For a Mother's Sins (12 page)

Cheered by the prospect, Lizzie set off. The sun hadn’t stopped shining this past week, allowing work on the viaduct to progress without the constant delays caused by rain and wind and
fog. The scaffolding had gradually been extended until it spread right along the valley floor. The huge man-made embankments were growing too, ascending from the boggy land at the base of the fell
like a huge black snake weaving its way up towards the dark empty hole of Blea Moor tunnel.

The railway had brought in more workers and new shantytowns had sprung up to accommodate them. On the far side of the viaduct was Sebastopol; a little further along was Jericho; while Jerusalem,
the collection of huts that housed the tunnel diggers, was located right next to the tunnel entrance. It was easy to spot the men who worked the tunnel because they wore tighter breeches than
ordinary labourers, enabling them to run unhindered when they set the explosives.

To the south, the line was almost complete. Workmen were now building the station house and a row of workmen’s dwellings that had been given the name Salt Lake Cottages. Lizzie thought how
grand it would be to live in one of those cottages. She tried to picture herself gazing out of a window overlooking the Ribble Valley. There was nothing she would like better than to wake every
morning to the mountainous flanks of Pen-y-ghent every morning.

‘Hey, what you up to?’ a voice called as Lizzie walked down the track to Horton village. Lizzie didn’t turn around. She knew that voice.

‘Don’t you talk to me, Florrie Parker. I’m having nothing more to do with you.’

‘Come on, you’re all right. You’re still here, aren’t you?’ Florrie tried to catch her up, but Lizzie kept her head down and strode on as fast as she could, not
wanting to have anything to do with her.

Florrie grabbed her arm and pulled her to a halt. ‘Wait a minute, Lizzie, I want to say sorry. I didn’t mean to get you into trouble.’

Lizzie turned, intending to give Florrie a piece of her mind, but instead she gasped in horror, her anger forgotten as she took in the damage to her friend’s face. One eye was all swollen
and black and blue, making it hard for Florrie to see out of it, and her nose appeared to have been broken. ‘My God, Florrie, what have you been up to?’

‘Oh this? Just an “accident”, as my mother would say. In truth, I got in the way of my mum and dad arguing. I should have known better really. It happens that often.’

‘Your dad did this?’ Lizzie was horrified. Her father would never have raised a hand to her or her mother. ‘But that’s terrible. A man shouldn’t hit a
woman.’

‘You try telling him that when he’s in one of his moods. He doesn’t understand that my mother only flirts with customers to get them to spend their money. Dad gets jealous,
uses his fists and then feels guilty afterwards.’ Florrie looked at Lizzie with her half-closed eye.

‘Have you been to see the doctor? My ma works at the hospital now. We can turn around and go see her – she’ll sort you out.’

‘Nah, doctors cost money. Besides, I’ll be all right, it’s only a knock. Looks worse than it is.’ Florrie smiled. ‘So are we friends, then? Good.’ She turned
to head homewards. ‘Got to go back – I’m supposed to be helping out in the kitchen. Don’t want them to notice I’m missing, else I’ll end up with another to match
the other.’ She smiled, showing that she had also sustained a chipped front tooth.

‘Friends!’ called Lizzie. ‘And just you mind what you’re doing.’ She didn’t have the heart not to accept Florrie’s offer of friendship, not now
she’d seen how her father treated her. Poor thing, no wonder she was so wild. The Welcome Inn seemed anything but welcoming: Florrie obviously had no home life, no guiding light in her life.
Lizzie smiled at the memory of her own father, the nights when he’d come home and sit her on his knee and sing to her while her mother made supper. She’d always felt so safe with his
arms wrapped around her, knowing that he would never let anyone or anything hurt her. He might be dead now, but at least she would always have the warm glow of his memory in her heart, whereas
Florrie would always carry with her the legacy of her father’s fists. Poor Florrie. Lizzie vowed she’d stand by her friend, no matter what.

Deep in thought, she wandered on down the track to Nether Hall. The once-grand house was now in a state of decay, its mullion windows covered with ivy and the masonry crumbling and in need of
repair. Lizzie tried to imagine all the grand balls and soirees that would have taken place in the building’s heyday. Nights when the ladies and lords of Ribblesdale and the surrounding area
would have pulled up in their horse-drawn carriages, dressed in all their finery. It must have been quite a sight.

