by Diane Allen
‘I’d better go to the hospital, Lizzie. There’s bound to be lots of casualties coming in after this.’ Molly ducked into the hut and grabbed her shawl. ‘Will you be all right on your own, pet?’
‘Course I will, Mam.’ Lizzie smiled bravely. ‘And, Mam, I love you.’
‘I love you too, pet.’ Molly brushed a tear from her cheek. At long last she had won her daughter back.
The smell of the cooking ham had filled the hut all Christmas Eve and now it lay on a plate ready to take over to Doctor Thistlethwaite’s.
‘It smells good, Mam.’ Lizzie picked a little loose bit from the side of the resting ham before her mother slapped her hand.
‘You can stop picking at it, Lizzie Mason. There’s little enough to go round, without you chewing your way through it.’ Molly stoked the stove and grinned at her daughter. ‘I don’t know what to expect in the morning. I’ve never had Christmas dinner outside my own family. I hope it’s not too posh, like. It can’t be, can it? He’s only in a hut like us.’ Molly pulled her long hair back before pulling her nightclothes over her head. ‘Time to get to bed now, else Father Christmas won’t come,’ she laughed.
‘Mam, I’m too old for Father Christmas. There’s no such person and you know it.’ Lizzie nearly jumped out of her skin as her words were followed by a knock on the door.
‘See, you were wrong – he’s come early!’ Molly joked as she picked up the candle and moved to open the door in her long nightdress. She opened it slightly and shouted out into the night, asking who was there.
A quiet voice answered. ‘Sorry, Moll. I thought you were both still up – I saw a light and I just wanted to wish you a happy Christmas.’ John was standing on the steps to the hut, a Christmas card in his hand and his face glowing by the light of the storm lantern he was holding.
Molly fell silent. At the sound of his voice her heart missed a beat. No matter how hard she had tried, she couldn’t forget the affection and the passion that they had felt for each other. ‘Aye, well, you’ve said it. Now we’re away to our beds.’ She tried to close the door, but John’s foot jammed it open, making her slam it against his foot.
‘Please, Molly, it’s Christmas. I only want to give you this card and tell you how much I miss you.’ John leaned against the door and pleaded with her.
Inside the hut, Lizzie watched her mother leaning against the wooden boards of the door, candle in hand, obviously battling with her feelings.
‘Let him in, Ma,’ she urged. ‘I want to say happy Christmas. It wasn’t John’s fault what Bob did.’ Lizzie wasn’t just asking for herself. She wanted to get her mother’s feelings out in the open. ‘It’s Christmas, Ma. Please.’
Molly stepped away from the door and stood quiet as John entered the room.
‘Happy Christmas, Lizzie.’ He walked over and gave her his Christmas card as she sat on the edge of her bed. ‘Happy Christmas, Molly. I miss you. Can’t you forgive me? Please.’ He strode over to Molly, who didn’t flinch as he laid his hand on her arm. He looked into her eyes and saw that she was not going to give him quarter. Then he bowed his head and left.
Molly quietly closed the door after him and said nothing as she blew the candle out and climbed into bed.
‘I like John, Ma,’ Lizzie whispered into the darkness.
Molly didn’t say anything to her daughter but her heart was beating fast. She closed her eyes and thought of his blue eyes and the soft blond hair and the loving smile. She liked him too, but it was her pride that was the problem. Molly had her principles, she’d said what had to be said, and there was no going back. She stared into the darkness of the hut. From outside came the faint sound of carols being sung. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day. This time last year, she had been a happily married woman with a good future to look forward to. Now she didn’t know what life held from one day to the next. Fate had been cruel to her, but it was up to her to put things right – and she’d do that for her lass, no matter what.
The rain had finally stopped as Molly and Lizzie made their way to Doctor Thistlethwaite’s hut. It stood on the far side of the stream from the workers’ shanties, in a little enclave of huts constructed for foremen and other staff deemed important by the Midland Railway, though most of those who could afford to preferred to rent lodgings in the dale. Smoke was rising out of the chimney as the two women knocked shyly on the door, not knowing what to expect.
‘Merry Christmas!’ Roger Thistlethwaite opened his door and urged them to come in out of the bitter weather. ‘Please, sit down, make yourselves comfortable. Here, let me take your shawls.’
