Ghosts of Yorkshire

by Karen Perkins

  ‘Lizzie?’

  ‘She’s hurt too. Her hand. Getting Betty out. Ain’t spoken since.’ Harry didn’t see who had spoken, his full attention was on the two before him.

  ‘Betty?’

  ‘Aye, Betty Butterworth.’

  Harry recognised the dress then, the poor lass was Martha’s friend, Sarah’s girl. Eight years old.

  ‘Lizzie,’ Harry said again and this time thought he saw a glimmer of recognition in her eyes. ‘Lizzie, it’s me, Harry. Give Betty to me, I’ll look after her.’

  ‘It’s all right, Lizzie,’ Emily said from beside him, and Harry looked at her in relief. She’d know what to do.

  He bent to take Betty from Lizzie, and gasped at the state of Lizzie’s hand. The mule had crushed it as she’d tried to get Betty out. He couldn’t look at Betty, or what was left of her. Even her mother won’t recognise her, he thought with dismay. Only the dress, the one she’d made herself and were so proud of, told of her identity now.

  ‘I’ll take care of Lizzie, Harry,’ Emily said.

  Harry nodded, stood, and turned to see Martha and Sarah at the front of the crowd of bootless men and women. Sarah stared at Harry. She must have heard, but hadn’t taken note yet.

  ‘Sarah,’ Harry said. ‘Best thee don’t look, love.’

  ‘No.’ The word was quiet, desperate, and she collapsed against Martha. Harry met Martha’s eyes and knew she was thinking the exact same thing he was.

  Thank God Edna don’t have to do this work.

  ‘Give her to me.’ Robert Butterworth ignored his wife as he pushed past her, making both Sarah and Martha stumble in his wake.

  He glared at Harry, who stared back. He saw no compassion in Butterworth’s face and wondered how deep it was buried. Too many in this village had simply lost too much.

  He took his daughter, and Harry noticed his hands shook. But he showed no other sign of his distress. The villagers parted to let him through, and Sarah and Martha followed, Martha’s stick thumping a funereal tattoo as they went.

  Harry turned back to Lizzie and Emily, and knelt back down beside them.

  ‘How bad is it?’

  Emily didn’t look up at him, but carried on her work. She’d torn strips from her petticoat, but didn’t even blush as she did so. ‘Don’t tell Papa, he can’t afford another, and I don’t need it, not really.’

  Harry smiled at her, then flinched at a particularly loud thump from Martha’s stick at the other end of the mill floor. ‘How bad?’ he asked again.

  ‘It ain’t going to be much use no more,’ Lizzie said, staring at the misshapen clump on the end of her wrist. She screamed as Emily wrapped one of the lengths of cotton around it.

  ‘Sorry Lizzie, we’ve got to stem the bleeding. Doctor Ingram’s on his way, he’ll set the bones and do what he can for thee. He’ll give thee summat for the pain too.’

  ‘It’ll have to be downstairs,’ Bart said. ‘Need to clear the floor; get machines up and running again.’

  ‘You can’t be serious!’ Harry looked up at him, then noticed a child even younger than Betty scrubbing the blood away from the spinning mule.

  ‘Make sure thee gets into all them cracks and crannies,’ Bart directed the boy. ‘We don’t want no blood on new yarn.’

  He looked back at Harry and shrugged. ‘Mill got to run, Harry. Mill got to run.’

  Harry nodded. He had to look after Lizzie now, and Bart weren’t the problem here, the Rooks were. If anyone were going to take them on, they’d need to think it through first.

  ***

  Harry opened the door to the Black Bull and a riotous fug of shouts and odours assaulted him. He smiled ruefully; after tending to Lizzie all day, and quieting Martha’s fears about Emily once more, he had hoped for a quiet drink. That was clearly not to be.

  A slap on his shoulder sent him reeling towards the bar and he ordered ale, then tried to make sense of the arguments. Big Bart seemed to be taking the brunt of the men’s tempers, and Harry made his way through the throng of his neighbours, all of whom seemed to hold the overlooker responsible for today’s disaster.

  ‘There were nowt I could do,’ Big Bart said, his roar easily heard over the din. ‘It all happened in a second. Everything were well, and then, then ...’

