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Nik shut his eyes to block out the image of her in the barn with her legs coiled round Danny Pighills’ waist as he pumped himself into her. If his gun had been handy he’d have shot them both like vermin. He’d torn them apart and given Danny such a beating. He wasn’t proud of himself but he was drunk, shamed and humiliated. She’d left that night and returned only for her clothes under armed guard. It was all around the district that Nik Snowden couldn’t keep his wife. He was deeply hurt by her rejection of all he held dear. The bitterness he’d felt then had eased to a dull ache of regret. He had not heard from her in years.

Now he was resigned to the single life – once bitten and all that … Occasionally there was a fling with one of the pub crowd but nothing serious. He was never in a sound enough financial position until now to take on another partner, and he was wary. Women were not to be trusted. The world around had changed since his youth, when farmers’ wives knew their place. Now they ganged up together and argued their corner, demanding equal shares in the business and working outside the farmstead just to keep their kids clothed and heeled. In his heart he knew that such women deserved respect but if the truth were told, the confidence of some of those brass-faced lasses scared the pants off him!

Now Jim Grimoldby’s sudden death had shaken his faith in his own judgement. There he had sat, on the same bar stool at the Spread Eagle with his old school mate for years, moaning on about Defra and all the EU regulations, working out plans for their compensation, laughing at Jim’s terrible jokes, playing darts, the occasional game of rugby, while Jim was going through hell.

You never knew what was going on in someone else’s head. That space between the ears is always a lonely place, he thought. Was it just depression at the sight of his sheep culled, too much to drink, or was it utter weariness with the whole damned shooting match that made his friend walk onto the moor with his shotgun and blow his head off? What sort of friend had he been not to recognise such despair? There’d been enough leaflets and confidential phone numbers to ring for counselling but Dalesmen are proud and stubborn – shy of talking to strangers, however well-meaning.

Brian Saddleworth had had a stroke when his stock was taken out, and was selling up. Poor Nigel Danby was in the last stages of lung cancer and in no fit state to carry on. It had been a bad year for the dale farmers on top of foot-and-mouth. So he must stomach this coming intrusion and think about the monthly rental cheque. If his father could see the state things had got to … Tom Snowden once refused even to consider bed and breakfast as a small sideline. Now every farm had a sign at the lane end. That was, until the blanket closure of every footpath, and the walkers all but disappeared.

When he thought how they had slummed it over the years in this cold barn of a house with its winding oak staircase, dark panelling, mullioned windows and ancient furniture. It didn’t seem right to sell off their heirlooms to help fund a project that would have their guests living in a luxury his own mother had never enjoyed.

Old Joss Snowden, Nik’s great-great-grandfather, would be turning in his grave if he knew what he had done. If truth were told, he’d been dipping into the family silver for years, oak settles here, a piece of silver there, topping up his losses. It couldn’t have gone on for much longer. Now there was money coming out of his ears and Stickley was suggesting they sell the place, lock, stock, to some London magnate for a shooting lodge, though even the grouse here were thin on the ground in this grim weather. Who would want to take on this albatross?

Sandringham it wasn’t – more like Wuthering Heights on a bad day – but he loved every wooden nail of it. It was his castle and his domain, his kingdom. There’d been a dwelling here since before recorded history. He was always digging up shards of Roman pottery, Celtic pin brooches, clay pipes and medieval tiles and coins. Nik had quite a collection stashed away somewhere.

The rear of the house went back to the fifteenth century, with its arching roof timbers. Nathaniel Snowden had added to the house in the seventeenth century: sturdy rubble-filled walls and square neat windows befitting the Puritan gentleman. Then his grandson Samuel restored the fortunes of Wintergill with the purchase of enclosed land, rebuilding the house looking south down towards Pendle Hill and the River Ribble. He had sired sixteen children, ten sons to expand his fortunes across the globe.

Then came George and his son, Joss, and his son, Jacob, the teetotal Methodist whose festive spirit was the talk of the dale, who prospered when Victoria was Queen. All of them had built on the strengths of their forebears, all were famous for their hospitality and open house. Grandpa Jo lost three sons with the Yorkshire Light Infantry and Tom, Nik’s own father, had ploughed a straight furrow for the war effort in the forties, seeing some of Wintergill’s most prosperous years.

