The Murders at Goosecurry Farm

By David Anson

Albert Wharton was never just an ordinary kid in the Yorkshire Dales and became no ordinary London detective. When called on to solve a murder in the Dales village of his birth, he didn't take much persuading to go but never realised how much it would change his life. Nothing seemed to have changed in Marden Dale looking from the outside, yet everything had when looking from within, as Albert was to find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Sep 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781528943437

David Anson

David Anson was born in Yorkshire but has lived much of his life elsewhere, never forgetting his roots. Now retired from his former professional career, he travels around it as much as he can, finding inspiration and studying its history.

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Epilogue

About The Author

David Anson was born in Yorkshire but has lived much of his life elsewhere, never forgetting his roots. Now retired from his former professional career, he travels around it as much as he can, finding inspiration and studying its history.

Dedication

To my beautiful baby daughter, Eileithyia Emily Hazel Rose, for just being there while I was re-writing the last version.

Copyright Information ©

David Anson (2018)

The right of David Anson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781787107601 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528943437 (E-Book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2018)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd™

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgements

My publishers, the wonderful Austin Macauley. Well, they will be by the time it’s published.

Also, to Leslie Beckett for his potter disappearing into the kiln theme from an unpublished story.

Introduction

The Gothic Novel in the 21st Century

This may almost seem like a contradiction and sound like something totally out of time, yet, in the 18th Century, and up to about 1840, when such novels were popular, Gothic Novels were also out of their time. A belief in science and then a loss of traditional spirituality were causing their demise amongst the educated middle class reading public. They returned in the 19th century for the newly educated working class, revitalised in penny dreadful and sensational stories and lived on through into the 20th century. Stories in print and on the internet are still an indication the public have not lost a taste for the weird and the bizarre and the almost unbelievable.

Like many people I was introduced to the genre at school studying English literature for O-level and then A-level in the 1960s, but it was really a scratching of the surface and no assessment was ever made of the continuity of the themes through literary history to the modern era. However, Hammer Horror films and successive writers of horror and science fiction never departed far from the principles set out by the original writers. These writers never set out to write masterpieces, although some such as The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole and Frankenstein by Mary Shelley have become such. Dracula by Bram Stoker followed on in the tradition but much later. They all have been much copied.

So what sets the story in the Gothic Novel apart from all other literature? In many cases nothing. It has never died and is living strong in many other modern authors and shares many characteristics with other genres. What sets it apart, may be its extremes or its detachment, its slight unreality which occasionally is not so unreal. Let us list a few of its qualities.

Its location is on the fringes of the world we know, not in terms of distance but that place we all know one step away from us, the place not entirely with us, just over the hill. In this book Marden Dale is such a place. It is not on the way to anywhere, almost bypassed by better places. It is a place in decline waiting for the death blow, however that may come. The place, therefore, must be overpowering, it must weigh down on both good and evil alike.

It is a place of hidden conflict over a long time which no one seems to acknowledge until they go away and return. This has stoked up desire for revenge by some people, unnoticed by others.

There is hidden evil waiting to be uncovered and not yet perceived by anyone living there. It has been concealed deliberately in the belief that it will never be uncovered no matter what.

There is an evil and manipulative presence in the form of one person or a group of people who consider themselves above the law or the redress of their fellow beings. They see themselves in a position of unassailable power. They do what they like, unchecked.

A hero needs to come along and set everything right and some foul deed needs to be the event which draws him there to begin a cleansing process. This process needs to be difficult and he must be opposed initially not just by evil, but by good. He needs to be both unconventional and fearless, but he needs to have good old fashioned virtues to triumph. At the same time, however, he has to do almost super human things while being ordinary.

A heroine is also necessary and she must personify goodness by personality and deed. She does not have to be weak; she can be as decisive and as active as the hero. Other women can appear vulnerable as some men can be weak and indecisive. She can be there to defend other women.

There needs to be other people around who are straightforward and good but have been the subject of bad influence. The hero needs to bring them into the light by both example and deed.

The events of the story must seem long and torturous without being boring. The hero must be dogged by the prospect of failure at every turn, and success must be seen to be constantly slipping away in the confusion. He must be constantly diverted from his task by both good and evil people. He is on a journey to obtain a prize. This can be getting the girl, solving the problem, acting as the mediator in social conflict but in the end, he must have a personal triumph with which we can all identify.