She walked on through the yard and down to the widening stream of the River Ribble, until she found a spot where she could sit admiring the view, which extended all the way down the valley, and
breathing in the clear peaty air of the Yorkshire fells. Sand martins swooped and glided above the lapping waters, catching flies to feed their young, who waited, screeching hungrily, in nesting
holes burrowed into the sandy riverbanks.

Lizzie leaned back and enjoyed the sun’s rays. Winter in the fells was hard. The river froze over and everything was buried in deep layers of snow. It was so bitterly cold that your breath
froze whenever you ventured outside and drifts of snow built up against the hut, making it difficult to open the door. Last winter it had been so cold that she’d thought they would all freeze
to death in their sleep. But she had survived. And now the sun was shining and she was taking advantage of her day off.

Molly’s eyes followed Doctor Thistlethwaite as he moved from bed to bed, doing his rounds. She’d forgotten all about the patient she was supposed to be writing a
letter for.

‘Are you listening to me?’ The Irish accent of the railway’s latest victim brought her back to the present. ‘Have you written down what I said?’

‘Sorry, I got distracted. Now what did you say?’ Molly put pen to paper and finished the letter to his loved ones back in Ireland, telling them of his plight. But her thoughts
remained with Roger Thistlethwaite. His manner could be abrupt at times, and she’d always thought that he didn’t care about his patients, that he had more in common with a horse doctor
than a professional medic. Watching him at work these last few days, she realized that her assessment of him couldn’t have been further from the truth.

‘If you’ve finished that, Mrs Mason, the chamber pots need emptying. Please do it at once.’ Starchy Drawers, as Molly now thought of her, marched past, nose in the air as
usual.

‘God, she’s a snooty one!’ The Irishman laughed. ‘Go on now, best know your place.
She’ll
not be emptying chamber pots – that’s far too lowly a
job for herself.’ He winked as Molly rose to tackle the chore nobody else wanted.

‘I’d like to empty one over her head,’ Molly whispered, making him roar with laughter.

‘Go on, girl, get them pots emptied!’

A broad grin on her face, Molly walked to the end of the hut to collect the slop bucket. On the way, she passed Doctor Thistlethwaite, who was making notes about his last patient. He paused in
his work to peer over his spectacles at her.

‘And how are you today, Mrs Mason? I must say, the patients have taken a great liking to you. They tell me you are very kind to them.’

‘I’m fine, thank you. Bill Beecroft seems to be making a good recovery.’ Molly still felt a little queasy when she thought back to her first experience of surgery. She hoped
she would make as good a recovery as the patient.

‘Yes, we might have looked like we were butchering him at the time, but believe me it was the only way to save his life. Are you enjoying your work here?’

Molly paused, struck by the eyes that were peering enquiringly at her. She’d never noticed what an unusual colour they were, a sort of rich almond shade. In fact, she realized that
she’d never paid him much attention at all until this moment. It struck her that he was actually quite an attractive man.

‘Yes, I am enjoying the work,’ she replied, trying to play down her West Yorkshire accent. ‘I find it quite rewarding. I go home tired, but that’s to be expected, I
suppose. I’m sure it will get easier as the days progress.’

‘Good, I’m glad. You’re an asset to the team.’ And with that Doctor Thistlethwaite put his head down and continued writing.

As she set about emptying the chamber pots, Molly told herself it might be a mucky job but it was worth it to have those almond eyes smile at her and to hear his words of approval.

Who knew, she might yet give Starchy Drawers a run for her money.

‘What are you doing here, pet?’ said Molly, surprised to find her home occupied by Lizzie. There was a welcoming smell of stew wafting from a pan on the stove;
Lizzie had just taken the lid off to give it a stir when her mother walked in.

Throwing her apron over the back of the chair, Molly sat herself down, kicked her shoes off and began rubbing her weary feet. ‘Aye, I’m fair jiggered.’

‘Mrs Pratt was worrying where to put her Mike and his bride, and baby when it’s born. I decided that rather than wait for her to ask me to leave, I’d tell her I wanted to come
home.’ Lizzie poured a steaming ladleful of stew into a bowl and set it down in front of her mother.

‘Oh, so she’s found out, has she? That’ll keep her sneck out of other people’s business for a while. She can’t talk about other folk when her own flesh and blood
have fallen by the wayside. A baby on the way and a publican’s daughter in the family, by ’eck it’s a corker!’ Molly laughed as she tucked into the stew. ‘Good job her
John brought your bed back the other night, you’re going to need it.’

