For a Mother's Sins (3 page)

A moment later the landlady’s daughter was back, carrying two plates piled high with sandwiches, pie and cake. She plonked them down on the table in front of Lizzie.

‘Tuck in. I can soon sneak back into the kitchen for more if you finish that lot.’ She took a mouthful of brawn sandwich, then held out her hand. ‘I’m Florrie,
what’s your name?’

‘Lizzie.’

It was hard not to gawp as Florrie carried on tucking into her food, smiling as she chewed.

‘Are you not going to eat that?’ Florrie paused mid-mouthful to scrutinize Lizzie with concern.

‘I’m not right hungry.’ Lizzie looked at the plate of food, which on a normal day she would have relished. ‘I’m missing my baby brother. My mam blames me for his
death, but I swear it wasn’t my fault.’

‘Aye, well, there’s nowt you can do now. My twin brother died when I was little, but you just have to get on with it. Not much else you can do.’

Lizzie was impressed. Florrie looked to be no older than she was, but there was an air of confidence about her. She wished she had that kind of self-assurance.

Chatting away like an old wise woman, Florrie reached across to help herself to one of Lizzie’s sandwiches. ‘Go on, they’re good,’ she urged. ‘Me and Ma made
’em this morning. You can’t bring him back by not eating.’

Lizzie took a tentative bite and Florrie nodded approvingly, then gulped down a mouthful of ale.

‘Here, you need a drop of this and all, to calm the nerves.’

Despite herself, Lizzie savoured the meaty sandwich and followed it with a swig of ale. She didn’t enjoy the first mouthful, but gradually she began to get used to the bitter iron
taste.

‘See, I told you, there’s got to be some perks to being the landlady’s daughter,’ Florrie laughed, then added conspiratorially: ‘Don’t tell me ma, though
– she’d kill me if she knew I’d got us both a gill.’ Her blue eyes twinkled with delight at getting away with the theft of two drinks.

Before Lizzie knew it, she and Florrie were talking like long-lost friends. Hidden away in the snug, away from the smoke and noise of the funeral wake, they were soon comparing their lives and
discovering they had a lot in common.

‘I think I like you, Lizzie Mason,’ Florrie beamed, gathering up the empty plates. ‘See you next week sometime? How about Tuesday – one o’clock, on the
bridge?’

Lizzie nodded happily. For the first time in ages, she felt warm and content, knowing that in Florrie Parker she’d finally found a friend.

‘Oh my Lord, can’t folk have a minute’s peace? My poor bloody head is killing me.’ Molly raised her head from her striped pillow and cursed the roaring
boom of a dynamite blast as work continued on building the connecting tunnel between Blea Moor and Dent, a quarter of a mile away across the moorland.

‘Happen you shouldn’t have had so much to drink, Mam. Me and Cloggie had all on to get you back home.’ Lizzie handed her mother a cup of tea as she sat on the edge of the bed
pulling her stays tight, her long ginger hair hanging over her shoulder.

‘Don’t you start lecturing me, Lizzie Mason. You are in no position to— Did you say
Cloggie
brought me home? I didn’t let him in, did I? It’d be just like
him to take his chance. He’s been hanging around this hut for weeks.’ She gave a shudder. ‘Creepy little bastard.’

Lizzie shook her head disapprovingly. Her mother was obviously still suffering from drink; she’d never normally swear. ‘No. Soon as we got you into bed I thanked him and sent him on
his way. He could hardly stand up himself.’

‘Give us another cuppa, lass, I could drink a beck dry this morning.’ Molly passed Lizzie her empty cup and pulled her top on. ‘I’m going to have to pass on any washing
today, I’d probably be sick if I tried leaning over the dolly tub. God knows what we’ll eat tonight.’

‘You don’t have to bother about that, Mam. Mrs Pratt called earlier and left us a meat pie. Said she thought you’d appreciate it.’

‘Nosy old bag. There’s only one reason she’d be coming here, and that’s to lecture me about the demon drink. It isn’t as if I drink every day. If I couldn’t
bury my troubles yesterday, then when can I?’

Molly rose from the bed and opened the door, letting the breeze from the fell enter the hut. ‘A bit of fresh air and I’ll soon feel better,’ she said, sipping her tea and
looking across the shantytown towards the place where they were building the new viaduct. She leaned against the doorway. ‘I don’t know, Lizzie, perhaps we should go back to Bradford. I
don’t think this trainline will ever get built – at the inn last night there was talk of the investors having run out of money. I don’t know what we’d do if that happened.
We’ve already lost so much since we came here.’

