by Diane Allen
Throwing her apron over the back of the chair, Molly sat herself down, kicked her shoes off and began rubbing her weary feet. ‘Aye, I’m fair jiggered.’
‘Mrs Pratt was worrying where to put her Mike and his bride, and baby when it’s born. I decided that rather than wait for her to ask me to leave, I’d tell her I wanted to come home.’ Lizzie poured a steaming ladleful of stew into a bowl and set it down in front of her mother.
‘Oh, so she’s found out, has she? That’ll keep her sneck out of other people’s business for a while. She can’t talk about other folk when her own flesh and blood have fallen by the wayside. A baby on the way and a publican’s daughter in the family, by ’eck it’s a corker!’ Molly laughed as she tucked into the stew. ‘Good job her John brought your bed back the other night, you’re going to need it.’
‘Mother, have some sympathy, the woman’s beside herself. Mike hadn’t even told her he was to be married on Sunday.’ Lizzie paused, struck by a sudden thought. ‘And how did you know all about it?’ She sat down next to her mother and tasted a spoonful of the warm beef stew. It was something Mrs Pratt had shown her how to make and she was quite proud of her first attempt.
‘John mentioned it, when he came with your bed. I told him he should let his mother know about the wedding and the baby.’ She took another bite of her stew. ‘This is right good, lass. Make me this once a week and I’ll be happy as a lark!’ She grinned at Lizzie. Her little girl had grown up these last few months and she’d been too preoccupied with her grief to notice. It had done them both good to be apart for a little while, but now she was glad that her daughter was home.
‘I’m still going across and helping her every day, Mam. I don’t mind, it’ll come in useful having her show me how to cook and sew and run a house.’ Lizzie looked over the edge of her spoon as she drained her dish.
‘You can do that, Liz, no problem. Your shillings can go in the kitty, and I’ll be content knowing you’re with somebody while I’m at the hospital, so it’ll work out well.’ She hesitated for a moment, debating whether to confide in her daughter, then said, ‘John’s coming over next week – but don’t you go telling his mother. She’ll not be suited that he’s made friends with me.’
‘I’ll not say anything, but what’s he coming for?’ Lizzie eyed her mother curiously, recalling John’s words to his mother that night Rose told him Molly wasn’t their sort.
‘He’s offered to make me a pot rack. I think he felt a bit sorry for me, looking around our sparse cabin, and I wasn’t going to say no. Besides, he’s good company.’
‘I’ll not say anything. I like John.’ Lizzie took her mother’s plate away and put it in the sink with the other dishes. When she looked back, a question on her lips, she saw that Molly’s eyes were closed and her head was lolling against the armrest. Lizzie picked up a blanket and draped it over her mother, then set to work scrubbing the stew pan.
8
The grey clouds hung low over Whernside and Ingleborough, threatening rain at any moment as the wedding party gathered at the little church.
Rose sobbed in her hankie as her son waited in the aisle for his young bride to appear. The atmosphere could have been cut with a knife as the two families glared at one another.
‘Just look at them, Father. You’d think they’d make an effort. The shame of it, my Mike marrying into that family.’
‘Quiet, Mother. As long as they’re happy, there’s nothing you can do but wish them well.’ Jim leaned on the pew as the bride-to-be entered the church, giving his arm to the sobbing Rose.
The vicar stood before the couple, the ring on his prayer book.
‘Do you, Michael Bernard Pratt, take this wom—’
‘He better bloody had do, else I’ll break his bloody legs!’ boomed across the pews.
The vicar hesitated. ‘Do you promise to love her, cherish her and be faithful unto her, for as long . . .’
Rose glanced at Jim as the service continued. ‘What’s he done, Father? Just listen to what he’s married into.’
‘He’ll be all right, Rose. He’s made his bed, now he must lie in it. There’s nothing we can do.’
‘I always brought them up better than this. I only hope that he’ll bring her back to live with us, then happen I can see a bit of hope.’ Rose watched as Mike slipped the ring on Jenny’s finger and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Well, that’s that then. My Mike’s lost to another.’
