Chapter Text
Clamped to the faded grey plastic of the dash, the Sat-nav on Matt's phone flickered, the signal threatening to drop out. Not that it mattered too much if it did at this point, he thought, Highmoor Grange and the village of Arnthwaite were both on this road. Even he couldn't get lost here. In ten minutes or so he'd be at the Grange and he could finally get out and stretch his legs after the long drive.
Assuming his car didn't die on him that was. The old Corsa's engine spluttered as it struggled up the steeply winding road that climbed onto the moors. Swearing under his breath, although there were no other passengers in the car to hear him, he dropped it down into first gear and tried to accelerate.
Finally with much juddering and a rather worrying burning smell, which he hoped wouldn't result in an expensive trip to the garage, the car finally reached the top. Ahead the road levelled out to cut a straight line across the wild openness of Bleaksyke Moor.
It had been a long drive, which had already taken an hour longer than the route planning app's predicted two and a half, mostly due to an accident on the motorway between Leeds and Bradford. The road was clear now, and despite wanting to reach his destination before it got any later, Matt slowed down to look at the view.
Away on each side of him spread the rolling moors, black and brown with peat and half dead bracken. The March greenery Matt had seen back in Nottingham apparently not having made it this far north yet. Bare outcrops of grey gritstone punched through the monotony to stand bare and stark against an almost equally grey sky. On the highest of the outcrops a small, distant figure stood on the edge, their long coat or skirt flapping about them, while a couple of large dogs bounded around their feet.
Matt turned his attention back to the road. Whoever they were and whatever they were up to up there on such a windswept afternoon they were welcome to it. Heights and dogs were definitely not his most favourite things.
Given those facts, moving to a village high on the moors in a part of Yorkshire well known for its sheep farming, and ergo sheep dogs, probably hadn't been the best career decision of his life. That said he could hardly have sofa surfed at Cassie's flat for much longer – his sister had a life and a boyfriend of her own. Which were precisely two more things than he currently had.
But that wasn't completely true, not any more, he told himself, not wanting to ruin arriving at Highmoor by dragging bad feelings with him. No, this was going to be a new start, a new life, so he had to stay positive. As for the second, well a new boyfriend would have to wait a while longer. It might have been six months since he'd dumped Julian's lying, cheating, controlling arse, but the mess, the fallout and the nagging doubt somehow it had been his own fault remained.
A lot longer, Matt decided with more relief than disappointment, as he looked at the bleak landscape where the only living things that he could see were a couple of birds and numerous sheep. As if to reinforce this a white, woolly blur ran in front of his car.
Slamming on the breaks, boxes tumbling over on the back seats, Matt looked around to see where the stupid creature had gone. After a minute with no sign of it, his heart still beating a little too fast, he drove on, glad that he wasn't going to have to tell a farmer he'd squashed one of their livestock.
Five minutes later he reached the turning for Highmoor Grange. Two impressive grey, gritstone gateposts stood either side of the drive, their weathered tops capped with what might have been dragons or possibly lions, if it had been carved by somebody who’d never seen one. The rusting iron gates between the posts had been left open, although the faded sign that hung on them stated that the museum was closed for renovation and would reopen in the autumn of 2017.
The sign was the only indication that the drive didn't lead to private property or, Matt thought a few moments later as he drove up to the ancient manor house, a derelict ruin. Made from the same local grey gritstone as the gateposts, Highmoor Grange looked as if it had sprouted from the ground in some dim and distant past, and now that same ground was trying to reclaim it.
With his car parked and locked on the deserted front drive, although in all honesty he doubted he had anything worth taking, Matt decided that he should introduce himself and then take a look around at what was to be both his place of work and his home for the foreseeable future.
The dull thud of the door knocker against the time-darkened wood of the front door and the dim chime of the doorbell from somewhere in the depths of the house were not the most welcoming of sounds. Nor were the shuttered and unlit windows. It looked and felt utterly deserted. A second knock and ring of the bell proved as fruitless as the first, as nobody came to answer the door.
The ancient structure of the original medieval aisled hall still made up the central section of the grange, although over the centuries it had gained eastern and western wings. The eastern one was early seventeenth century and appeared to be in reasonable condition, at least from the outside, Matt decided, putting his degree in archaeology to use at last.
