For a Mother's Sins

by Diane Allen

  ‘Aye, but they’re going to be even more upset when they find out they’re going to be grandparents. Our Mike’s gone and got Jenny in the family way. That’s why everything’s happened so fast – the poor lad’s over a barrel. Either he marries Jenny and upsets our lot. Or he drags his heels and gets the living daylights kicked out of him by her brothers. Either way, I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.’ John took a long slurp of tea.

  ‘Well, at least he’s thinking of the baby. All the same, he should tell your parents. I’m sure they’d understand. In fact, I bet your mother can’t wait to be a grandmother. Children always bring families together.’ Molly couldn’t help blushing as she caught John’s blue eyes studying her.

  ‘You don’t know them like I do. My mam’ll be preaching about how he’ll burn in hell for the pleasures of the flesh. Poor bugger, he’s been caught out good and proper.’ John set down his cup and gazed around the hut, taking in the sparseness of the furnishings and lack of decoration. ‘Do you want me to put a pot rail up for you? Then you can hang all your cups up, like at Ma’s.’

  ‘That’d be grand, if you’ve got the time. I’ve always wanted a Welsh dresser but I’ve never been able to afford one. A pot rail would be the next best thing,’ said Molly.

  ‘Right, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll try to come over one night next week,’ said John, suddenly conscious that this was a woman his mother had called wanton, not to mention a few other things. He got to his feet, eager to be away. ‘You’ll not say anything about our Mike, will you? Best let him get married in peace. They’ll all come round soon enough once they know there’s a baby involved.’

  ‘I’ll not say a word.’ Molly opened the door for him. ‘And thanks for the offer of a shelf, that’ll be most useful.’

  John tugged his cap and set off for home, a spring in his step.

  Molly closed the door behind him and picked up the two dirty cups. It had been good to have a bit of male company. Already she was looking forward to his return. As she did the washing up she found herself humming, stopping in her tracks at the realization. Her heart hadn’t felt this light in a long time.

  ‘Lizzie, be a love and pop outside for a minute, I want a word with our John.’

  Lizzie, who’d been sitting at the kitchen table, polishing the brass pans, wiped her hands and obediently made her way out. Curious as to why Rose suddenly wanted her out of the way, having made her way outside she immediately sat down beneath the open window to eavesdrop on the conversation.

  ‘Now, our John, what’s going on? It should have taken you five minutes to deliver that bed, not an hour. I don’t want you getting too familiar with that Mason woman. You know she’s not our sort. I’ve enough on, what with watching our Mike. I don’t need to be wondering what you’re getting up to as well.’

  ‘Mother, she made me a cup of tea and we exchanged pleasantries, that’s all. For the love of God, get off my back. You’ve more to bother about than me.’ John was fuming. He’d had enough of being tied to his mother’s apron strings, never being allowed out of her sight except to earn money or do her chores. Truth be told, he was also feeling guilty about his attraction to Molly Mason.

  ‘Aye, I’ve your stupid brother to bother about. And I don’t want to see you going down the same road.’

  ‘It’ll be a cold day in hell before I get married and become a father,’ he lashed out.

  ‘What do you mean get married – who’s getting married? Is our Mike getting married? Is she in the family way?’ Rose’s voice was becoming louder. ‘John, tell me – is that what’s going on?’

  ‘Aye,’ mumbled John, cursing himself for letting his brother’s secret out. ‘He’s getting married on Sunday. And she’s expecting. That’s why he left – he’d no option.’

  Rose let out a wail. Her lad was getting married and she knew nowt about it. And she was to be a grandmother! A baby, a wedding – why hadn’t the vicar told her about the banns being read. Surely even in this heathen hole they had to be read three Sundays in a row? She’d have to have words with that boy of hers, but in the meantime there was a wedding to prepare for. The baby made all the difference. At least her lad was doing the decent thing, but he should have told her. A wave of mixed emotions washed over her and a faint smile came on her lips at the thought of a new life coming into the world.

  ‘Go and get the horse and trap, John – and be quick about it. I want you to take me to Gearstones.’

