Hannah Watson had been a typical Weardale woman — stocky, hardworking and straight-talking. Her outward appearance was tough, but friendly. She rarely showed affection for her children, being quick to chastise, but that was the way children were brought up in the harsh Durham dales. Her family and her home had been her life. Yes, her mother would have disapproved of the baby, but she would have helped her. Her father was a different matter altogether. Mary didn’t know what kind of reception she would get from him and, now that he was drinking, she couldn’t predict how he would react to her news.
She reached for the door and opened it slowly. Her father was sitting on a cracket by a roaring fire when Mary entered the house. He turned to her and asked, ‘What the hell are you doin’ here? It’s not yer day off, is it? Or have them bastards down there sacked you?’
Mary was shocked to hear George swear. He hardly ever swore at home and never when he thought the children could hear. She looked around and saw that she was alone with him. Annie must have taken the children out to play in the snow.
Mary spotted a bottle on the table; it was almost empty. He had been drinking. Well, that explained his language. Now was probably not a good time to tell him why she had come home, but how could she explain why she was there?
She wasn’t sure how long she had been standing behind the closed door wondering what to say when her father’s glazed eyes looked at her and he said, ‘Well, I’m waiting!’
‘I...I need to tell you something. Please don’t be angry.’
‘Well, what is it? Out with it!’ he said impatiently.
She looked down at her wet boots and said, ‘I’m going to have a baby.’
Mary saw a movement in the corner of her eye as her father leapt up, upsetting the little stool so that it rolled across the flagstone floor.
Mary stepped back just in time and missed the blow her father had meant for her. ‘You dirty whore! Who’s the bastard that did this to you? I’ll kill him,’ George ranted.
He didn’t wait for an answer, ‘You’ve brought shame on this house. Your mother will be turnin’ in her grave. Get out! I don’t ever want to see you again.’ In a low voice, he said, ‘You’re no daughter of mine. You’re nothin’ but a dirty, filthy whore. Now get out!’
He picked up the bottle from the table, drank what was left, and then threw the bottle against the fireplace where it shattered into smithereens. He went over to where the cracket lay, placed it by the fire and took a seat again in silence. He stared into the flames.
Mary opened the door and left just as quietly. She stifled her sobs until she was far enough away from the house so that her father couldn’t hear her. She sat down in the snow and cried.
She hadn’t expected him to welcome her back with open arms, but she hadn’t thought that he would throw her out either — his own daughter. What would happen to her now? Where would she go? She had heard of girls in her condition being put in the workhouse.
The workhouse was feared by everybody. Poor people who were unable to care for themselves or support themselves ended up there — orphans, the elderly, the sick and the unemployed. Some of them were lucky enough to get out again if they were offered a job or if they had relatives who would take them in.
She couldn’t allow her child to be born in the workhouse. There was no way would she let that happen. What could she do?
Mary remembered telling Annie to go to Aunt Lizzie’s if she needed help and she wondered about going there. It was only a couple of miles away. Would she get a better reception there or would she be thrown out again in disgrace? She didn’t have any better ideas, so she dried her face on her sleeve, stood up and set off for The Moss.
***
Tom and Isaac reached Fell Top about midday. There were footprints in the snow, so they knew someone had walked up to the cottage that morning. Tom hoped he would find Mary there. He dismounted and knocked at the door.
‘I told you not to come back, lass. You’re not welcome here.’
Tom called out, ‘Mr Watson, are you there?’
The door opened slightly; the smell of alcohol on George’s breath was unmistakable. ‘Who’s that out there pesterin’ me? Why can’t ya just piss off and leave us alone?’
‘Sorry to bother you, Mr Watson, we’re looking for Mary. Is she here?’
‘No, and I don’t ever want to set eyes on her again.’
‘Have you seen her today?’
‘Who are you? The father. If you’re the father, I’ll kick you from here all the way back down that bloody dale.’
His words made no sense to Tom. He looked at Isaac, who shrugged back at him.
‘Mr Watson, I believe that you’re Mary’s father. Has Mary been here this morning?’
‘Aye, she was here, and I told the bloody whore never to come back.’
Tom remembered Mary talking about her father. She had never said he was a drunk, but then again, who would admit to something like that. Perhaps that was what she meant when she had said her father was ill.
From what George had said, they could assume the footprints to the house were Mary’s and that she had been there that morning. There were three sets of prints going on up the hill; Annie, William and John going out for a walk in the snow, they decided, as one was definitely the footprint of a young child. They followed Mary’s footprints back to the road but, as several horses and people had used it, it wasn’t possible to see which direction she had taken.