All this must take place against a background of a gloomy, mysterious place with awful events, and only the hero can prevent their continuation. It should be a place where we would not always want to go but one we can see over the next hill, as I outlined above.

This sounds like the basis of many stories and it is, but the Gothic novel took it to the extreme and the supposed unlikely. For most readers, the life of all those years ago seemed as detached as it can seem so now, but how much was it from events the original novels described?

This novel similarly tries to explore what can be real and unreal, on a day to day basis.

I got the idea of the story from Leslie Becket, the local historian in Rotherham who inspired my Brunanburgh novel. He submitted a short story to a competition in the 1950s. He didn’t even get an acknowledgement but the theme was the murderous potter disposing of the body in a kiln. Leslie died in September 2012, the year I completed the first draft of the story. He was aged 99 and was cremated, his ashes being lodged on his dear wife’s grave.

This story is dedicated to his memory.

Summer 2018 AD

Author’s Precis – The Murders at Goosecurry Farm by David Anson

In normally quiet Marden Dale in Yorkshire, obscure and failed rock star Geoff Moore is murdered at Goslings Cottage and local police are baffled. His neighbour, farmer Joe Hardy, tells them, Albert Wharton whose father’s family has owned Goosecurry Farm for generations and who is now a policeman in London, will be able to solve the crime. Both Geoff and Joe are tenants of the Wharton’s, absentee landlords.

Albert is black, his mum was from South Africa and he hasn’t lived in Marden for over 25 years but Joe remembers him well from school, or he thinks he does. London has changed Albert and once he has got over his reluctance to be seconded back north, he pursues the case with an expertise no local could quite imagine. He begins by investigating all petty crime in the Dale and the disappearance of a local potter twelve years before. Albert hopes that leads will emerge, and they do in great numbers, leading to the other cases of drug dealing, illegal firearms, people trafficking, prostitution, supplying fake and dangerous goods, animal cruelty and of course, more murders.

Whilst all this is taking place Albert begins a relationship with Alice Bligh, the current owner of the pottery in Marden Village and takes part in fell races, which were his passion when younger. He renews acquaintances who give him insights into the area, which has changed so much in some ways since he was younger, but hardly in others. His personal life in East London had been at rock bottom, and he feels he’s making a bit of a change for himself by returning to his roots up north.

Marden Dale is a dark brooding place with a history of family conflict, which comes out in the story. It is the place on the road to nowhere surrounded by fells, and the Dale is a dead end in many respects not just by having no through road, it is a place in decline. Everyone constantly feels the weight of the place. Albert, however, is seen by some as a returning hero, a white knight returned to see justice done, other wrongs put right and to make changes. Alice Bligh seems like a vulnerable gothic heroine but is really a strong woman behind it all, and it is one of the bases of their mutual attraction. They are together in a place, which seems initially pleasant and good but hides its dark character very well, until Albert uncovers it.

Chapter 1

The End of Innocence

Albert Wharton was enjoying his lunchtime lasagne with a pint of Young’s in the Belle Star Canning Town when his mobile buzzed. He reluctantly answered.

Albert, it’s Marcia, can you call in to see JS over the next couple of days. No appointment necessary, he’ll see you any time, he says. He’s having an office week, if you can believe it.

OK, said Albert.

He didn’t believe JS in the slightest but Marcia ended the call at that. He knew better than to ask what it was about. When you knew, you were usually in trouble of some sort, but Albert thought, I will be anyway and tried to make the best of his lunch. I’ll go last thing, tonight. JS could be in a good mood by then if he’s had a good day… He’s wanting my angle on something as usual. He’ll want my opinion just to disagree with it. No one would think we have been best friends for the last twenty years.

He finished the lasagne, thinking it’s nowhere near as good as his mother’s or Auntie Eleanor’s. Theirs was grub to die for. He could taste it still.

It was about just gone five thirty when he walked into the big outer office and looked for the telephone book. It wasn’t out. Marcia’s signal that JS was in a bad mood was to put the book on the corner of the filing cabinet. JS, of course, knew this but it didn’t worry him. If he saw that she had put it out, he would either be grumpier than ever or be sweetness and light. She nodded for him to go in. He stopped for a moment and looked at the sign on the door, Deputy Assistant Commissioner JS Cole… a ragman’s tea maker’s apprentice, thought Albert.