  Angrier with himself than ever, John slapped his flat cap across his knee and cursed under his breath. His mother had hurried across the room and was now on her knees, rummaging under her bed for something. ‘You’ll not cause any bother, will you, Ma?’ John pleaded. ‘Promise me you won’t.’

  ‘What do you think I am!’ said Rose, indignant. ‘I didn’t know I was going to be a grandmother. This changes everything, no matter who or what she is.’ She got up from her knees, the family money box in her hands. ‘He’ll need his cut if he’s going to give that bairn the start-off it should have in life. I’ll not let the little mite end up like poor Tommy Mason.’ Opening the box, she removed the linen bag with Mike’s name written on it and put it in her pocket. ‘He can count us in for this wedding and all. I’m not missing one of my lads getting married. Tell Lizzie to come back in and finish these pans and to put us a bit of supper on for when we come back. Go on, get a move on, don’t stand gawping like a big lump.’

  John closed the door behind him, still shaking his head at the turn of events. He was dreading his mother entering Gearstones. Even hardened navvies gave the place a wide berth; it was an unsavoury neighbourhood and definitely not the kind of place his mother was used to. He only hoped that on their arrival they would find Mike and his bride-to-be in the big house where her family lived and not the doss-house where they made their money. He wouldn’t put it past Mike to make out that was where they were going to live, purely to have his revenge. He knew that his mother would keep well away from that den of drunken lechery.

  Spotting Lizzie sitting under the window, he told her: ‘Ma says you can go in now.’ And then, realizing that she was in a position to have heard everything that had been said, he added, ‘Don’t take any notice of Mam. Your mother’s a grand woman.’

  Lizzie kept her face turned away so he wouldn’t see her tears. It had hurt to hear Rose declare that her mother was not one of their sort. She’d barely heard a word that followed, her mind was in such turmoil. If Lizzie’s mother wasn’t their sort, what did that make her? No matter how long she stopped with the Pratts, she’d never be one of them. Come to think of it, she really didn’t want to be one of them. As soon as she could, she was going home. She could still help out doing chores for Ma Pratt, but she’d move back in with her mother. After all, Molly was back to normal and probably missing her company.

  ‘Never in all my days have I seen such a place! Not one person was sober, the language was fearful, and as for her father . . . Well! He’s the roughest man I’ve ever come across. I told our Mike he’d be better off getting a navvy hut from the Midland. At least then the baby would be brought up clean.’

  Rose was in a state of high dudgeon by the time she got home. As the rest of the family pulled pillows over their heads in an effort to shut out her ranting, Jim lay in the bed beside her waiting for a chance to get a word in.

  ‘You should have seen the dust, Father! I came out itching all over. The place was lousy. I can’t bear to think of my lad living in that muck and filth. Why, if we didn’t have Lizzie stopping with us, happen they could move in here.’

  Finally seeing an opening, Jim ventured an opinion: ‘And how long do you think that’d last? Mike’s got to be his own man. He’s got responsibilities, and his bride’ll not take kindly to you interfering, Mother.’

  Rose, who’d not listened to a word he’d said, continued: ‘I’ll have a word with him tomorrow. They’ll need all the help they can get. You always do, with your first one. And then I’ll sort it with Lizzie and h
er mother.’

  ‘Do what you want, woman,’ sighed Jim, rolling on to his side. ‘I’m off to sleep. Some of us have to work in the morning.’

  Lizzie, too, turned in her bed. This would definitely be her last night in this house. Clearly she was no longer wanted here.

  7

  Rose watched as Lizzie made her way to her mother’s hut. She had been so thankful when the girl had suddenly announced in the middle of breakfast that she wanted to go home, it was all she could do not to let out a great sigh of relief. It wasn’t that Lizzie wasn’t wanted – her help would be needed more than ever when the baby was born, so that shilling a month would turn out to be a good investment – but they simply didn’t have room for her.

  The hut was empty when Lizzie arrived. She knew that Molly left early to go to her job in the hospital, and she’d planned to prepare a nice surprise for her to come home to. Rose had agreed to give her the day off so she could clean her mother’s place from top to bottom, but the place was spotless. At a loss, Lizzie sat next to the stove and gazed around the room, wondering what to do. Finally she came to the conclusion that she might as well make the most of her day off and have a wander down the dale. What with all the upset the other day, she never had made it down to Nether Hall to sit on the bridge and take in the view of the valley.

