Chapter 52
April 1912
Bill groaned and rolled onto his back to look up through the twisted branches of the blackthorn to the sky, milky with a covering of thin clouds. The ground underneath him, so soft after a day trudging along the narrow lanes of the hills, now felt knobbly and hard. A stone dug into his left hip and as he shifted the dried heather crackled and dug its spikes through his shirt.
Sitting, he picked up his billycan and shook it. Empty. He’d drunk the last of the water last night, gulping it down; his throat dry from the day’s dust and lack of food and drink. Two weeks after leaving Blossom Farm his snap bag was empty. Twisting around to look behind him he saw the land rose steeply, dotted with gorse and clumps of last year’s heather. Here and there large rocks jutted out from the hillside, and stunted trees leaned slanted away from the prevailing wind. It was a bleak sight.
Bill sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve. By god he was frozen through. If he didn’t get moving soon he’d be in trouble. When he stood, stretched and yawned loudly, a scattering of sheep bounded from a dip just behind the Blackthorn, startling him.
‘Stupid buggers,’ he yelled, his heart leaping. Unrolling his coat that he’d used as a pillow he put it on, thankful for the sudden warmth of the wool and, shielding his eyes, he scanned the area. A small cottage stood on its own about a mile away, a trail of light smoke spiralled from the chimney. If he’d known that was there last night he would have made for it; there were a couple of outbuildings nearby that would have been a damn sight more comfortable than the hard ground.
Gathering his things together and shoving them into his bag he peed against the tree. It steamed in the coolness of the morning. Buttoning his trousers and fastening his coat he wrapped his scarf around his neck; it still carried that foul smell.
For the first time in days he wondered what had happened to Sid and his mother. Not that he was bothered; he was well out of it. And, to make certain he couldn’t be found, he’d taken small tracks and sheep trails away from Blossom Farm. One thing he knew how to do was to look after himself. Nobody was going to fit him up for owt he hadn’t done.
But then an image came to him; Sid eating one of the sugar butties he relished at least twice a day, his large jaw working around the thick slices of bread, butter and layers of white sugar. Watching, hearing Sid eat them had always made Bill gag but suddenly an earlier nebulous memory returned, of someone cupping his face and pressing something similar into his hand. His grandma, Mam’s mother, a small round woman with rosy cheeks and white hair, who always smelled of warm bread. And a smile and a broad-vowelled accent so alive to him at that moment that he marvelled at his ever forgetting her.
But she’d died long before his mam, so he could only have been four or five. Bill wiped his hand over his face, squeezed his eyes shut. Then he grinned, another picture coming to him, him shoving the butty through the bars of a street grid. He hadn’t wanted to hurt his grandma’s feelings, so he always took the proffered food but got rid of it as soon as he could. What he couldn’t free himself of now was the feeling of the love that flooded over him. He cleared his throat, rubbed at his cheeks, surprisingly wet.
‘Bloody soft arse,’ he muttered, heaving his bag onto his shoulder.
He was glad to be walking again, even though his clogs had rubbed a soddin’ great blister on his right heel. He’d be glad to get to that cottage; with a bit of luck he might be able to scrounge summat to eat. Stumbling down the hill, over the uneven clumps of thick grass, the thought made him feel almost cheerful.
Despite limping with the pain of the raw skin he moved quite fast, keeping the roof of the cottage in sight as best he could. Every now and then, over the hedgerows, he could see the misty outlines of Manchester on the horizon. Perhaps he’d make for there instead of Liverpool.
Two small brown terriers raced towards him on the lane, barking furiously when he approached the cottage. Bill stopped, bent to pick up a couple of stones and tossed them in his hand. He dropped his bag. And waited for them to get closer.
‘Spit! Spot! Here!’ It was a woman’s voice coming from behind the line of tall shrubs that surrounded the buildings. ‘What have you found now?’
When she appeared through a wide gate she stopped. ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t hear anyone.’ Her voice was low and pleasant but cautious. She was tall. It was the first thing Bill noticed about her, conscious of his own short stature. He stretched his back, shoulders straight and clenched his fingers over the stones.