Chapter 15
The Moss, Lanehead
February 1873
Mary hadn’t been to The Moss in years, but she still remembered how to get there. As she approached the smallholding, she thought it looked like so many others in Weardale. The brown, stone-built house was set into the hillside, a smoking chimney rose from its stone-flagged roof and a small barn was attached to one side. There was a distinctive smell of peat smoke in the air. The house was surrounded by an almost circular wall and the land inside was divided up: a large area for grazing a cow, a few sheep and a small flock of geese; a hen run for chickens and a garden for growing fruit and vegetables.
Mary saw a lad chopping firewood in front of the barn and said, ‘Hello. Is Aunt Lizzie at home?’
Putting on a man’s deep voice, he asked, ‘Who are you and what do you want?’
‘I’m Mary Watson. You must be Ben. You were just a bairn last time I was here.’
In his normal voice, he shouted, ‘Mother! Mary Watson’s here to see you.’
The door opened and a thin, red-haired lady came out of the house. ‘Mary, what are you doing here? Is everyone alright?’
‘We’re all fine, Aunt Lizzie.’
‘Well, you’d better come in, lass.’
Once inside, Aunt Lizzie noticed Mary’s wet clothes. ‘Take off them wet things and dry them by the fire before you catch your death. Come on, sit here and get warmed through. You’re dothering, lass.’
While Mary took off her top layers and hung them up, Aunt Lizzie made a pot of tea and placed some ginger biscuits on a plate.
‘I’ve not seen you since your mother’s funeral. How’s your father getting on?’
‘He’s not doing very well to be honest. He’s been drinking.’
‘Well I never! George taken to drink! He’s about as Methodist as they come, he is. He’s never touched a drop in his life. My God, he must miss her for him to turn to drink. So that’s why you’ve come to see me, lass. You want me to talk some sense into him. You know, it’s been nearly two years since your Uncle Ben was killed at the mine, and I still miss him every day, but drink doesn’t solve anything, it won’t bring him back.’
Mary warmed her hands on the teacup and reached out for a biscuit. She wolfed it down and got another. ‘By, you’re hungry. Do they not feed you at your new place?’
‘I’ve not had anything today.’
Aunt Lizzie cut a slice of bread, spread some butter and jam on it and handed it to Mary on a plate.
‘You look a bit peaky. Are
you alright?’
‘I’m just cold.’ Mary was still shivering.
‘It’s the Peart’s place you’re at, isn’t it? How’s it going?’
‘I...I left. I had to leave.’
‘Why’s that, then?’
‘Oh, Aunt Lizzie, I don’t know how to tell you.’
‘Straight out’s always the best, I’ve found.’
After her experience telling her father, Mary wasn’t sure about that, but she took her aunt’s advice.
‘I met a lad down there, and I liked him, and I thought he felt the same way about me. I thought he would marry me, but he’s married someone else now. And...and I’m going to have his bairn.’
Aunt Lizzie showed no surprise at Mary’s words, so she continued. ‘I couldn’t stay there, so I went home but...but Father threw me out. He shouted at me, called me names and would have hit me an’ all if I hadn’t moved in time. He’s disowned me — he says he never wants to see me again.’ Mary’s voice trailed off as tears returned to her eyes.
‘Well, well, that’s more like the George Watson I know. Not that he was ever violent, but self-righteous, yes, that’s what he was, wanting everyone around him to do everything right. Life’s not like that lass, as you’re finding out. Things happen, not always of our own doing, but we just have to pick ourselves up and get on with it,’ said Lizzie, obviously reflecting on her own life’s ups and downs. ‘So, you need somewhere to stay then, that’s why you’ve come?’
‘Aye, if that’s alright?’
‘Course it is, lass. That’s what families are for — for helping out when it’s needed.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mary, looking relieved. ‘I was worried I’d end up in the workhouse! I’ll help here. I’ll do anything that needs doing.’
‘I’m sure you will, lass. Don’t worry, it’ll all work out. Things have a way of working out. You can stay here for as long as you need to.’
***
Ben came in as his mother finished speaking. ‘Is Mary staying?’
‘Aye, lad, she’ll be here for a while. Now that you’re going out to work, I could do with a hand seeing to the house and the stock.’
Thinking his mother was having a go at him for leaving her to manage the place on her own, he said, ‘But I had to go to work mother, we’d have lost the house if I didn’t. When Father died, the agent was going to throw us out, remember? He would have an’ all if you hadn’t told him that we could manage to pay the rent between us, with me job down there and you selling stuff from the farm. We did expect our Kate to come back and help you, though.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Lizzie, thinking her son worried far too much for a boy of his age. She didn’t know where Kate was, but she hoped that wherever it was that she was well and happy with her life. She hoped she might have gone to Australia to start a new life, like her brother had twenty years ago. He had gone to find gold and he had done well for himself. His letters had encouraged the rest of the family to follow him, but none of them had gone. They had all stayed in the dale.
‘Could you be a good lad and take them taties down for Ted, please?’ she asked her son. ‘They’re by the back door.’