Lizzie came to stand beside her, wrapping her arms tightly around her mother’s waist. Molly laid a hand on her head and absent-mindedly stroked her fingers through Lizzie’s long
black hair. ‘At least in Bradford we’d have a house to live in, not a bloody wood hut,’ she said. ‘Another month or two and you’d be old enough to go into service. We
could both earn a living in Bradford.’

‘But I like it here, Mam,’ said Lizzie. ‘I made a new friend yesterday. Her name’s Florrie Parker and her mother runs the Welcome Inn. I’m going to see her again
next week. I don’t want to go back to Bradford. It’s a horrible grimy place and I’m used to all this now.’ Lizzie waved her arms, taking in the panoramic view of Great
Whernside and Ingleborough, two of the great peaks that rose out of the wild moorland that surrounded Batty Green.

‘Aye, and I’d have to leave my two men behind in the churchyard,’ sighed Molly. ‘All right. We’ll see if we can stick it out until Christmas. If we can’t,
then it’s back to Bradford. Your uncle Bertie will soon fix us up with lodgings and jobs.’

Lizzie hugged Molly tight. ‘We’ll be all right here, Mam. I’ll help more, honest I will.’

‘Aye well, not today. I’m not doing anything – my head won’t stand it. I’ll have to do double tomorrow and hope for good weather.’

Lizzie watched as her mother sank wearily into the chair by the fire. Molly Mason had never been one to give in, but losing Tommy so soon after Dad had been a terrible blow for her. But in spite
of the hard times they’d been through, Lizzie had grown to love this place. She resolved to do whatever she could to make sure they stayed here.

Florrie was sitting on the small road bridge, hands tucked into the pockets of her smock apron, beaming happily as she watched all the comings and goings on the new viaduct.
The building works were swarming with navvies and navigators, and the air was filled with the thud of their picks hitting earth and the occasional rumble of what sounded like thunder as another
bundle of dynamite went off, blasting a way through the mountainside of Blea Moor.

‘I could sit here all day,’ Florrie said with a grin as Lizzie sat down alongside her on the bridge edge. ‘I love to see how fast it’s coming along. Look, the
scaffolding’s nearly up for the first arch. I wouldn’t want to be the fellas at the top, mind. They’re almost touching the sky.’

‘My dad worked on the scaffolding. That’s how he died – the wind whipped up behind him and his hands were so cold he lost his grip and fell.’ Lizzie spoke in a quiet,
matter-of-fact voice, her eyes gazing at the point where the scaffolding met the sky.

‘God, I’m sorry, Lizzie. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘You didn’t. It’s like you said yesterday, there’s nowt to do but get on with it.’ Lizzie shrugged. ‘All the same, life’s not been the same since he
died. But I’m still here, so I suppose that’s all that matters.’

‘Come on, let’s go and have a look underneath it.’ Florrie sprang to her feet and tugged on Lizzie’s hand. ‘They’ve made a track down there alongside the beck
– you can follow it all the way to the other side of the valley.’

The two girls ran across the moorland, giggling with mischief as they darted between the carts ferrying stone and wood to the site. The carts made slow progress, with the horses struggling to
haul their heavy loads up the muddy slope, urged on by the shouts of their drivers.

‘Mind where you tread,’ warned one of the drivers. ‘You could sink into one of these bog holes and we’d never see you again.’

Others were less friendly. As they reached the gap in the moorland where the viaduct was to run, a burly foreman waved his arm at them and yelled, ‘This is no place for women –
bugger off home, out of the way.’

‘He called us women!’ said Lizzie once they had managed to dodge the angry foreman and get a safe distance away.

‘Well, we nearly are. Bet you can’t say that you haven’t been having . . . feelings. I know I do, seeing some of the men that come into the pub.’ Florrie laughed and gave
a wicked grin: ‘We should have shown him our fannies and charged him for the pleasure!’

Lizzie could feel her cheeks blushing crimson. ‘Me mam says it’s wrong to talk about such things,’ she said, horrified.

‘You big softie,’ Florrie teased.

‘I’m not. It’s just that it’s unladylike to talk of these things.’

‘Ooh, hark to Lady Jane!’ said Florrie, putting on a la-di-da voice. ‘Lives in a wood hut with no money but
lovely
manners.’ She nudged Lizzie in the ribs.
‘Aye, that’ll keep you fed and warm at night. Come on – race you to that barn.’

