared their thoughts and opinions. Whether at
a bus stop or train station. I seemed to fall into good
hands.
After a few hours of wandering the steep and deep
streets of the village of 'Brindle' I determined to my
intent. My usual course of action was to find the museum
and enquire there for the local history, of any new place,
always a good start I thought, but, the nature of the story
I was chasing was far too recent for that so I went instead
to the local newspaper, 'The Brindle Chronicle'.
I made the general inquiries as to the recent phenomena
and was duly given access to the section I wished to
examine. For some reason I found myself examining not the
events I came to research but the fascinating minutia of
rural life. The longer I read the more engrossed I became,
so much so that I asked if I could meet and interview the
editor. Anyone who could bring to life the mundane trivia
of village lore had my curiosity piqued. It was then I
discovered a mine of knowledge and information of the area.
Dennis Thorpe, the editor was a man in mid age with a
large dark serious head. His body was small and neat by
comparison but his eyes shone with light. A man in love
with his subject and his subject was his place of birth.
Derbyshire was to him the paradise on earth. He knew about
everyone and everything in the shire and had a verbose
intent, as good as any country gossip, to its retelling. We
talked for so long that we ended up in his local pub and
over local brew accompanied with cheese and onion sandwiches
he continued his oratory. So late it got that the hour for
finding lodging completely escaped me. Had it not I may not
have had the opportunity for this story. He invited me to
stay for the night at his home and we made our way there,
still talking.
Thorpe's cottage had a perfect setting into the side of
a hill coming up to the road. A stone, hand built, wall
guarded his property from the old road as it stretched its
solid barrier into the hills. The road was not wide,
perhaps one and a half cars and I wondered how many had to
back up and allow to pass any vehicle coming in the opposite
direction. Thorpe seldom used his own car, which sat out
the front untouched. I wondered if that was the reason. He
laughed at that and said, he did use it when he had to but
he had grown up without one and preferred to walk. The
house had a neat compact appearance with a deep sloping roof
blanketed in a soft verdigris coloured moss. The walls
stone built just after Noah's flood probably and like to
stand till Kingdom come. Surrounded by tall full conifers
and an abundance of flora. Not a kept garden as I was used
to, this was wild, untamed and the house snuggled
contentedly as if in a comfortable armchair.
I turned my gaze to the road and saw that his house was
the last one by it. A lonesome setting but there was
nothing lonely about it. It sat as if draped with the ages
it had seen come and go, secure in its own immortality.
Although it was too dark to see, I just knew that it looked
over the drop of the valley and the whole of Brindle would
be there to see in the daylight. I thought it such a
fantastic place that I felt as though this is what inspired
so many fairy tales. It put me so much in mind of Hansel
and Gretal's encounter in the woods that I remarked upon it.
He laughed again and said.
"Well, my grandfather had it built and I grew up in it,
I can assure you no witch awaits you in there."
I laughed too and we went in.
No sooner had we sat with a Brandy to our comfort when
a sharp urgent knock, unusual for the hour, sounded an
echoing sense of alarm. He raised his head as did I and
started for the door. Outside the dense black gave little
comfort for the pale face which greeted us.
“Bessie’s gone!” The brief, breathless explanation for
the late interruption.
“Again?” My host’s sharp question. A grave nod his
response. He turned to me and apologized but said he would
have to help. I offered my own services, for a moment he
seemed as if he would reject my offer but then with a brief,
“Stay close to me then.” We grabbed our coats and followed
the night’s intruder. As we walked I asked about the lady
we were about to search for.
“No lady, that one, more a witch of the first order,
always has been, damn her. She should have been put down
when it happened.” Then catching the appalled look on my
features he gave a short laugh which sounded more like a
bark of annoyance and responded with. “Bessie’s a horse,
and she has caused a deal of grief since the tragedy.”
“Oh I see.” I said, somewhat mollified then, “What
tragedy?”
“Tell you when we have her back in the stable.”
We were joined by two others and as if Thorpe knew
where to go we followed him through the blackness. His
terseness, a sharp contrast to his earlier jovial self
puzzled me intensely but I resolved to wait on the promised
explanation. The terrain, which earlier had held a simple
bucolic atmosphere at night became a menace of deep mystery.
