Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  As the new year began, so did the January Blues. Day after day, the weight of the leaden sky seemed to dull her senses and she longed for brighter weather. Then the rain arrived in slanting sheets, lashing the kitchen window and washing away any hope of a better day. Steam from her mug of tea softly spiralled upwards, kissing the glass where juddering teardrops of rain obscured her view of the garden. Outside, by the back door, the Daphne pulsed its glorious aroma into the winter air. She lingered there each morning, breathing in the sweet, citrus smell from its tiny, pink, four-pointed flowers before retreating to the kitchen and her desk by the fireside.    She picked up a log from the wood basket and placed it on the glowing embers, disturbing the dog who stretched his legs and then sank back into his bed to resume his paw-twitching dreams of long runs through fresh spring woods and the heavy smells of soft, warming soil. In the post that morning were the usual...

  I was looking forward to the weekly creative writing group, but as soon as I arrived, I sensed something was wrong. The same people were around the table, but the atmosphere was tense.   What an earth is going on?   Then she walked into the room.   I’d never met her before and introductions were brief.   She was our new President.   How strange, this was usually decided at the AGM, but that was six months away.   I hadn’t received an e mail, so was slightly confused.      Eventually, she opened her laptop with a flourish, and smiled, a twisted unnatural smile, quite unnerving, as she was staring straight at me.   Everyone had their heads down, not looking in my direction.      “Right, let’s cut to the chase.”    She paused, taking her time, enjoying the suspense.       I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, this shouldn’t be happening.      “We have decided that member...

  “ Attention madame, attendez, attendez!”   Jocasta stopped walking and turned to see a man running after her, trying to attract her attention. He was fifty-ish, dressed in a cream polo shirt, blue jeans and a shabby brown jacket. Whoever said the French have a great sense of style had obviously never been to this dull little town. The man reached her, slightly out of breath. She hoped he didn’t want to sell her anything.     “ Excusez-moi, madame, mais vous avez laisse votre sac à main dans la voiture. Il faut etre prudente dans cette ville. Il y a des voleurs.”   “I’m sorry. Can you speak English?”   The man’s face puckered as if he were trying to find something in a very deep pocket. Then he composed himself before speaking.   “Madam. You leaved your sack in the automobile.”   ‘Leaved’ – oh, that was so sweet, especially in that lovely sing-song accent. Jocasta didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about. ...

  ‘Are you sure this will work? ‘ he asked, giving Lucy a large, iron key. Lucy nodded. ‘I’m sure. It’s just a sleeping draught, but a strong one. If you pretend you’re dying, they’ll be ready to believe it, to believe it’s something infectious – the plague has been found in London, came in with the ships. They’ll accept it, Henry. I’m sure. I will be there tomorrow night to set you, to set both of us free.' He took the phial and stared at the dark liquid inside. ‘Just as it is?’ Lucy agreed, ‘Don’t mix it with anything else.' **** That evening, the manor house was filled with lamentations. ‘The young master’s gone,’ the cook cried and all the staff fell silent. ‘Never seen it hit so quick, sir,’ the doctor was astounded. ‘Right as rain one minute and now … gone.’ He looked up at the young man’s father. ‘It could be…the plague, sir.’ ‘And it’s high summer,’ Lord John, Henry’s father said. ‘We must arrange the burial immediately. And bu...

Thursday 28 December 1854 Near Scarr Wood, Slaithwaite It was a sombre Christmas at Marsden. Each day, Samuel Whitehead faced the sympathetic, enquiring gaze of villagers, looking to him for news of Sarah Lumb. His reply was always a slow, silent shake of his weary head. For Hannah Haigh, days and nights were filled with sorrow and self-blame. She should not have allowed her friend to walk part way with her that night. Why was it Sarah who had disappeared – why not her? Grief and guilt filled her head and her heart. Silent tears wracked her thin frame.   The dress skirt was found in the river below an aqueduct on the Thursday after Christmas, held fast by brambles that trailed their long, spiny fingers into the gushing waters of the Colne. Nearby, the bare, twisted branches of the trees in Scarr Wood seemed to shrug their black limbs in despair at the sight of the dwindling number of men searching the river, their steps heavy and slow as the distance from home increased each ...

Friday 8 December 1854 The Gymnasium Hall, Ramsden Street, Huddersfield Some thought it the most wicked sorcery they had ever witnessed. They were pleased to scurry home through the wet streets to bolt their doors, say their prayers and try to dispel the images of the piercing, demonic gaze of the man billed as a Lecturer in Mesmerism, Phrenology, Clairvoyance and Animal Magnetism. But these stubborn sceptics were in the minority. Most left the Hall that night believing they had seen acts of wonder and supernatural powers. They had watched volunteers being placed in a mesmeric sleep and then told to get into an imaginary rowing boat before being cast adrift on a stormy sea. As these entranced sailors held on to the sides of a boat only they could see, their bodies were flung from side to side on waves which washed only through their own imaginations. Under the influence of the celebrated Captain Hudson, others were persuaded to assume the identity of a steam train, their shushing...