‘This is the sixth time I’ve been here in as many weeks, Mrs Appleby. I’ve been far more lenient with you than any of the other tenants, mainly because your family has worked for mine for generations. But I can’t, won’t, put up with this any longer.’ He raised his whip. ‘Now get your son to move or I will use this on him.’
Sid uncrossed his arms, his fists bunched. Bill stepped back into the gloom of the barn; he wasn’t getting bloody involved in what was going to happen next if the fool didn’t come to his senses. He’d be no match for Sid.
Buckley obviously realised that. He lowered the whip. His voice cold, he turned to Bessie. ‘Mrs Appleby?’
‘I’m sorry, sir…’
Bill could hear the panic in her voice.
‘Sid’s only trying to protect you.’ Speaking fast, Bessie added, ‘Jim’s infectious and the doctor says it’s best if no-one goes near him… Well no-one but us. Of course we need to see to him…but no-one else.’
That frightened the bugger, Bill thought with satisfaction, moving to watch again. The man was visibly shaken as he spun on his heels and almost ran towards his horse.
‘I’ve better things to do than waste my time talking to a lunatic, anyway.’ Halting, his foot in the stirrup he said, ‘This makes no difference whatsoever. I want you off my land by next week. If you’re not gone by then I’ll bring in the police.’ He wheeled the horse around. ‘You’ve got your eviction papers. I want you out.’
When it was definite Buckley had gone, Bill came to stand with Bessie.
‘What will you do?’
‘What can we do?’ She looked helpless, tears slid silently and dripped onto her apron front. ‘We’re finished. He’ll come back with the Bobbies and they’ll find him.’ She gazed towards the pile of hen manure and then towards her son. ‘They’ll hang Sid.’ Her voice rose into a wail. ‘And what will happen to me then?’
‘Ma!’ Sid stumbled towards her. ‘Ma?’
Bill followed them into the kitchen, not sure what to do. He waited until they’d gone upstairs, listened to the low sound of Sid’s voice and Bessie’s crying. His stomach rumbled, reminding him how hungry he was. Opening the door of the range he scooped out some of the potatoes roasting on the griddle and took out the leg of lamb to cut a few slices off it. Slowly chewing and gazing out of the window at the thickening dusk he pondered on the problem. What next? He’d be leaving, of course. But how soon? And going where? Liverpool?
‘Ma…she says you have to… help…help move… him.’ Sid stood over Bill as he shoved the bread and dripping he’d had to find for himself for breakfast into his mouth. Bessie hadn’t left her bed for two days. Her crying in the room above his had kept him awake and he was torn between feeling sorry for her and being irritated. Sid had made himself scarce most of the time as well, hardly speaking when he did appear. But Bill had got used to that; they’d not had much to say to one another since the day he’d found out about the murder.
He kept his head down. ‘I’ve fed the hens. The eggs are on the side.’ He nodded towards the large kitchen table.
‘I said…Ma says…you have to…help me move…Father. Mr Buckley is…evicting us. He’ll bring in new tenants. They could find…him. They will take…me… to prison.’ His voice quavered. ‘Ma won’t manage without…me. You…have to help me.’
‘Why should I?’ Bill took a gulp of tea and swallowed the lump of stale bread.
‘Because I’ll say you killed him if you don’t.’
‘You bastard.’ Bill shoved the chair back and stood up. He didn’t care that the sod was at least two foot taller than him and built like a brick shithouse. He’d take him on anytime. ‘You’re not fitting me up for that.’
‘I…won’t…if you’ll help.’ There was fear in Sid’s eyes. But there was also a stubborn determination.
‘You’re mad, man. You can’t move him after all this time.’
‘Need…to. Can’t leave…him.’
Bill flung the chair away from him; it clattered to the floor. ‘No.’
‘Please…’ Sid fixed him with his gaze. ‘You owe us. Ma helped you…’
Bill licked his lips, nervous. But he did owe them. ‘It’ll have to wait ’til after dark.’
‘Can’t…chance—’
‘I’m shiftin’ no soddin’ body in bloody daylight.’ Bill crossed to the door. ‘And that’s an end to it.’