‘Sorry, they’re not used to people coming along the lane.’
‘Good guard dogs, though.’
‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘Can I help you?’
The dogs sniffed round his legs. He halted a few yards away, aware of his appearance and that he must stink to high heaven, no wonder the dogs wouldn’t leave him alone. ‘Wondered if I could fill my can with water?’ He held it up and rattled it.
She clicked her fingers, the two terriers scampered to her and she reached down to stroke their heads.
When she looked at him again he saw the slight frown as though she was considering what to do, yet still she smiled.
‘I can do better than that,’ she said, ‘You look as if a good meal wouldn’t come amiss.’ She motioned to the dogs to go through the gate and turned, her hand on the gatepost. ‘Come on.’
Bill couldn’t believe his luck. He threw the stones onto the grass verge where they wouldn’t make a noise, and followed her.
Her hair was long and auburn, tied back with a dark blue ribbon. Her hips swayed as she walked. He forced himself to look away.
The ground on either side of the stony path was ridged, ready for planting. But the soil looked dry and untouched; a crust of chickweed covered it. Nearer to the cottage there were rows of short green shoots. Remembering Bessie Appleby’s vegetable patch, he knew they were onion plants, but, unlike there, weeds sprouted in between the shoots and when he looked at the front of the building he saw the paintwork on the window frames and the door was patchy, revealing bare wood. The place was shabby, neglected. It didn’t fit with the smart way the woman dressed and carried herself. Odd.
He stopped, his head cocked to one side. Except for the far cry of crows in the fields around, the even fainter bleats of sheep on the hill and the rustle of the breeze moving the leaves of the hedges there were few other sounds. Certainly no sounds of voices.
But there was something in the air. Bill drew breath in through his nose. Definitely something.
Pigs. It was pigs. This place was a pig farm. He nodded; satisfied he’d worked it out.
‘Come in.’ The woman appeared at the door. She left it wide open for him. The kitchen was large, dominated by an oak table. ‘Sit down.’ She pointed to the chair on the opposite side of the table. He noticed she kept it between them; he wasn’t surprised or offended, after all he was a stranger. In a way he admired her reservation. So he would make sure he was on his best behaviour.
‘I’ve made soup. And there’s bread I made this morning. And some cold pork.’
He noticed the table was set with just the one place. ‘Aren’t you and your husband eating, Mrs…?’ He’d noticed her wedding ring as soon as she appeared at the gate.
‘Winters. Moira,’ she said. ‘Please call me Moira.’
‘I will then, Moira,’ Bill said, grinning. ‘And I’m Bill. Bill… Harrison.’ Better safe than sorry, he thought. No point in taking chances, however far away from that place.
She smiled but it seemed a little strained. ‘Oh, where are my manners? Would you like to wash your hands first?’ She indicated the large stone sink under the window.
‘Thank you.’ He made a great show of using the carbolic soap, tempted to wash his face but thought she’d see that as a liberty. When he turned round she was holding a towel out to him.
‘Thank you,’ he said again. The cloth was coarse and caught on his broken nails and rough skin. But at least his hands were clean. ‘Your husband coming i
n for dinner?’ he asked again.
‘No,’ she said, looking at the range where the contents of a large saucepan was simmering. ‘He’s not here; he’s away at the market in Bradlow until tomorrow selling our pork.’
‘Oh.’ The name of the town meant nothing to him. The most important thing was that the man wasn’t at home. He felt there was something, some tension between him and this woman.
‘I’ll be eating though.’
Struggling not to gobble his food, even though he was ravenous, Bill recounted his travels. Well, a version of his treks across the countryside. He regaled Moira with imagined and humorous anecdotes; he had no intention of telling her the truth.
She spoke little, seeming happy to listen, make appreciative noises and, sometimes, to laugh. Bill thought he’d never heard such a deep throaty chuckle from a woman. He was enjoying himself. He watched each time she laughed. Saw what amused her. Exaggerated his tales.
