About the Author

Gill Gascoigne has always had a keen interest in people,

history and writing and these passions come together in her
first book A Memorable Man, fulfilling a lifelong ambition to
be a published writer.
Gill is married with a son and daughter and a grandson who
shares her passion for storytelling!

Dedication

For my family: past, present and future

Copyright Gill Gascoigne (2015)

The right of Gill Gascoigne to be identified as author of this work
has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the
publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this
publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims
for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British
Library.

ISBN 9781784552695 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781784552718 (Hardback)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2015)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the few special people who:

Inspired, encouraged, read, listened to, kindly criticised,
appreciated and praised my writing during the creation of this
book.
You know who you are, and I love you all.

Authors note

I have felt an irresistible pull to the past for as long as I can

remember. Always too been fascinated by people and the way
they live together and weave relationships with each other in
their lifetimes.
When my own Mother died some years ago, I found
comfort in looking back into my familys past. How I wished I
could have gone back in time, met some of the people I found,
and come to know them.
Some of those long dead family members and their stories,
mixed with some long buried memories of my own unearthed
whilst searching, inspired my writing.
Some of the events and the places still in existence in the
age and the village in which my story is set, inspired this book.
Essentially though, it is a story of people and the way they
live and die, bound by the intangible, unbreakable bonds of
love, friendship and family.
In the end, for me, these are the things that define a life.
No matter how many years or centuries pass us by, love and
family will always be the ties that bind.
This book is for my family, for the ones that came before
me and made a place for me.
For my own family, those I live among, gave life to and
love so very much.
And lastly, it is for those who will come after me and
know me through the words and emotions that fill these pages.
Gill Gascoigne 16th March 2013

A Memorable Man
Prologue

It is autumn 1650 and England stands on the brink of historic

change. For the past eight years the country has been torn apart
by cruel civil war as Englishmen have chosen sides to fight for
or against the rule of a King. Many thousands have died, the
bloody madness culminating in the execution of King Charles I
a year earlier. Only one campaign now remains to be fought as
the dead Kings son, the would-be Charles II, returns from
exile to claim his birthright...if he fails, England will enter into
an unprecedented age of civil governance.
In a small village in rural east Lancashire, the momentous
events that play out on the national stage mean more to some
than others. Some have seen their families destroyed, suffering
the loss of loved ones, fortune and status. Others have
prospered from the shifting social sands of this revolutionary
conflict, gaining personal wealth, power and influence. Most
of the poor and ordinary folk in the small community have
been merely witnesses to history, the pressures of living in a
country at war with itself only adding to the already heavy
burden they carry through life and their daily battle against
poverty and hunger.
For Thurston Hey, the young man at the centre of our
story, the events of the past eight years have seemed so
insignificant that they have created hardly a ripple on the
surface of his life. But change, like an unstoppable tide, is
coming

1.All Hallows Eve 1650

Thurston Hey might have had a memorable name but he was

not on first acquaintance a memorable man.
Ne mind lad his mother used to say when he
stumbled into the little cottage, his face dirty and tear-stained
from the bully boys thasl ave last laugh!
Thurston missed his other. He couldnt ever remember the
softness of an embrace but her unquestioned faith in him
always gave him comfortcomfort that he had missed in the
two years since her death.
The little cottage, built with his athers own hand before he
was born, was quiet now when he entered it. No bully boys
chased him home in tears these days, no stoic words of
comfort welcomed him in. Home was his only comfort now;
his short leg didnt matter in the little cottage. He was master
in this house, in this little world.
He was lucky he knew. After all he had bread to eat, a roof
over his head, and a fire to warm him to bed. It was a hard life
for some outside the little cottage and he was grateful for its
comforts.
It was the eve of All Hallows. Mischief night his Mother
used to call it. He and his Father and mother would sit in his
long ago childhood years, waiting for the rattle on the door, the
mud at the window. The same chill, stomach-churning fear that
was such a part of his young life reached through time and
made him shiver again. He had no fear of ghosts or witches
abroad this night. As always, the ever present dread was of his
fellow man, even though those years had long since passed.
Thurston looked out to see the lane outside brightly lit by
the moon, the parish lantern his mother would call it and
its light soothed him a little. He settled back into the old

