by Diane Allen
He breathed in deeply and opened the metal gate, then followed the flagstone path that led to the steps up to the grand front door. He’d stood there many times previously in his policing times, when he had to come and inform the good parson that his son was the worse for drink and laudanum, and had got himself into a spot of bother with the locals. The parson had always taken it in his stride, while his sisters beseeched their sibling to stop his wicked ways and become the brother they craved. His shocking mop of auburn hair had always made him stand out in the crowd, and he was easily spotted and named when any trouble erupted. He’d been a wild one, that was for sure, and not the kind of man a parson would want as a son.
Adam lifted the heavy brass knocker and waited for a reply. It was a little after one; dinner should have finished being served, and there would not be another church service until that evening, so he expected the parson to be in as he waited for a response. Sure enough, he heard footsteps coming to answer the door as he stood with his hat in his hand and waited for the door to open.
‘Yes, how may I help you?’ A tall dark-haired man with fierce, bushy sideburns answered the door, dressed in clerical robes, and looked down upon him, his voice still betraying his Irish roots with a slight lilt.
Adam recognized him as the curate who had earlier been married to the parson’s middle daughter until her death. Indeed, people blamed the curate for her untimely death, after making her take a walk in the pouring rain, and it was rumoured that he had not cared, or shown his wife any love.
‘I’d like to see the Reverend.’ Adam held out his hand to be shaken. ‘It’s Arthur, isn’t it?’ Adam watched as the curate tried to remember the face in front of him.
‘Yes, do I know you? I’m afraid I don’t recognize your face?’ The curate looked down at Adam and scrutinized him.
‘I’m Adam Brooksbank, you probably don’t remember me. I’ve been away for some time now and, to be honest, we only met perhaps once or twice, under difficult circumstances, if you recall. The Reverend knows me well.’
‘Oh yes, I remember, you were a peeler. You used to help Branwell, and you lost your wife in tragic circumstances and then you left the district. Such a sad affair – the good Lord does not show any mercy to our feelings sometimes. I’ll just see if the Reverend is available. Please do come in and wait in the hall. He’s in the study. I’ll check if he’s awake, as he usually has a nap nowadays after his dinner,’ Arthur said, leaving Adam in the hallway.
Adam looked around the entrance hall, which was sparsely furnished but homely, and had always drawn the parson’s family back between its walls from whatever lives they had been living elsewhere.
‘Ah, Adam, so you have returned to us. Like all prodigal sons do. No matter where you go, the place of your birth will always draw you back – my girls all knew that.’ The ageing parson held out his hand to shake and urged Adam to join him in his study, as Arthur left them to catch up on old times.
‘I have indeed, sir. Perhaps I should have returned earlier. I regret not being there when my father and mother passed away. But Her Majesty’s army and the fighting in the Crimea got in the way.’ Adam smiled at the old man as he urged him to sit down opposite him in the chair next to the fire.
‘A dreadful war, from what I hear. Man’s inhumanity to man I still cannot understand. Still, you have survived and are back with us now. I hope you plan to stay?’ The parson looked at the man who had been always understanding when his son had driven him to despair, and watched as Adam looked down at his feet, noting the regret of his past life’s decisions.
‘I am. I’ve returned to Black Moss and I’m rebuilding what nature has done to my old home over the last few years. I should have known that hiding away from hurt and sorrow does not work, and that self-pity only leads to self-loathing. I cannot bring my Mary back, but I can lead a good life and try to be there for others now.’ Adam looked across at the old man, who had experienced more than his fair share of pain in life, but despite that he had not lost his faith and still helped the people around him.
‘God moves in mysterious ways. Here am I, without any of my family alive, all of them dying from consumption. An illness that made me look at how my parishioners lived, and made me fight for their right to have clean water and sanitation. The vapours that were being breathed in by one and all have killed a good many, but it took the death of my dear daughters to make me realize that. Now, with the help of Benjamin Babbage and the good Lord, I have saved many a soul, through losing the ones that I loved. There is a purpose to life, Adam. Never despair, you will eventually find peace with yourself.’ The Reverend reached out to Adam and patted his hand. He knew what pain Adam had felt when he lost his wife, and how he blamed himself, but it was time for him to put that behind him and enjoy his life now, back in his home, where he had always belonged.