The more she chuckled the more outrageous his stories.
They stayed long at the table after they finished eating. The dogs moved restlessly around the kitchen.
‘I need to feed the pigs.’ She took a large hessian apron off a hook on the back of the door, wrapping the ties twice around her waist. It didn’t look as if it were hers. He guessed the husband’s.
‘I’ll help.’ Bill made to stand.
‘No, that’s fine.’ Moira glanced over at the range. ‘There’s a pan of hot water ready if you want to have a wash.’
‘I’ll help first,’ he said. ‘There must be summat I can do to pay for my grub?’
‘Well,’ she paused, ‘There’s some fencing around them that needs mending. My husband didn’t – hasn’t got round to it.’
‘Rightyho.’
‘I’ll find you some wellington boots.’
He felt a bit ridiculous. The boots were obviously hers; they weren’t the heavy thick rubber kind that he’d worn at Blossom Farm, men’s Wellingtons. He strode a few feet behind her, stretching as tall as he could, breathing in the sweet smell of her auburn hair falling over her shoulder.
The pigsty was a mess. How the creatures hadn’t escaped by now was a wonder. He kept quiet, noticing the sharp look she gave him when he stopped to study it. Either her husband was a lazy bastard or he’d been away more than a day or two.
‘There’s been some strong winds lately,’ he said, instead.
‘Yes.’ The tone was grateful. ‘Indeed. We do get some fierce weather here. My husband intended to fix it but the market only comes to Bradlow once a month. He couldn’t miss it, so he had to go, but he meant to mend the fences and sty when he got– gets back.’
She was over-explaining; it was a trait of lying. Bill knew that, being a liar himself. Still, it was nowt to do with him.
He found tools and wood in one of the small outhouses. The hammer and saw were rusty and looked as if they hadn’t been used in a while, and the wooden planks had mildew on them.
When she’d finished feeding the pigs Moira left him to it. Besides having to jump out of the way when they rushed towards him the pigs were no trouble; he was pretty nifty on his pins.
It took him longer than he expected but he thought he’d made a fair job of it. He was standing back admiring his handiwork when she came down the path again, carrying two buckets and wearing the hessian apron.
There was no disguising her admiration. She put the buckets down and clasped her hands in front of her, smiling at him. ‘Wonderful!’
It was enough. His chest puffed out.
‘Look, it’s getting late.’ They both surveyed the sky. The sun had gone down behind the roof of the cottage, leaving the place in gloom. ‘I can’t let you just walk off at this time of the day. I’ll get some bedding together and you can sleep in one of the outhouses.’
‘Thanks.’ It might not be what he’d hoped for but it was certainly better than sleeping rough.
‘I’ll give the pigs their food first.’ She picked up the buckets.
‘I’ll do it.’ He took them from her and pushed open the gate that he’d just mended.
It was as though the four pigs knew he was a novice at layering the stinking pig slop in the trough. They chased him around the sty trying to get at the food. He managed to chuck one lot in before the biggest sow knocked him off his feet.
He lay, winded, for a few seconds before he realised Moira was trying to get him to his feet, helpless with laughter.
Instantly offended he scowled, but her mirth was infectious and, as soon as he was out of the sty, he found himself laughing alongside her.
Eventually she gathered up the empty buckets and, with one last look at the pigs, said, ‘Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. I think you need a bath.’
Uncomfortably aware of their difference in height Bill tried to keep in step with her when they walked towards the house and then, between them, they hauled the tin bath in the kitchen in front of the fire.
‘There are two lots of hot water on the range.’ She looked doubtful. ‘Will that be enough?’
After washes in ice-cold streams it would be a luxury.
‘Aye, it’ll be fine, thanks.’
‘I’ll go to settle the pigs down for the night.’ Moira held onto the latch of the back door. ‘I think there’s a storm coming, as well.’ The evening sky was a mixture of grey and deep purple. ‘I’ll knock before I come back in.’
As soon as she left he stripped off and poured the water into the bath and added some cold. By, he didn’t half stink. Worse than that night with …. He let the thought trail off.