‘Aye, don’t take on so, Mother. He’s only up the road, even if they don’t move in with us.’
‘You’ll never get me crossing the threshold of Gearstones. If they don’t move in with us, he’ll have to come and see me.’ Rose’s face was red with indignation.
‘Now, Mother, you know you don’t mean that. Once that baby’s landed, you’ll never be away.’ Jim smiled at her.
‘We’ll see, we’ll see.’ Rose was looking forward to the birth of her first grandchild. Whether it was born at Gearstones or Batty Green didn’t make much difference to her, but she had to be seen to be keeping things to her standard. She’d never admit to Jim that she couldn’t wait to cradle the newborn in her arms, no matter how lowly the surroundings.
John knocked on the door of Molly’s hut. ‘Come on, answer – you must be in,’ he muttered under his breath. The last thing he wanted was for his mother to see him hanging around outside Molly’s hut. She’d been watching him like a hawk all week. Ever since the wedding she’d been in the mood from hell. Mike had turned down her invite for him and Jenny to live with them, making the atmosphere at home unbearable.
He was just about to climb down the steps and go back home when the door opened.
‘John! Sorry, I thought I heard someone knocking.’ Molly smiled at him, she’d heard the first knock but had wanted to make sure she looked all right for her handsome male visitor, checking her hair and appearance in the mirror before opening the door to him.
‘Aye, well, you’re here now.’ John walked up the steps and entered the now-familiar hut. ‘I’ve brought you this – ’ he held out a two-tiered shelf. ‘I’ve been sitting carving it in my dinner break up at the tunnel. It gave me something to do other than gossiping and playing cards with the other men.’
‘John, it’s beautiful! And you made this yourself?’ Molly admired the wood, carved with curls and rustic leaves and then covered with dark varnish.
‘Aye, well, it’s only made with dynamite-crate wood. It looks better for a coat of varnish. It will hold a fair few cups and I’ve put you some brass hooks on it so they can hang down and look bonny like my mother’s. I know you women like these things.’ John blushed as Molly enthused about his handiwork. ‘I’ve brought my hammer and some nails, I thought I could put it up for you, if that’s all right?’
‘You hang it up and I’ll make us a drink,’ said Molly.
She put the kettle on, watching from the corner of her eye as John took hammer and nails out of his back pocket and levelled the rail on the wall.
‘I hear the wedding went ahead on Sunday,’ she said.
‘That it did. But it was not one I’d ever want to attend again. I don’t know what our lad thinks he’s doing, marrying into that lot. My mother’s going mad and taking it out on the rest of us. By God, you should have seen her face when someone threatened to break our lad’s legs if he didn’t say “I do”! It was a bloody picture!’ John laughed and turned to look at Molly. She was pouring boiling water from the kettle, and he noticed the slight flush on her cheeks and a dimple on her left cheek as she smiled at his words.
The conversation stopped while four nails were banged into the wall to hold the prized possession in place.
‘That looks lovely. I’ll have to treat myself to some new cups to show it off. Now how much do I owe you?’ Molly put the two cups of tea on the table and stood with her hands on her hips admiring the new shelf, but also slyly admiring John, who had taken her fancy with his easy ways and openness.
‘You owe me nothing, except perhaps a
listening ear from time to time. I get a bit fed up with the company at home and the rough talk of some of them that work on the line. I could do with a bit of refined company occasionally.’ He sat and took a long drink of his tea, peering over the edge of his cup for a sign of interest from Molly.
‘Well, you’re in the wrong spot for refinement here, John lad!’ Molly laughed. ‘The only thing that’s refined here is the bloody tea that you’re drinking!’
‘I don’t know, you seem pretty refined to me: an independent woman with a near grown-up daughter and a decent home. And a good looker too. Couldn’t get much better, I don’t think.’ He gave Molly a cheeky wink, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
‘John Pratt! And there was me thinking you were a shy, bashful lad. What would your mother say?’ Molly egged him on over the table.
‘What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. And I’m not telling her if you don’t.’