  Harry stood before him and placed his hand on Bart’s shaking shoulder.

  ‘And then what?’ A new voice was raised. A strident voice, full of grief and anger, which silenced the pub. ‘Then your mule crushed the head of my little girl. My little Betty. We’ve none left now. No more Butterworths. All gone. Taken. By your damnable machinery!’

  Bart looked Robert Butterworth in the eye and calmed. ‘Thee sent her to work there.’

  ‘What did thee say?’

  ‘Thee heard. I do me best for them lasses, whatever age they are when they’re sent out to work. She were too young to be on mill floor, and thee knew it, but thee’d had her working there ower a year already.’

  Men stepped back, leaving the way clear for the two men squaring up to each other.

  Harry moved between them. Robert Butterworth wasn’t soft, but he was no match for Bart; and no amount of fury would give him enough strength to hurt the overlooker. If he tried, Bart would fight. He needed to hit out. And Bart would beat the living daylights out of the man, grieving father or no.

  ‘Move aside, Harry.’

  ‘No. This is not the answer. This does not honour any of the mill youngsters.’

  ‘Too right,’ Will Sugden, the innkeeper of the Black Bull, put in. ‘Take it outside or drown it in ale, them’s thy choices.’

  ‘They’ll drown it in ale, on my tab, Will.’

  As one, the men of Haworth turned to the man who had walked into the middle of this. Zemeraim Rook, his father and brother at his shoulders.

  ‘I mean it. Tonight’s ale is on the Rooks. Tonight we commiserate, we remember, and we talk. Tomorrow we take steps to stop this happening again.’

  ‘And how does thee intend to do that?’ Butterworth sneered.

  ‘We’ll enforce the twelve-hour rule, there’ll be no more exceptions, no matter how much you plead for more hours for pay. No woman or child will work more than that per day. And they’ll take an hour and a half of rest during the day.’

  ‘It’s still twelve hours though! What about the ten-hour rule?

  ‘Aye, it is, but only nine on Sundays. There’s a new act going through Parliament as we speak, which means machinery will soon have to be fenced in, and we’ve already started on that. As for the ten-hour rule, we’ll have to see what Parliament says about that in time.’

  ‘Too late for my Betty,’ Butterworth snarled as he stepped up to Zem Rook. ‘Eight year old and her life crushed out of her.’

  To his credit, Zem did not flinch, even when the spittle from Butterworth’s words hit his cheek. ‘Eight, Mr Butterworth? You insisted she was nine when she started with us last year. You know full well children under nine should not be on our workforce.’

  ‘Thee knew damn well she were seven when she started, just like most of others crawling under thy machinery.’

  ‘I distinctly remembering asking you to swear to her age of nine. I have your thumbprint on her record of work to prove it.’

  Men shuffled away, eager to drown the truth in free ale. They all knew the law that forbade anyone eight or younger from working. But they also knew that births had only been registered since the queen came to the throne. No one over the age of six had a birth certificate, and when it came to feeding too many mouths on not enough coin, the Butterworths were not the only family in Haworth who had claimed their daughter to be ‘small for her age’. Most of the men now guzzling their ale had done the same thing, and their shame was beginning to overcome their sympathy.

  Butterworth looked around at them, recognising he would get no further. He looked back at Bart who stepped up to him, placed his brawny hands on the smaller man’s shoulders, and said, ‘I did all I could. Thee did all thee could. We ca
n do no more. Come, drink with me.’

  Friends once more, the two men turned to the bar, where a space was cleared for them. They sat on a couple of upturned casks and were handed tankards of best porter. Those tankards would not be empty until both men were passed out on the filthy floor; sorrows well and truly drowned. At least for the night.

  Harry turned to the Rooks, just as they were about to leave. ‘There is more that can be done.’

  Zem met his gaze and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Making life easier in mill is one thing, but what about at home?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Thy weavers and woolcombers. Does thee know how many men, women and children are crammed into them cottages thee rents out? Most of space is given over to looms and the woolcombers’ charcoal fires. As thy mill grows, so does thy workforce. They all need to live somewhere. I bet fewer would be taken by smallpox and the other plagues if they weren’t so crowded in. That’s what Reverend says, anyroad.’