‘I’m trying, sir. I’m no longer the headstrong youth I used to be,’ Adam whispered.
‘Good, then you will find happiness. Now, enough of these worries. Let us enjoy a cup of tea and perhaps a scone? My cook makes the most wonderful scones, and even though I have just had my dinner, I can find room for one, if you’ll join me.’ Patrick smiled.
‘That would be most agreeable sir,’ Adam replied.
‘Then tea and scones it is, and you must tell me about your travels.’ The parson sounded the small silver bell by his side, and no sooner had it rung than a maid in a mob cap came and quickly asked what he required. ‘Some tea and scones for my good friend here. And perhaps, Alice, you’d be kind enough to fill the coal scuttle while you are here.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Alice bobbed and took the brass coal scuttle to be filled, returning within seconds and adding some coal to the fire, as both men talked about days gone by and their hopes and dreams for the future, while sharing a pot of tea together. They had both loved and lost, but neither was without hope as they looked into the future.
Adam arrived home at dusk and, after turning his horse out into the now-secure paddock, went and settled down in his chair by the still-lit fire and thought about the conversation he had shared with his old friend, the parson at Haworth. The Reverend had listened to his woes and troubles without judgement or bias, even though he had been through hell and back himself, after losing his own beloved family. He’d urged Adam to embrace life before it was too late; perhaps to take another wife, even though his heart still ached for Mary. Perhaps the ageing parson was right. Perhaps he should find himself a wife, but his heart told Adam otherwise – it would always be Mary’s, and hers alone.
He sat back in his chair, watching the newly stoked fire’s flames cast shadows on the whitewashed walls. It would be good to have someone to talk to of an evening; some company to listen to his ambitions for the farm, and to give advice and encouragement when he needed it. But where to find such a woman, Adam didn’t know, and he didn’t care to think about it, either. His heart had been broken, and he cared not to socialize with the fairer sex. Even his lifelong friend Ivy Thwaite had not replied to his letter of yet; perhaps she too had turned her back upon him since his time in the Crimea. There were no deep feelings between them, but he did crave her company, for old times’ sake. What would be would be, he thought, as the darkness descended outside and night came to the farm. Tomorrow Lucy would be with him again, with her caring ways and hard work. She would suffice as company for now; indeed, she brought just the right amount of pleasant company into his life.
He felt content with his lot and now that the laudanum drops had eased the pain in his leg, he was starting to enjoy life slightly again. Tomorrow he would go and start walling the gaps between his fields and those of his neighbours, the Baxters, whom he had not yet seen or met, although Archie did not have a good word to say about them. However, until he had met them, Adam would not judge them, and he would take them to be decent people until he found differently. People were too quick to judge, he thought, remembering his own encounters with other people’s thoughts.
As for t
oday, it was nearly done and bed awaited him, with the help of the laudanum. Morning would soon be upon him, and he would have to see what the following day brought with it. He’d leave the house shortly after daybreak, take his dinner with him and leave Lucy a list of errands that needed doing for that day. A full day alone on the moor would do him good, building up the limestone walls and listening to the skylark’s song. He was at peace on his well-trod piece of land.
9
Dorothy Bancroft sat on the edge of the bed and rocked her body and sobbed as she looked down at the bloodstained sheets and the body of the not-yet-formed baby that Bill was quickly wrapping in sacking, not even letting her look at the baby that had been growing within her body for the last few months. This was the fifth child she had lost, all badly deformed but through no fault of her own, and each time it hurt a little bit more. She sobbed and cried as Bill stood up and cast aside the small, imperfect body onto a chair and then moved to bring the jug and bowl filled with water next to her, to cleanse her of the bloodied clothes she sat in.
