Kathleen McGurl - The Drowned Village

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.’

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