  Cheered by the prospect, Lizzie set off. The sun hadn’t stopped shining this past week, allowing work on the viaduct to progress without the constant delays caused by rain and wind and fog. The scaffolding had gradually been extended until it spread right along the valley floor. The huge man-made embankments were growing too, ascending from the boggy land at the base of the fell like a huge black snake weaving its way up towards the dark empty hole of Blea Moor tunnel.

  The railway had brought in more workers and new shantytowns had sprung up to accommodate them. On the far side of the viaduct was Sebastopol; a little further along was Jericho; while Jerusalem, the collection of huts that housed the tunnel diggers, was located right next to the tunnel entrance. It was easy to spot the men who worked the tunnel because they wore tighter breeches than ordinary labourers, enabling them to run unhindered when they set the explosives.

  To the south, the line was almost complete. Workmen were now building the station house and a row of workmen’s dwellings that had been given the name Salt Lake Cottages. Lizzie thought how grand it would be to live in one of those cottages. She tried to picture herself gazing out of a window overlooking the Ribble Valley. There was nothing she would like better than to wake every morning to the mountainous flanks of Pen-y-ghent every morning.

  ‘Hey, what you up to?’ a voice called as Lizzie walked down the track to Horton village. Lizzie didn’t turn around. She knew that voice.

  ‘Don’t you talk to me, Florrie Parker. I’m having nothing more to do with you.’

  ‘Come on, you’re all right. You’re still here, aren’t you?’ Florrie tried to catch her up, but Lizzie kept her head down and strode on as fast as she could, not wanting to have anything to do with her.

  Florrie grabbed her arm and pulled her to a halt. ‘Wait a minute, Lizzie, I want to say sorry. I didn’t mean to get you into trouble.’

  Lizzie turned, intending to give Florrie a piece of her mind, but instead she gasped in horror, her anger forgotten as she took in the damage to her friend’s face. One eye was all swollen and black and blue, making it hard for Florrie to see out of it, and her nose appeared to have been broken. ‘My God, Florrie, what have you been up to?’

  ‘Oh this? Just an “accident”, as my mother would say. In truth, I got in the way of my mum and dad arguing. I should have known better really. It happens that often.’

  ‘Your dad did this?’ Lizzie was horrified. Her father would never have raised a hand to her or her mother. ‘But that’s terrible. A man shouldn’t hit a woman.’

  ‘You try telling him that when he’s in one of his moods. He doesn’t understand that my mother only flirts with customers to get them to spend their money. Dad gets jealous, uses his fists and then feels guilty afterwards.’ Florrie looked at Lizzie with her half-closed eye.

  ‘Have you been to see the doctor? My ma works at the hospital now. We can turn around and go see her – she’ll sort you out.’

  ‘Nah, doctors cost money. Besides, I’ll be all right, it’s only a knock. Looks worse than it is.’ Florrie smiled. ‘So are we friends, then? Good.’ She turned to head homewards. ‘Got to go back – I’m supposed to be helping out in the kitchen. Don’t want them to notice I’m missing, else I’ll end up with another to match the other.’ She smiled, showing that she had also sustained a chipped front tooth.

  ‘Friends!’ called Lizzie. ‘And just you mind what you’re doing.’ She didn’t have the heart not to accept Florrie’s offer of friendship, not now she’d seen how her father treated her. Poor thing, no wonder she was so wild. The Welcome Inn seemed anything but welcoming: Florrie obviously had no home life, no guiding light in her life. Lizzie smiled at the memory of her own father, the nights when he’d come home and sit her on his knee and sing to her while her mother made supper. She’d always felt so safe with his arms wrapped around her, knowing that he would never let anyone or anything hurt her. He might be dead now, but at least she would always have the warm glow of his memory in her heart, whereas Florrie would always carry with her the legacy of her father’s fists. Poor Florrie. Lizzie vowed she’d stand by her friend, no matter what.