How could he now be the one to finish them off?

Nora couldn’t settle while Nik was in the bath. She opened up the Side House, put on the heating and brought the linen down from her own airing cupboard. There would be time after the funeral to buy some bread, milk and flowers for the welcome basket. It was such a long time since the last let that she was nervous.

Now she was sifting through her glove box to find a leather pair big enough to hide her gnarled fingers. No one wore hat and gloves much to church, but she believed a woman was undressed without them. She sat at the dressing table stool, staring at her hands.

What a sturdy pair of friends these had been over the years, grasping the hind legs of newly delivered calves, planting vegetables, pickling fruit, plucking feathers, grabbing sheep, soothing sick beasts and children, grasping reins, steering wheels, holding the hands of the dying and whipping up the best sponge cakes in the district.

Now they were gnarled and horny, coarsened by wind and rain, with mottled liver spots, as wrinkled as cooked apple skins. They were long and square with over an octave span: more a man’s hand than a woman’s. No amount of elderflower and lanolin ointment would alter that.

Her dad’s only compliment on her marriage to Tom Snowden over fifty years ago was to look at her hands with pride. ‘You’ll earn your keep with those spades,’ he said. By then any dreams of further education and foreign travel as far from Scar Top as possible were blighted by war and the sense of duty that sent her scurrying back home to do her bit. There was never choice in the matter when Ben Frost, her dad, gave his orders.

As a child she had lived off the moor, boarding in school houses in the town to attend the local girls’ grammar school, matriculating with honours with a place at university a certainty. Then war broke out and it was all ploughs to the furrow, trying to grow arable crops on wet, sodden hilltops. There was no time for regrets when there was a nation to feed.

Where was that nation in the last few years when their produce was bottom of the heap of imported meat? When fleeces lay rolled in the shed and lambs were not worth the slaughter – and as for the poor pig farmers … If only supermarket shoppers would buy British then this terrible disease might not have happened.

Once upon a time it was one sheep, one lamb, one acre but the temptation to intensify had taken over. There was little humanity in farming – not a local abattoir left in the district but a plethora of regulations and directives. Now nature had had the last word. Suddenly her hands started to twitch again as she fingered a silk scarf from the bottom drawer.

Every Christmas for forty years, one new scarf was added to her collection from Tom. He was not one for lavish presents or romantic gestures. They weren’t bred like that in the Dales, but what he bought was always quality and long lasting so she picked out a navy and lilac stripe, not too flashy for a funeral. No one bothered much with full mourning but it was right to make the effort. The old-fashioned symbols were long gone: mourning veils to hide your tears, black armbands, funeral cards and mourning wreaths on the door, curtains closed in respect and hats off as the cortège passed. She would wear a hat out of respect and make sure that her son was decently dressed for the occasion.

There was a time when Nik was one of the smartest, handsomest young men in the dale, with his rugged good looks. He reminded her so much of Tom in his prime; the man who stopped her heart with one of his grins and his blue, blue eyes. If Nik’s shoulders were stooped now it was for good reason. Worry was weighing them down. He was fighting a lost cause and she feared trying to hold back the hungry tide. This afternoon he must shoulder his friend’s coffin to an early grave.

Jim’s suicide brought the pain of the collapse of their industry right to their doorstep. There was anger and confusion. If the vicar doled out any platitudes in his service, she

would lynch him personally. She was not on familiar terms with their new vicar, being more a Mother Earth than God the Father believer, but she would attend high days and holy days as neighbours must, to honour the dead and their living. Solidarity was the word they bandied about but actions spoke much louder.

They would bounce down from the tops to the church by the gill, with its stream coursing down the rocks that gave their village its name, and park Land Rovers and pickups where they could. There would be tea and sandwiches in the Spread Eagle, and the women would crack and gossip until it was time for evening milking and farm chores, but there were gaps now to fill in the farm routine. She powdered her red cheeks mapped with red veins. She had not missed doing her own farm chores one iota.

How she longed for a cottage down by the village beck, centrally heated, draught free, with lamps lit in the dusk and a good fire. She would soon get her energy back if she had only a small house to heat and clean instead of this barn. Lately she had found herself dosing off in the afternoons over her reading, breathless at the slightest exertion, but now was not the time to moan about her health when there was a young man in his forties, leaving a wife and children to bury him.