Molly and Lizzie smiled at one another as he fussed over them, trying to put them at their ease.
‘May I say what a beautiful brooch that is, Molly.’ Roger Thistlethwaite admired the little black kitten with paws hanging over a silver horseshoe adorned with white heather as he helped her out of her shawl.
‘Lizzie gave me it for Christmas. It’s supposed to bring me luck.’ Molly smiled and sat down next to the stove, quietly admiring the table that he had laid for dinner.
‘Ma got me some material for a new dress. She’s going to make it for me – it’s purple and lovely.’ Lizzie couldn’t wait. ‘And I’ve got you this – ’ She handed her precious gift of tobacco to him. ‘I know you smoke it because I’ve seen you in the hospital.’
‘Why thank you, Lizzie, that’s very kind. And thank you, Molly, for the cooked ham – it looks delicious. I’m afraid today I’ve cheated. You can’t really cook in these huts, so Mrs Parker is bringing me all the trimmings that make Christmas from the alehouse. You can see I’ve managed the goose, but for the rest I’m afraid I’m just a useless man, so I had to rely on someone else’s time and expertise.’
Molly and Lizzie looked at the goose. That alone would have been enough for them, so they couldn’t imagine what else Mrs Parker might be bringing. The poor woman, carrying things down the wet path to the doctor’s. You’d have thought she’d have enough to do, without cooking dinner for them.
‘Now, let me see, I think I have a little something for you both.’ Roger Thistlethwaite handed Lizzie a package and watched as she ripped it open. ‘For my little bookworm, a book. I’m sure you’ll enjoy Wuthering Heights. It’s set in the fells, tells of a heartbreaking love affair.’ Roger watched as Lizzie flicked to the first page after caressing the leather-bound edition with love. ‘And for my new nurse, a small present with my utmost gratitude for all her help.’
Molly opened the thin box to reveal some white embroidered handkerchiefs with the initial M delicately embroidered on them.
‘I can’t . . . I can’t accept these. They must have cost the earth!’ Molly held them in her hand and looked at Roger Thistlethwaite.
‘My dear, you must. You are worth so much more to me. Besides, it’s just a token at Christmas.’ He patted her hand gently. ‘A gift from a lonely old man who’s glad of the company.’ He rose and started to pour out two glasses of sherry. ‘Is Lizzie allowed one?’ he asked, reaching for a third glass.
Molly looked up from admiring the fine hankies. ‘Yes, a small one. It’s Christmas, after all.’ She smiled fondly at Lizzie, whose nose was buried in her book already. ‘Not that she’ll notice. Look at her!’
‘There’s nothing like a good book,’ said Roger. ‘Reading’s to be encouraged.’ He sat down and relaxed as the sherry warmed his throat and the view of Molly and her daughter warmed his heart. This was what Christmas was about, sharing it with the people you cared for.
A knock on the door broke the silence that had descended. A moment later Mrs Parker came bustling in with steaming dishes of potatoes and carrots, and to round it all off a huge figgy pudding with sherry sauce. Having placed everything on the table, she thanked the doctor for his payment and hurried away, pulling her damp skirts up around her ankles as she went down the hut steps.
‘She’s a good woman, is Helen Parker. Pity her husband doesn’t realize it. The times she’s told me she’s bumped into
something, when I know he’s used her as a punch bag. He’s nothing but a brute. One day he’ll get his comeuppance.’ Doctor Thistlethwaite turned away from the window and waved his guests to take a seat at the table. Then he picked up the carving knife and began slicing the goose as Lizzie and Molly looked on in wonder at all the festive fare laid out in front of them.
‘He hits Florrie as well,’ said Lizzie. ‘I’ve seen her with a black eye. And he broke her tooth.’ Lizzie held her plate out for a slice of goose.
‘If it weren’t for Helen, nothing would get done. It’s her that keeps the Welcome Inn going. She’s a good cook and folk like her. Henry’s too busy being cock-of-the-midden, handing out pay to the navvies only to take it off them in his bar.’ Molly tried not to drool as she helped herself to roast potatoes.
