The Black Swan

“Plenty of them round here. I came here when I married and reckon I wouldn’t want to move till they carry me out in my coffin. Hellman’s family have farmed here for years. It’s hard land to farm. Too much of the moor. Hellman often says we ought to sell up and go somewhere where the land’s more fertile. But there’s some good sheep country around here.”

“Yes, I know. My husband is in wool.”

“Oh, that explains it ... you being here and all that. How’s the cider?”

“Delicious.”

“See that old barrel? My husband’s grandmother and her grandmother before her made cider in that. There’s something about the flavor. It’s all our own.”

“You must have a great deal to do.”

She laughed at me. “On the go most of the time. That’s why it’s so nice to sit down and chat with a neighbor over a mug of cider. My husband knows a lot of what goes on round here. He would, of course, living here all his life. He rides into Bradford quite often. He knows most of the wool people there. Fitzgerald, you say? I can’t say I’ve heard of them but I reckon Hellman will know them.”

“My husband has not been up here very often. He has an office in London, but he thinks he should be here more. That’s why we are going to look for a house.”

“Well, I’m pleased. Gray Stone’s been empty for over a year. I don’t like houses to stand empty... and as I’m saying it’s nice to have neighbors. If you want anything at any time, you just pop over.”

“That’s kind of you. Alas, it is rather far.”

“You’re in the country now. We don’t live on top of each other. You’re from London, I reckon. You’ve got the look of it.”

She smiled, faintly amused, admiring me with a hint of contempt for one who was a stranger to the fresh winds of open spaces.

I said, “I have lived a long time in London... and in the country, too.”

“The country ... not Yorkshire.”

“No. Quite near London. A place called Manorleigh.”

“Manorleigh... that rings a bell.”

I thought, I shouldn’t have mentioned it. She will be remembering. Headlines flashed into my mind: THE MEMBER FOR MANORLEIGH WAS SHOT DEAD OUTSIDE HIS HOUSE IN LONDON TODAY. And up to that moment, from the time I had seen the children, I had not thought of it and my dilemma.

“Yes,” she said. “I seem to have heard of that place.”

I said quickly, “So ... we are coming to Yorkshire ... if we can find something.”

“You won’t find a finer place to live in the whole of England.”

“It’s certainly beautiful,” I said. The dangerous moment was past. She had forgotten Manorleigh.

“By the way,” she said. “If you want fresh eggs at any time, one of the children would bring them to you ... or I would myself. Hellman says the eggs are my affair. Well, it gives me a bit of pocket money and they’re not much trouble really.”

“Perhaps I could take some back with me,” I said.

“Well, if you’d like to.” She went to the door and shouted, “Patty!” I heard an answering voice from some way off. She came back to the table. “Patty’s the dairy maid. I’ll tell her to get some eggs for you. How many would you like? A dozen?”

“I should think that would be good.”

The door opened and Patty came in-plump like her mistress, with rosy cheeks and fair curly hair.

“This is Mrs. Fitzgerald, Patty,” said Mrs. Hellman. “Just moved into Gray Stone.”

“Oh,” said Patty. “That’s nice.”

“She’s taking a dozen eggs. Pick some of the big brown ones for her. Show her what a good country egg is like. She comes from London.”

Patty said, “I’ll get some of the nice big brown ones, Mrs. Hellman.”

“You do that,” said my hostess.

While we finished our cider she told me about the difficulties of farming... the droughts, the high winds and the unpredictable weather generally. She said she hoped we’d be comfortable at Gray Stone. We were not far from Bracken. “It’s only a little village, but there are a few shops there. About a mile or so away. Hellman goes in every three or four days to pick up the post. Well, you can’t expect them to deliver it out here. The only places are us and Gray Stone. You couldn’t expect it, could you? So in he goes every few days or so to collect it. There’s a little post office place in Bracken. It works all right. You’ll be comfortable in Gray Stone, I reckon. It’s a bit higher than the farm and the winds whistle round the place something shocking at times. People say the place is haunted, but you don’t want to listen to them. You don’t look the sort who’d believe that kind of nonsense... coming from London. We don’t hold with it much up here. But some people get silly ideas in their heads and when a place is empty... you know what it is.”

“I didn’t know it had that reputation.”

“Well, it’s no more than any old house gets... particularly if it is left standing empty.”

“Has it always been let out?”