‘Mother, have some sympathy, the woman’s beside herself. Mike hadn’t even told her he was to be married on Sunday.’ Lizzie paused, struck by a sudden thought. ‘And
how did you know all about it?’ She sat down next to her mother and tasted a spoonful of the warm beef stew. It was something Mrs Pratt had shown her how to make and she was quite proud of
her first attempt.

‘John mentioned it, when he came with your bed. I told him he should let his mother know about the wedding and the baby.’ She took another bite of her stew. ‘This is right
good, lass. Make me this once a week and I’ll be happy as a lark!’ She grinned at Lizzie. Her little girl had grown up these last few months and she’d been too preoccupied with
her grief to notice. It had done them both good to be apart for a little while, but now she was glad that her daughter was home.

‘I’m still going across and helping her every day, Mam. I don’t mind, it’ll come in useful having her show me how to cook and sew and run a house.’ Lizzie looked
over the edge of her spoon as she drained her dish.

‘You can do that, Liz, no problem. Your shillings can go in the kitty, and I’ll be content knowing you’re with somebody while I’m at the hospital, so it’ll work out
well.’ She hesitated for a moment, debating whether to confide in her daughter, then said, ‘John’s coming over next week – but don’t you go telling his mother.
She’ll not be suited that he’s made friends with me.’

‘I’ll not say anything, but what’s he coming for?’ Lizzie eyed her mother curiously, recalling John’s words to his mother that night Rose told him Molly
wasn’t their sort.

‘He’s offered to make me a pot rack. I think he felt a bit sorry for me, looking around our sparse cabin, and I wasn’t going to say no. Besides, he’s good
company.’

‘I’ll not say anything. I like John.’ Lizzie took her mother’s plate away and put it in the sink with the other dishes. When she looked back, a question on her lips, she
saw that Molly’s eyes were closed and her head was lolling against the armrest. Lizzie picked up a blanket and draped it over her mother, then set to work scrubbing the stew pan.

The grey clouds hung low over Whernside and Ingleborough, threatening rain at any moment as the wedding party gathered at the little church.

Rose sobbed in her hankie as her son waited in the aisle for his young bride to appear. The atmosphere could have been cut with a knife as the two families glared at one another.

‘Just look at them, Father. You’d think they’d make an effort. The shame of it, my Mike marrying into that family.’

‘Quiet, Mother. As long as they’re happy, there’s nothing you can do but wish them well.’ Jim leaned on the pew as the bride-to-be entered the church, giving his arm to
the sobbing Rose.

The vicar stood before the couple, the ring on his prayer book.

‘Do you, Michael Bernard Pratt, take this wom—’

‘He better bloody had do, else I’ll break his bloody legs!’ boomed across the pews.

The vicar hesitated. ‘Do you promise to love her, cherish her and be faithful unto her, for as long . . .’

Rose glanced at Jim as the service continued. ‘What’s he done, Father? Just listen to what he’s married into.’

‘He’ll be all right, Rose. He’s made his bed, now he must lie in it. There’s nothing we can do.’

‘I always brought them up better than this. I only hope that he’ll bring her back to live with us, then happen I can see a bit of hope.’ Rose watched as Mike slipped the ring
on Jenny’s finger and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Well, that’s that then. My Mike’s lost to another.’

‘Aye, don’t take on so, Mother. He’s only up the road, even if they don’t move in with us.’

‘You’ll never get me crossing the threshold of Gearstones. If they don’t move in with us, he’ll have to come and see me.’ Rose’s face was red with
indignation.

‘Now, Mother, you know you don’t mean that. Once that baby’s landed, you’ll never be away.’ Jim smiled at her.

‘We’ll see, we’ll see.’ Rose was looking forward to the birth of her first grandchild. Whether it was born at Gearstones or Batty Green didn’t make much difference
to her, but she had to be seen to be keeping things to her standard. She’d never admit to Jim that she couldn’t wait to cradle the newborn in her arms, no matter how lowly the
surroundings.

John knocked on the door of Molly’s hut. ‘Come on, answer – you must be in,’ he muttered under his breath. The last thing he wanted was for his mother
to see him hanging around outside Molly’s hut. She’d been watching him like a hawk all week. Ever since the wedding she’d been in the mood from hell. Mike had turned down her
invite for him and Jenny to live with them, making the atmosphere at home unbearable.