If these men had not known the way well I would most
certainly have fallen afoul of such an adventure. I stayed
close to Thorpe as he requested but more out of a deep sense
of preservation. The blackouts were a thing of the past now
but all the dwellings we passed held faithful to the mandate
of war as if the night peril might erupt any minute.
We wound our way toward the great body of water I had
passed on my way in, the reservoir known as Ladybower, the
very one which had to its new credit the visitation of
lights. I wondered if we might not be favoured with a
sighting ourselves but the looks of determination on the
faces of my companions forbore any mention. None of us
spoke except for Thorpes’ only words that ‘he knew where she
was’, we walked in silence.
Sure enough, as we approached the lake we could hear a
high-pitched whinny and the stomping of hooves. There, at
the water’s edge a wild looking horse stamped its ire
against the liquid barrier.
“She’ll not go in lads.” Thorpe said, “I’ll see if I
can quiet her.” He moved cautiously forward as I, gulping
loudly, stayed back with the others. The mare reared and
charged at the lake as if she hated it, her eyes wild and
white, I had little to do with horses and this one appeared
wild enough to kill us all. I marveled at my new
acquaintance and added courage to the list of traits on his
behalf. It took quite some time to quiet the mare but
eventually he had her and she nibbled something from his
hand as he spoke soothingly to her. He then led her to the
others and they bridled her and we all headed back. The
three took her on to her stable and Thorpe and I headed back
to his cottage. With all the noise and bustle it wasn't
until we were heading back that I realized I hadn't checked
for the lights across the water.
We did not sleep that night, we sat and over hot tea
laced with Brandy I listened as Thorpe recounted the tragedy
about the horse and its owner.
Thorpe’s Tale
He was there when she foaled, a beauty, a rare one.
Her dam had been his father’s horse and the boy had his own
with her birth. A good lad he was and that horse took to
him as no other. Very few did she allow on her back but he
was her master and she loved him as any horse could love.
When he came home from school she would be galloping across
the field to him and he would drop his books and fling
himself on her back. Bare backed he rode her and for an
hour or so no one would see hide nor hair of them. I
suppose he had a wildness in him too but he also had a great
heart. Quiet for the most part, almost shy not at all what
one would expect for the local gentry’s son.
I suppose if the war hadn’t, well, the war happened and
it destroyed more than homes and men, it destroyed souls.
Who’d have thought that a minor man could have the power to
remind us of the monsters we can be. Such things we read
about as ancient history but one insignificant unhappy man,
possessed by more than demons showed the whole world that
true evil does still exist. He has changed us forever and
the world has seen Pandora’s box reopened. Of course we had
to fight him, of course there had to be war, but this war
was so different, so very soul destroying.
He went, as so many did, to fight, his love of flying
and his father’s influence got him into the Air Force. I
can still see him as a child, running hell for leather down
the hills, the corners of his coat held out to catch the
wind, he always wanted to fly. Bessie was the closest he
ever came to that, until the war. Damn the war, it took our
best, it took everything, life will not be the same now.
Just look about you, hear what people say, our way of life
is done. Like a revolution, nothing will ever be the same,
not now.
His reflective pause gave me time too to reflect on how
right he was. However I was engrossed by his tale and
wished him to continue. I asked,
“He died in the war then?”
"No, no, not in the war." His voice quiet and sad. I
waited what seemed an age before I once again urged him with
a question.
"Who was he?"
"Didn't I say?" The sadness evident in his eyes as he
raised them to me. I shook my head.
"His name was Alan Preston, my sister's son, my nephew.
She married well, too well and though I say it myself became
more of a snob than any born to it. Her husband Edward,
well he was not that bad but still, there's that about the
new rich that well it's as if they are too good for the rest
of us." His eyes sought mine as if to seek a bond, an
understanding. I nodded to encourage his continuance. He
did.
"From the moment he was born the difference in him was
obvious. No one seemed able to infect him with any of that
folderol. My poor sister despaired of him ever being what
she termed well bred. It did no good to remind her that she
had come from humble beginnings herself she sincerely
believed she had raised herself in the world and achieved a
status of gentry because of her personal character rather
than marrying into it. Alan though, well in a class by
himself he was, not too proud, not too humble, few friends
and none too close, save one." His laugh rang out in a sad
harsh way. "She showed them though, by heaven she did."