‘Aye, lass, it didn’t suffer. It wasn’t right, you couldn’t have called it a baby. Now hold your noise else you’ll wake the rest of the house, and it’s best they don’t know that we’ve lost another, under the circumstances.’ He bent down and kissed Dorothy on the head, before gently washing her private parts and making her stand to change her nightdress and the sheet beneath her. ‘It wasn’t wanted anyway. We’ve enough bairns without another under our feet. I’ll keep myself to myself from now on. You’ve had enough heartache, losing all these babies. Something must go wrong with your insides sometime, and I’d be best not asking you for any favours.’ Bill looked at his wife as she sobbed and shook on the newly cleaned bed edge, then he threw the soiled nightwear and bedding into a darkened corner of the room. ‘We’ve enough bairns. Bert’s only a year old. Look after the ones we have got and don’t mourn over the ones we’ve lost.’
‘Was it a boy or a girl this time?’ Dorothy whispered.
‘I can’t tell. Besides, it’s best you don’t know. I’ll take it out into the yard and put it in the quicklime pit, along with the others. It’s the best end to it. There’s no need for a burial, or that condescending parson to be involved. He’d only want to christen it, and then he’d be shocked at the sight of such a baby. It’ll soon disintegrate, like the rest that I buried there, and nobody will ever know our loss. The first two we lost were nearly perfect – it was right we buried them in the churchyard. But not this one; this one isn’t right again. Besides, the church would only charge and they don’t like burying chrisoms; they think every baby, no matter what, should be christened.’
‘Don’t call it a chrisom. It might not have been baptized, but I would have loved it and would have had it christened, if it had lived and had been normal. I can’t bear to walk past that part of the yard, knowing what is hidden in the pit. I have to live with my guilt every day, and I can’t help but cry for my babies’ souls.’ Dorothy lay back in bed and buried her head in her pillow and cried.
‘And you think I don’t care? I’m the one that buries them there. Thank God nobody knows what is lying there, else they would take both you and me to the cells. You’ve not told anybody you were expecting, have you? After all, you weren’t that far gone and you only told me the other week.’ Bill looked at his wife and, even by the light of the candle, he could tell that she hesitated in her answer.
‘Our Lucy knows. She’s not daft; she knows the signs nowadays. She’s seen me being sick of a morning, and she’s been more caring than usual when it comes to looking after the li’l ’uns. So I had to tell her.’ Dorothy glanced at her husband as he scowled at the news of Lucy knowing her mother’s condition.
‘I’ll talk to her in the morning – tell her that you’ve lost the bairn and she’s not to say anything. She can stop at home tomorrow, wash this bedding and look after her siblings. Adam Brooksbank will have to do without her for one day. It isn’t as if he’s got a manor house to look after. It’s only a scratty bit of land on the edge of the moor.’ Bill sighed and looked across at the remains of the baby that he had to dispose of.
‘You’ll not tell her what you’ve done with the baby? She’d not understand that you are embarrassed by the deformity of the ones we lose. I wish she’d not noticed that I was expecting, but she’s of an age where she misses nothing.’ Dorothy pulled on Bill’s sleeve and begged him not to say anything about the burial of this baby, and the other babies that had been born and had died with hideous deformities.
‘I’ll not say owt. It’s an embarrassment to both of us. What makes them like that, I don’t know, but both you and I know we couldn’t have them buried in the churchyard and all the world know about them. God takes them away before they are fully formed, thank heavens, and the lime pit is the best spot for them.’ Bill stood up. ‘I’ll take this ’un and bury it now, before it’s light and folk are stirring. You lie down and stay in bed this morning. Lucy can look after everything, once I’ve had a word with her.’ Bill looked down at his pale-faced wife and smiled. ‘It’ll be alright, lass. It’s best got rid of.’
He walked over and picked up the bundle, then stopped just for a second as Dorothy whispered, ‘You’ll say a prayer over it, won’t you, Bill?’