The service was mercifully short. She had to admit there was dignity in the old Prayer Book proceedings. It carried the distraught family through the ordeal. Even non-believers could take refuge in its language. Nik stood grim-faced, supporting the widow as the mourners stepped out into the autumn wind and rain towards the burial plot.

She did not want to see the look of incomprehension on Karen’s face as she gripped her sons in anoraks. The farm hand had found Jim in the field with a note thoughtfully pinned to his jacket in a plastic freezer bag. He was a proud man. He wanted to free his children from the curse of being farmer’s sons. This was his only way out, but what a legacy for his poor kids. The mourners gathered awkwardly just as the clouds parted and the sun glinted for a second, bathing the stone walls in a soft pink light.

It was more an afternoon for a ramble across the moor, if only the footpaths were open, than the burial of a young man gone mad with fear of failure. Nora stood silently for the final part of the ceremony, knowing a little of the grief Karen Grimoldby must be feeling. Time was not a great healer. It just took the edge off some of the pain so that you could breathe and carry on. The pain would never go away.

She was not one for small talk. Women had to be brick walls when it came to their children, appearing tough and hard. Family was what mattered most, she believed. If you indulged your unhappiness then it would linger longer. Feelings were best kept under control.

There would be time later to take Karen a plate pie and a tin of flapjack for the twins. When the sympathy letters were answered and the funeral expenses paid in the months to come – when winter held them in its iron fist– that would be the time to bob in and encourage the girl. That was when the chill of grief took its hold on a woman. Karen would be selling up and moving away, and another farm would be broken into lots to be bought as a holiday cottage for some blessed offcomers.

She turned towards the corner of St Oswald’s that would always be her own. All that was once precious to her was buried there. There were just two simple headstones with Latin inscriptions.

‘Nos habebit humus.’ Earth will hold us.

‘Mea filia pulchra.’ My beautiful daughter. Latin was such a dignified language to hide one’s grief in. She didn’t want the world to read her sorrow. It was enough that Father and child were together under the maple, Acer pseudo-platanus ‘Brilliantissimum', that fired each spring.

Farmers were used to death and the cruelty of nature, she mused. The hooded crows pecked out the eyes of newborn lambs if the ewe did not birth quickly enough. Foxes tore the heads off them for fun. Nature separated the weakest and picked them off, but this contagion levelled all in its path. Only the fit would survive the rigours of this coming winter.

Tom had a decent span, Shirley did not. She never talked about it much. What good would it do? There was no point in weeping and wailing and falling apart when there was another child and a farm to run. Sorrows were best kept in the family under lock and key. That’s why offcomers often called Dales folk cold, unfeeling, a subhuman species, impervious to suffering, but Jim’s death and foot-and-mouth showed otherwise. Underneath the weatherbeaten faces assembled on this bleak afternoon were the same fears and sorrows. Farmers had their own ways of dealing with them. Some took to religion or drink. She was the worst of all when it came to bottling things up.

‘Sad business is this, Mrs Snowden,’ whispered Bruce Stickley in her ear, looking every inch the successful country land agent in his navy Crombie coat and knife-edged trousers. She never trusted a man who had time to put his trousers in such a shape. But she nodded quickly and looked away.

Bruce Stickley was quick to strike up conversation these days. ‘It makes you think what’ll be happening next, doesn’t it?’ he continued. ‘Soon there won’t be any farms to manage, if this climate continues. You’ll be the last farm left in the dale.’

Nora shrugged in reply.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ he continued, oblivious to her disinterest. ‘You’ve got one of the most sought-after properties in the Dales with those three magic ingredients.’ He grinned.

‘Go on, surprise me,’ she quipped sharply.

‘Location … location, location,’ he replied. ‘There’s nothing to beat a south aspect, a hilltop view and a splendid array of ancient buildings to create interest in a sale. You’d get a tidy packet for all of it, even in the condition it’s in. If ever you think of selling I hope I’d be your first port of call.’

If she’d been a man she’d have socked him in the bollocks just to wipe that smug expression off his greasy face: odious little man with his slicked-back hair and hooded eyes. He thought he was the bee’s knees, but he was nothing but a blowfly feeding off a carcass. ‘This is hardly the time or place,’ she sniffed haughtily, piercing him with her icy stare.

