Thistles

Once, whilst on a walk amongst the hills of Yorkshire, I came upon a small church. It was one of those churches made of cold grey stone, adorned with bare windows, and topped with a single steeple in which slept a single silent bell.

Churches and I have always had a strange relationship, so I did not enter. Instead, I wandered round the graveyard taking notes of interesting surnames that I would one day use in my writings. But it wasn’t the name that drew me to the grave of Benjamin Chatterly, rather, it was the five fresh thistles placed in a vase below the inscription.

It is not unusual for flowers to be left at a grave, quite the contrary, but Benjamin had died over two hundred years ago. It was unlikely that any living relatives existed or even cared about him.

“Five fresh ones are left every morning.”

I turned to face an old man sat on the bench, a bouquet of flowers in his wrinkled hands.

“No one knows who leaves them,” he continued. “But there are rumours.”

“What sort of rumours?” I asked.

“It’s a local legend really,” he replied. “He used to live up there. Larksgill House it was called.” He pointed a finger to the hills and the looming grey ruins of a burnt-out manor house. “Nothing but a shell now.”

I stared up at it, squinting slightly as if I would be able to see the ghosts of the past through the narrow gap. “What happened to it?”

“Fire destroyed it all during the war,” he replied. “But that was a long time after Benjamin died. I’ll tell you the story if you have the time?”

So I sat next to him on the bench, staring at Benjamin’s headstone, and listened to his story.

***

Larksgill House had been the ancestral home of the Chatterly family for three centuries by the time in passed to Benjamin and his wife Abigail. The pair had married young–three days after Abigail’s eighteenth birthday–and had lived in France for the first two years of the marriage. Three years into their marriage, Benjamin’s father suddenly passed away. The pair quickly moved back to England and took up residence in Larksgill.

It was common knowledge amongst the townsfolk that Benjamin and Abigail were not necessarily happy. Abigail was known for bouts of hysteria, fits during the night, and sudden mood swings. Nobody but Benjamin was able to calm her. He would lie her down, rest her head in his lap, stroke her hair softly and hum a lullaby.

Once Abigail was calmed, she would ask; “do you love me?”

Benjamin would kiss her forehead, smile, and reply; “of course I do. I always will.” He would tuck her into bed and sing to her until she fell asleep.

Every morning Benjamin would go out and pick Abigail five fresh thistles. She liked the colour, and she liked the feeling of their needles beneath her fingers. He would pluck them and arrange them in a vase, then sit them in the window for her to find.

Abigail adored thistles.

And so it went for several more years. That was, however, until something changed.

Over time Abigail’s episodes grew less and less frequent, but when they did resurface, they were more violent. Benjamin had less and less patience it seemed. He would sing to her but not stroke her hair. He would stare at the wall as he sang, no love or care in his words.

“Do you love me?” she would ask, to which he would respond; “of course.”

He would put her to bed and sit in his study, staring at the hills outside the window. He stopped picking her thistles. Day by day he cared less and less, until one day he stopped caring all together.

It was a cold dark night when Abigail broke the wedding china. She stared at the porcelain shards at her feet, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“I know,” Benjamin sighed. “Step back. You’ll cut your feet.” He got the brush and pan and cleaned up the broken china as Abigail twisted her hair tightly round her fingers, her chest heaving with every sob.

“I’m sorry,” she wept. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I know. I know.”

“Will you sing to me?”

Benjamin turned to watch the mist roll across the hills. “You like thistles, don’t you?”

“Please sing to me.”

“I know where plenty of thistles grow. Would you like to see them?”

“And then will you sing to me?”

“Of course.”

The air was cold as Benjamin lead his wife out into the gloom. He wrapped his coat tightly around himself, holding the lantern high to light their path.

“I want to go home,” Abigail called.

“We’re nearly there.”

“Benjamin, please. Take me home.”

“The thistles are just up ahead.”

“I’m scared.”

“We’ll turn back soon, I promise. But I want to show you the thistles first, my love,” Benjamin replied. “We’ll go home once we’ve got them.”

