The
Rustle of a Leaf
Cutting
through the most western portion of the north-west of England, almost verging
on Scotland, in fact, winds a river of no real consequence to the area except
in times of violent flooding. Naturally, then, the local inhabitants fall into
a state of exceeding worry and fretting, mostly over livestock, bridges, and
spots of local interest such as Wordsworth’s Cottage in Cockermouth. Yet, this
is not a story of Wordsworth, Cockermouth, or flooding. It is, however,
connected to the river with which above I have described: the River Derwent.
Not so very long ago, as I recall it
from the perspective of the late nineties, there was a remarkable incident
concerning an old friend of mine who had been invited to stay a fortnight with
an old school friend of his. This old school friend had recently purchased the
old vicarage in the village of Great Clifton, a village situated a pleasant and
not unduly strenuous amble from the river.
There is one point I feel it is my
duty to inform the reader of these notes, which is the following: that both
gentlemen, as men belonging to the medical profession, were not of fanciful
natures nor susceptible to tales of superstition or supernatural events; a
point of considerable significance later in the story.
Arrangements were made for Doctor
Lowe, my partner, to vacate his side of the practice for the two weeks he would
spend in the Lakes and to travel northwards in First class on the train. During
his stay, he kept note of the tale which I shall now relate to you as
faithfully as he related to me:
“Well, Teasdale, the countryside there was extremely
pleasing, despite the unfolding, glowering clouds upon the mountain peaks.
Doctor Fetherham commands a fine prospect from the brow of a hill which
overlooks farmland for grazing cattle and growing cereals. From the window of
the upper corridor one can gaze upon majestic Skiddaw. The farmhouse lies
towards the eastern side of the vicarage. The vicarage itself is an impressive
piece of architecture: an imposing, stately structure of Victorian heritage.
Slate mined from the local quarries tiles the rooftop and great blocks of stone
dress the skeleton of the house. Well, all of that is quite nugatory information;
the fact of the matter is I was beastly tired after my arduous journey, and
after a light supper we both made our way to bed.
Upon rising the next morning to a wonderfully crisp
October day, Fetherham suggested we go fishing, since the river was abundantly
stocked with trout. So the good doctor gathered together the rods, tackle, and
bait, we packed an excellent picnic basket, and strode out across the slightly
muddy fields with the revitalised exuberance of our old youth. Barring creaking
joints and modest paunches, I believe we were as much as we ever were.
We spoke at length of boyhood memories, and passed a
quiet day at the bend in the river, out of which jutted a lump of rock. Bright
sunshine glittered on the smoothly flowing surface, and the only noises that
murmured in the background were a whispering breeze rustling the drying burst
of leaves and the harsh accusing tones of a pair of rooks. It was a pitiful day
for trout; we caught not one. We hooked a few sticklebacks but they were not
worth the keeping.
As the sun sank lower in the sphere we packed up our kit
and the remains of our lunch, and we set off back up the hill, not quite as
sprightly as our descent. To reach the vicarage from the riverbank we had to
clamber up a rather steep track, shaded on both sides by a canopy of
sombre-looking trees. No doubt, Teasdale, that you will think this
preposterous, and yet I swear there was some deep malice lurking in the
shadows. A sudden chill swept through me, but I hastened to tell myself it was
merely the breeze becoming stronger.
Needless to say, nothing out of the common way occurred,
and by the hour of six post meridian
Fetherham and I had bathed, rested, and were enjoying a glass of hot wine by
the stove.
After supper, we took to reading in Fetherham’s study,
cosy and fire-lit, commenting from time to time on anything of peculiar
interest. The wind had gathered in strength and was whistling around the
chimneypots, skittering leaves over the driveway. It made one very glad to be
indoors.