‘Of course … but I just wanted you to know,’ Stickley countered with about as much sensitivity as a wolf on heat.

‘What gives you the idea we’ll be selling up?’ she snapped back.

‘With Nik having no one to take over, and the change in your circumstances,’ he answered, not so sure of his ground now.

‘So?’

‘I know how it is for hill farmers now. I saw Nik at the diversification lecture. Have you thought about developing the other barns?’

‘What we decide to do is none of your damned business, young man,’ she snapped. ‘Like father, like son, so I see. I knew your father. He always drew a hard bargain, always on the lookout for something cheap or run down. You’ve done well out of other people’s sorrows over the years … We’re here to honour a poor man who couldn’t take any more bad luck, not to do deals over his corpse. Show some respect!’ She turned her back on the estate agent and made for the open grave to throw her handful of soil into the hole. She did not want Bruce Stickley to see that his words had hit home.

So the news was out that they were hovering on the brink of a decision like so many here today. You need only be seen going into the estate agent’s office on market day for nosy parkers to put two and two together to make five. Nik was right: Bruce had an eye on their house for himself. Well, tough, she’d rather sell it at a loss than allow him the deeds.

Northbound

It was raining in Bradford when the travellers slipped off the M62, and sleeting on the road to Skipton, but the intrepid driver ploughed on northwards along the A65. The snow was settling on the pavements in Settle as they made their way cautiously upwards where the snowflakes floated as thick as goose feathers onto the windscreen.

Trying not to panic, thankful that gritters were already ahead clearing a path, Kay Partridge continued to climb upwards over clanking cattle grids in the dusky light.

‘Are we nearly there?’ said Evie, her daughter, with thumb in mouth, eyeing the snow with fascination.

‘Last lap, muppet,’ she answered, not daring to stop in case they slithered to a halt and found themselves stranded halfway up the hill. The Freelander was stuffed to the gills with bedding, toys, books, the contents of her mother-in-law’s freezer, radio, video, plastic bags full of clothes. There was plenty of ballast.

Within days of deciding to rent a cottage in the half-term break, everything slotted together so neatly that surely this impulsive decision was meant to be?

She plumped for Wintergill House the minute she saw its details on the screen. Perhaps it was the name that caught her attention. It was as close to her dream home as she could find, and she wanted a place for winter. Wintergill looked old, remote and on a hillside. The details were just right. There were three bedrooms and it was part of the old estate, now a working farm. Kay also ran off loads of bumf about the district, just to be sure. It wasn’t far from Bankwell and Gran’s old place, although no one would remember her now. Even the village school had its own website. It was familiar territory, and even if she’d not been back for years, she felt a lightening of her spirit to be back in Yorkshire.

Now they were in another world and the wheels scrunched on pristine snow. It was all very exciting but scary. November was a little early for a blizzard, surely? Soon the lights of Wintergill would shine out like beacons guiding them forward. The weather could close them in for weeks and she wouldn’t care.

‘We’ve made it,’ she sighed, turning to her daughter, but the child had snuggled back under the blanket and gone back to sleep. It was time to stop the car, light up a ciggie and draw a deep breath, blowing the smoke out of the window, ashamed at her weakness but it gave her time to savour the moment. Was this real or was she dreaming? Would she wake up back in Sutton Coldfield, with her mother-in-law bending her ear?

Poor Eunice! She’d swept into Kay’s bedroom without knocking, waving tickets in her hand. ‘I’ve got front seats in the dress circle on Boxing Day … won’t that be fun?’

‘That’s very kind of you but I’m afraid we’ll not be here for Christmas this year,’ Kay whispered. ‘I’ve booked a country cottage away from it all.’

‘Without telling us first?’ Eunice snapped. ‘For how long? I suppose I can exchange them for January.’

‘We’ll be leaving after half term … it’s a six-month winter let,’ Kay said, not wanting to see the horror on Eunice’s face.

‘You can’t be serious … just packing up and leaving us on a whim,’ screamed Eunice. ‘It’s nearly Christmas … What about Evie’s schooling? You can’t just bundle her off like a parcel into the middle of nowhere. Whatever has got into you? After all we’ve done. I think you should speak to your counsellor.’