  Deep in thought, she wandered on down the track to Nether Hall. The once-grand house was now in a state of decay, its mullion windows covered with ivy and the masonry crumbling and in need of repair. Lizzie tried to imagine all the grand balls and soirees that would have taken place in the building’s heyday. Nights when the ladies and lords of Ribblesdale and the surrounding area would have pulled up in their horse-drawn carriages, dressed in all their finery. It must have been quite a sight.

  She walked on through the yard and down to the widening stream of the River Ribble, until she found a spot where she could sit admiring the view, which extended all the way down the valley, and breathing in the clear peaty air of the Yorkshire fells. Sand martins swooped and glided above the lapping waters, catching flies to feed their young, who waited, screeching hungrily, in nesting holes burrowed into the sandy riverbanks.

  Lizzie leaned back and enjoyed the sun’s rays. Winter in the fells was hard. The river froze over and everything was buried in deep layers of snow. It was so bitterly cold that your breath froze whenever you ventured outside and drifts of snow built up against the hut, making it difficult to open the door. Last winter it had been so cold that she’d thought they would all freeze to death in their sleep. But she had survived. And now the sun was shining and she was taking advantage of her day off.

  Molly’s eyes followed Doctor Thistlethwaite as he moved from bed to bed, doing his rounds. She’d forgotten all about the patient she was supposed to be writing a letter for.

  ‘Are you listening to me?’ The Irish accent of the railway’s latest victim brought her back to the present. ‘Have you written down what I said?’

  ‘Sorry, I got distracted. Now what did you say?’ Molly put pen to paper and finished the letter to his loved ones back in Ireland, telling them of his plight. But her thoughts remained with Roger Thistlethwaite. His manner could be abrupt at times, and she’d always thought that he didn’t care about his patients, that he had more in common with a horse doctor than a professional medic. Watching him at work these last few days, she realized that her assessment of him couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  ‘If you’ve finished that, Mrs Mason, the chamber pots need emptying. Please do it at once.’ Starchy Drawers, as Molly now thought of her, marched past, nose in the air as usual.

  ‘God, she’s a snooty one!’ The Irishman laughed. ‘Go on now, best know your place. She’ll not be emptying chamber pots – that’s far too lowly a job for herself.’ He winked as Molly rose to tackle the chore nobody else wa
nted.

  ‘I’d like to empty one over her head,’ Molly whispered, making him roar with laughter.

  ‘Go on, girl, get them pots emptied!’

  A broad grin on her face, Molly walked to the end of the hut to collect the slop bucket. On the way, she passed Doctor Thistlethwaite, who was making notes about his last patient. He paused in his work to peer over his spectacles at her.

  ‘And how are you today, Mrs Mason? I must say, the patients have taken a great liking to you. They tell me you are very kind to them.’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. Bill Beecroft seems to be making a good recovery.’ Molly still felt a little queasy when she thought back to her first experience of surgery. She hoped she would make as good a recovery as the patient.

  ‘Yes, we might have looked like we were butchering him at the time, but believe me it was the only way to save his life. Are you enjoying your work here?’

  Molly paused, struck by the eyes that were peering enquiringly at her. She’d never noticed what an unusual colour they were, a sort of rich almond shade. In fact, she realized that she’d never paid him much attention at all until this moment. It struck her that he was actually quite an attractive man.

  ‘Yes, I am enjoying the work,’ she replied, trying to play down her West Yorkshire accent. ‘I find it quite rewarding. I go home tired, but that’s to be expected, I suppose. I’m sure it will get easier as the days progress.’

  ‘Good, I’m glad. You’re an asset to the team.’ And with that Doctor Thistlethwaite put his head down and continued writing.

  As she set about emptying the chamber pots, Molly told herself it might be a mucky job but it was worth it to have those almond eyes smile at her and to hear his words of approval.

  Who knew, she might yet give Starchy Drawers a run for her money.

  ‘What are you doing here, pet?’ said Molly, surprised to find her home occupied by Lizzie. There was a welcoming smell of stew wafting from a pan on the stove; Lizzie had just taken the lid off to give it a stir when her mother walked in.