‘We’re off now, mate, before the night gets any worse. Everything is unloaded now – we just need paying.’ The haulier and his lad stood in the bare room, their hair wet through and the hessian sack around their shoulders giving them little protection from the fierce elements.
Adam quickly trimmed the wick on his oil lamp as it started to splutter and die, before placing it on the mantel and replying to the haulier. ‘My grateful thanks, gentlemen. I’m sorry the weather’s not been kind to you. How much do I owe you?’ He reached into his pocket and took out his money.
‘A guinea, mate. That furniture took some hauling up that bloody hill, and my horses will appreciate the downhill journey – it nearly broke their backs coming up.’ The haulier held out his hand in readiness for payment.
‘Aye, well, here’s the guinea in payment, and a shilling each for your help. I couldn’t have done it without you.’ Adam patted the back of the haulier as he quickly pocketed the coin, hardly believing his luck.
‘This is a godforsaken place. You can’t smell it today, but the stench from the flay-pits nearly knocks you down, if the wind is blowing in this direction, not to mention the noise of them blasting from the quarry at Denholme. What’s a gentleman like yourself wanting with a place like this?’ the haulier asked with a wry smile on his lips, as he watched the lad, dumbfounded that he’d been given a shilling just for doing his job, go out of the door. ‘The farm’s been empty for some years. I’ve never known anybody live here as long as I’ve been around here.’
‘I needed to come home – be my own man. I’ve had enough of being at somebody’s beck and call. This was once a good farm, until I turned my back on it more than ten years ago,’ Adam answered honestly, although he didn’t give away too much.
‘So you’re from here?’ The haulier was inquisitive. Who was the man who was foolish enough to move into the farmhouse that caught all the wilds of the weather and moor that could be thrown at it? Nobody ventured near Black Moss Farm, which stood brooding and forbidding, alone on the path just past the crossroads between Halifax and Haworth, Keighley and Thornton.
‘Aye, I am. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve much to do before nightfall, and your horses are waiting.’ Adam ushered the man out of the door and into the gale that was battering the fellside. He didn’t mind people knowing that he was back on his old patch, but not yet. He needed time to get settled, to get the house back into habitable order and to look at what shape the forty acres of land were in. He knew the local folk would be gossiping as soon as they saw a light in the old homestead, but for the next day or so he just needed peace.
‘Goodnight to you then, sir. And good luck, because you’ll need it. You’d not find me staying here the night; it’s too wild and remote for my liking!’
‘Aye, perhaps you are right – I’ll need your luck. But I know the countryside’s ways and I could do with some peace, so I’ll embrace my old home with open arms. I’ll be fine here on my own; in fact I will relish it. Take care, and thank you again for your hard work.’
Adam watched as boy and man covered themselves with more sacking and whipped the horses into motion, once in their seats. The steam was already rising from the horses’ backs, and he couldn’t help but think they’d need a good rub-down and the hand of a diligent stable boy on their return to Keighley. He closed the door behind him and looked around at the dirty grey walls, which used to be spotless, and the filthy flagged floor that was once polished to within an inch of its life. He remembered that his mother always had chequered curtains at the windows and a pegged rug by the hearth, with a vase of wild moorland flowers on the table, as she and his father sat next to the blazing fire discussing the day’s events, while she knitted and he smoked his pipe. But those were in the good old days, when he had not been so headstrong and selfish.
Adam felt a cold shiver run down his back and realized quite how cold the old home was. He found and lit yet another lamp, then searched for something to light a fire, to get some warmth into the old place. He then looked at the fireplace: the remains of a crow’s nest filled the hearth, having obviously fallen down from a previous spring, along with one of its now-mummified occupants. Should he take a chance and hope that the chimney was not blocked by the troublesome pests? He pushed the twigs and their occupant into an orderly heap and reached for an old newspaper that had been left by the side of the fireplace, glancing at the headlines and the date of The Keighley Chronicle and smiling as he screwed up the paper, placing it under the ready-made kindling sticks. The headlines reminded him of his close friend Ivy Thwaite, as he read: ‘Police Confiscate Mechanical Fortune-Telling Device’. Ivy had no time for suchlike; she was a true spiritualist and hated the hoaxers who preyed on the vulnerable and heartbroken that searched for their loved ones after death. Without her, he would have been lost after the death of his beloved wife Mary, and