‘I’ve had it up to here with grief counselling,’ Kay answered. ‘I’ve been sensible, not done anything in a rush. I’ve been ricocheting off the walls like a pinball. You’ve both been more than kind, and we do appreciate all your advice, but it’s nearly a year since Tim died and I can’t go sponging off you both for ever, living in your house. We have to move on, Eunice. I have to pick up my career again.’

‘Nonsense. This is all part of the upset. Poor little Evie, doesn’t she have a say in all this? She’s so looking forward to Christmas. She’s settled in the school now with a trip to the panto arranged. Daddy and I are going to give her a special treat. I know we can’t make it up to her for not having her own daddy here.’ Eunice Partridge’s eyes were brimful of tears and Kay felt a monster for spoiling all her plans.

‘No one can bring Tim back. It’s going to be an awful Christmas for you too, remembering last year and the upset, as you call it. So I’ve decided to do something different. I did wonder about a holiday in Africa, a safari, or Morocco where there’s no Christmas to remind us …’ she suggested.

‘You can’t take a child from her Christmas.’ Eunice was horrified.

‘Christmas is not compulsory, you know. Lots of people escape from it. But then I got a better idea. We can take a country let for a few months and I’ve found something on the internet in Yorkshire.’ She paused, knowing Eunice would not understand.

‘Yorkshire! It’s miles away!’ Eunice spat out the words as if they were rancid.

‘Why not? It was good enough for my mother to be brought up in. The Dales are beautiful. It’s quiet and safe, with friendly people. They’ve been through a bad time. I want to show some solidarity with my kinfolk,’ Kay replied, deciding not to tell them the real reason or the dream that had given her comfort and the courage to make this move.

For months the grief of Tim’s sudden death in that motorway crash on Christmas Eve had lain upon her like a hard frost, nailing down her resolve, leaving her unable to make the slightest decision. Cocooned by his parents, cosseted from reality by their smothering kindness, she had let them organise their lives to suit their own need of Evie. She could hardly breathe for their kindness and fussing. Now was the time to break free or go under before that first anniversary came round.

‘It’s cold and wet up there, and they’ve had foot-and-mouth.’ Eunice sniffed. ‘You should be going up there in summer, not in the middle of winter. What about Evie’s schooling?’ Eunice was not going to give up easily.

‘They do have schools up there too. It’s not exactly Antarctica.’ It was hard to be polite but Kay bit her lip and tried to breathe deeply.

Eunice decided to call in the troops, shouting to her husband, who was cowering in the conservatory under a newspaper. ‘Dennis! Come and hear this. You’ll never believe what Kay is dreaming up for Christmas. How will we manage without Evie? She’s so like Tim, with those grey eyes, his nose.’ The floodgates were opening again but Kay had her arguments well rehearsed.

‘I’m sorry but she’s not Tim. She’s not a substitute for your son. She has to get over his death in her own way. Pretending he’s not dead doesn’t help either.’ It was out in the open at last, the resentment that had been building up for weeks.

‘What do you mean?’ Eunice screeched, going pink in the face.

‘You talk about him as if he is still alive, suspended in midair somewhere, waiting to descend when he’s finished his business trip. Evie thinks he’ll come home for Christmas. She wrote a letter to Santa asking him to send her daddy back. I don’t want her deceived.’ Kay paused. ‘I should have said something ages ago. I know you mean well–’

‘How can you be so cruel? We’ve been trying to protect her. She’s too young to understand about death. It will give her nightmares. She’s only seven.’

‘You’re never too young to learn that death is part of life, that sometimes terrible things can happen. Every time I try to tell her about Tim’s accident, she covers her ears and says he’s gone away to make more pennies. We mustn’t turn him into some plaster saint or pretend he’s just in some other place.’ Kay paused, seeing the look of pain on Eunice’s face, but the truth had to be spoken.

‘We’re only doing what we think best for Evie,’ Eunice muttered uncomprehending.

‘Of course, I know … we all miss him but he was so driven sometimes … I wonder if it was worth it,’ came the weary reply.

‘You wanted for nothing, my girl. He gave you both a good life. He died for his family.’ Eunice’s eyes flashed with accusation as she spoke.