Come in and sit down, Albert, JS said with a beaming smile. Do you remember when we used to come in here twenty years ago when Willie Walton was boss? Ragman’s tea maker’s apprentice, we used to say about him. A pound to a pinch of stuff, you still do about me… Well, you’re a street copper and I’m a desk copper… Would you swap? Don’t give me any ‘how’s your father’ you would… Well, I never thought I’d end up sat here looking at you. You could still do a better job than me sat behind this cheap furniture… I only said that this morning to the Great Panjandrum, and by the way… I think he nearly agreed, even about the cost of the furniture.

Albert let him go on for a while and when he stopped so he could get a word in edgeways, he said. Come to the point, JS, it can’t so awful I have to be softened up so much. Tell it like it is, Old Mole.

Albert, my friend, life can be awful, and even I am amazed at this particular angle on awfulness. It is terrific awfulness. If this happened to me, I’d resign, go on gardening leave, pretend I had to visit a dying great grandma in India, a rich one at that, and several other things not fit for those great ones on high to know of. I’d do anything to get out of this one, if it happened to me, but you are made of better stuff.

Crikey, JS, this must be serious if you beat about the bush so much. Do get on with it, sir, said Albert calmly and more formally. Tell me all about it, while we are still friends… before I decide to end it all. There’s a bus going by outside… in two ticks I could be under it… and put us all out of our misery.

Not lost your Yorkshire wit, have you Albert? JS said sharply and then got to the point. There’s been a murder in Yorkshire, in the Dales where you used to live… and where you were born! He went silent at that and looked almost mournfully at Albert.

For a moment, Albert went silent also and then said.

They have one from time to time, JS. It gives the local CID something to do besides investigate sheep stealers and other unspeakable crimes with sheep. Very occasionally they do a murder most foul on the chicken farm.

Ha, ha, ha, Albert! This one is special, although it does involve sheep indirectly, no chickens in sight. Someone has been murdered at Goosecurry Farm and the local lads tell us, you and your mother, the blessed and lovely Victoria Wharton, are the owners of it. Your tenant tells them that you’ll be able to solve it ten times faster than anyone. It’s been puzzling them a week… as long as that I hear you say… Anyway I didn’t know you were a landowner of vast acres. How many acres, I always wondered but never dared ask? Do you have a title as well? Are you Lord Wharton of Goosecurry? I thought you had just lived up there in a little house, not a farm with hundreds of acres. All the years I have known you, you kept that a secret. We could have gone shooting on your estate. Well, someone has, for that was the means to murder.

Must have been a shot gun, said Albert without hesitation. There’s still a load of unlicensed ones. Just like around here.

You’ll feel at home then, in every sense of the word, said the DAC. But Albert, say you’ll go and investigate. I know you hated living there but it was years ago. They must have changed along with the rest of the world.

"JS, old mate, this lot up North are looking to put the egg on someone else’s face. They can solve it. They have swallowed a red herring tossed their way by someone, or they are not telling you something tres importante. There will be something about this crime that they don’t want to look at. They want someone like me to do it for them. There will be a family connection for one of them and it could even be with my family, such as I have around there. It’s all distant family. My nearest and dearest have been good at dying. It’s why we have the farmhouse and the land all to ourselves… and our tenant now has it."

Albert, this has come from the GBH, Great Boss on High, God Bless Him, politicians do breathe heavily upon him, and I thought to myself if he wanted me to do this where I came from, I would be asking for solid gold support in the background. I’m giving you that. He could order me to do it. I insisted I give you the choice. My folk would smell a rat if I investigated stealing milk off doorsteps to help out my brother at his shop and milk round in Cricklewood and Him on High, knows it. They have gone for a week without a clue except for the insistence by the farmer that you can solve it. He says you have special knowledge of the area. The boss says we abandon protocol and send you.

Yes, I have some special knowledge, Deputy Assistant Commissioner Joginder Singh Cole… sir… Marden Dale is wall to wall with racists, and I think, that Joseph Hardy the farmer, he is one of them.

Or it was when you lived there! Weren’t you actually born there? People change like you have, old mate! Could you have played for Yorkshire, even before they changed the rules? By the way, I’ve never had curried goose. Would my mother cook it? I think not, somehow. Anyway, if he is a racist, why did you and your mother let the farm to him?

I hate Cricket, JS. You know that. It’s not a way of life with me like it is with you and yours.