"Who?" I asked quietly.
"Why, Lillian Mays, quite a girl. She and Alan were
friends from the first. They did everything together,
though if Vera had ever known she would have put a stop to
it, I can tell you. It was like a secret that everyone kept
from my sister. No one saw any harm in it. They were
friends, we thought, well perhaps if Vera had known all
along it would have been different, maybe with time she
would have accepted, but Vera, well she had her own ideas
and plans for Alan and they did not include marriage to a
'nobody' like Lillian. So sad, how that girl was treated,
and by they who believe themselves to be our betters. Well
I told her, told them all what I thought and from that day
to this I have had nothing to do with my own sister. The
sheer cruelty of it.
"They disapproved of a match with this girl Lillian?"
"To put it in complete understatement, yes. But, that
wasn't the worst of it. They slandered her, made her out to
be a gold digger, and worse, a girl of loose morals."
"What?"
"Oh yes, it nearly broke her parents hearts. Such nice
folk, I've known them for years. Lillian was as good as a
girl can be. She of all people wouldn't understand the
spite and venom of a witch like my sister."
"What happened, did he give her up?"
"No he wouldn't, couldn't for all I knew. She was all
and everything to him, but they, they would have their way.
They tried to send him off, down south, to London. They
promised that if he felt the same in a year they would agree
to the marriage. It was all a lie they had no intention of
allowing it. He went, believing them and in that year they
really began their onslaught. Poor Lillian, most of the
locals turned from her, some because they believed the lies,
most because they wanted a page in the gentry's good books.
She was alone, all his letters to her were intercepted.
Hers were stopped at the post office, money talks, you know.
She stuck it out for as long as she could but after a few
months she felt herself abandoned and left. Before the year
was up, he returned to find her gone and his life planned
out by a peevish mother. His father told him that Lillian
had taken a deal of money he had paid her off with and gone
abroad. "
"Did he believe that?"
"Not for a minute. But, he had no way of finding her,
her parents refused to say where she was because she had
sworn them to it. He would come and talk to me all the time,
we got even closer." His head sagged.
"Where did she go?"
"No one knew until last year when she came back, she
was in Canada, married there, a farmer or such I believe.
All those years, through the war and all."
"What did he do?"
"Well he waited, waited a long time, eventually though
he gave in, married his mother's choice but it was not a
success. All this waste and now, now he's gone."
"How did it happen?"
"He went to London just two months ago, flew his own
plane. Something went wrong on the way back. He crashed
into the hill just above the reservoir, plane blew and he
was no more."
"I'm so very sorry." I didn't know what else to say,
the grief on his face too great to impress.
"Yes, sorry, we are all sorry but that poor girl, she
has come back to the same lies that made her run in the
first place. Then since the accident she has been
inconsolable, won't even leave the house, won't talk to
anybody. Such a shame."
"Is she going to return to Canada?"
"I don't think so, nothing there for her now. Her
husband was killed in an accident on the farm and she got
quite a bit of insurance I believe, one in the eye for Vera
that eh! Though anyone Vera decides is beneath her just
stays that way, even me now." He was silent for a long
moment and I felt the weight of the sadness of his story
when he finally looked up at me his eyes were moist and he
finished his tale with.
"Bessie has been a problem since the day he died.
Breaking out of her stall and thundering off to the lake,
just about the same time as those lights appeared that
brought you here. She always was a handful but now when
she's that way out, no one 'cept me can go near her. They
took her and sold her after, sold her to Halham, seeing as
how he'd always wanted her. Perhaps it's her new stall but
to me it's as if she's trying to find him, he used to ride
her a lot down by the lake. You know ever since they
flooded the villages to make that reservoir things haven't
felt right here. Then the war and all, ah well perhaps I'm
just getting old.
Dawn was a bleary affair and as Thorpe showed me to a
room I could catch a few hours sleep in he told me he had to
go off to the office to prepare the day's work and would be
home later in the afternoon. I didn't even undress I lay on
the top of the counterpane and stared at the plaster of the
ceiling. A damp spot caught my eye and as the story I had
just heard ran through my head I stared at that damp brown
mark and determined that the story I had come looking for
had been replaced by one that came looking for me. As my
eyes closed heavily I resolved to find this Lillian Mays and
see if I could get her permission to write that which was
really her story.
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