It was more than could be said for the western wing. Which, despite being more recent, eighteenth to early nineteenth centre in design, had at some point in the past been gutted by fire. The roofless shell with its bare windows and straggling blanket of ivy had been left as a skeletal, gothic ruin. Perhaps on a brighter day it would have had a picturesque charm to it, but against the darkening sky that threatened rain it looked grim and forbidding.
Sighing, Matt turned away to look back down the drive. The gate posts and road beyond were hidden from view by the curve in the drive and the overgrown rhododendrons and laurels that had once probably been the pride of an Edwardian arboretum. The place was going to need a lot of work, but that in itself wasn't necessarily a bad thing, it would all come down to the attitude and priorities of the curator.
The curator who, Matt thought with some concern, should be here to show me where the caretaker's flat was and give me a quick briefing about where they were in the schedule of renovations. Yes, he'd got this afternoon and all of tomorrow to settle in, but he was due to start work on Monday morning and he’d really like to know what was expected of him at least a day or so in advance. He couldn’t afford to make a mess of things and lose the job.
He'd sent a text message when he'd realised he was going to be late, so he'd kept Mrs Wainwright, Thea, in the loop. Although going by his only other previous contact with her, which had been via trustees of the museum, it did seem that she was an older lady with little interest in technology. He glanced down at his phone, just to make sure that she hadn't replied and he hadn't noticed, only to see that there was no signal.
Just great, Matt thought, shoving the offending phone back into the pocket of his jacket. Catching sight of himself in the mirror did little to improve his mood. Worried blue eyes peering through thick, round glasses, his mousy brown hair curling just that bit too long onto the collar of his battered, knee length leather jacket that had been his constant companion since he'd found it in a charity shop in his second year at university.
He turned away trying to squash down the uncomfortable feeling that maybe it really had been his fault that Julian had looked elsewhere. He'd let himself go, perhaps if he'd continued to wear contact lenses, if he'd kept straightening and bleaching his hair they would still have been together. Matt sighed and closed his eyes, even that wouldn't have been enough. Not in the end at least, nothing short of him staying in eighteen forever would have been. Shoving his hands into his pockets against the cold breeze he leant against the car, looking out at the moors. He knew he still looked young for twenty nine, but not young enough for Julian.
Taking off his glasses, Matt rubbed his eyes. They always got watery and tired from driving, he told himself, that was all that was the matter. Not that he could drive without them, not when everything over a metre away was a messy blur of shapes and blobs of colour without them.
Opening his eyes, he put his glasses back on and pushed away from the car. This was meant to be a new start, no thoughts of Julian were to be allowed to follow him here. From now on he was going to be the positive, outgoing Matt who'd set out to university eleven years ago with so much optimism, not the indecisive, nervous mess he'd become.
Pushing his hair out of his eyes, Matt decided to take a thorough look around. Perhaps there was a visitors’ car park on the other side of the Grange and Ms Wainwright was there, wondering where he was and unable to call him because neither of them had a mobile signal. That was the stupid kind of thing that happened to him way too often.
As a museum it didn't look particularly accessibility friendly or any kind of friendly at all, truth be told, Matt thought as he made his way around the grey, crumbling bulk of the western wing. The Grange looked as old and deserted as the vast emptiness of Bleaksyke Moor and the peat bogs of the Long Moss Tarn that gave it a brooding backdrop. The valley dropped down steeply behind the Grange towards the village of Arnthwaite before rising again gently this time on the far side, the green of the fields crisis-crossed with dry stone walls and punctuated by the occasional barn or farmhouse.
It was a scene that had remained unchanged for centuries, the only concession to modernity to be seen where the slowly turning white arms of wind turbines high on the neighbouring hills, which rose and fell on the horizon.
The back of the Grange wasn't in any better state of repair than the front of the building. The wind whistled through the ruined wing and somewhere on the surrounding moors a curlew gave a low, mournful call. Matt shivered, trying not to think about his sister's good natured teasing about the place being haunted.
It was just because he'd never lived anywhere other than a city, that was all, he told himself. He'd check round the back of the crumbling stable block to see if there was any sign of Ms Wainwright there. If there wasn't he'd drive down to Arnthwaite and try phoning her from there.
