Elizabeth Elgin - A Scent of Lavender

‘No joy. Mrs Benson from the telephone exchange at Meltonby said she hadn’t had any trunk calls from down south all day. Says her switchboard has gone over all peculiar since Dunkirk. Anyway, I wasn’t really expecting a call. More chance of a letter tomorrow, or the next day.’

‘Sorry, Lorna. Must be rotten when your feller goes off to the Army.’

‘Rotten. But I haven’t really taken it in. It feels like I’m in a daze, kind of. I – I haven’t cried, Ness. Not one tear.’

‘No, but you will when it hits you, queen. But if you don’t feel like tellin’ me about Dickon and Ursula, it’s all right.’

‘Oh, but I do. Having someone to talk to helps a lot, believe me. Where were we?’

‘We’d got to the bit where Dickon asked Ursula to marry him, even though she didn’t have a penny to her name.’

‘And Ursula accepted him, but I suppose they couldn’t just gallop off into oblivion. After all, Sir Francis would expect his servant back in York – plus two horses – so they decided Ursula should wait until the next saint’s day to run away. Sir Francis always gave his servants time off to go to church on saints’ days, so that was when it would be. Dickon would come and wait for Ursula who would slip away when no one was looking.’

‘And he’d wait for her in the wood – bet I’m right!’

‘Yes, but it wasn’t as easy as they’d hoped. Three saints’ days came and went, but getting out of the priory wasn’t as easy as Ursula had expected. In the end, she became desperate and tried to climb out of the window of her cell. But she fell and hurt herself badly. It didn’t stop her, though, from dragging herself to the wood. She died in Dickon’s arms.’

‘Gawd. And what did Dickon do then?’

‘No one seems to know. He just faded out of the picture, so to speak.’

‘So why is it called Dickon’s Wood?’

‘We-e-ll – and I tell you this tongue in cheek, Ness – Ursula is supposed to haunt the wood, waiting for Dickon to come for her!’

‘Ooooh! You haven’t seen her?’

‘To be honest, no one has seen her.’

‘But there must be some truth in it, or why did they call this village Nun Ainsty after her? Like keeping her name alive, innit?’

‘I rather think the people who came here all those years ago kept her name alive to make sure not too many more joined them. It wasn’t long after Ursula died that the nuns were turned out of the priory, and once the king had taken all he wanted, a blind eye was turned to the looting that went on. With the roof gone, the building started to decay. All that was any use was a pile of stones and quite a lot of land.’

‘And the people who came here weren’t afraid of germs an’ things the lepers had left behind?’

‘Seems not. Would you be, when there was priory land for the grabbing and stone to build your house with? Of course, the building material soon ran out. The manor took the lion’s share, and then Glebe Farm was built. Very soon, all that was left was what you see now – archways and columns and some of the cloisters.’

‘But weren’t people worried, pulling down a holy place? Didn’t they fear punishment from God?’

‘Why should they? Henry had made himself head of the English church. If the king could help himself, then surely so could anyone else.’

‘You reckon?’ Ness was clearly impressed. ‘You live nearest to the wood. Can you say, hand on heart, that the nun has never been seen there?’

‘You mean the nun’s ghost ? Well all I can say, hand on heart, is that if she has I haven’t heard about it. Mind, Grandpa told me people said they’d seen her ages ago, on the odd occasion, though maybe they’d had a drop too much at the White Hart. But I wouldn’t lose too much sleep over Dickon and Ursula, if I were you.’

‘But haven’t you thought,’ Ness was reluctant to let the matter drop, ‘that every house in this village is built with stone from the priory, so who’s to say that every house isn’t haunted by Ursula? Or Dickon?’

‘Because they aren’t . It’s all a lot of nonsense. I’m sorry I told you now. You aren’t going to keep on and on about it, Ness?’

‘N-no. But I’ve got to admit I’d like to know more about those two, ‘cause there’s no smoke without fire, don’t they say? And had you thought, maybe it’s only certain people the nun appears to. I mean, I don’t suppose everybody can see ghosts.’

‘No one in this village can, that’s for sure. Anyhow, I think I’ll go and settle down. I want to write to William so there’ll be a letter ready to post as soon as I have an address.’

‘And I still have unpacking to do,’ said Ness reluctantly. ‘By the way, thanks for takin’ me in. This is a lovely house and I don’t mind it bein’ so near to Dickon’s Wood.’

She said it teasingly and with a smile, so that Lorna smiled back, silently vowing to say not one more word on the subject; wishing she had left Ursula Ainsty where she rightly belonged. Very firmly in the past!

Ness closed her eyes and breathed deeply on air so clean and fresh you wouldn’t believe it. Around her, all was green. Every front garden was flower-filled and roses climbed the creamy stones of age-old houses. This was an unbelievable place; so tucked away – smug, almost, in its seclusion at the end of a lane. People back home would be amazed to see so much space belonging to so few people. But one thing was certain. It wouldn’t take long to get to know the entire village. She had already passed the almshouses and Larkspur Cottage where the nurse lived and now, to her left, was Beech Tree House where someone called Nance lived; someone, Ness suspected, who could be a bit of a martinet, given half a chance.

She stood a while outside the tiny chapel, wondering about the sleeping dead around it and how the lepers had fared when there were no nuns to care for them. Probably they were doing a bit of haunting, an’ all, ringing their pathetic bells still.

Then she stopped her dawdling and daydreaming. There was a war on and Agnes Nightingale from Liverpool was about to become a part of it, a land girl for the duration of hostilities. At seven on the dot she was supposed to join her war, and it was almost that now.

She began to run, turning the corner to see the farmhouse ahead of her, and to her right the stark ruins, already throwing long, strange shadows in the early morning sun. A dog barked and she hoped it was friendly.

‘Hey! You!’

‘You talkin’ to me?’ she demanded of the young man who was closing a field gate behind him. ‘Me name’s Miss Nightingale!’

‘And mine’s Rowland Wintersgill and you’re late. Milking’s over. Still, suppose you can muck out. Better go to the cow shed – make yourself known to my father.’

‘Yes sir ! And can you tell me, if you don’t mind, if there are any more at home like you, ’cause if there are I’m not stopping!’

Head high, she followed his pointing finger, then carefully crossed the yard, avoiding pats of dung.

The cow shed smelled warmly of cows and milk. She supposed she would get used to it. And sweeping it.

‘Hullo, there. Our land girl, is it?’ A man, leaning on a brush, smiled and held out a hand. ‘I’m Bob Wintersgill. I’ll take you to meet Kate. Have you had breakfast, by the way?’

‘I – well, yes. Before I came.’ A piece of bread and a smear of jam because she had been unwilling to eat Lorna’s rations.

‘Well, we usually eat after we’ve got the cows milked. You’ll be welcome to a bite.’

‘Sure you can spare it – rationing, I mean …?’

‘I think it’ll run to a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea. Farmers don’t do too badly for food.’