He would have liked to soak for a while but she’d be finished with the pigs in no time. The first splatters of rain hit the windowpane just as he stepped out of the bath and wrapped the towel around him. But when he picked up his clothes he saw with dismay there was no way he could put them back on; they were covered in pig shit and slops.
He was dragging his spare pair of trousers and the last fairly clean shirt from his bag when she banged on the door and burst through followed by driving rain which instantly flooded onto the tiles.
They stared at one another, speaking at the same time.
‘Sorry.’ She wafted a hand at the closed door. ‘Pouring down.’
‘Finding clean stuff,’ Bill said, lifting the clothes to show her. ‘Would have had them on…’
The rain had plastered her dress to her, outlining her breasts and her long slender legs.
‘Oh!’ She turned away, her cheeks scarlet.
Bill looked down at the towel. Blast it.
Moira slowly turned back to look at him. There was a question in her eyes.
Bill held out his hand, let the towel drop. He might not be as tall as he’d liked to be but he knew he had muscles in all the right places and his skin was bronzed by so many days in the sun.
They both knew he wouldn’t be sleeping in one of the outhouse.
It didn’t matter she was taller than him; in bed he was the master.
Chapter 53
Bill luxuriated in the softness of the feather mattress and the sensation of release in his body. It was a long time since he’d been with a woman who hadn’t been paid for. He listened to Moira’s soft regular breathing and smiled. He turned onto his side, his hand on the firm softness of her breast, and went back to sleep.
When he woke again it was just starting to get light, and the shadows in the room were taking shape. The large wardrobe, the set of drawers, the chair in the corner, draped with Moira’s clothes, the small window with the curtains half drawn. He could make out the dark line of the hilltop above the cottage and the pearlised pale sky of dawn.
Rising on his elbow he looked down on the woman who had responded to his lovemaking with such a desperation and need, and he wondered about her husband. She’d said the bloke was at a market in a town somewhere and he wondered how far away it was.
And how soon he’d have to leave.
As though she sensed his gaze she opened her eyes and smiled, lifting
her arm to pull him towards her. They kissed. Her lips opened under his and she slowly spread her thighs.
When Bill next woke he was alone in the bed and the room was startlingly bright with the fullness of the sun. His belly grumbled and he realised how hungry he was. He flung the covers back and stood, scratching under his arms and yawning. His mucky clothes were still downstairs. Happen he’d have a look at the husband’s stuff in that wardrobe; see if anything fitted him before he was off. His bag was downstairs but he could always sneak summat in when she wasn’t looking.
Carefully he turned the key in the lock and opened the door. It took a few minutes of staring before he grasped what he was seeing. There were no man’s clothes hung up, only women’s dresses. Puzzled, he looked around the room. He went to the set of drawers and opened each one. No men’s things, just nightdresses and women’s underwear like he remembered his sisters used to wear. What the hell was going on?
Downstairs he heard a door slam, the rattle of pots. And singing. She was singing. He listened.
It was a long time since he’d heard a woman sing like that. In fact it was only the once; he was fifteen and he’d made love to a girl for the first time. It was her first time as well. Annie. Annie Heap.
He knew he was smitten the first time he saw her. Small, with warm brown eyes and with a lock of dark hair peeping out from the shawl she had over her head, she reminded him of his mother.
Shy, aware he was black from the coal dust after a long day shift underground, he only glanced and nodded at her. The movement of her head was almost imperceptible but he flushed, quickening his step in his haste not to let her see the self-consciousness he was sure showed on his face.
The second time he saw her again, Harry Wilshaw was chatting to her. She had her head lowered so Bill couldn’t tell if she was smiling but, as he passed them, Harry fell into line with him, matching Bill’s steps even though he was at least a foot taller.
‘She’s a snotty cow,’ Harry muttered.
‘Who is she?’ Bill tried to sound nonchalant.
‘That new Overman, Bob Heap? His daughter. Come over from Leeds way, so Alf Turnbull says. Says they’re renting that cottage on Green’s Tenement.’
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