It was a shame really that the place had been let go as much as it had. The mossy little courtyard formed between the end of the east wing and the stable and outbuilding would, with some work, make a nice little seating area for a café. Maybe he could suggest it to Ms Wainwright when he eventually found her. There must be some farms in the area that had farm shops and that might welcome another outlet for their produce. The stables could be put to use too, he decided as he looked inside, perhaps a gift shop or toilets. Admittedly there was plenty of space for those in the Grange itself, but getting planning permission for the late Nineteenth century stable block would be a lot easier than anything that concerned the main house.
Feeling rather more sure of his ability to put together a coherent set of ideas to the curator when he found her, Matt was relieved to see a battered, old Landrover parked in the small yard to the rear of the stable. Hoping that it belonged to Ms Wainwright, rather than somebody who was here up to no good while the place was closed, he made his way over to it. With any luck there would be a note on it telling him what was going on. Something along the lines of 'Key under plant pot, let yourself in, I'll be back at four. Ms W' would be nice.
Which obviously turned out to mean there was not. Not that Matt had more than a moment to glance in through the windscreen before a dog leapt up, barking and snapping at him through the glass.
Jumping back with a start, Matt felt his worn converse boots slip on the damp, mossy stone underfoot, tumbling him backwards onto the cobbled yard.
"That's enough of that Mollie, you daft old beggar," called a woman in faded overalls and jacket who'd just emerged from round the side the outbuildings.
Scrambling to his feet, surprised and embarrassed rather than hurt from his fall, Matt saw that the dog, a black and white border collie had stopped barking and was slobbering enthusiastically against the window of the Landrover.
Relieved that nobody apart from Mollie the collie had seen him slip and land on his arse, Matt rubbed the moss and damp from his hands, and went over to speak to her owner. "Are you Ms Wainwright?" He held out a hand. "I'm Matthew Heywood, we spoke on the phone earlier in the week."
A little past middle age, greying hair escaping from her knitted red beanie, she shook his hand with a firm shake. "So you're the new caretaker?"
"Yes, I'm sorry I'm late, the traffic was terrible. I sent you a text, but the signal here is..." Matt stopped, suddenly certain that nobody wanted to hear his babbling or excuses.
She laughed. "It's shite, ain't it? Honestly though lad, I didn't get your message, but then I ain't Ms Wainwright neither."
Not certain whether he felt foolish for assuming her identity or relieved that this wasn't his first meeting with his new boss, he said, "Oh, right, er do you know if she is around? She was supposed to meet me here."
"I don't know, but Haythorne Fisher, the trustees, you'll know them, right? Well they called me early this after’ and told me as you were coming. Asked me if I could let you in and get you settled, hand over the keys and that. I think Thea must have called in sick. I ain't known it before, but she's getting on a bit these days. Older than me any roads."
Matt looked down at the mossy cobbles wishing he was anywhere but here. Everything was falling apart and he hadn’t even started his job yet. What had he been thinking? a city boy like him in rural Yorkshire? Of course he was going to make a mess of it. Julian would told him what a fool he was for thinking he could manage alone.
"Don't look so glum lad, I'm sure she'll be back in a day or two." She smiled, laughter lines creasing about her eyes. "I'm Trisha by the way. I run Spring Head Farm over yonder." She gestured across the other side of the valley to an isolated farm house and a couple of barns. "My family has been here as long as the hills. My lads often help out over here, do a little bit of work for Thea when she needs owt heavy moving."
"That's good. Nice." Matt wondered if she could see how out of his depth he felt. He hoped not.
"You come far then?" Trisha asked after a moment, taking a bunch of keys from her pocket as she did so.
"Nottingham. It took rather longer to get here than I'd hoped."
Trisha nodded. "Right you could definitely do with a cuppa then. I'll get you let in and we can get a brew on. You don't mind if I bring Mollie in do you? She'll start chewing the seats again if I leave her for too long."
Glad of the chance of getting out of the cold wind that had started to blow Matt shook his head. He wasn’t keen on dogs, but hopefully Mollie would behave as long as Trisha was there.