‘If only he hadn’t tried to squeeze too much into his frantic schedule. He was belting down the motorway in bad weather, late as usual for his next meeting, when he should have been spending time with us. He died as he lived– in the fast lane. It’s so unfair, and I just don’t want to be here … on Christmas Eve. Can’t you understand?’ Kay argued.

‘I have to go now before we get sucked into everything.’ There was nothing more to say.

‘You’ve grown so hard these past few months. I might have known you’d something up your sleeve. I hope you’re not filling Evie up with bitterness.’ The gloves were off now.

‘Someone has to be there for Evie. I gave up my career gladly to bring her up but I’ll not stand by and let you fill her up with the notion Tim is not dead. How many times have we moved to further his career? How many uprootings and refurnishings were there to organise? Have you forgotten that all our furniture is still in storage and that we were in the middle of a move when he died? Or that he wanted us to move over Christmas so as not to miss that sales conference in Frankfurt? I’ve been stranded with you ever since, rootless, paralysed by shock and inertia. He worked so hard – too hard – and what appreciation did he get from that bloody company? Hardly any of his work colleagues turned up for his funeral. They just threw money at us to salve their consciences … I need never work again … Don’t you think I’d love nothing more than for him to walk through that door? But I’ve seen his body … I can’t bear to go through that day again in this very same place … I’m sorry.

‘What was it all for, Eunice, tell me? One day he was there and then he’s not, and I’m left neither one thing nor the other. I’m not single, I’m not divorced but I am a widow with a child.’ All the bitterness was pouring out in a torrent. She looked at Eunice’s crestfallen face but she couldn’t back down now.

Kay reached out her hand in a gesture of conciliation and whispered, ‘One minute life was hunkydory, waiting for the Christmas jamboree to begin, cake in the tin, pudding on the shelf, turkey in the pantry, Evie jumping up and down waiting for Father Christmas, and then the balloon was burst in our faces and we were left to wipe our tears, smile to protect Evie, trying to pretend Tim was delayed. We’ve been doing that ever since. It has to be different this year, for all our sakes.’

She looked up to see Eunice nodding in silence. Dennis was standing by the door and he put his hands on Kay’s shoulder.

‘The girl’s got a point, Mother. Evie needs something to look forward to. We’ve got our memories and she’s got her mum. They have to do what’s best for them. I don’t know how you’ve coped all this time, Kay.’ Dennis Partridge was not one for long speeches and Kay felt mean to have upset them both.

‘What’ll we do, Dennis?’ Eunice looked up shaking her head.

‘We’ve got each other and a chance to visit your friend in Bath, who’s been begging us for years to come and stay. It’s time we moved on too. They’ll come and see us when they’re settled, won’t you?’ Dennis pleaded.

‘Of course, and you can come and visit us in the New Year,’ Kay said, relieved that her decision was out in the open. There was no turning back from this strange impulse to get the hell out of Sutton in time for Christmas, to find somewhere to hide from the festivities, where no one knew her as ‘that woman who lost her hubby on Christmas Eve'.

They were lucky. There was insurance money enough for choices and treats and distractions. Now she was going to follow that dream. That was enough for now.

Kay stubbed out her cigarette, peering into the darkness. She was taking a ridiculous gamble in renting a house she had never seen, but it felt right. Wintergill sounded so solid and the perfect spot to hide for a few months until she rethought their future. It would be a bolt hole. The darkness of the season would shield them from view. No one knew their business here. Few would remember her mother, who left home when she was a student. If only her parents were still alive but, as an only child, she’d no family of her own for support.

The move would give her time to sort Evie’s understanding of why Daddy could never be on her Christmas list.

She wound down the window further and sniffed the air. The snow had turned back to rain, dowsing her face with stinging droplets. It was time to make her way down the track. Time to test out her fantasy and the four-wheel drive.

Nik was soaking in the bath when he heard the doorbell ring in the hall and Muffin barking wildly. There was no expecting his mother to answer it for him for she was down in Wintergill, not due back until she had caught up with all the doings down the dale.

The keys for the Partridges were waiting on the hall table. The couple were late, very late and Nik had hoped with all the rain Yorkshire had been having lately they might have called off their holiday. The barometer was looking grim. Townies were soft when it came to bad weather. He tried to ignore the ringing but it carried on. Nik grabbed a towel and sloshed his way downstairs, leaving a trail of drips on the dark oak.