Albert drew his chair nearer to the DAC’s desk, just as JS was falling apart with laughter.

We let the farm to him because he offered the most money to the agents. Dear Lord, JS! It is a farm in Yorkshire, after all.

JS nodded with approval.

Do you have time to hear the full and complete story of my life or shall I come back when you have a few hours to spare? You’ve only known me for the last twenty years or so in London after I left university. We never bothered with too much about our backgrounds all the hours we spent running villains around this town. We had better things to talk about, you and me, even though both of us set a lot of store by family. I’ve even lost the accent I came with. It never fitted well with a brown face, even one as pale as mine in Mardenham anyway. I don’t stand out too much in Hackney and Plaistow, Stratford and Canning Town, not even in deepest Ilford.

If it was really rough, you should have said. It’s all our experience, I’m only six or seven years older than you, Albert.

Well, it wasn’t all the time, just at a crisis.

Tell me then, Albert, for we may solve a crime on the way, or find a direction for the investigation, and by the way I am seriously prepared to offer you all the technical back up you need and another officer for support, as I said earlier. I do not jest in this, dear friend. The Mighty One, His Highness wants us to come out smelling of roses not sheep droppings.

Well, during the Summer of Love in ’67 my dad was doing VSO in South Africa, working on sheep farms, helping out the underprivileged locals. Having been brought up on one, he didn’t know any better and thought he could tell the locals how to keep sheep. He was in for a disappointment. They could keep sheep as good as anyone in Yorkshire and it was just the politics that kept them from prospering. Dad never realised that until about ten minutes after he got off the plane. He thought it was all still part of the British Empire… and he was taking up the white man’s burden to improve the lot of black people. Really the local white folk wished he and his kind would stay at home and not interfere. Well, he stayed long enough to fall in love… and one day in 1968 he arrived back in Mardenham with my mother, very pregnant and they were not married. He couldn’t marry her in Zuid-Afrika. White men couldn’t marry a woman of mixed race. Sex was OK, if no one looked over your shoulder. He had dabbled in the local politics to make matters worse and had been dumped with her in Mozambique to save his life… and hers. They only had Mardenham as a home… and my mother, Lord love her, even thought the real mother country would welcome her. Funny enough, it did for a while. They thought she would go away after a few months, once I was born, and would take Dad with her. They misunderstood her and then didn’t realise how Dad had been changed by Africa.

The DAC took out a road atlas and looked for Mardenham and changed the subject. He could see the whole tale was irritating Albert.

"Albert, what do they do there on a night out when it’s not snowing? Eat curried goose?

There’s always the sheep, sir.

You don’t mean… I was joking.

No, keeping sheep means most of the year you have something to do. You have to look over them nearly every day if you are a good farmer, even in summer… Mother cooked curried goose for about a week after every Christmas. It was good but wasn’t as good as your mum’s curries using proper ingredients and her style.

Carry on, Albert, dear friend, my mother would love to hear your praises as ever… I’m glad you still go to see her, more than me she says… Why did they call you Albert, anyway? Father’s family name? I never thought to ask you before. It was always a name which fitted you… and anyway, I always thought your mum was from a supposed western outpost of my ancient homeland due to confusion by the Spanish and all that.

No, it was a name in mother’s family. The original recent totally white ancestor I suspect, or King George the Sixth, Prince Bertie. It’s a bit lost in time but that is how I was baptised by the Anglican Church in Mardenham and my birth registered in Richmond. She never fully explained. She never felt the need as her history spoke loud enough for itself.

Albert could hear his mother saying. Elbert, vhy do you ask all these questions? It’s a good name. Be happy with it.

So what happened then?

We stayed, and father and mother worked on the farm. They repaired an empty cottage and lived next to Granny and Granddad. Mother was used to hard work and she put up with the cold. Dad was less hardy, it seemed. Africa had changed him. He stayed with the farm and when Granddad died, it was left to him to work… and it didn’t pass in to the rest of the family who were all expecting it to be theirs when Dad had gone off to change the world. Dad worked it well until Granny died… but he lost interest after that. He lost his dedication to the business. He became casual and careless. The winter I was fourteen, he was out feeding sheep on the fells and froze to death. He didn’t try very hard to save himself according to the men who found him.