The weather had vastly improved by the next morning, and
Fetherham proposed we venture further along the riverbank. We wrapped our
scarves around our necks, donned our hats, put on our gloves, and ensured we
had our canes to navigate uncertain terrain. I took my field glasses on the off
chance we should glimpse some falcon or, more likely, a kingfisher. We ambled
down more leisurely to take in more of the landscape. The grass was quite high,
reaching up beyond our ankles, dampening our boots, and in the opposite
direction white mares flicked the sapphire sky with their wispy tails.
At the crest of the hill, before descending to the river,
there was a gate, very wide – the beginnings of rust were just forming in
little patches like dry skin. From this viewpoint we could see the track
sloping down to the bottom of the valley, the sweep of the river rushing over
pebbles, the rocks spiking upwards, and – across the river – a farmhouse that
appeared to be abandoned. I had not noticed it the day before (Fetherham and I
had been occupied exchanging news) but a sadness pervaded the area, despite the
shining sun. The shade cast a despairing gloom and sodden leaves carpeted the
way down. About halfway down trickled a tinkling miniature waterfall, dribbling
down dank roots and craggy stone. The whole vicinity felt awfully eerie.
Once at the bottom of the hill, Fetherham and I noted the
dark woods to the right of us, and immediately in front stood a platoon of
silver birches. To the left swung the track alongside the river. Foxgloves, now
drooping in the autumnal air, sprinkled the undergrowth, and from the bowels of
the woods further along we could hear chuckling pheasants.
It did not take very long to reach the end of the track,
perhaps forty-five minutes. Fetherham informed me that once upon a time, a
train line had run through this part of the country from Penrith to Workington.
It had then been discontinued due to claims that nobody ever used it, but I
believe that people nowadays would be appreciative of the service. At the end
of the track, we perched on a fence and idly observed the sheep, pompous in
their white woollen overcoat, bleating to each other, and echoing the building
up of cumulous clouds above.
A short while passed and the two of us decided to spend
our afternoon dealing with correspondence; we turned back and came to a fork in
the track where the right would take us directly above the river on an
elongated grassy knoll. Because we had not been down this path, we chose this
way. From the bank on the opposite side rose a startled heron, flapping its
great wings, and as we turned to watch it fly over our heads, I noticed a slab
of stone, flat and smooth, in the grass to the left. Again, a chilling breeze
sprung up, as if from nowhere, causing me to tighten my scarf.
‘Fetherham, have you seen this?’ I enquired, pointing
towards the stone with my walking cane. There was an inscription.
Peering down into the grass, Fetherham replied he had
not.
‘Shall we look closer?’ he suggested, and without waiting
for an answer he moved forward, bent over, and read the engraving aloud to me:
In
loving memory of Jonathan Blears
You shall not be forgotten.
19_
- 19_
Fetherham paused before speaking again.
‘He was only six years old, poor boy.’
‘Do you know what happened?’
‘No, I have no idea. Perhaps somebody in the village will
still remember it.’
I remember thinking that this was probably why the place
was oppressed with melancholy. But there was more to come. The sun had hidden
behind the now thick dark clouds which had scudded in on the whipping wind.
Fearing rain – an old man’s darkest rheumatic nightmare – we hurried as swiftly
as we were able up the hill, trees groaning and branches almost violently
swaying. Drops of rain were beginning to patter down when we made the shelter
of the front porch.
For the rest of the afternoon we were confined to the
vicarage by the atrocious weather that ensued. Gales hounded the turrets,
hunting crevices through which to shriek; rain battered the windows as if
hoping to shatter the panes; and a darkness descended with low cloud rolling down
the mountainsides, casting the peaks into obscurity. The fields were slowly
turning into marshes. If I hadn’t been a grown man I’m sure I would have been
rather alarmed. Fortunately, we cheered ourselves with a roaring fire and a pot
of tea, and listened to the humming of the laundry girl from the village who
was employed to come up twice a week to do the washing – Fetherham never could
do his own washing.