‘Mr Ashwell doesn’t like him. He reckons he’s up to something. I heard him saying so to Fred that works on the plans.’ Lizzie added her four-penn’orth, helping herself to pickled cabbage as she did so.
‘Now, Lizzie, you shouldn’t repeat what goes on at work. It’s none of our business.’ Molly stopped her in her tracks, not wanting the doctor to think they gossiped.
‘It’ll not go any further than these four walls, so don’t you worry, Lizzie. Mr Ashwell is a good judge of character, and he’s probably right about Henry Parker.’ Roger Thistlethwaite refilled Molly’s glass and smiled. ‘But Mrs Parker has done us proud and is to be congratulated.’ He lifted his glass up. ‘To Mrs Parker and my clever new nurse, Molly.’ He smiled as Molly blushed and Lizzie giggled. It was so good to spend Christmas with a family he would dearly like to make his own.
14
The New Year blasted its way in with icy winds from the north and biting sleet that stung the cheeks with its icy fingers.
Between the squalling showers workmen for the Midland had been busy all week erecting a new hut for the Bradford missionaries to come and show the heathen navvies the error of their unholy ways.
‘Bye, they look half-frozen.’ Molly watched the workmen through the frosted windows of the hospital. ‘We must be badly in need of some religion for the Midland to be building a hut in this weather.’
‘Some of us might be,’ Starchy Drawers commented as she walked past with bandages. ‘Have you seen to Mr Bibby? He needs his bandages changing.’
The thaw in her attitude towards Molly had not lasted long. The news that Roger and his new nurse had dined together on Christmas Day had not gone down well.
‘Yes, and I’ve emptied the pee-pots, so you needn’t ask me to do that.’ Molly folded her arms and glared at her would-be rival. ‘Look, madam, I told you when I first came: I’m not interested in the doctor. He’s too old and I’m not clever enough for the likes of him. He’s a nice man, but I don’t want a man in my life. I’m happy as I am, independent.’
The snooty nurse merely put her nose up and walked away scowling. Molly shook her head and went over to check the paraffin heater at the end of the hut. She was hoping to find it in need of refilling: she’d have welcomed an excuse to go outside for some respite from the atmosphere on the ward.
‘Morning, ladies. How are my patients this morning?’ said Doctor Thistlethwaite cheerily. The smell of his pipe gave his presence away before he was through the door.
‘Morning, Roger. Let me take your coat.’ Nurse Thompson grabbed the doctor’s coat, but he barely noticed as he set off down the ward in Molly’s direction. Instead of coming out with a caustic comment, as she would if the doctor hadn’t been there, Nurse Thompson smiled insincerely, took some clean sheets from the pile and followed.
Knowing that if she stayed she’d probably say something she’d regret, Molly put on a saintly smile of her own and informed the doctor she was stepping outside for a breath of fresh air. Outside slushy heavy flakes of sleet were falling, covering every surface with a grey sludge that seeped into boots and clung to clothes, leaving you chilled to the bone. She sheltered under the eaves and watched as a little man dressed in black from head to foot, with a sharp-featured face peeking out from under a wide-brimmed hat, made his way over the stone packhorse bridge. His feet skidded from under him a time or two as he trudged through the snow, and each time he’d pause and look in the direction of the hospital, as if exasperated at the effort required to reach his goal. Molly grinned wickedly at the sight: if the Reverend Tiplady was to survive in Batty Green, he’d do well to buy himself a pair of strong boots. Those polished town shoes wouldn’t last a minute in these conditions.
Finally he made it to the hospital and stood panting, trying to catch his breath and regain his dignity – no easy feat with his shoes scrabbling for purchase on the icy wooden steps.
‘Is this the hospital, my child?’ The words seemed to burst out of his chest as if he was delivering a sermon from the pulpit.
‘It is, sir. You must be the Reverend Tiplady – we’re expecting you.’ Molly bobbed and stood her ground as he climbed the steps.
‘Well, lead on then! Get me out of this Devil-sent weather.’ He held on to the banister of the top step for dear life as Molly opened the door to the hospital and ushered him in.
‘This weather is foul,’ the Reverend muttered as he stamped his shoes free of slush and shook the sleet from his hat. ‘I never thought I’d say it, but I’m missing the smoking mill chimneys of Bradford. At least they offered some shelter and raised the temperature a few degrees.’ Having salvaged his Bible from the pocket, he thrust his coat into Molly’s hands.
