Tales of the West Riding by Phyllis Bentley

by his dismissal from the reservoir service, for which he (justly) blamed the Beaumonts, and he railed against them in a manner unbearable to Joe, who hated to hear the name of Beaumont mentioned. Mrs. Booth too, from whom Joe had inherited his sweet and loving disposition, distressed him by showing a most unusual temper; she stamped about with flushed cheeks and tightened lips, ready to flare up at any adverse hint about her son.
    Under these discomforts Joe seemed at first moody and depressed. As they walked back together from church, hand in hand, man and wife, Lizzie tried to hearten him.
    â€œTha mun face it out, love,” she murmured in his ear. “Tha’s done nowt wrong. Stand up to ’em! I’m wi’ thee all t’way, tha knows.”
    She pressed his hand. At this clasp, so warm and loving, Joe seemed reassured. He brightened up and became his usual self, gay and laughing, the life and soul of the party.
    Both families hoped that once the wedding was over the gossip would die down and ordinary life resume its course. Lizzie, moving from the Listers’ cottage to the Booths’—a separate home could not be afforded—certainly received nothing but kindness from Joe’s mother and the younger children, and Joe proved a most affectionate and considerate husband. But old John Booth would not let them forget the scandal. The Beaumont name still haunted his lips, for he was quite obsessed by the Lingreservoir; he talked of it endlessly, walked up the valley regularly every Sunday, wet or fine, to look at it, and when rain was heavy exclaimed with relish:
    â€œLing’s filling! I hope Tom Beaumont likes her when she brims!”
    A gloomy, sodden winter gave him plenty of opportunities for these remarks, which by reminding Joe and Lizzie of Rosa, continually replanted thorns in their hearts.
6
    It was on the first Sunday in February that old John Booth returned from his usual walk drenched to the skin, but with a look of satisfaction and excitement.
    â€œWell! She’s filling fast. She’s like to brim if this rain goes on,” he commenced as he hung up his dripping coat behind the door. The Booths, sitting round the bare wooden table at tea, gazed up at him without much interest.
    â€œNow, father,” said Joe mildly.
    â€œIf tha doesna believe me, go and look for thisen,” said the old man, wiping his moustache. There was a kind of arrogant triumph in his tone which vaguely disturbed his son.
    â€œYou’ve said it so often before, that’s all.”
    â€œMebbe I have. This time it’s different.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œEmbankment’s sunk so top of waste-pan is above top of embankment,” said old Booth triumphantly.
    â€œWhat does that mean, father?” said his wife.
    â€œIt means that watter’ll flow over embankment before it can flow into waste-pan and drain off through tunnel below. I tell you, make no mistake, yon reservoir will brim if this rain goes on. Go see for yourselves if you don’t believe me,” repeated the old man, with an airy wave towards the door.
    â€œMaybe I’d best go up,” said Joe wearily. He crossed to the door, opened it and looked out.
    The night was dark and cold, and heavy rain, intermixed with sleet and flakes of snow, poured violently down. A chorus of protest arose from the rest. “Don’t thee go, Joe—don’t stir out—tha’ll catch thi death o’cold.” Joe shut the door.
    â€œIf it’s right bad, happen we ought to mention it to Mester Beaumont,” he said.
    â€œNot me,” said his father.
    â€œKeep away from Beaumonts, Joe,” said his wife.
    â€œMaybe your brother would go, Lizzie,” suggested Joe.
    â€œThat he never will. He wouldn’t demean himself, he’s had enough of Beaumonts.”
    â€œIt’s drawer’s job to give warning, surely,” said Mrs. Booth.
    â€œThere’s nowt to be done