  Zem regarded Harry for a moment, then looked around the room, sensing the charge in the atmosphere, before turning to his father and brother. Harry could not hear what was said, but could see they had a decision when Zem turned back to face the room, head high.

  ‘What do you have in mind, Mr Sutcliffe?’

  ‘The site of the old woolcomber’s shed, the one that burned down a few years ago, next to Weaver’s Row. I can build thee four cottages on that scrap of land. And me family needs the extra work now that Lizzie’s hand were maimed in that machine of thine.’

  Zem nodded. ‘We’ll give thought to where else to build.’ As one, all three Rooks bowed their heads once, exited the Black Bull, then replaced their top hats for the short walk to their carriage.

  10.

  Martha dipped her rag into the water bowl beside her, wrung it out and put the cooled fabric to her daughter’s brow. She stroked Edna’s cheek, whispering encouragement to the eight-year-old. ‘Come on, lass, look at thy ma, let me see them beautiful eyes of thine.’

  She dripped water on to Edna’s lips in the hope that some drops would find their way into the girl’s mouth, but there was no response, and tears filled Martha’s eyes as she looked down at her daughter. Wrinkled, blue-grey skin and dark circles around her eyes, hot to the touch, and heart beating double time, there was no mistaking the signs of the cholera. Half the village was down with it.

  Edna groaned as cramps took hold of her again and expelled what little sustenance, and liquid, remained in the small body.

  ‘Doctor Ingram’s with the Rooks,’ Harry said from the doorway, and Martha jumped. ‘Whole village is suffering; there are so many shutters closed on Main Street, it’s heartbreaking.’

  Martha looked at him and said nothing, then turned back to her daughter. There was nothing to say.

  ‘I’ll go get Emily, mebbe she can help.’

  ***

  ‘She’s here again, that ruddy basket over her arm,’ Sarah announced as she entered Lizzie’s cottage on Weaver’s Row.

  ‘What, Emily? Where is she?’ Martha paused, turning away from Lizzie and dropping her cloth into the bowl of cool, murky water.

  ‘Where do you think? Talking to thy Harry.’

  Martha’s colour rose. Since Edna had died, she had spent most of her time with Lizzie, looking after her and her husband Thomas, and Sarah had taken to coming to help. It was no secret that since Betty’s death, Robert had been finding comfort in arms other than his wife’s and she could not bear to stay home in an empty house.

  ‘I wish he’d never suggested building them cottages. She’s there every ruddy day, and he laps it up!’

  ‘Thee’ll have to watch him better, Martha. Thee knows what men are like.’

  ‘Not our Harry,’ Lizzie croaked. ‘Not him.’

  Martha wrung the cloth out, and stroked her sister-in-law’s burning face. ‘Hush now, Lizzie, keep thy strength.’

  ‘He’s a good man is Harry,’ Lizzie whispered before sinking back into sleep.

  ‘Martha.’

  She looked up at Sarah, who had gone to check on Thomas. Heart sinking, she struggled to her feet and crossed the small room to Thomas’s bed as Sarah passed her hand over his face to shut his unseeing eyes.

  Martha sighed. ‘I’ll go tell Harry. He can sort coffin boards out while we lay him out. Will thee watch Little Thomas while I’m gone?’

  ‘Aye. They’ll be running out of ground in that churchyard at this rate.’

  Sarah got to her feet, and closed the shutters, then she checked on Lizzie again, before making her way to the kitchen to search out black ribbon; it would be needed for the family to wear, and to cover the doorknob to warn visitors. She’d make a wreath for the front door as well from laurel and yew, and wind the ribbon around that. She couldn’t collect the greenery yet, though, first she needed to ensure there would only be the one wreath to make.

  ***

  ‘It seems I only see thee when there’s a funeral on these days, Martha,’ Harry said as he watched his wife dress their remaining child, Little Thomas, in his Sunday best.

  ‘Aye, well.’

  ‘I thought I’d be seeing more of thee while I were working on them new cottages, what with thee spending so much time at Lizzie’s.’

  ‘Aye well, her brood keep us busy, especially with her only having one hand.’

  ‘But Sarah seems to be there every day too, can she not do more?’