She stifled a snigger as, in his haste to greet Doctor Thistlethwaite, he almost slipped on the wet wooden floor.
‘Reverend Tiplady, I presume.’ Doctor Thistlethwaite shook hands with the little man.
‘May God be with you, sir. I’ve come to save souls – and it appears I’m not a minute too soon, judging from the look of some of these men in the camps. It’s a hot-bed of sin and vice from what I see, and the women are no better: swilling gin with babes on their hips. The Devil is a fearful tempter.’
Doctor Thistlethwaite frowned. The Reverend’s preaching had only served to remind him why he had no time for religion. ‘I’d be grateful if you could bear in mind that this is a hospital and we like to keep the patients calm and quiet. If you could just say a few words of hope and healing to each of them, I’m sure they would appreciate that. We only have the five patients at the moment and Frank Bibby might be grateful for a blessing – he’s rather too ill for a sermon.’
Having issued his instructions, Roger Thistlethwaite returned to writing up his notes, politely disregarding the fire-breathing preacher.
‘I’ll show you around, Reverend,’ simpered Nurse Thompson.
Molly was only too happy not to be lumbered with the task. She’d come across the Reverend’s sort before: too quick by half to judge a person at first sight.
‘Where are you staying? I do hope that you’re not travelling every day from Ingleton in this weather?’ Nurse Thompson enquired as she took his arm to guide him to the first patient.
‘I’m staying with the God-fearing family of Rose Pratt – wonderful woman, has a heart of gold, and so upset over the loss of her selfish son, despite his having carried out the worst sin of all by committing suicide.’
Molly had to bite her tongue. She wanted to scream at the pompous preacher, tell him that the worst sin Bob Pratt committed was not hanging himself but trying to rape and kill her Lizzie. She was stopped by Roger Thistlethwaite shooting her a warning glance. He’d heard the gossip about Bob Pratt. Laying his hand gently on her arm, he whispered, ‘They only hear what they want to hear.’ She could only nod and turn away, busying herself checking the medicines.
‘Bugger off, you bloody black omen of death! I don’t want your Protestant hands on me! I’m not one of yours so you needn’t come near me!’ Irish Tam shouted at the approaching minister. ‘I’d rather rot in hell than have you lay hands on me, you bastard.’
Molly went over to Tam and said a few quiet words to calm him down, then
positioned herself at the end of his bed to prevent the Reverend coming any closer. ‘Mr Shaughnessy’s Catholic, as you may have gathered. I don’t think he’ll appreciate your visit. As a matter of fact, a lot of the navvies that work on the line are Catholics who’ve come here from Ireland or Scotland to find work building the railways. They’re good people with their own religion, so I know you’ll respect them for it.’ She pushed her auburn hair back defiantly, as if daring the Reverend to come anywhere near her patient or argue with her defence of the navvies who worked on the line. Her eyes twinkled at the prospect of a run-in with this loud-mouthed preacher. She’d have been only too happy to tell him that the hard-drinking navvies’ sins paled into insignificance compared with the sins that had been committed in the ‘God-fearing’ house he was staying in.
‘All of us will meet our maker eventually, regardless of which house we worship in. Then we will have to admit to our sins,’ Reverend Tiplady intoned. He eyed Molly with suspicion. Here was one who was in need of salvation, no question. Silently resolving to find out more about this outspoken nurse who didn’t know her place, he turned to Nurse Thompson and demanded his coat and hat. Then he walked out into the bitter day, as best his shiny shoes would let him, without so much as a backward glance.
15
Lizzie approached the house whistling and with a smile on her face. The whistling stopped when she opened the door and found her mother home.
‘Hello, Mam. I didn’t think you’d be back yet,’ she said coyly.
‘You seem happy. Had a good day?’ Molly peeled the last potato and dropped it into the pan on the top of the stove, wiped the knife on her apron and pulled a chair up to the table.
‘I like my job, Ma. It’s interesting, there’s always something new going on and everyone’s so nice to me. Especially George. George is always saying nice things. He says I’m good at spotting mistakes. George reckons I’ve brightened up the office since I started.’
