around here. Sometimes the planes fly very low, but you’ll get used to it. But over there – look! You can see Glebe Farm, with the ruins behind it.’
‘Ruins of what? Cromwell at it around here, was he?’
‘Actually it was Henry the Eighth who was responsible for the priory. Fell out with the Pope, and turned against the Church; said it was getting too rich and above itself. It was he who turned the nuns out of the priory, sent his hangers-on to take off the roof. Then they looted everything of value and left the place to decay. Pity, really, because it was run by a nursing order. They took in lepers. It was the only building here, apart from the chapel and the three almshouses. It had to be well away from habitation.’
‘Lepers? Aren’t they the poor sods who had to ring a bell and shout “Unclean” so people would know to get out of their way?’
‘The same. They made their way to the priory to die, I suppose. If you look beyond the ruins to your right, you can see the back of the manor.’
‘Pity,’ Ness sighed, ‘about the ruins and the manor all empty. And a pity about them poor lepers, an’ all.’
‘Suppose it is. See the little church over there?’ Lorna pointed to the small, stone chapel, surrounded by green grass. It had no stained glass windows, no belltower. ‘St Philippa’s. Only tiny. The nuns built it as a chapel for the lepers to pray in. Henry’s wreckers left it alone, thank goodness. The lepers were buried around it when they died. And people who died of the plague or cholera were brought here for burial from other parts, too, because it was so out of the way. No gravestones for them, but at least they’ll never be disturbed. Did you know, Ness, that even now, no one is keen to disturb a cholera grave? They say it lives on, in the soil, though I very much doubt it.’
‘There was a cholera epidemic in Liverpool about a hundred years ago. I think a lot of the dead were thrown into an old wooden ship, then it was towed down the Mersey and out to sea, and blown up. Reckon them poor people would’ve rather been here.’
‘Well, if you’re interested, we have a service at St Philippa’s every other week.’
‘And you aren’t worried about catching anything?’ Ness frowned.
‘Not at all. It’s a dear little chapel. Are you C of E?’
‘Me Mam is. I’m nuthin’, though I suppose if I had to stand up and be counted, I’m Church of England. In Liverpewl we’re called Protties – well, that’s what the Cathlicks call us. A lot of them around Liverpewl. Came over from Ireland, because of the famine. Suppose it’s what makes Liverpewl what it is – the people, I mean. I’ll miss the people, but it’ll be smashing, bein’ in the country, hearing birds singing.’
‘It’ll make a change. Walk past quickly! There’s Nance Ellery in her garden and I don’t want to see her, if you don’t mind. She’s all right, but she likes to boss people around so don’t say you haven’t been warned. Beech Tree House, her place is called, because of the three beeches in front of it.’ Lorna slowed her step once more. ‘And next to Beech Tree is Larkspur Cottage, where the district nurse lives. Then right at the end, near the lane, are the almshouses – they survived the wreckers and vandals too. Pillar box to your right, and that’s about it. You’ve toured Nun Ainsty, Ness, in fifteen minutes flat, walking slowly!’
‘And it’s beautiful. All trees and flowers and – and –’
‘Sky?’ Lorna grinned.
‘Yes, and birds. But you never told me about Dickon – him the wood was called after.’
‘We-e-ll, Dickon was an ostler. Looked after Sir Francis Ainsty’s horses in York. Sir Francis had a daughter Ursula, who became a nun.’
‘At the priory here?’
‘Yes, though reluctantly. Ursula, an only child and heiress, couldn’t get a husband. She was considered ugly, you see. And since no man wanted an unmarried daughter on his hands in those days, Francis Ainsty sent Ursula to the nuns, paid them a good sum of money to take her, and made his nephew his heir.’
‘The miserable old devil! Surely Ursula wasn’t that ugly? I mean, wouldn’t her father’s money have made her just a little bit attractive?’
‘Seems not. Anyway, legend has it that no one offered for her, so her fate was sealed, as they say.’
‘Was she a hunchback, or somethin’?’
‘No. Far worse than that in the eyes of the people of Tudor England. Ursula had a harelip and a cleft palate too, I think, because she was supposed not to be able to speak properly.’
‘But things like that don’t matter these days. There’s an operation for it, isn’t there?’
‘Yes. As you say, it can be fixed nowadays. But four hundred years ago, people were very superstitious, and anyone born with a harelip was avoided like the plague, because they thought that if a hare ran across the path of a pregnant woman, it caused her baby to have a hare’s lip. Witchcraft.’
‘What a load of old rubbish!’
‘Ah, but was it, Ness? In those days, people believed in witches and a hare – a black cat, too – were thought to be familiars of a witch.’
‘Sorry, you’ve lost me.’
‘A familiar was another form a witch could take when she was up to no good, so a pregnant woman, startled by a hare, paid the price for it.’
‘Or her poor little baby did! But what about Dickon?’
‘Dickon was ordered by Sir Francis to deliver Ursula to the convent, the two of them riding horses. Ursula wept all the way there and Dickon was so upset that he proposed to her – or so the story goes.’
‘But she wouldn’t have him, him bein’ a peasant, sort of, and her bein’ high born?’
‘Wrong! Ursula accepted. Dickon had always been fond of his master’s daughter and protective towards her and couldn’t bear to see her locked away. And he wasn’t marrying her for her money because she’d been disinherited. You’ve got to admire Dickon.’ Lorna pushed open the back garden gate. ‘I feel like a cup of tea. Will you put the kettle on, Ness, and I’ll see if there’s been a call for me.’
‘From your husband? Lucky you’ve got a phone in the house.’ Few people had their own telephone. There had not been one in Ness’s Liverpool home. Very middle class, telephones were. She set the kettle to boil and had laid a tray by the time Lorna returned.
‘No joy. Mrs Benson from the telephone exchange at Meltonby said she hadn’t had any trunk calls from down south all day. Says her switchboard has gone over all peculiar since Dunkirk. Anyway, I wasn’t really expecting a call. More chance of a letter tomorrow, or the next day.’
‘Sorry, Lorna. Must be rotten when your feller goes off to the Army.’
‘Rotten. But I haven’t really taken it in. It feels like I’m in a daze, kind of. I – I haven’t cried, Ness. Not one tear.’
‘No, but you will when it hits you, queen. But if you don’t feel like tellin’ me about Dickon and Ursula, it’s all right.’
‘Oh,