After that, Mother rented out bits of the land to different farmers and we lived in the bigger cottage, which Great-Granddad had extended, and let our cottage for holidays to tourists. She ran the big cottage as a B&B… Can you imagine a black landlady in the Dales? When I was at University and deciding to become a copper, she decided to go back to South Africa and take part in the struggles. All the short leases were coming to an end, and I decided I was not going to farm, so I put it all back together and rented it out to Joe Hardy on an agreed agricultural tenancy. For a while, I kept the little cottage and went back a few times with Paula when we were together. The more she liked it, the less I did. It’s let on a tenancy by the agent and like the farm, to someone local.

I know, Albert, he’s the one murdered.

What, and they haven’t charged his wife or Joe Hardy?

He hasn’t a wife and Joe Hardy was on a plane returning from Ibiza at the time.

Damn me, JS, I hope they have a statement from all the passengers, the crew and the tour operators and I mean all the passengers, not just his relatives… No wife and the potential main suspect has a watertight alibi. No wonder they want help from us. What’s his name?

There’s a file for you to see, Albert, and not a thick one. His name is Geoffrey Moore.

Don’t know him. He can’t be too local. How old is he?

That’s not his real name. It’s Sleighthwaite or Sleights or however you pronounce it there in the back of beyond.

Oh, that does make it interesting. It’s the longer weirder version. Albert almost got excited at this point.

Albert, you are getting excited, well almost… I can see you can’t wait to start.

You may be right there, JS, my friend.

I may be a desk copper now, Albert, but I can still choose the right man to solve a crime even if I can’t go down the street and do the job myself anymore because I wear all this crap on my hat. What is more, I owe you several big fat ones from years ago and its payback time. I asked the boss to agree to your overdue promotion before you go, because he owes me a really big fat one, similarly long overdue. They are expecting a Chief Inspector but they will get a Superintendent. Like you, I am suspicious of them. I think they are trying to pass a problem south. You’ll out rank most of them. You might need it… The Big Boss was not easily convinced. He wanted to wait until you returned in triumph… so go and put the frighteners on ’em… anyway, you are down to take over from Tricky Micky Stanton when he retires in July. Go and help them out. They must be tired of investigating Murder Most Foul at the Chicken Farm. The Lord only knows, I am tired of the old joke.

JS as always laughed loud and long at his own jokes. It gave Albert time to consider his reply.

I’ll go by myself initially, I think. I’ll just see how the land lies. I think the answer might not lie on the farm itself. I’ll hold off going there. I take it the locals have completely wrecked the crime scene by now. I might stay in Richmond for a while and then move to the pub at Mardenham, if it still does rooms and meals. I could find a farmhouse B&B but the idea of holding court in the White Hart appeals to me.

Albert, this is all appealing to the natural copper in you. I told the Big Boss Wizard Man, mighty shaman to politicians, you were always a natural. Just watch yourself there. Can you go next Monday? It’ll take that time to publish your promotion, God knows you’ve passed all the boards and have the bits of paper and I have them ready to sign here in the office. There’s time for you to pass on your case load to the team.

As soon as that!

Sooner you solve it, sooner you’re back in the real world and not an extra in Heartbeat.

Sitting in this office hasn’t made you lose your penchant for awful jokes, has it, JS… sir?

No, and it isn’t supposed to… just watch yourself, Albert, please… and I won’t rest until one of us is up there watching your back. At least I can order a good officer and a pal of yours to go and support you.

No, don’t do that. Find someone totally inappropriate who would hate it. When the locals see how unhappy he or she is, they will think they can use him or her against me. They’ll start to make mistakes. London’s full of coppers who think civilisation stops outside the M25, including some black ones.

Albert, like you, I wonder if your Joe Hardy isn’t trying to second guess us here… even more so, now you tell me. He thinks, perhaps, the local police will be too busy pissed off with an outsider to help him find the real villain… or they will unwittingly let go of the real story that they can’t solve the crime, by stonewalling you.

We shall find out, sir. We shall find out.

Chapter 2

Monday and the First Day’s Journey to the Lost Planet of Youth

Albert had left JS’s office that afternoon and smiled at Marcia who still never said a word to him. He suddenly recalled it was months since he had ever heard her speak, except on the telephone. The last four times he had visited, she had nodded towards the door, had even opened it for him but had never said a word to him… Only adds to my paranoia, he thought. The DAC’s last words somewhat added to it as well.

Albert, check where you were at the time of the murder and a few hours either side. We don’t want them pinning it on you ’cos you’re black, ha, ha, ha! Make sure of your alibi.