She took off along the track, her heels kicking up dust, leaving Lizzie to ponder her words. Better to have manners, she decided, than to be easy prey for dirty old men. She’d been aware
for a while that her body was beginning to change, and she’d seen the looks men gave her. But there didn’t seem to be any reason to go rushing into womanhood. From what she’d
seen, Lizzie didn’t want any of it.

By the time she caught up with Florrie, her friend was sitting on one of the horse mounting blocks next to the barn. She was puffing and panting, and her cheeks were so red she reminded Lizzie
of a red berry about to burst.

‘Hey, slowcoach – you’re not sulking, are you?’ Florrie gasped, peering intently at Lizzie’s face.

‘No, I’m taking my time, that’s all. Do you fancy walking the full length of this lane? I think it comes out not far from the church. I’d like to pay my respects to my
dad and baby Tommy.’ As she spoke, Lizzie was studying her new friend, wondering what to make of her. Much as she liked Florrie, there was something about her that made Lizzie uneasy, though
she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

Florrie got to her feet and brushed the dust from her skirts. ‘Why not? I sometimes walk there myself.’ Then she added cryptically, ‘Some days it can be quite
rewarding.’

Lizzie frowned to herself. What did she mean by ‘rewarding’? It sounded like something Old Mrs Pratt would say. Was Florrie religious and not letting on? It hardly seemed likely,
given the conversation they’d just had.

Though the sun was shining there was a sneaky wind blowing down the valley, tunnelling between the two peaks that rose either side of Chapel-le-Dale. Lizzie gazed at the shadows of clouds
scurrying across the great flanks of Whernside and the sleeping-lion form of Ingleborough. She still couldn’t believe how lucky she was to be living in such beautiful countryside; it was so
different from the first thirteen years of her life, which had been spent amidst the grime and smog of Bradford and its wool mills.

‘What’s up, cat got your tongue?’

Jolted out of her reverie, Lizzie turned to her companion. ‘No, I was just taking it all in, reminding myself that, no matter what’s happened, I’m lucky to live
here.’

‘Lucky?
You must be joking!’ Florrie gave a toss of her head. ‘Soon as I’m old enough, I’ll be off. When this railway line’s built I’m going to
get on the first train out of here and find myself a rich fella in Leeds. I’ve no intention of hanging about like the rest of my family.’ Florrie picked up a stone from the path and
threw it as far as she could. ‘Waste of bloody time, living here. There’s never anything to do.’ Then her eyes darkened as she added, ‘Besides, I want to get out of the way
of my dad. I’ve had enough of him.’

Lizzie, who had worshipped her father, turned to her friend in astonishment. ‘Why? What’s up with him?’

‘He likes his women, that’s what’s up with him. Even my ma reckons he’s a bastard – not that she’d say it to his face, mind. He’s handy with his fists,
especially on Ma. She’s forever telling people that her face got bruised ’cause she fell over or banged her head on a door.’ Florrie might like to pretend she was a toughie,
swearing like a trooper and talking hard, but Lizzie could see the tears welling up in her eyes. ‘That’s why I’m off: I don’t want to end up with a fella like my
dad.’

The pair lapsed into silence as they walked down the glade to the little church of St Leonard’s. Lizzie made her way over the grassy bank of the graveyard to where she had stood the
previous day. A mound of earth and some square sods were the only witness to her baby brother’s resting place underneath the wall by the riverside. Her father’s unmarked grave was
already covered over by a carpet of grass and daisies. Lizzie wondered how many more would be laid in the ground before the railway was finished. She only hoped that she would not be joining them;
there was too much life to embrace. One thing was for sure: she would not give in easily.

There was a tug on her skirt. ‘Come on, let’s go into the church – we might be lucky!’ Florrie gave a wink and ran off giggling towards the church entrance.

Lucky?
What on earth could she mean? Intrigued, Lizzie followed her friend, casting several backward glances at the graves as she said a silent prayer for lost souls. By the time she
got to the porch, Florrie had already entered the church.

Today it was empty. Without the distraction of mourners paying their respects, Lizzie was able to take in the plain whitewashed walls and the wooden pews that smelled of polish. She shivered as
she gazed up at the altar, remembering the way the vicar had stood looking down at them while her mother sat beside her, sobbing into a handkerchief.

‘Come on, Lizzie – give us a tune on the organ,’ giggled Florrie. She tugged on the lid of the church organ, only to find it was locked. ‘Damn! He sometimes forgets to
lock it and then I can have a play. I right enjoy myself, too.’ She moved off down the aisle towards the final pew. ‘Still, never mind. Let’s have a look in the collection plate
– somebody might have left a penny or two to save their souls.’ She winked. ‘It can save my soul instead.’