It was when the girl, Sally, was pulling on her
mackintosh that Fetherham remembered he wanted to probe the subject of Jonathan
Blears, and so he called her into the study. She was fairly young, quite plain
but with very kindly features, and was of a most affable nature. It was clear
that she seemed unwilling to enter the study with her rubber boots on, and so
Fetherham ushered her in gently by the crook of her arm persuading her to sit a
while by the fire. He then returned to his usual seat by the desk, which
commanded a good view of the driveway and road.
‘Sally, my girl,’ he began. Sally smiled nervously,
plucking at the hem of her coat.
‘Mr Fetherham?’
‘Come, child, you’re not to be afraid of two old, crusty
gentlemen,’ he soothed. ‘The good Doctor Lowe and I have chanced upon something
today at the river, and – because I am unfamiliar with local tales – we are
very curious to know what happened.’
Sally shifted her linked ankles closer underneath her
chair, now looking very nervous indeed, almost frightened. Her brown eyes
darted from me to Fetherham and down to her lap where she was wringing her hands
together. Well, Teasdale, I was terribly interested: it was as though she knew
what we were about to tell her. And when we mentioned the gravestone and the
little boy Jonathan Blears, her eyes watered and she began to cry softly as she
rooted around in her pocket for a handkerchief.
‘Oh, Doctors,’ she sniffed, pressing her handkerchief to
her heart, ‘I wouldn’t tell yous but for yous hadn’t heard it before...it’s not
a story gets much tellin’ round these parts.’
‘Why ever not, Sally?’ I interjected.
‘Because we don’t talk about him,’ she whispered. The upper half of her body was now leaning
forward and she was speaking very quickly in hushed tones, which hindered my
own comprehension for a few seconds.
‘Poor lahl Johnny Blears – I never knew ‘im, mind; ‘e was
me mother’s generation. But even we know better’an to be a-wandering down the
river in autumn times... See, it was around this time the lad disappeared,
about twenty year ago. A group of ‘em from the village were knocking around in
the woods, and Johnny was the babby ‘un. It’d been drizzly and mist come down
all a sudden and ‘e got separated from the group. They didn’t miss ‘im till
they all went ‘ome for tea, an’ their mams come out to tell ‘em off for causin’
worry. None of the lads knew where Johnny was. So all the fathers o’ the
village come out with their lamps and dogs and walked down along the river, see
if they could find ‘im. The fog was too thick and the dogs didn’t help. The
body never was found, but folk are scared to go down there now because people
say they seen ‘is ghost walking where they lost ‘im.’
Sally
paused, looking quite terrified. She licked her lips and drew breath, even
though she now spoke in tones so quiet that both Fetherham and I had to lean
forward to catch the rest of her story.
‘They
say what ‘e wants is someone to find ‘is body so as it can be buried decent.
But no one’s stuck around long enough to find that out. And...’she faltered
here. ‘And when we was lahl, we ‘eard tales of rotted leaves and river mud cling
to Johnny’s face and clothes; and that ‘e wants to play with the children but
‘e doesn’t let ‘em go...’ Sally shivered and closed her eyes, possibly
childhood incidents and ghost stories flashing into her mind. ‘Well, the Blears
family raised enough money to have a gravestone a year after ‘is disappearance.
But not even they go down in the autumn for fear o’ seein’ ‘is ghost.’
Sally’s
voice quietened into silence and she sat staring into the flames licking at the
chunks of coal. I looked at Fetherham from the corner of my eye. He appeared to
be pensive, his palms steepled together, as if in prayer.
‘Thank
you, Sally,’ he said softly. ‘Would you like to be taken home?’ I assume he
offered because the poor girl truly did look frightened and the thought of sending
her out in that wild weather must have pricked his conscience, as indeed it did
mine. She managed a weak smile but shook her head and told us that her brother
would be waiting for her at the end of the drive. She levered herself out of
the chair and crept across the carpeted floor, closing the door as she left.
‘What
do you make of that, then?’ Fetherham put to me.
I
heaved myself out of a red-cushioned wingback and stood over the grate leaning
my elbow on the mantelpiece.