‘Right, you can come across any time, but no funny business. Friends, yes, but that’s as far as it goes. I’ve still my late husband to think of.’ Molly looked stern.
‘Course, I hadn’t anything else in mind. You don’t even have to say it.’ John smiled at her, remembering the gossip and scandal that had surrounded her and Cloggie. He was secretly hoping that one day it would be him she was bedding. ‘I’ll fetch you some cups from Ingleton on Saturday. I know some that will go just right on that shelf.’ He made for the door. ‘See you next week then.’ He lingered in the doorway and smiled as she touched his hand gently before he pulled it to.
Molly closed the door behind him and listened as he started whistling a cheery tune on his way home. Here she was, a woman in her early thirties, yet her heart was beating like a teenager’s. She felt a smile creeping on to her face and butterflies in her stomach. How daft, to feel that way over a man again. She scolded herself for thinking that way, and then smiled as she mused over this young man who seemed to have feelings for her. Happen, there was a reason to keep at Batty Green after all. Things were certainly looking up.
‘Are you not coming with us today, Lizzie?’ Rose shouted to her young employee, who was busy scrubbing the pine table.
‘No thanks, Mrs Pratt. I’m going to do a few more jobs for you and then I’ll be heading home.’ Lizzie stopped scrubbing for a moment, the grey frothy water mixed with soda crystals dripping down her arm as she pushed a loose piece of hair out of her eyes.
‘You needn’t make us any supper. I’ll fetch something cooked back from Ingleton, so once you’ve finished you have the rest of the weekend off. Don’t bother with the door, our Bob’s stopping home and all. He says he needs some time to himself. Why he says that, I don’t know . . .’
Rose carried on muttering and complaining under her breath as she closed the door behind her and went to join John and Jim in the trap for the weekly shop.
Lizzie scrubbed hard at the table, till the pine almost looked white as she washed the suds off with cold water.
‘She’s enough to make you leave home.’ Bob came from behind his bedroom curtain. ‘I just need a bit of peace. “Our Mike this, our Mike that . . .” I’m bloody sick of hearing about our bloody Mike!’ Bob scratched his head and yawned and sat in the chair next to the stove.
Lizzie pretended not to hear him. Out of the three brothers, Bob was the one she knew the least. He always kept himself to himself and sulked around the house without saying much.
‘What do you make of my ma? Isn’t she enough to send you doolally?’ Bob asked, watching her through sleepy eyes.
‘She’s always been right good with me. I don’t know where I’d have been without her.’
‘That’s her good Christian values that we get drummed into us all the time.’ Bob spat a mouthful of saliva into the stove.
‘Well, I think I’m about done now.’ Lizzie untied her apron. She didn’t want to be left in Bob’s company. She felt uneasy with him when he was sulking.
‘Aye, you bugger off and leave me to myself. I’ve plenty to do while they’re away,’ said Bob, getting up from the stove to come and lean by the door as Lizzie lifted the latch. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he whispered as she closed the door behind her.
Lizzie was thankful she’d finished for the week. Usually she enjoyed Rose’s company most of the time, but this week Bob had been right when he said it was all Mike this and Mike that. Lizzie had never seen anyone carry on the way Rose had after the newly-weds turned down her offer of letting them share the hut. Never. John told her it had taken Jim all night to calm his mother down.
When Lizzie got home the hut was empty. Since she’d started at the hospital her mother seemed to spend all her time there, working long hours and coming back shattered. At least it was keeping the wolves from the door; between them they were making enough to stay well fed with a roof over their heads.
Outside, there were clouds on the horizon, threatening rain later in the day. Lizzie decided she’d make the most of it and go for a walk while the sun shone. There’d be plenty of time to tidy up later.
Lifting her skirts clear of the muddy ground, she walked up the rutted track, heading away from the viaduct and on to the fells between Gearstones and Ribblehead. Along the way she passed abandoned spoil wagons and the earthworks and sinkholes made by the navvies. There were one or two workers labouring even though it was Saturday, making an extra shilling or two for their families. Lizzie watched as a wagon driver whipped his horses into action, dragging their heavy load of stone behind them as they leaned into their harnesses. These great stone blocks would form the towering pillars of the viaduct.