wooden chair that had always stood by the fire, exhausted now
at the end of his day of labour. The comfort of his home
washed gently over him as he relaxed, bathed in the warm
yellow glow of the crackling fire, his belly full as he nodded.
Pictures of a dark haired boy running, running and hopping on
his short lame leg flickered in the flames of the fire as his
eyelids closed.
The cottage stood on the edge of the hamlet of Appley
Cross, a smattering of little dwellings that had sprung up in a
ramshackle way about a quarter of a mile from a crossroads.
To the South and North lay the growing cities of Manchester
and Liverpool. To the West, a larger village built around its
namesake, a pretty, willow-fringed square of grass, Appley
Green. To the east of the little hamlet lay miles and miles of
flat, black peat moss as far as the eye could see. Drained a
hundred years before, it now provided good growing land in
times of plenty and some sustenance even for those who hadnt
a farthing and lived on what they could gather from the earth.
Peat fires in the winter, wheat and grain when summer reigned
and turnipsalways turnips.
The night was still and quiet, bright in the glow of the
autumn moon, the first frost of the coming winter settling on
tiptoe at the edge of dawn. The little cottage seemed almost to
breathe softly as the girl approached. She had walked from the
crossroads, down through the little hamlet, her heart heavy
with despair as she looked at the empty darkness ahead and
realised she had taken the wrong road. The dim, yellow glow
in the window of the little cottage drew her troubled mind like
a moth to a flame. She stood, lit by the moon and looked back
through the hamlet. She thought the houses looked like they
too had ended up there by mistake, as if they also were lost as
she was and were too tired to go on. She pulled her heavy
woollen shawl around her, silently thanking her mother and
tears came at the thought of the loving fingers that had made it.
The memory wearied her heart and her courage.

The little cottage had a porch, stacked with dried rushes,

rolls of peat and bundles of wood and before she really even
thought to huddle there, she was nestled in covered by her
shawl, sheltered from the wind that blew out of the inky
blackness. As she drifted into uneasy sleep, the frost settled
like silver dust on her eyelashes.
And so the night passed, both our characters sharing the
chill dark hours within feet of each other, both oblivious to the
physical discomforts which threatened to disturb their fitful
sleep. So exhausted were they from the exertions of their
different days, they passed the night without waking, unaware
of the intertwining of their lives to come.
Thurston awoke with a start as the fire fell and the early
morning cold pinched. His back ached from his few hours
sleep in the single wooden chair and as he stretched, the pale
stone dust from his working clothes danced in the shaft of
milky light which pierced the thick glass of the single window.
He felt the loneliness most in the early morning. For as long as
he had lived until she went, he had awakened to the sounds of
his mother moving and clattering between fire and table.
Warmth and wood smoke would drift up the open hole in the
ceiling of the cottage to the little room that was just big enough
for his hay-stuffed mattress. So many nights in the last few
months, he had been too weary to climb the wooden ladder up
to his bed and had awakened in the bed he had been born in
twenty-four years before. It was the same bed that his mother
had died in and which had stood all his life in the corner of the
small downstairs room which served for sitting, cooking and
sleeping.
He stood, arching his back in a delicious stretch and
opening his mouth wide in a loud yawn. He bent to stir the
embers of the fire and to his delight there was still a faint glow
and he knew that a minute spent now would save him a chilly
hour when he returned home. He went to the door to fetch

wood and peat to bank up the fire so that it would still be

smouldering at the end of his working day.
The door was bolted, they had always kept it so, always
afraid of what was outside and the bolt slid noisily, the wooden
door swollen in the damp air. Half asleep still and settling into
the calmness that always accompanied the return of the day,
Thurston cried out loudly at the sight and sounds emanating
from the bundle at his feet, the ever-present memories making
him instantly a child again. He was darting back inside
preparing to bolt the door against his fear when he saw her
face appear from beneath the blanket, eyes wide and clearly as
afraid as he was. He was shaking as he calmed himself and he
bent down to take her hand, babbling with relief:
Eeh! Tha gi me a freet! Ow longs tha bin theer? Weers
tha cum from? Tha mun cum in an warm thisen up!
The girl stood shakily, unsure of her welcome. The only
words she had understood were Cum in and the fear and
uncertainty showed in her face.
Nay, thas safe wi me lasscum in, cum in.
Within half a dozen steps, she was in the wooden chair as
Thurston busied himself putting wood on the fire and
rummaging in a wooden box for blankets which he laid around
her shoulders most carefully. The girl began to thaw inside and
out as moments later she sipped a bowl of warm milk and
bread pobs, and suddenly in the face of such kindness she
began to cry.
Nay lass, thi mun buck up, thas safe, thall be reet.
She was pretty he thought, with the flames of the fire
flushing her cheeks and the tears sparkling like dew on her
dark lashes. Her mouth was set in a firm pink line as she
struggled to hold back the clearly unwelcome tears.
Proud too he thought. Not that Thurston was any judge of
the prettiness of women. The last female he had looked on
appreciatively was Lizzie Pendle and she had boxed his ears
for his trouble. He had been ten at the time. In his experience
girls hit just as hard as boys and he had avoided women ever
since. When the girl eventually spoke her voice was like the
sound of leaves in autumn, crackly and whispery and