‘Aye, I’ll take Fly out with me. Come on, boy!’ A lurcher sprang up from the corner of the room. Ben picked up the sack of potatoes and the dog followed him out.
Aunt Lizzie picked up the dishes and carried them to the sink. She turned and watched her niece. She looked so much like her sister Hannah had at that age. Mary was chewing her bottom lip and seemed far away in her thoughts.
Chapter 16
Springbank Farm, Westgate
February 1873
Mr Peart saw the riders coming back up the road to the farm and went to tell his wife that Tom and Isaac were back. When the men reached the yard, the couple had already come out to hear the news. Tom shook his head and jumped off his horse.
‘Come inside and get warmed up and tell us what’s going on.’ The men followed Mrs Peart into the kitchen. ‘Sit yourselves down. You must be hungry. I’ll pour you some broth.’ She ladled broth from a large pan into two bowls and carried them to the table. ‘There now, tuck in.’
Mr Peart asked the question that Mrs Peart had avoided. ‘Well lads, any sign of the lass?’
Isaac replied, ‘Not really. Well, we know she went home to her father’s place this morning, but she had left by the time we got there. Mr Watson was drunk and talking a load of rubbish. He didn’t know where she’d gone.’
‘Lord knows why the lass didn’t stay there? Or here, for that matter? The silly thing, going out in this weather.’ Mrs Peart sighed.
‘We didn’t know where else to look. Nobody we met on the road had seen her.’
Mr Peart said, ‘Maybe you should let Robert know what’s going on. She’s not exactly missing if she went home, but we don’t know where she is.’
The men finished their meal and then rode down to the village to find the constable, who they discovered sitting in ‘The Half Moon’ drinking ale.
‘Good evening, lads. Too cold to wander the streets tonight, isn’t it? What are you drinking?’
‘We’ve come to talk to you. There’s something you should know. But we can have a small one while we’re here,’ said Isaac. The innkeeper brought over their drinks and put them down on the table.
The two men sat down next to the policeman. Tom said, ‘Mary Watson, the girl who works for Mr Peart, is missing. She left the house yesterday afternoon. We know she went home to Fell Top at Killhope sometime this morning, but her father doesn’t know where she went after that. He didn’t say very much really — not that made sense anyway. The Pearts are obviously worried. They don’t know why she left and they don’t know where she is.’
‘I see. So, we have a missing person. It’s been a long time since we had a missing person enquiry. If I remember right, the last one had gone off to Canada. Wrote a letter home and told his family where he was. There was another one, long time ago, that was found floating down the river. Dunno if he did himself in or if he’d fallen in and drowned.’
‘That’s enough,’ said Isaac. ‘We all care for the lass and want to know she’s safe. Will you keep an eye out for her, and let us know if you find out where she is?’
‘Aye, of course I will. I wouldn’t like to see her come to any harm. I think there’s some relations of her mother live near Fell Top. Now what did they call them? Featherstone. The fella got killed in the mine. You must have known him, Tom.’
‘You mean Ben Featherstone?’
‘Aye, that’s him. His widow and Mary’s mother were sisters. So that makes Lizzie Featherstone Mary’s aunt. Maybe she went there. That’s where I’d try.’
Tom, impressed by the policeman’s local knowledge, said, ‘The Featherstones live up at The Moss. I’ll ride up there in the morning.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Isaac. ‘I’d like to know that the lass is safe.’
They finished their drinks and went their separate ways.
Isaac and Tom met in Westgate early the next morning, their breaths visible in the cold air. Yesterday’s slush had frozen overnight making the roads treacherous. They walked their horses in single file on the grassy verge and it took much longer to reach The Moss than Tom had expected.
When they reached the smallholding, the door opened slightly, and Ben peered through the gap. ‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Hello, I’m Tom Milburn, from Westgate. I’ve come to ask if you’ve seen Mary Watson — or if she’s been here.’
‘Yes, she’s been here. She’s staying with us. Do you want to see her?’
A voice from inside the house said, ‘Who’s that asking about Mary?’ A woman pulled the door open, so she could see the visitors.
‘Hello, Mrs Featherstone. I’m Tom Milburn, from the farm next to the Pearts, and this is Isaac Rowell who works for them. We’re just checking that Mary’s alright. Everyone’s worried about her.’
‘Ben, go and check on the cow.’
‘I’ve already done …’
‘Just go!’
The boy ran off to the barn, followed by his dog.
‘You’ve got a nerve coming here. Which one of you was it?’ Lizzie looked at them in turn, but could see that neither of them knew what she was talking about.
‘So, she didn’t tell you she was having a bairn.’
Tom was shocked, and he could see that Isaac was too. That explained why Mary had left, he thought, but who on earth was the father?
Isaac asked the question that was on Tom’s mind. ‘Who’s the father?’
‘You mean it’s not one of you?’
They looked at each other and both said, ‘No.’
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