The Drowned Village. Kathleen McGurlЧитать онлайн книгу.
She turned back to the man. ‘Now, now, Mr Donkey, not that rough.’
It was enough for Jed. ‘You leave the lady alone,’ he snarled at the man.
‘Spoken for, is she? You never said.’ The man smiled slyly, and turned back to Maggie. ‘But I’ve paid for her drink, now. Which means she owes me. Come on, darling, how about a little cuddle, eh? Just a little cuddle for a hard-working man, eh?’ He pulled her towards him with one hand on her back and the other on her bottom.
‘Hey! Let go!’ she said, twisting to get herself free but he was holding her tight.
That was it. Jed tapped the man on the shoulder, and when he looked round swung a hefty right hook at him. The man’s head snapped backwards and blood began pouring from his mouth. He immediately hit back, but Jed was too quick for him and the blow merely glanced off his shoulder.
At once the other dam-workers were on their feet, piling in to their friend’s aid. Sam was on his feet too, and John Teesdale, six feet tall and muscly with it, lifted the flap on the bar, ushered Maggie behind it where she was safe, and stepped out to separate the fighters. ‘Come on now, gents, not in my bar.’ Between him and Sam Wrightson they pulled Jed away from the man, and the other dam-workers got their friend under control, with much jeering and shouting.
‘It’s all right, John,’ Jed said. ‘I’ve no wish to wreck your bar. Just want to keep Maggie safe, is all. Come on, Maggie. I’ll take you home. We’ll not be back here again unless John bans those navvies. Come on, lass.’ He put a protective arm around her shoulders as he led her out of the pub, to more jeering from the workmen.
As soon as they were outside and in the street Maggie turned to him and flung her arms around his neck. ‘Oh Jed, thank you! I shouldn’t have flirted, but he seemed nice to start with. And –’ she sighed and looked away for a moment before returning her gaze to his – ‘I suppose I thought if I made you jealous you’d take more notice of me. Well, that worked! But I hope you aren’t hurt?’
He peeled her off him, and flexed the fingers of his right hand. The knuckles were red and swollen. ‘No, I’m not hurt. Nothing that won’t heal, any road.’
She leaned in towards him, once more reaching up to put her arms around him, but he took a step backwards. ‘Maggie, don’t. I mean, I’ll walk you home, see you’re safe, but it doesn’t mean anything.’
She stepped away and glared at him. ‘Why did you fight for me, then?’
He shrugged. ‘I’d defend any woman against a thug like that.’
‘So I’m nothing special to you?’
‘You are a beautiful woman, a kind neighbour, and I am proud to call you my friend,’ he replied, speaking softly. He sighed. ‘You’re a good woman, Maggie Earnshaw. You’ll make someone a fine wife some day. But not me, Maggie. My heart belongs to Edie, and always will. I’m sorry.’
She drew in her breath sharply, and gave him a look that would sour milk. ‘There’s no need to walk me home,’ she said, turning away from him, her head held high. He watched her walking away, up the lane, towards her home on the edge of the village. He followed at a discreet distance, in case any of the men came out of the pub, until he saw her enter the door of her cottage. With a sigh he walked back to his own home, avoiding passing the pub. With luck, Teesdale would ban the dam-workers and stick to custom from the village. It had always been enough for him in the past. But the past was gone, and everything was changing now.
Stella answered the phone after just a couple of rings.
‘Hello? Mrs Braithwaite speaking,’ she said, and as always Laura was mildly amused by the posh-sounding ‘telephone voice’ Gran always put on when answering the phone.
‘Gran, it’s me, Laura. I’m at Brackendale Green now, and it’s just like you saw on the TV – you can walk right across the lake-bed and in and out of the old buildings.’
‘Oh my goodness! How very strange!’
‘It’s a shame you aren’t here too. Perhaps I should have brought you.’
‘Oh no, dear. I’m too old to be gallivanting all the way up to the Lake District. My holidaying days are over. So, tell me, what can you see?’
‘Well, right now, I’m standing on a little stone bridge that looks like it used to be at the end of the main village street.’ Laura glanced at Tom who was listening in, smiling broadly. She decided not to mention to Gran that she was with someone. Gran would only try to matchmake. She’d said many times that Laura was too lovely a girl to be on her own for long and that it was time she started dating again, or ‘stepping out’ as Gran put it.
‘I remember that bridge. It was very near my father’s workshop.’
‘Really?’ Laura looked back towards the village, trying to visualise how it might have been. She realised she did not know anything about Stella’s father, her great-grandfather. ‘What kind of workshop? What did he do for a living?’
‘He was a mechanic,’ Gran replied, her tone low and wistful. ‘He had a workshop where he mended people’s cars, tractors, generators, anything, really. Bicycles, too.’
‘I suppose he had to move his business when the village was abandoned,’ Laura said. There was a silence at the other end of the phone, and a little gasp, as though Stella was stifling a sob. ‘Gran? Are you all right?’
‘Yes, dear, of course I am. Never mind your silly old gran. It’s just bringing back memories, you being there.’
‘Which house did you live in? Can you direct me to it, from the bridge?’ Tom perked up at this question. Laura knew he was longing for her to ask if Gran had known his ancestor Maggie Earnshaw.
‘Well now, let’s see if I can remember. If you walk into the village, on the left there were three cottages, then a gap. Then opposite that gap was a huge tree. An oak. That wouldn’t be there now, would it?’
Laura walked along the village’s main street, counting those first three cottage ruins. ‘There’s a tree stump, Gran.’
‘Oh yes, they did chop all the trees down, I remember now. Next to the tree there’s a building – that was my father’s workshop. And our cottage was right behind it, with the door opening onto Church Street. Opposite but a bit up the road to the right of our front door was the pub – the Lost Sheep. Pa often used to go in there of an evening.’
‘Leaving your mother looking after you?’
‘Yes, me and . . . well. Until Ma died. She died when I was ten, you know. Not long before the dam was built. Pa was glad she never had to see the village being demolished.’
Laura suddenly realised how little she knew of her grandmother’s early life. But now wasn’t the time to go into all of it. She had followed Stella’s directions and was now standing in front of the remains of Gran’s cottage. ‘Well, I’m here now. The walls of your cottage are about waist-high – the top parts have been demolished. There’s a window to the left of the door. I’m going in . . . there’s a fireplace opposite, quite large, like an inglenook fireplace. There’s . . .’
‘I wonder if they can find it?’ Gran’s voice sounded faint and tremulous.
‘Find what? And who do you mean by “they”?’ Laura asked.
‘It might still be there. After all this time. Too late, of course, but perhaps they can get it . . .’
‘Gran? Are you all right? Get what?’
‘The box. It might still be there, after all this time.’
‘What