  ‘Thee spends thy time talking with thy friends, I’ll spend my time with me own.’

  Harry stared at her, then understood. ‘Not this again. Emily is a friend, no more. If thee don’t believe it of me, thee should believe it of her.’

  ‘Hmph.’

  ‘Martha, please, not again, I don’t know what else to tell thee. There’s nowt going on, all she does is pass the time of day.’

  ‘Several times a day from what I hear.’

  ‘Martha!’

  She stopped what she was doing as Harry raised his voice, and sent Little Thomas waddling out of the room, then stood to face her husband, her face set.’

  ‘Not today. Not when I’m burying me daughter and me brother. Just give it a rest, will thee?’

  Martha said naught, but her eyes prickled as she watched her husband give up on her and go to find his son.

  She followed them down the stairs to the front parlour where Thomas and Edna were laid out ready for the funeral.

  ‘It’s right that he’s here,’ Harry said. ‘I know it’s more work for thee, Martha, but Lizzie couldn’t have coped well on her own.’

  ‘I’d have managed fine, Harry,’ Lizzie said from the door.

  He sighed and turned to deal with the living. ‘It weren’t a disservice, Lizzie, I know thee’d have managed, I just want to make it easier for thee, that’s all. Thee’s me brother’s widow, he’d want me to look after thee.’

  Lizzie softened as her gaze went to her husband’s coffin, three times the size of Edna’s. ‘Aye, I know, Harry, and I thank thee for that. There ain’t many folk who’d take on a crippled widow and her brood.’ She raised her gloved stump of a hand.

  ‘Stop talking of thysen like that,’ Martha scolded. ‘Thee’s got another hand, and it ain’t slowing thee down much.’

  ‘That’s true enough.’ Lizzie crossed the room, and strewed more flowers in both coffins. ‘They look peaceful don’t they? As if they’re sleeping.’

  ‘Aye. Harry’s had a photograph took of ’em. They won’t be forgot.’

  Lizzie nodded.

  ‘Reet then, is there anything else that needs doing afore the parson gets here?’ Harry asked.

  Martha and Lizzie examined the room: the coffins were placed against the back wall, draped in black and white ribbon with a multitude of flowers; and as many chairs as could be crammed into the room were arranged in rows. ‘No, we’re ready,’ Martha said, with a nod from Lizzie.

  Harry grimaced, nodded and strode to the front door to prop it open for their guests and allow them
to view Thomas and Edna before the service began.

  ***

  Harry, Martha and Lizzie followed the parson and pallbearers past their friends and neighbours, and out into the sunshine. All three were numb, and barely aware of the service they had just sat through to commemorate their lost family.

  The youngsters: Georgie, Little Thomas, and Stephen followed behind, pleased to be out in the fresh air again instead of the stuffy room, and leading the rest of the mourners out of the house and down Church Lane.

  From the back of the procession, the large pine box and smaller white casket seemed to be moving on a sea of black crêpe and ribbon. At the gate, only those closest to Thomas and Edna entered the churchyard, everybody else continued to the King’s Arms to make a start on the ale and food that Harry was laying on for them.

  The family, plus Sarah and one or two other close friends gathered around the Sutcliffe family grave as Reverend Brontë began the rite of committal.

  Harry stared at the elaborate memorial stone he had carved after Baby John’s death five years before. Elaborate scrolls and a frieze carved around the edge, he’d also carved a statue of a young child into one of the supports that would carry the altar stone. He had a second one to put into place when they replaced the stone. Harry stared at the names already on there, and gulped as he remembered carving Edna’s name two days before in preparation.

  He had thought himself hardened to it by now; he’d carved so many of his friends’ names, and their children’s as well as his own kin, but none had been as hard as carving his daughter’s.

  He caught the hand of Little Thomas, his sole surviving child, and was pleased to feel Martha’s hand creep into his other, then realised Lizzie clasped Martha’s free hand. Their numbers may be diminished, but they were family, and they would make the best of the days to come; together.

  11.

  ‘How’s our Mary doing?’ Lizzie asked.

  ‘Thee could at least let me in and sit down afore thee grills me,’ Martha grumbled.

  Lizzie stepped back to allow her friend to clump past her into the kitchen and settle down in the most comfortable chair.