As she drove along the winding lane leading towards the dam, Stella found herself gradually recognising more and more of the scenery. She passed the turn-off to the old primary school, now a private home. How many times had she walked this stretch of road, firstly with her mother when she was very young, and then on her own? The last time, of course, had been on that terrible day at the end of the summer term. The day Jessie went missing. The day her life had turned upside down. She remembered how the sun had shone that day, and she’d taken a detour through the woods, and made plans for all the things she’d do with Jessie over the summer. Today, a bright, colourful day in late April, the sun shone too but from lower in the sky. The woods were an eye-watering shade of green, the sky a stunning clear blue. The meadows on the valley floor sported grass of a colour to rival the new-season leaves, and the Herdwick sheep in the fields had all lambed. Everywhere Stella looked there was new life, new growth, a future.
And yet she was driving towards her past.
At last she reached the dam, and pulled into the small car park beside it. There was an information board, displaying a few photographs of the dam under construction, and a brief mention of Brackendale Green, the village that had been demolished to make way for the dam. She counted up the words related to it. Seventeen. Just seventeen words to tell the story of the death of a community.
There was a fine view down the valley from here. Stella stood for a moment, picking out buildings she recognised – the old schoolhouse, a couple of farms, and further afield but just visible, a larger house – Brackendale House. She’d never been there, but knew it belonged to the Pendletons, although it had stood empty for many years, since they went to India before the war. What was their part in the disappearance of Jessie? Had Pa just been rambling when he’d mentioned their name in his letter from prison? She sighed, supposing she would never know.
She turned away from this view, crossed the car park and gazed over the reservoir that filled the valley above the dam. It was the first time she had come back since that terrible day when she had failed to reach their cottage and retrieve the tin Pa had wanted. Another day she hated to bring to mind. She’d lived with good old Aunt Win, and later with Herbert too after they married – a joyous occasion when she was thirteen – until she reached the age of twenty-one, after the war. She’d moved to London, attended drama school and then found theatre work in the West End, taking chorus or small parts in numerous plays and musicals. And then, in a Lyons Corner House one Tuesday afternoon between the matinee finishing and the evening show starting, she’d met Robert. Once again, her life turned upside down but this time in a good way. The best way. To think that was seven years ago and now they had two beautiful children together. Stella smiled at the memory.
But in all that time she had never been back here, to Brackendale. She’d been to Penrith many a time, of course, visiting Win and Herbert, and had always paid her respects at her mother’s grave in Glydesdale and her father’s in Preston, but she’d never ventured into the valley where she’d been born. Until today. She couldn’t say why she’d wanted to come today, the day after poor Herbert’s funeral, but it had seemed right. She’d wanted to come alone, and had left Robert looking after the children, promising them a boat trip on the Lady of the Lake on Ullswater the next day.
She returned to the car. Time to drive along what she still thought of as the ‘new road’, even though it had been here for over twenty years and the old road was deep underwater. The road hugged the shores of the lake, twisting and winding its way along. As she was driving, it was hard to look at the view – all her concentration was on the road – but she could glimpse enough to see that it was still very beautiful. Perhaps even more so with the lake filling the valley. Eventually, at the end, she reached a small, empty car park. She got out, locked the car, and stood for a moment, gazing around. The mountains were so familiar, like old friends she’d grown up with and would never forget. But the rest of the view was so different from how she remembered it. The reservoir was completely still, its surface reflecting the mountains perfectly. There was a small island a little way out in the lake – Stella tried to work out whose land that would have been. Probably part of Sam Wrightson’s farm. She vaguely remembered a little hillock in his winter paddocks.
She walked towards the lakeside, back along the road a little way, and then spotted a footpath leading off to the right, up the hillside. It was signposted, ‘To Glydesdale 2 miles’. It was the Old Corpse Road, she realised. The path she had last walked on the day of her mother’s funeral, all those years ago.
On a whim she decided to walk it now, at least to the top of the hill. She had all day, and it was a beautiful one. Why not do it?
It was a strenuous climb. She realised that years living in London, on flat land, had made her unfit. As a child she’d have run up here. The path was well trodden. It was clear that it was a popular route with tourists. With a start she realised that she too was a tourist here, and yet she’d once been a part of this valley.
She reached the first lych-stone, situated at a bend in the path, and sat upon it to rest a while. Raising her eyes she saw the beauty of the Brackendale valley spread out before her. It was truly glorious, framed all around by the mountains, Bracken Fell soaring magnificently at its head, the lower slopes covered with last year’s bracken, mostly brown but with patches here and there of the new growth in a luminous green. It was beautiful, she thought. Truly spectacular. In many ways, the lake had improved the look of the valley. No wonder many people came to visit here, to stroll along the lakeside or to climb the mountains. How many, she wondered, had any idea what lay beneath the still waters? How many had ever seen the valley as it used to be, when it was filled with fields and farms, a working community, a village at its centre and a pub, church, shop and her father’s workshop at the heart of that village? So much had changed, so much had been lost, never to be recovered.
Across the valley she could see a couple of birds wheeling in the thermals. Were they the eagles, perhaps? The same ones she had known as a child or descendants of that pair, perhaps? She smiled. At least some things never changed.