Sid silently handed Bill a pair of rubber gloves. Neither man looked at the other. Bill wrapped his woollen scarf around the lower part of his face; this was going to be one stinking bloody job.
The evening sky still had a hint of scarlet and gold on top of the Pennine hills, but the lingering light contrasted with the dark shadows around the farmyard. In the kitchen one of the dogs barked, a single sharp yelp. In Bessie’s bedroom a candle lit shapes onto the curtains.
The leaden air around the muckheap buzzed with flies when Sid dug into it.
For the next hour they worked without speaking, swatting at the swarms of insects that gathered on the Tilley lamp on the wall and around their heads, cursing to themselves. Bill’s woollen scarf was wet through with the moisture of his breath but there was no way he was going to take it off. Surreptitiously watching Sid he saw the flies around the man’s face each time he lit a cigarette. Once, offered a fag, he refused even though he was gagging for a smoke. All he wanted was to get this over and done with.
And then the pile of shit was cleared and he saw the hessian sack. It moved and, with a startled yell he staggered back. ‘What the fuck…’
Sid took the lamp off the wall and held it up. Fat maggots curled and wriggled in the light, shifting and huddling together in the sudden cool air on the sack. Furrows of liquid made tracks in the last scrapings of the hen manure and spread towards Bill’s feet.
‘S’only blasted maggots,’ Sid grunted. ‘Get the bigger shovels and the barrow with the other sack.’
The foul stench was thick in the air as the two men positioned themselves at one side of the sack, and slowly rolled it onto the new one using the two shovels. Both gagged and retched when the material folded and glutinous fluid poured onto the ground. They staggered sideways to the wheelbarrow and threw the heaving mess in. It landed with a dull wet slap on the wood and another release of foul gasses and flies.
Bill stumbled away, tearing his scarf off, and vomited; his eyes and nose streaming. From the far corner of the yard he could hear, Sid chucking his guts up as well. Serve the bastard right he thought, standing upright and wiping his mouth with his shirt sleeve. God, that had to be one of the worst soddin’ jobs he’d ever done. Although he was sweating he shook with cold and revulsion. He went to the water pump in the yard and yanked on the handle until water gushed over his head and shoulders. Ripping at the buttons he threw the shirt away.
When he finally stopped, he stood swaying. ‘That’s my lot,’ he said. ‘You’re on your bloody own now.’ He made to go towards the house.
‘No…I need…you.’ Sid came nearer to Bill, holding the Tilly lamp down by his side. Flies followed the arc of light.
‘Don’t fuckin’ get any closer.’ Bill backed away, watching the bluebottles bat against the glass.
‘Need…to get rid…’ The big man was sobbing. ‘Please…’
Water still dripped off Bill. He wiped his hand over his hair and face. ‘Where?’ What a bloody mess. ‘Where, man?’
Sid’s cries were noisy blubbers.
In the house both dogs started barking.
Bill looked up to Bessie’s bedroom window. He saw her shadow. ‘Right, I’ll ’elp. Stop bloody skriking, yer mard arse, and tell me where.’
‘Quarry…the old quarry.’ Sid’s Adam’s apple worked in his throat as he calmed down. He hawked and spat out a great globule of snot.
‘Well, you can bloody push the barrow.’ Bill waited by the gate, moved to the middle of the lane to let Sid pass before going after him. To his relief the mass of flies thinned out the further away from the
yard they went but he wasn’t taking any chances and kept his distance.
The rumble of the iron wheel and the thud of their boots were loud in the night.
I want nowt to do with this, Bill thought again, rubbing his bare arms and shoulders to warm himself. That bastard Buckley’ll be back again. And next time he will have the Bobbies with him, that’s for sure. First thing in the morning, I’m off.
Without him noticing, Sid had turned off onto the grass verge. Bill peered into the darkness and caught sight of the dimmed Tilley lamp through the tall shrubs at the side of the lane. Ducking under them and brushing aside branches he took his time. With any luck the bloke would manage on his own.
‘Bill?’ Sid’s voice was tremulous. ‘Bill? You…there? I don’t like the dark…this place…ghosts.’
