For a Mother's Sins (8 page)

As she took two mugs down from the shelf above her stove Molly cast a sly glance at her guest. He’s a bonny lad, all right, she thought to herself. Then it struck her that this
‘lad’ must be somewhere in his mid twenties, so in truth he was a man. She put the mugs on the table next to where John sat. ‘Sorry, I’ve no sugar – can’t afford
it. Are you all right without?’ she asked, pouring the tea.

John, who had been watching her every move, mumbled that without sugar was fine.

‘Tell me, which bit of the railway are you on? I don’t recall hearing my late husband mention you, so you can’t have been on the viaduct.’

‘I’m with the blasters, up at Blea Moor. I drill the bore holes for the dynamite – and hope to God I don’t get blown up with it.’ John stirred his mug of tea
wistfully. It was dangerous work, and he had witnessed a number of accidents in his time there. He went to work each day never knowing whether it would be his last, whether it would be his turn to
end up in the hospital. But he knew his job and went about it carefully, and over time he’d grown used to living with the danger.

‘Ah, so it’s you I’ve to blame for the constant rumble of thunder!’ said Molly with a smile. She knew he had one of the most dangerous jobs on the line.

‘Aye, me and a few other fellows. It keeps us on our toes.’ Not wanting to spend his precious free time talking about work, John changed the subject: ‘My mother’s taken
up with your Lizzie. She’s had her baking today. I dare say she’ll be telling you all about it when she comes across on Sunday.’ He smiled at Molly and then lowered his eyes,
pretending to gaze into his mug. Much as he wanted to look at Molly, he was too nervous to make eye contact with her.

‘I thought she’d be off to the chapel with your family,’ said Molly, surprised.

‘No. Me mother says we’ve to respect the way you’ve brought her up. She’s not a Methodist, so we’ll not be forcing it on her. I know Ma can be a bit over the top
with her religion. Sometimes it’s as if she doesn’t know the real world.’ John took a long sip from his mug.

‘And what about you? Do you know the real world?’ Molly asked coyly.

‘I know more than some of them in this godforsaken hole. I know by the time this railway’s built I should have enough money under my belt to start my own business.’ He put his
mug down hard. ‘Right, I think I’d better get myself back home before they wonder where I’m at.’ He lifted the bedding bail on his back. ‘Thanks for the tea.’ He
lowered his head and walked out of the door. She was a wick one, that Molly. Happen he’d have to go back for another tea some time.

Molly watched John’s progress down the track and didn’t go back inside until he disappeared into his home. Dusk was falling and lamps were being placed in windows. It was turning
chilly now the sun had gone in and the smell of wood fires filled the air. In the distance a lone sheep bleated as if to signal the end of the day. Somewhere in the distance she could hear someone
playing a mouth organ, the melancholy aria seeping into her soul, making her feel lonely.

Here she was in this desolate place, completely and utterly alone for the first time in her life. No husband, no son, no daughter. Nothing but the shilling that Mrs Pratt had given her in
payment for Lizzie’s services. Feeling a lump forming in her throat, she gave herself a good talking to. It was no good crying for baby Tommy and her much-loved late husband. She needed to
look to the future, concentrate on getting through the weekend, and then starting her new job. But in the meantime, at least she knew Lizzie was being looked after well. Better than she could have
cared for her.

The thought of Lizzie living with the Pratts made her thoughts turn back to John. Molly wondered whether she might have made a friend there. Too bad she spoiled it by teasing him – that
had been unkind of her. Next time she saw him, she would have to apologize.

‘Right, lads, give Mother your pay. Let’s be seeing what you’ve made this week.’

Rose Pratt sat at her table with notebook open. Each son had a dedicated page with their contribution to family living written on it and each had his own savings account, leaving them with a few
shillings and pence in their own pockets to spend as they wished. Young Bob was the last to hand over his pay. Being only seventeen and an unskilled general labourer, he earned the least.

‘Ma, can’t I have a shilling more for myself? The other fellows laugh at me, giving you all my earnings.’ Bob was fed up with never having any money on him while his mates were
free to spend their earnings as they saw fit. His face darkened as his mother launched into one of her lectures about the importance of saving.

‘Don’t you look at me like that, young man. You are watered and fed well, you’ve a roof over your head, and by the time this line’s built you’ll have money in the
bank. So hold your noise and go fetch the horse and cart to take us all into Ingleton.’ Rose wasn’t having any truck with one of her boys turning into a waster.