‘Aye, I will, lass. Now get some sleep and leave me to my work.’ Bill walked quietly out of the house and across the yard to a part where nobody else went. He looked around him as he placed the bundle on the cobbled yard and started digging in the back of the quicklime pit, which nobody else but him touched. His heart filled with pain as he placed the small body from the sack that he’d wrapped it in and buried it quickly under the quicklime, leaving it to be dissolved in the flesh-eating substance. Nobody must know his secret. He didn’t know why his wife kept having these deformed babies, but he suspected it was something to do with the chemicals and potions that he worked with in the yard. If he wanted to keep his workforce, he’d have to keep the babies’ deaths and his suspicions to himself or risk everything he’d ever worked for.
He glanced around him and looked towards the east as the first glimmers of daybreak crossed the sky. He’d have to face the world as if nothing had happened, and talk to Lucy, telling her that her mother had lost the baby after carrying it just a few weeks, not months. That would make her think that nothing was wrong, for many a woman miscarried in the first few weeks, leaving nothing to show but blood-stained sheets, which he would ask her to wash in the copper that morning. No doubt she’d complain that she couldn’t go to work at her new place of employment, but family came first and he was sure Adam Brooksbank would understand, once told the circumstances. The main thing was that Lucy never learned about his own and Dorothy’s secret or, knowing Lucy, she would talk and tell someone about the dark corner of the flay-pits where the decomposing bodies of her kin were buried.
Thomas Farrington yawned and stretched, then pulled back the tattered bedroom curtains of his window, which overlooked the yard of the flay-pits. In the dim morning light he watched as Bill Bancroft stood for a second with a shovel in his hand, his head bowed as if he was praying.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen his boss digging there at a strange time of day. What was he doing there? What was he burying there, and why would he not let anyone use the lime from that particular pit? Was Bill burying money? Surely the lime would dissolve it in time, for the lime burned and dissolved everything it touched, including his own skin, which was blistered and sore from the constant splashes of undiluted lime that splattered on his body. Whatever it was, he was going to find out, Thomas decided. He too would dig in the lime pit and discover exactly what was hiding there.
Lucy sat on the edge of her bed, still half-asleep and trying in vain not to wake her young sister, Susie, with whom she shared her bed. She’d been awakened by her father urging her to get dressed and join him in the kitchen, as he whispered to her from around the corner of her bedroom door.
She shivered in the cold m
orning light as she pulled on her bodice and underskirts and plaited her long blonde hair, in readiness for her day at Black Moss. She’d have a wash once she had heard what her father had to say; whatever it was it must be urgent, as he never ventured into their bedroom. Not like her mother, who usually stirred Lucy from her sleep if she had overslept. She’d have to get a move on anyway; she had to get to work, milk the cow and see what Adam Brooksbank wished her to do that day. As she ventured down the stairs she noticed that her parents’ bedroom door was still closed. It was usually open to the world, and her mother could normally be heard stoking the fire and seeing that everyone was fed before going about their work or getting ready for school, in the case of her two younger brothers. She feared the worst as she walked down the creaking wooden stairs into the kitchen.
Bill stood at the kitchen window looking out into the yard, where his workers were already starting on the day’s toil. He watched as a cartload of new animal skins was delivered and Thomas Farrington directed the men where to put them. Bill was thinking to himself that Thomas was a good worker and it was a pity he was not blessed with the most pleasant of natures, and that some people even thought he was not quite right in the head. He turned as he heard Lucy come into the room. He’d been dreading having to tell her the news, as it wasn’t something that a man talked about with his daughter.
‘Now then, our Lucy. Your mother’s had a bad night. I don’t know if you’d realized, but we were going to be expecting another one into our family. But the good Lord decided against it and she miscarried it, early on this morning. It’s a blessing that she was only a few weeks with child, so there’s no harm come to your mother, but she’ll need a day or so in bed. You’ll have to stay at home today and look after your brothers and sisters, instead of tending to What’s-his-name up at Black Moss.’ Bill looked at his eldest daughter and saw a look of doubt and concern come across her face.