Mind games! Mind games! He’d try one or two of his own, and on JS if he had to. It was Wednesday tomorrow, a few days to think. For a start, he was leaving his own car in London. The number plate and dealer’s sticker would stand out. He was going to spend the first few nights well away from Mardenham. One of the two or three star hotels near or on the A1, would be perfect. Then a move to White Hart, if they still did accommodation. He would check on the Net, but feign ignorance when he got there. He would seem sloppy. He’d let the locals organise all transport and accommodation but he’d suggest the box on the A1. He’d see then how many other people knew of his coming… see who knew what car he was driving when he got one etc. So he telephoned the officer on the file, Detective Inspector Mark Watters. He sounded friendly enough to Albert. Yorkshire, but not local to the Dales… more West Riding than round here, as Granny used to say.

Albert got a bit nostalgic for his grandmother. When she got used to her only grandson being a bit darker than the others, she was wonderful to him.

DI Watters told Albert he would be assisting him after carefully checking he wasn’t bringing anyone. They are already thinking that’s going to happen. We’ll see, he thought.

The next Monday afternoon came around too fast for Albert. He was on York station waiting for his lift to Dales Police HQ. They used the uniformed branch to taxi him. Albert didn’t expect that. He didn’t expect two officers either. Was one to watch the other? No shortage of manpower here, he thought. Two local lads with accents so thick, you could spread them on bread… organic wholemeal, of course. He was already missing Borough Market. Anyhow, at the end of the journey, he expected he would nearly understand the twang again, as Granny used to say. One thing was clear, down to two traffic officers, everyone seemed to know all about him… and that he was the owner of the murder site, and Sam Wharton’s grandson, though Sam was dead for nearly forty years. What about Dad, he wondered? Did he make no impression at all on people after he dared to leave the fold, and then return to it with a black woman? And one with political views… but what really got to Albert was that they knew of his promotion to superintendent and it had only taken effect since 1200hours. He got on the train at Kings Cross as a chief inspector and got off as a superintendent, they had all been well briefed. They get some things right around here. Information passes up and down the ranks, even if it’s occasionally the wrong sort. He consoled himself with this thought and began to enjoy the dull spring afternoon’s drive in the countryside. He nearly dared to admit to himself how much he had missed it. He looked at the deepness of the Dales he could see in the distance, with the Fells towering over them. It hit him then, this was really home. This is what he had missed all those years.

The voice in his head said, It’s Mum and Granny you miss.

His thoughts were disturbed when one of the traffic cops asked him about the name of the farm and how it came about. Albert laughed as he hadn’t answered the question in years.

It’s on Scurrygoose Lane… and there appeared two Scurrygoose Farms in the 19th Century when the family divided the land between two brothers. My great-great-grandfather, Arthur, was one and his brother, Kendal was the other. Kendal being the elder got the larger share and the main farmhouse. Great-great-grandad got two farm worker’s cottages and some land, and to irritate his brother, he called that Scurrygoose Farm, as if to lay a claim on the title to the rest. He resented Kendal getting the larger portion, as he wasn’t intending to farm it. Kendal was irritated because he couldn’t sell it due to a covenant to keep it in the family and had to only rent it to the Hardy family, who had much more land across the Dale… made them the biggest farmers in the area.

I rent it once again to the same lot even now and they are still the biggest. Anyway, Kendal died quickly without any children and great-great-grandad got the land back, minus the farm house as the widow carried on living there. She had to be provided for, in the original will. It was so derelict when she died childless and still unmarried many years later, then my great-Grandad sold it to a local solicitor who lived in it rather grandly. They both worked a flanker with the covenant. It’s now divided up into two houses and the barns are converted into three, all Listed Buildings. The buildings go back to the late 17th Century and early 18th. To avoid confusion in the addresses for new residents from outside the area, my mother changed the name of the other farm to Goosecurry. She had a sense of humour as well as a sense of place and history. Although she came from Africa, at the time she felt she had a better sense of this than many others in the area.

The conversation died a little at that point but Albert continued blissfully, revelling in the joys of being nearly home.

"It was called High Sleights before on the old maps and not called out of its name. When she first came to live there mother called it by an African name, which I could never pronounce, and certainly couldn’t spell, but she translated it as the place where winds blow from Hell. Granny and Grandad used to laugh at that but I never found it funny. The