Bob mumbled something under his breath. Face like thunder, he jammed his hands into his pockets and gave the table leg a kick on his way out.

‘And you needn’t act like that, my lad! If you don’t stop sulking, I’ll take what you’ve got in your pocket as well,’ said Rose as she finished counting the
money and putting it into the battered biscuit tin that held the Pratt family savings.

‘You could let him have a bit more, Ma,’ John said quietly.

‘Aye, and you can mind your own business,’ snapped Rose, putting the tin away. ‘He won’t miss what he hasn’t had. Now, are we all ready? Lizzie, have you banked
that stove up with coal slack? I don’t want to come back to a cold hovel, my bones are fair chilled by the time I climb down out of that trap.’

‘Mike and me are off on our own today, Ma,’ said John. ‘There’ll be more room in the trap for Lizzie and Dad if we don’t go. We thought we’d spend the day
with some of the work lads, take a trip into Ingleton. Our Mike has a liking to visit the waterfalls, seeing as it’s such a grand day.’ John smirked at his brother, kicked him on the
shin out of sight of their mother.

‘Waterfalls? What do you want to go there for? Don’t you see enough water in this forsaken place?’

‘They’re opening a walk around the falls, Ma. I thought I’d ask Jenny Burton to take a stroll with me.’ Mike could have killed his brother for dropping him in it, but
decided to make the best of it by taking the opportunity to break the news about Jenny. He was going to have to tell her sometime. There’d be hell to pay if she found out from someone else.
She hated it when anyone kept things secret from her.

‘And who might Jenny Burton be?’ Rose, who had been standing in front of the mirror tying on her bonnet, wheeled around to face her son. ‘Where’s she from and what does
her father do? She’d better not be one of them trollops from round here – you can do better than that, lad.’

‘I’ll not have you calling Jenny a trollop. Anyway she’s not from here, she lives at Gearstones Lodge. Her father runs the boarding house there.’ Mike was cringing as he
spoke. He knew Rose was dreading the moment when one of her sons brought another woman into the family.

‘Not the doss-house where all the Paddies board? No wonder she’s set her cap at you, lad – she’ll be after your brass!’ Molly’s face was red with indignation.
‘Lizzie, go and tell our Bob to wait outside with horse and trap. Father, you and John make yourself scarce. I need to talk to my lad.’

There was a scramble for the door as Lizzie, John and Jim beat a hasty retreat, leaving poor Mike to face his mother’s wrath.

‘So how long have you known this floozy, and is it serious?’

‘We met about six months ago. You’ll like her, Ma. Jenny’s not a floozy, she’s a grand Dale’s lass.’ It was all Mike could do to keep a civil tongue in his
head, faced with his mother’s uncalled-for remarks. He thought the world of Jenny.

‘I’ll be the judge of that. Ask her to come to tea with us tomorrow, and then I can see what I think of her. I’m not having my lads led astray by just anyone.’ With that,
Rose picked up her basket and marched out of the door. She’d soon see what she was made of, this Jenny Burton, the ‘grand Dale’s lass’.

Not a word was said as Mother Pratt climbed into the trap, assisted by John, who was much relieved that he wouldn’t be going with them to Ingleton. Bob, still smarting over his
mother’s refusal to give him a few pennies extra, whipped the team into motion and the cart trundled off up the road with the occupants sitting in awkward silence.

The road was busy, with many of the residents of Batty Green heading off to market or to the Welcome Inn. As they passed the inn it was clear the place was jammed to the rafters with men
spending the wages that Henry Parker had just handed to them. As they continued along the road down Chapel-le-Dale, Lizzie breathed in the smell of peat and flowers wafting on the breeze and gazed
at the curlews and lapwings twisting and diving overhead. She felt awkward in the silence of the trap; she wasn’t part of this family quarrel and she would rather have stopped behind than
have to endure sitting next to the sullen Bob. When they got to the top of the rocky outcrop above Ingleton, the Irish Sea came into view in the distance, glinting in the sunshine, and Lizzie
wished she were on there on a boat, sailing off to another world.

‘Well, Mother, are you going to talk to us or are we supposed to read your thoughts today?’ said Jim as they began the descent into Ingleton. He hoped she’d simmered long
enough and that his words wouldn’t prompt an explosion. When she didn’t reply, Jim lit his pipe, coughed nervously and ventured to add: ‘It had to happen one day, lass. You
can’t keep them under your wings for ever.’

