The Drowned Village. Kathleen McGurl

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      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.’

Chapter 3

       LAURA

      It was late afternoon by the time Laura arrived at her destination. She’d researched on the internet for campsites near to Bereswater, the lake that occupied the valley where Brackendale Green had once stood. There was one in the next valley, Glydesdale, and she’d been able to book a pitch online. And finally, after a long and tedious drive up the M6, here she was, with a full week ahead to climb some mountains, relax in the sunshine, have a long hard think about her future and of course, explore Gran’s birthplace. The weather forecast predicted that the dry, sunny weather would continue for a few more days yet.

      The scenery, as she’d left the main roads, entered the Lake District and driven along the narrow twisting road that led into Glydesdale, had been breathtaking. Dry stone walls lined the lane, beyond which were fields in which the year’s lambs, now four or five months old, still bleated for their mothers and tried to suckle. A pretty stream ran along the valley bottom. Either side of the valley, beyond the fertile low-lying fields, were the slopes of the mountains, or ‘fells’ as they were more usually known in this part of the country. Bracken gave way to heather higher up, then craggy rocks. Here and there scree runs tumbled down the mountainsides. A waterfall, now only a trickle after the prolonged drought, made its way down over rocks and through a ravine lined with stumpy trees. It was beautiful. Laura couldn’t wait to get her walking boots on, her rucksack on her back, and start exploring. She felt as though the countryside was already working wonders and washing away her problems. What a great idea of Gran’s it had been, to have a holiday now before the good weather ended!

      At the campsite she parked outside the wooden building which served as an office and small shop, and went inside to check in.

      ‘You’ve come at a good time,’ the girl who was manning the desk and cash register told her. ‘The kids go back to school this week, so all the families left at the weekend. We’re half empty so you can pick your pitch. Down beside the stream is nice, and there are a few trees for shade if it gets too hot.’

      ‘Sounds lovely!’ Laura said, accepting a map of the campsite which showed where the amenities – shower block, toilets, launderette – were sited.

      ‘We open the shop at eight each morning, and there’ll be fresh bread and croissants, plus bacon butties, coffee and tea if you don’t want to cook your own breakfast. We can do packed lunches too, if you’re off up the fells.’

      Laura grinned. ‘Perfect. What more could a camper want?’

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