The caretaker's flat was accessed through what presumably had once been a servants entrance at the rear of the building. The layout however Matt doubted was original, as it seemed to be a partitioned off section of what had once probably been a larger room. Not that it had been done recently, the cast iron range cooker that occupied a reasonable side part of the small kitchen and living area looked like it had been there for more than a century. The only concessions to the fact that it was in fact the twenty first century rather than the nineteenth was the small larder fridge, the kettle and a microwave.
Trisha bustled around the small kitchen, at home there like she had visited quite a few times before. "Hope you don't mind me having got a few bits in for you," she said as she got mugs and tea out of the cupboards. "But it's been a while since this place had a live-in caretaker, not since old Alf went, and that must be nigh on six years back. Didn't seem right letting you into the place with nothing in.
Topping the mugs up with boiling water, she added two spoons of sugar into hers, then looked at Matt.
"One please. And thank you, I'd completely forgotten to pack anything like that." He gave a nervous smile. "Too much city living I guess. Always thinking there will be a shop just round the corner."
"There's one down in the village." Trisha put the mug down on the table in front of him. "Mine you, they close at five, so you'd not have time to get down there this evening, not before they shut." She sat down opposite him before adding, "It's Sunday tomorrow so there'll not be open, but shops in Keighley will be or if you fancy a bit of a drive out for somewhere bigger there’s Halifax.
Matt thought about his old Corsa struggling up onto moorland roads. Perhaps if it hadn't been so heavily loaded it might have managed better. Although if he had been going faster he'd have probably hit that sheep, so maybe it had been for the best after all.
Drinking his tea and wondering what he should do about getting an evening meal, he listened to Trisha give him a brief guide to Arnthwaite. The village seemed to consist of a small village shop, a pub and the church. The bus service was sporadic, although better in the summer when buses at the weekends brought hikers out to the moors. Having a car and keeping it working was definitely going to be a priority here.
Finally with her own mug finished, Trisha stood up. "Right, it's been nice meeting you, Matt. I'd best get going now, let you get settled in and I'd best check on my lads, make sure they've had no trouble getting the cows in."
Mollie, who had laid down in front of the range as soon as they'd got inside, seemingly in the hope that they might light it and she could get warm, whined, her head down low to the floor.
"Aye and get you some tea." Trisha patted the old dog’s greying ears. "Come on lass. Up you get." Mollie whined again, but got up and stood pressed close against Trisha's legs.
"I don't know what's got into her," Trisha said, as Matt walked with her and Mollie back to the Landrover. "I'm surprised I didn't have to tell her not to stick her nose in your mug. Always doing that if we have people over to the farm."
"Probably not used to being in the grange," Matt suggested, hoping that it wasn't that the dog had taken a dislike to him. Because even if she seemed friendly now, it didn't take much for even a normally placid pet to turn on you in his experience.
"You might be right in that, she's never been too keen of coming over, even when my lads have taken her up here." Trisha took a notepad from on the seat in the Landrover. "Here's the number for the farm if you need owt," she said, handing it to him. "I'll send one of my lads over in the morning to see if you need help with owt. It won't be early mind, is about eight alright for you?"
The country idea of early and his, Matt thought, were not the same. Eight in the morning on a Sunday definitely fell in the category of too early, but he wasn't about to complain as there was no sense in getting off on the wrong foot with his neighbour, especially as they also seemed like they would be occasional workmates too. "I'll be awake," Matt said, then feeling like somehow that was still lacking, he added, "I go jogging sometimes, but I'll leave it tomorrow so I don't miss them."
"I'll have to tell the little'un that," Trisha said seemingly pleased. "He'll be doing the fell run come whitsunday."
Matt nodded and then regretted it as he didn't want to disappoint her son about his abilities. His idea of a run was to go on the occasional park run, not who knew how many miles of muddy moorland and inclines that even his car struggled with. "I don't think I'd be much competition."
"It's the taking part that counts so they say, my Davy ain't ever won it either." She smiled and shook her head. "I reckons as he could, but he always says he'd rather come third or forth and know everybody got down on the moor than to come in first and not. Always been like that though. Too nice for his own good I tell him."
Matt considered telling her that being nice definitely seemed to run in the family as her welcome here had been much better than he'd been expecting. It sounded rather patronising and by the time he'd tried to work out a better way of saying it the moment had passed. So he thanked her for being there to meet him and for the tea, and let her get on her way.