Through the mud and mist they trudged, their path lit only by the dim glow of the lantern.

“Here, my love. See? Here is where the thistles are.”

Abigail stepped forward in search of thistles. “I cannot see them. Benjamin, I’m cold and tired. Take me home.”

“Lie down. I’ll sing to you.” Placing the lantern on a rock, Benjamin sat down, gesturing for Abigail to follow.

“Out here?”

“You wanted me to sing, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

Abigail lay down, her head resting on his lap.

Focusing straight ahead, Benjamin began to sing. He gently stroked her hair and waited as she began to calm.

“Do you love me?”

“Of course.”

He waited until she was asleep. He picked up the lantern. He walked back to the house alone.

Abigail’s body was found a week later by a farmer. Her funeral was small, and she was buried in the churchyard alongside her parents.

Abigail Chatterly, her headstone read; Born 14th January 1792. Died on the 25th February 1817 aged 25 years. May God bless her and keep her in eternal bliss.

Benjamin married Ellen Keyte on the 12th December 1817. For two years Benjamin and Ellen lived happily together in Larksgill. Then Benjamin began to lose his sight. Within the space of three months he was completely blind.

There was a storm brewing as Ellen kissed her husband goodnight, tucking the sheets close around him. He let his fingers trail through her hair as she moved to the door.

“Goodnight, my love,” he said.

“Goodnight,” Ellen replied. She shut the door.

Around two in the morning the window banged open as the wind and rain rushed into the room.

Benjamin woke with a start. “Ellen?” he called. “Ellen? Was that you? Is the window open?”

“The window isn’t open, Benjamin.”

“Ellen?” His fingers searched for the owner of the voice. They brushed against silk then found the soft skin of a hand. “Is the window open?”

“Come outside with me.”

“Outside? What time is it?”

“It’s morning. Come outside. I want to show you something.”

“It’s morning already?”

“Come outside.”

Hands took his and led him from the bedroom out into the garden.

“Ellen, where are we going?”

“Just wait. You’ll see.”

Through the cold and mud they trudged, Benjamin led blindly through the wilderness as the wind raged around them.

“Here, look. It’s where the thistles grow.”

“I can’t see, Ellen. What thistles?”

“Here.”

His hand was led down, and he recoiled slightly as something sharp pricked his fingers. “Thistles?”

“Yes, thistles. They’re beautiful. I should bring some into the house, don’t you think?”

“It’s cold. Take me home, Ellen. Please.”

“Shall I sing to you?”

“Ellen, I’m scared. Please take me home.”

“Lie down. I’ll sing to you.”

“Out here?”

“Do you want me to sing to you?”

He lay down, his head resting in her lap, and closed his eyes.

Her fingers ran through his hair as she sang a soft lullaby to him.

“Do you love me?” he whispered.

“Of course I do. I always have and I always will,” Abigail replied. “I will never leave you.”

Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the two figures.

Benjamin was found the next morning by Ellen. He was lying in the grass, surrounded by plucked thistles.

His funeral was small, and he was buried alongside Abigail. Benjamin Chatterly, his headstone read. Born 3rd March 1788, died aged 32 on the 19th June 1820. A loving husband and lover of nature.

The morning after the funeral, Ellen visited her husband’s grave only to find a vase of five freshly plucked thistles placed neatly below the inscription.

Every morning since the thistles have been replaced, even long after anyone who would’ve cared had died.

***

“So Abigail leaves them?” I asked the old man.

“That’s what some people think, aye,” he replied.

“But if the story is a local legend, couldn’t it be anyone leaving them as a joke?”

“Perhaps, and it is well known. Stories like this tend not to be true though.” He looked away then and rose.

“What do you believe?” I asked.

He placed his bouquet on a grave, said a quiet prayer, then turned back to me. “I believe that Abigail deserves to rest.” And with that he left, and I never saw him again.

After watching him go, I took one final glance at Benjamin’s grave then turned to leave myself. But for a moment, as my eyes passed over the graveyard, I swear I saw a young woman stood in the distance, her pale eyes cold like marbles, a bundle of thistles clutched in her hands.