inexplicably pleasurable as if it held every memory he ever

had of kicking through the lanes on his way home.
You are kind, she said. I should have knocked on your
door last night, I almost did but I was too afraid.
Her mouth softened and dimples appeared at its corners as
its shape changed into a smile.
My name is ElspetElspet Sydall, and I am most obliged
to you for your kindness in my trouble.
I am Thurston he answered, entranced Thurston
Hey.
A memorable name, she said.
****
Thurston was mesmerised by every move she made as they
walked together an hour later towards the crossroads. He was
fascinated by the youthful bounce of her step and the
occasional glimpse of her slim, tiny pointed boots. He was
entranced by the shining black hair that swung like a curtain
when she turned to look at him mid-sentence and the little
white teeth that lit up her face when she laughed which she did
often as she spoke.
How had he ever thought Lizzie Pendle pretty! People
came out of their houses and commented to each other:
By eck its Thurston ey wi a lass!
For the first time he could remember on stepping outside
the safety of his home, Thurston felt the same safe feeling that
he only ever felt inside the little cottage.
Elspet talked easily, a sweet and sparkling flow of words
which swiftly swept him into the little runnels of her life. She
had come from Manchester on a wagon-load of bricks she said,
but she had come to Manchester from Derbyshire on her
Fathers cart. She was very tired but always had a lot of energy
and could manage very well on little sleep she said. She was
bound for her Aunt and Uncle in Appley Green, where she
would stay for some months ... her face seemed troubled as she
recounted this detail but her smile soon recovered.

Who is tha uncle? Thurston had asked, and he was

answered:
Nathaniel SpeakmanAye , she said at Thurstons
look of surprise ...restorer of the Church at Appley Green. I
am to keep house for them, my Aunt is very ill.
Well Ahm sorry for that, he said, struggling to make
a suitably mournful face when he felt happier than he ever had
in his life.
A pause in the chatter followed and then she asked,
Whats amiss with thy leg, Thurston?
It was as if he had been thumped. He fell, crushed from the
dizzy heights of his happiness, down, down into the
frightening spaces of his past when all he wanted to do was to
duck past the boys and flee with his hopping gait to the safety
of the little cottage. His face betrayed nothing of his feelings
however always as a child he had only ever cried when he
could see the sanctuary of the little cottage. He still limped
alongside her though the sudden heaviness of his heart made it
harder to walk.
Somehow she knew. She stopped and faced him.
Forgive my question. It matters not, she said. You are a
kind, good man. Come with me and meet my Aunt and Uncle.
I would introduce you to them as my friend and my guardian
angel!
He looked down. She had clasped his hands and he could
feel her warmth flowing into him.
Ah was born with one leg shorter than tother, he said.
Well...what is missing from your leg has made your heart
bigger Thurston. Will you come?
He nodded, unable to speak for a moment. At length he
replied AyeAh will.
****
Eliza Speakman was hot though the morning was chill and
no fire burned in the room in which she lay, alone in her bed.
She knew this was her last illness, that her time would
come soon. That she would leave this world and everything

she loved in it. Of course, none knew that she knew this; it was
a secret she kept from them and that they kept from her. A sore
too painful to acknowledge, better to keep it covered with a
veil of secrecy and shed her tears when she was alone.
How it cheered her dear Nathaniel when she smiled and so
she did, even through her pain because she loved him so. He
had been out since daybreak over at the site of the Church. The
reason she was lying so late in her bed, she told herself, was
that she would have enough strength to rise and meet her halfsister Margarets girl when she arrived which she surely would
today. All through the day before they had expected her on the
wagon-load of bricks from Manchester. By the time word
came that they had arrived many hours late, a dark wintry
night had fallen. Nathaniel had gone down to the crossroads
with a lantern but there had been no sight of Elspet or the
driver, only a wagon-load of bricks without horses. He had
hardly slept for worry.
Eliza had woken from her sleep as daylight filled the room,
instinctively reaching out to the empty space beside her to feel
only the still warm imprint of her husbands body. Poor
Nathaniel, he would be at the site of the Church doing his duty,
guiltily aware of his Eliza at home when he should be with her,
as was his duty. Now he would be worried that he had failed in
yet another duty, to safeguard his niece. Nathaniel had always
been a worrier, what would happen to him when she was
gone? There would be no-one to stroke his hand by the fire in
the evening and tell him what a wonderful man he was. She
hoped the girl was of a good sort and she hoped with all her
heart that she would like it here and stay long afterwell, she
hoped she would stay.
As her memory wandered, Eliza drew again in her mind
the picture she had created of Elspet Sydall. The features she
imagined were drawn from long ago memories of her own
half-sister, dark eyed and beautiful and her brother-in-law,
wiry and ever-busy with no time for conversation. She
included however his slight build and energy as estimable
characteristics in the picture she drew of his daughter. And
finally, to that picture she added the ever-present memories of