Rose, still seething, shuffled in her seat. ‘Gearstones, Father! Gearstones – of all the places! They sell ale there, you know. A farm lass, I could understand. But a doss-house
owner’s lass? What’s our Mike thinking?’

‘You can’t help who you fall for. Good Lord, I should know,’ sighed Jim as they pulled up outside the Ingleborough Hotel. While Bob held the horses steady, his father hopped
from the cart and slipped his arm around Rose’s waist as he helped her down. ‘Just look who I ended up with – and my mother said you were no good for me. So don’t you be too
quick to judge, Mrs Pratt. If Mike loves her, she’ll not be a bad ’un.’

This failed to mollify Rose, who stood brushing the dust from her clothes, scowling and muttering under her breath.

As if oblivious to his wife’s mood, Jim continued in a cheery tone: ‘Now go and get those ribbons bought for Lizzie here. The pair of you have been talking about it ever since she
came. You might have lost one, Mother, but you’ve gained another with this ’un, eh?’

He gave a broad wink to Lizzie, who smiled, not knowing what to say.

‘We’ll see,’ huffed Rose, finally deigning to respond. ‘I’ll know better after tea tomorrow, when I’ve finally met her.’ She fixed a stern gaze on her
menfolk. ‘Now don’t forget to pick up the flour and paraffin – and mind you don’t get up to anything you shouldn’t, the pair of you. Lizzie and me will meet you back
here at two.’

Wishing she could spend the next few hours with Jim and Bob, Lizzie allowed herself to be steered into the bustling market. Thankfully, the prospect of a couple of hours’ shopping soon
distracted Rose from her bad mood, especially now she had a young protégée to instruct in the art of driving a bargain.

‘Right, young Lizzie, let’s go to the butcher first. A lot of folk go to Ivor Sunters, but not me. I’m fussy about my meat and I reckon nothing of him. I once got some
pig’s trotters off Ivor and by the time I’d got them home, they already smelled bad. We’ll go to Ben Lawson’s. Ben’s always pleasant and he’s reasonable with his
prices – you must remember to tell your mother.’

As soon as they were out of the butcher’s, Rose resumed her monologue, leaving Lizzie with no chance to get a word in as she was dragged through the market. ‘Next we need some
candles and after that I want to buy some cotton, so we’ll get your ribbons then. And after that we can go to the new-fangled teashop that’s just opened. I bet you’d like to sit
in and have one of those fancy cakes before we go home? Lord knows I need something to calm my nerves.’

Their progress was slow, with Rose constantly running into people she knew and stopping to exchange all the latest gossip. Invariably there would be curious glances at Lizzie, which would lead
to whispered questions and explanations until curiosity was satisfied and everyone resumed speaking in a normal voice so that Lizzie could hear. But there was no whispering when they encountered a
small man with dark, slicked-back hair, a sharp nose and rounded ears, who stood surveying Lizzie in a manner that reminded her of an inquisitive rat.

‘Good morning, Reverend Tiplady,’ gushed Rose. ‘And how are you this morning?’

‘A good morning indeed, Mrs Pratt,’ beamed the Reverend. ‘Has the Lord not blessed us with a beautiful day?’

‘Indeed he has.’ Rose was putting on her poshest voice and best manners. ‘Tell me, Reverend, are you visiting us with your missionary brothers?’

‘Yes, we travelled up from Bradford yesterday. As soon as I have attended to the needs of the navigators in Ingleton, I’ll be making my way up the valley to Ribblehead.’ His
dark, beady eyes shifted from Mrs Pratt to Lizzie, peering at her so intently she could have sworn he was reading her every thought. ‘And who might this young lady be? I’ve not seen her
in chapel on any of my visits.’

‘This is Lizzie. She’s staying with us for a while, just until her mother gets back on her feet.’

‘I see. And what is wrong with her mother?’ Reverend Tiplady’s lips twisted into an insincere smile that revealed his black, rotting teeth.

‘She lost her husband and her baby, and I regret to say it but she took to the bottle to drown her grief, poor soul.’

‘Ah, the Devil’s in the drink! He finds our weak spot and tempts us with his evil ways,’ roared the Reverend. Fixing his beady eyes on Lizzie, he added: ‘Take care, Mrs
Pratt, that you’ve not invited him over your threshold.’