‘Well, like many folks around here, Ivy and Albert both came from farming families. The estate in the village was considerable back then, although much of it has been sold now, and the farms are in private hands. They both went to church at the old Methodist chapel and attended Sunday School, and I expect they would have helped on their respective farms from an early age. Later in life, Ivy was known as an excellent cook and she baked for occasions like weddings and funerals, church events. Each farm would have had their own dairy and produced butter and cheese. All traditional skills which are almost lost today, sadly.’
‘And school?’ Pippa was slowly turning pages, finding Ivy and Albert’s names popping up in church notices and faded farming photographs. One depicted Albert leaning on a rake beside a trailer piled high with hay, the women in headscarves sitting with baskets, children at their feet. Ivy was at the back, and Pippa gasped as she stared, recognising something of Harriet in Ivy’s determined stance and dark hair.
‘She went to school in the village and would have left at fourteen. There was no high school then and she likely went straight to work on the farm. Her own family one, in those days. Perhaps she still helped out there after her marriage.’
‘Fourteen?’ Pippa couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice. Exactly the same age as Harriet now, and she couldn’t imagine launching her daughter into the world of such toil so young.
‘Yes. Ivy was a countrywoman, she would have known and understood that life. I can see how that might look regrettable to us now, but it was just how things were then.’ Edmund drew his cardigan more tightly around his narrow shoulders. ‘Ivy and Albert had three children but only Janet survived into adulthood.’
‘Survived?’ Her mind caught on that word, almost dreading the reply she expected to follow. Her family had eased further from their Yorkshire beginnings as her dad’s fame grew, and she remembered her grandparents, but only just. There was so much she didn’t know, so much she’d never thought to question.
‘I’m afraid so. Sadly, I found a record of two more births, both of which infants only lived for a few weeks, I’m sorry to say. I imagine your grandmother was especially precious to Ivy and Albert.’
‘I had no idea. How terribly sad,’ Pippa whispered, startled by the hurt she felt for family she’d never known, the immense pain Ivy and Albert would have carried for the loss of those tiny babies. They’d lived so long ago and yet they were connected to her, related by blood. Edmund was speaking again, and she refocused.
‘Have you visited the churchyard yet, my dear?’
‘I haven’t.’ It hadn’t occurred to her, though of course the church was a place where she might learn more.
‘You’ll find Ivy and Albert’s graves on the right-hand side, about halfway along the path. I believe your grandmother is buried somewhere else, with your grandfather.’
‘Yes, my grandparents lived in town, it’s where they had their furniture business.’ Pippa remembered the last time she’d seen them, after the loss of her mum. They’d been shocked and distraught, hollowed out by grief for their daughter and her family. Within two years they’d gone too.
‘Thank you, Edmund, I really appreciate everything you’ve shared with me. I knew my parents were born in Yorkshire but until I came here, I didn’t realise my dad was from Hartfell and my mum had a connection to it as well. Now I understand who Violet meant, when she said I had a look of Ivy. I think I can see Ivy in my daughter too.’
‘Yes, Violet would have been a very small girl, but she remembers some of those days, more clearly than recent ones, I fear. And of course your dad lived in the cottage next door to the shop.’
‘Next door? Wow.’ Pippa had barely touched her tea and she drank it quickly, impatient to visit the churchyard and check out the cottage. One day she’d ask if the owners would let her have a look inside – this was where having a famous dad would come in handy. And she’d thank Violet too, when she saw her. Hands reaching down through history, a person who’d met both Pippa and her great-grandmother. It was staggering.
‘Would you like to take that with you?’ Edmund nodded at the book on her lap. ‘It’s my only copy, though, it’s been out of print for some time.’
‘I’d love that, thank you so much. And of course I’ll look after it.’
Edmund seemed a little tired and she didn’t want to keep him. She stood up, placing the precious book on her chair as she slipped the gilet back on, and he handed her a card with his telephone number and email address. Lola looked expectant, so Pippa gave her a cuddle for being so patient and good.
‘There is one more thing about Ivy I think you might find interesting, Pippa.’ Edmund reached past her to open the door. ‘I understand that she was a very gifted artist. Watercolours, I believe. Apparently she loved the landscape around Hartfell and painted it extensively.’ He patted Pippa’s arm kindly. ‘I see I have shocked you again, my dear.’
‘Do you know what happened to her paintings?’ Pippa’s palms were clammy, and her heart was racing.
‘I’m afraid I don’t. I doubt that she ever showed her work and there’s no trace of what happened to them. They may never have been sold as they probably had little commercial value. Perhaps she kept them, or gifted them to friends and family, and they’ve been lost down the years. There would have been no thought of her pursuing art in a professional or educational sense. We’ll never know if Ivy ever questioned her life on the farm or whether she wanted a different one. We can only hope that she found fulfilment in the life she led, with her husband and family, and the paintings she created.’
Pippa thanked Edmund again as she left, the book tucked carefully under one arm, Lola’s lead in her other hand. She wandered on through the village, unseeing of anything other than a woman from the past, painting the landscape Ivy loved, and which must have been such a part of her soul. Eventually, she returned to the shop and stared at the narrow and neat cottage next door, trying to picture her dad living in there and running these lanes with Gil’s dad. She’d come back another time and knock on the door.
She walked on to the church, running up the steps to open the gate, knowing she wouldn’t be able to settle until she’d found where Ivy lay and could acknowledge her in some way. Neat pots of brightly flowering plants lined the uneven stone path and some of the headstones were faded and leaning, names and details of lives blanked from all but the memory of those who’d come after them. Pippa checked each in turn until she found the right one.
A plain and simple headstone marked the resting place of the Walker family. Albert, who’d died nine years before Ivy, passed away at seventy-nine; both parents lying with their two tiny babies, gone before their time. Standing in this place, staring at the past, Pippa felt connected to the village and these people in a way she’d never imagined. This couple had spent their lives in Hartfell and all she wanted was to escape and return to the city. Who, other than a few friends and perhaps a couple of colleagues, she was shocked to realise, would really notice if she never went back?
She took a photo of the headstone with her phone and walked slowly back to the house, thinking about Ivy’s life and her art. Had it sustained her through troubled times, the loss of her babies, in the same way painting had lifted Pippa from the depths of grief for her mum and the worry over her brother and sister? She drew because it was necessary to her, because she simply couldn’t not. Had it been that way for Ivy, too?
She fed Lola, who devoured her dinner and settled in her bed after a quick trip into the garden. Thankfully being parted from Gil for a few hours hadn’t put the dog off her food, and it was an unpleasant reminder for Pippa to realise that as far as Lola was concerned, this house was home. She was ready to eat too, and decided she’d better check on Gil and see if he was hungry. Upstairs his door was partly open, so she tapped and peeped around it, letting out a shriek when he spoke behind her.
‘I am decent, you can turn around.’
Decent wasn’t the word she’d have chosen. Magnificent, with just a towel wrapped around his waist, was more like it, and her voice was a croak. ‘I’m not sure you should’ve showered with a temperature.’
‘Too late to worry about that now. I felt like my skin was crawling off me. Were you looking for me, seeing as you were in my bedroom? Again.’ Amusement was glinting in his gaze. ‘Are you after stealing another mattress? And what have you done with my grandfather clock?’
‘I wondered if you’d like something to eat. I’ve made chilli, I’m going to heat some up for me. And the clock is quite safe, it’s in the workshop. I have no idea how anyone slept with it in the house.’