The wind started to whip up, sending clouds scudding over the high peaks of Whernside and Ingleborough. Further down the fell, grey looming wisps of cloud seemed to cling to the hillsides. Deciding it would be best not to go too far, Lizzie stopped when she came to the outcrop of limestone where the spoil-wagon tracks ended. She climbed up the grey limestone, grazing her hands on its rough surface, and sat on one of the crags high above the fell floor. The wind was picking up now, and large drops of rain were staining the light grey limestone. A small rowan tree, struggling to survive in the harsh environment of the limestone pavement, bent in the force of the wind, its leaves rustling. Lizzie pulled her shawl around her tightly and gazed up at the viaduct. A spot of rain landed on her face as she turned it heavenwards.
‘Admiring the view?’ said a voice from behind her. ‘Cause I know I am.’
Lizzie jumped up. She hadn’t realized there was someone behind her.
‘Now don’t be like that – sit back down. You know we’re friends. I’ve watched you out walking.’
Strong arms pushed her back down on to the limestone, the harsh rock scraping her skin and making it bleed. He must have followed her over the moorland and come around the back of the outcrop to creep up on her.
Lizzie tried to stand up but his arm was wrapped tight around her and she couldn’t move. Fear gripped her. She could tell by the look in his eye and the smell on his breath that she was in trouble. He ran his tongue down the side of her neck, licking her and smelling her body.
‘Now don’t be silly, I only want a kiss and a bit of a fondle. Don’t you make a noise, or it will be the worse for you.’ He ran his hand the length of Lizzie’s leg underneath her skirt and she started to scream. ‘You stop that, else I’ll have to hurt you, to be sure I will.’ His hand went over her mouth, while he fumbled with his trousers. ‘You’ve asked for this, looking at me with those big eyes. You’ve practically begged me for it.’
Lizzie freed her hand as he fumbled with his breeches and desperately reached out for something she could use to beat him off. Her fingers found a loose stone, and she grabbed it and swung her arm, hitting him on the head. The blow dazed him sufficiently to make him loosen his grip for a moment. She looked at the blood running down into his eyes and jumped to her feet, but she wasn’t fast enough. He caught her arm and pulled her back towards the edge of the limestone.
‘No you don’t, y
ou bloody vixen!’ He was holding her right over the edge of the crag. Lizzie bit his hand to make him release her. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she struggled to break free, knowing she was fighting for her virginity and her life. Suddenly her feet slithered on the crumbling limestone and she felt the stones give way under her feet. Unable to save herself, she toppled over the edge, bouncing off the rockface until her body came to rest in the bracken below.
Barely conscious, her limbs twisted at unnatural angles to her body, she lay motionless at the bottom of the cliff as the rain and mist rolled down from the fells, enshrouding her. Incapable of moving, she heard shuffling in the bracken, and then the sound of her molester breathing heavily as he approached. Lizzie closed her eyes and pretended to be dead as he leaned down, his rank breath in her face. She tried not to scream as he kicked her in her ribs and growled, ‘Best end to you, lil’ bitch.’ Then as he walked away she prayed that he wouldn’t return. Better to die here alone than endure that.
As the shock of the fall began to subside, the feeling in her limbs gradually returned. Every muscle, every nerve, every bone in her body was in agony. She could not move her left leg or arm. She tried to use her right arm to drag herself under the overhang of the limestone, but the pain was so intense that the last thing she remembered was the piercing scream that erupted from her lungs before blackness fell all around her.
Molly opened the door to a cold, dark hut. She’d been looking forward to coming home to a warm meal and Lizzie’s company, but there was no sign of either. She lit the oil lamp and put it on the table, then got the stove going so she could boil a kettle for tea. All the while she was thinking of what she’d say to that daughter of hers when she got home. She spent enough hours at the Pratts’ place all week, you’d think come the weekend she’d spare a few hours to prepare a meal for her mother. Instead it looked as if it was down to Molly to cook supper and have it ready for when Lizzie eventually decided to come home.