‘Well,
no doubt the facts of the story are accurate enough,’ I replied, ‘but you don’t
mean to say you believe the nonsense about a ghost, do you? Small town
superstition and unbridled imagination.’
The
wind and rain railed more heavily about the house, flinging leaves and twigs as
ammunition at us. They did not die down until the small hours of the morning.
We
slept in late that day, after a fitful and restless night. Fetherham was
content to run some errands in town and dedicate the day to study, but I
confess, Teasdale, I was troubled by the laundry girl’s story and simply
couldn’t settle. I thought some exercise might do me good and asked Fetherham
to borrow a pair of rubber boots.
‘I’ll
come with you,’ he volunteered, searching out two pairs of wellington boots.
There
was no hint of sunshine that day. It was a miserably dull day, drizzling that
very fine drizzle that soaks one to the bone. Many of the leaves had fallen
from the trees, ripped off by the previous night’s gales. They were now lying
soggy, almost disintegrating already into the earth below. The trees looked
naked in comparison with their crown of golden, red, and tawny foliage from
just a few days ago.
It
was difficult at times to make out a safe path through the rain, and the
waterlogged sod sucked at our boots as though it were trying to trip us or take
our footwear. We trudged along our customary path, veering away from the small
unsettling gravestone, choosing instead to slog through the mud and puddles of
the old train line. It was wearisome lifting one leg out of mud and then the
other. We rested against the bark of an enormous felled tree trunk smelling of
damp wood, moss, and rain. A heavy quiet pressed down on us – it was not
silent, for the croaking caws of
rooks echoed through the woods, and the waters of the now full river splashed
uneasily. And the dull rustle of leaves, Teasdale! Oh, if there is one sound I
shall never in my life hear without a shudder, it is the soft rustle of leaves!
It seemed very far away, at first. We hardly noticed it for we believed it to
be the drizzle against the remainder of the leaves on the skeletal trees. Then
the sound came closer and louder, and I realised it couldn’t possibly be the
wind because there was barely a whisper. I took Fetherham’s arm, doubt and fear
gripping my heart.
‘Do
you hear that?’ I hissed.
Fetherham
nodded in reply, his face replicating the emotion I felt.
The noise, it seemed, was accompanied by a thin mist. The
source of the mist was a narrow opening from the left, where the river lay. As
the rustling became louder the mist became thicker until visibility was down to
twenty metres or so. Something moved in front of us. We were both suddenly
terribly afraid, and I couldn’t help but think there may be more truth than I
first believed in Sally’s tale.
Then the heavy scent of mud and rotted leaves penetrated
the thickening brume, tendrils of dank perfume wafting towards us. The
silhouette was of diminutive size and it did not grow much bigger as it crept
closer.
I gasped as the creature neared and the mist permitted us
to distinguish sodden leaves clinging darkly to what was indisputably a small
boy. He reached out to us, water dripping from his thin, muddied frame, the
damnable sound of susurrating leaves that will haunt my dreams until my dying
breath.
Fetherham and I yelped and ran, I fear, for our lives.
Mud squelched and sucked and spattered under our feet. Behind us, an unearthly
wail sounded through the shrouds of greyish mist, like the cry of a child being
abandoned, desolate and alone.
Puffing up the hill, we did not turn back, lest we see
the poor devil give chase to us. You might think, Teasdale, that it was a trick
of the light and poor conditions, but I tell you I’ve never been so heartily
gladdened to be rid of a place. Fetherham and I fled to the house and
barricaded ourselves into one of the bedrooms on the top floor, not sleeping a
wink.”
When I enquired
from Doctor Lowe, upon his return to the surgery, whether his old friend
Fetherham was still residing in Great Clifton, Lowe snorted derisively and
informed me that the fellow had demanded to see the attorney connected to the
estate and put the sale up directly the following week, and until that time he
was quartered in one of the inns in town, far away from the river. And I know
that Doctor Lowe has never again sojourned to that part of the country.