‘Well, you chose it.’ Bill made himself sound scornful but the man was right; it was bloody creepy. He pushed through long grass, was stung by nettles. ‘Damn.’ he said, moving forward faster, almost bumping into Sid.
‘Steady.’ Sid held out his arm. ‘We’re right on the edge.’
‘Bugger!’ Bill stepped back, shaken. The darkness in front of him seemed even blacker when he looked past the grass and ferns
‘Help me…tip it.’
Averting his face and covering his nose with his cupped hand, Bill grabbed the nearest handle.
‘When I say now…tip.’ In the small pool of light from the lamp, Sid’s eyes were set in dark hollows as he too turned away from the wheelbarrow and its contents and kept his stare on Bill. He took a deep breath through his nose, his mouth set. Then he shouted, ‘Tip.’
His voice echoed in the void underneath them. Bill let go of the handle as the putrid weight left the barrow.
‘Grab it. Don’t let go,’ Sid shouted.
Lurching forward, Bill grabbed the side of it, touched the nauseating stickiness.
‘Can’t let it…they’ll know it was ours. Need to wash it…out,’ Sid panted as they hauled it back onto the flatter ground.
‘Sod that for a soldier,’ Bill muttered bending down and wiping his palms on the grass. He strode away.
Lying in bed, waiting for the house to settle into its usual night time sounds, Bill knew, if it hadn’t all gone wrong, he would have stayed in this place for life given the chance. The routine comforted him. The nightmares would have eventually stopped.
Even before the cockerel in the yard began his morning call, Bill shouldered his bag and let himself out of the farmhouse. At the gate he hesitated, looking up and down in the darkness. What did it matter which way? West, not north, he decided; he’d head for Liverpool. He’d heard once that it was easy to get work on the docks there.
A fox screeched somewhere. There was a collective low bleating from the sheep in the near field.
Bill left the farm behind. The only noise before sunrise was the quiet scrape of his clogs on the lane and the occasional clink of stones kicked up in front of him.
Chapter 51
April 1912
With her back to the customers, Winifred rearranged the bottled onions and canned meat on the shelves, trying to shut off their voices.
‘Hundreds, it says in the newspapers. Drowned in minutes.’
Ethel handed the packets of tea and sugar to the customer. ‘That’ll be one shilling and nine pence, please Mrs Collier.’
‘Women and children alike. Clutching on to one another.’
There was a collective sigh and muttering in the queue.
‘Shocking.’
‘On their way to a new life in America as well. Dreadful thing to happen.’
‘Awful!’
‘Awful,’ Ethel repeated. ‘Who’s next, please?’
‘That’ll be me, Mrs Duffy.’
Winifred recognised the voice. Edie Wood, a thin-faced elderly woman, was a vicious gossip. She’d have a field day when it was impossible to hide the fact she was having a baby. The thought caused Winifred to gasp and lean forward, her forehead against the shelf. What was going to happen to her? She swallowed, took a long breath.
‘Yes, Miss Duffy, doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’ Edie Wood called over Ethel’s shoulder. ‘Sinking down into freezing cold water.’
Shut up, shut up, shut up. Winifred wanted to scream the words aloud. She could imagine the same self-satisfied smug tones when Edie Wood imparted the knowledge of her baby. Her illegitimate baby. The fear ran alongside the contempt for Conal, who’d deserted her.
Edie Wood didn’t give her order in. Instead she said loudly, ‘I hear the firm that built the ship will be sued by the law. It was supposed to be unsinkable.’
‘Impossible.’ A man, near the shop door, spoke with authority, his tone derisive. ‘No such thing. Any ship that hits an iceberg will go down in minutes and that’s what this Titanic ship did.’
‘Well, you should know, Mr Wright.’ Winifred recognised his wife’s voice. ‘After all, you work for the Morrisfield Times.’ She sounded proud. ‘He’s well up on world events.’
Here we go again, Winifred thought, irritated and remembering her mother’s belief in Mr Wright’s opinion on Ireland and all Irish people. He’s just the payroll clerk there; hardly an expert on world affairs. She knew it was an unkind thought but the man was always the same whenever he came into the shop. Pompous.
‘Huh.’ Annoyed that she’d lost the limelight, Mrs Wood raised her voice. ‘Well, I haven’t got all day. I’ll have a bottle of those pickled eggs.’
