by Diane Allen
‘Please, sir, my ma says can you come quickly – my baby brother’s died.’
Doctor Thistlethwaite paused, needle in hand, and turned to face her. Lizzie couldn’t suppress a gasp of horror. The front of his apron was covered in blood.
‘For God’s sake, child, it’s the living I’m bothered about. Can’t you see I’m sewing this man up to stop him from dying?’ He waved a hand at his patient, groaning in agony on the pallet bed. ‘Tell your mother I’ll be over as soon as I can. If the baby’s dead there’s nothing I can do anyway.’ With that he turned away, intent on getting back to his work.
He was interrupted by a tug on his coat.
‘Please, please come and look at my brother. Ma will kill me if I don’t bring you back with—’
There was a curse from the doctor as a jet of blood spurted from the injured man, spattering the walls and ceiling. ‘Now, look what you’ve made me do!’ the doctor roared, desperately trying to staunch the flow.
Two nurses came running from the other end of the ward. While one went to help the doctor, the other grabbed Lizzie by the shoulder, wheeled her around and started to march her out of the ward. The doctor, still focusing on his patient, shouted, ‘Go with her and see if there’s anything that can be done. Tell the mother I’ll be along later today with a death certificate. I suppose it’s been hungered to death.’
It was all the chubby nurse could do to keep up with Lizzie. She puffed and panted behind the girl as she sped homeward, muttering curses all the way. If there was one thing she hated it was having to set foot in the shanties of Batty Green. How these people could bear to live in such conditions, lost in filth and sin, was beyond Nurse Gladys Thompson. No wonder the baby had died, she thought. It was probably best out of the world it had entered.
‘What have you been doing with this, Ma?’ A frown creased John Pratt’s fair mud-streaked brow as he lifted the bottle with the teat still attached to it from next to the fire where he was warming his toes while his mother bustled about making tea. ‘You’ve not fed anything with it, I hope. This is the bottle I keep the rat poison in.’
‘Oh my Lord, it isn’t, is it?’ There was a clatter as Rose Pratt dropped the milk jug, her hand flying to her chest. For a moment she stood frozen in place, blood draining from her face as an image flashed in her mind’s eye: little Lizzie feeding her brother as she sat next to the fire.
‘Where you going, Ma?’ called John, as his mother hurriedly threw on her shawl and bustled out of the front door.
But Rose was too distracted to hear his question. Slamming the door behind her, she set off as fast as her legs would carry her, hurrying along the track in the direction of the Masons’ shanty.
She was almost there when she saw a lamp approaching from the opposite direction. It was the carpenter. Rose slowed down and waited in the shadows; she would prefer not to encounter the man if she could avoid it. She despised the way he profited from others’ misfortunes, doing a roaring trade in shoddily built coffins made of the cheapest wood. Then she realized he was carrying a coffin now. A small one, just big enough for a baby.
Rose clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress a cry of anguish and looked on from the shadows as the carpenter delivered the tiny coffin to the Masons’ hut. When the door opened, Molly Mason’s cries seemed to split the night. Rose turned away, sick with guilt. The next thing she knew, she was back at her own front door, having walked all the way home without realizing what she was doing. But what else could she have done? What could she have said? It was too late to do anything for little Tommy Mason now. Poor mite probably wouldn’t have survived another winter anyway. The way things were going, he’d have died of starvation.
Burying her guilt deep within her, Rose resolved to remain silent. God would forgive her, she told herself. She hadn’t meant to kill the poor little soul, He would know that.
Three days after Tommy’s death his little coffin was carried down the dappled glade to the burial ground. The air was filled with the smell of the wild white garlic and the delicate bluebells that lined the path to the ancient church of St Leonard’s. For centuries the small church had served the dale’s dwindling farming community, but since construction started on the railway it had seen an alarming number of funeral services as the navvy population buried their dead.
Tommy was laid to rest alongside the remains of his father. Lizzie watched as the vicar gave a blessing over the tiny coffin. Then the gravedigger hurriedly filled in the small hole before moving on to the next grave, where mourners wept for the man the doctor had been operating on when Lizzie went to the hospital the night Tommy died.
Numb with grief, Lizzie tried to smile through her tears as members of the community hugged her or squeezed her shoulder, at a loss as to what they might say to comfort her. She wouldn’t have heard them anyway; ever since her brother died it was as if all other sounds had been drowned out by her mother’s cries echoing over and over in her head: What have you done, Lizzie? What have you done to Tommy? He’s not breathing.
While her mother lingered to shake the vicar’s hand and thank him for his blessing, Lizzie wandered on to the bridge. On the river a small bird was hopping about on the mossy wet stones, dipping up and down with a beakful of worms for its young. For a few moments she lost herself, watching its progress, before her mother brought her back to reality by shaking her shoulder.
‘Come on with you,’ she said, her voice hard and devoid of emotion. ‘The Welcome Inn’s put a bit of a tea on in remembrance of Tommy. Any excuse to make money out of us hard-working souls. Still, I shouldn’t complain. They’ve not asked for anything towards it, so we might as well get fed for nothing.’
‘But I don’t want to go in there,’ complained Lizzie. ‘Everyone smells of beer and they talk loud.’
Ignoring her protests, Molly dragged her daughter up the winding path from the church and to the rutted road that led from Ingleton to Ribblehead. It was all Lizzie could do to keep up with her.
When they got to the Welcome Inn and she caught a whiff of the beer and tobacco smoke billowing out from inside, Lizzie sat on the steps and refused to go any further. Molly’s response was to cuff her on the ear and snarl, ‘Now listen here, my girl, if it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t have had to go through that today and I’d still have my son. So shut up and get in here with me.’
Reluctantly, Lizzie let herself be shoved into the dark, low-ceilinged inn. ‘Go sit in the snug,’ ordered Molly. ‘I’m only going to have an odd one and a bite to eat – show my thanks, like – and then we’ll toddle off home. We’ve got to have a wake for our Tommy, it’s expected of us.’
Lizzie did as she was told and took a seat in the corner of the snug. It was a dark spot; even on the brightest summer’s day the sun would never penetrate the thick glass of the windows, which were stained a brownish colour. The inn, a solid squat building of weathered limestone, seemed as old as time itself. Nestling in the lee of the fellside, its thick walls kept out the blasts of freezing wind that blew down the dale, offering the drinkers some respite from the harsh conditions.
Alone and forgotten, Lizzie watched as people came forward to console her mother, buying her drinks in a show of respect. Then the singing began. All other voices in the room fell quiet as one of the gangers sang ‘Danny Boy’ in a lilting Irish accent. After the final verse there was a hush in the inn as the mourners remembered the little soul that they had buried.
‘Are you his sister then? Me mam says I’ve to make sure you get something to eat.’
Lizzie looked up to see a plump girl with red rosy cheeks.
‘Well, are you going to have a bite of something?’
Lizzie shook her head.
Refusing to take no for an answer, the girl continued in her dry Yorkshire accent: ‘It’s no good me and my ma cooking all day if the thinnest one in the bar isn’t having any. Move up a bit and I’ll bring us both a plateful. I’m blinking starving myself. I’ve been rushing about all day, helping o
ut.’
With that the plump figure turned and bustled off through the tall figures of the navvies lining the bar, leaving Lizzie to shuffle deeper into the corner, making space for her new friend.
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.
2
‘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.