‘Winifred?’
Winifred handed a jar over to her mother without turning around.
‘And we need more tea packeting,’ Ethel said.
Winifred went into the store cupboard and pulled the door to. But the man’s voice was loud; she couldn’t shut him out, even by rustling the small brown bags and scooping the tea from the sack into them.
‘Yes, Mrs Wright and I were only talking about it last night. The Atlantic is a cold sea.’ There was a collective sound of melodramatic shivering noises. He continued, a pleased tone to his voice, having got the attention of all in the shop. Winifred sensed that even her mother had stopped to listen. ‘The ship went down quickly and no-one stood a chance. Their lungs would fill and down they’d go. At least fifteen hundred of them. Gone, just like that. Drowned – floating around amongst all that was left of the ship.’
Without a word, Winifred left the packets of tea unfastened and left the shop. The obvious thrilled reaction of them all disgusted her. She and her grandmother had cried when they’d first read about it. For nights she couldn’t sleep, her own worries pushed aside by the images of those hundreds of drowning people. Their desperation and terror must have been dreadful.
She looked at the clock on the bedside table. Her mother would be closing for the lunch hour soon. Would she be able to have a lie down or would her mother nag her to finish putting the tea in the packets?
Making the decision, Winifred began to undress, grateful that the chilly weather meant she could wear more layers of clothes to hide her expanded waistline and stomach. Her corset was a different matter. She tugged at the stays, felt the relief when the uncomfortable garment loosened, freeing her body.
Standing in front of the mirror in only her bust bodice and bloomers, she studied her figure. There was no disguising what was happening to her.
‘I heard you come upstairs, ducks. Could you help me with my shoes? I thought I’d go for…’ her grandmother opened the bedroom door.
Winifred spun around towards the window, grabbing her dress off the chair.
‘Winnie,’ Florence whispered. ‘Oh, ducks.’
Winifred dropped the dress and faced her. ‘Granny…’ her voice cracked. ‘Oh, Granny…’
Florence opened her arms.
‘I was waiting for you to tell me, Winnie.’ They’d been sitting on Winifred’s bed for the last hour while she wept. Once they heard Ethel come upstairs and go into her room; both giving a relieved sigh when they heard her go back down. Now Florence sai
d, ‘I’ve been that worried.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m so ashamed. And I tried to tell you. Really I did.’
‘Why didn’t yer?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘Well that plan didn’t work, ducks.’ Her grandmother gave a wry chuckle. ‘Trouble shared and all that…’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ Winifred wiped her eyes and blew her nose. ‘I knew I would have to. I thought I’d have time.’ A sob caught in her throat. ‘I thought Mother would throw me out. And I’ve seen the beggars waiting outside the workhouse in Morrisfield, Granny. It’s pitiful. And what would happen to you?’
The bed creaked when Florence shifted sideways and took hold of Winifred’s arms. ‘Now look at me, ducks. She can’t throw either of us out. This place is ours as well as hers, isn’t it?’ There was a determination in the way she faced her. ‘She wouldn’t dare. I’ll say no more but she wouldn’t dare, believe me.’
Winifred didn’t know what she meant, but for the first time in months she was comforted; perhaps it would be all right. She should have confided in her granny long ago.
‘Now, have a lie down.’ Florence stood up and fussed around with the bed covers. ‘Just look at those ankles; far too much standing about. I don’t know how you’ve carried on like you have.’
‘It’s way past lunchtime. She’ll have opened the shop again. She’ll want me down there.’
‘Then she’ll just have to want. Things need to change.’
‘Don’t tell her, Granny, please. Not yet. Please.’
Florence pursed her lips but she hugged Winifred. ‘I’ll leave it to you, then, ducks. But the sooner the better, you know. Promise?’
‘Promise.’ Winifred managed a quivering smile as her grandmother left her bedroom. But then the baby wriggled inside her and she put her hand on her stomach. Florence’s reassurances were swept away to be replaced by the terror Winifred had carried around since the day she knew she was pregnant.
She also knew she hadn’t the courage to tell her mother. Not yet. Not as long she could hide it.
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