For a Mother's Sins

by Diane Allen

  And now he was carrying on like he was cock of the walk, accepting drinks from customers who wanted to extend their sympathy. There wouldn’t be much sympathy for him when the truth came out. Nobody had time for a man who had sex with his own daughter. And Helen was seeing to it that the truth about Henry Parker came leaking out with every pint she served. He was already hated for short-changing the navvies and charging extortionate interest on loans, but that would be as nothing compared to the hatred they’d feel once they knew what he’d done to Florrie.

  It wouldn’t be long now. The silent code of the navvies would see to it that justice would be done. Henry Parker would get his comeuppance, all right. All Helen had to do was wait.

  The steam engine stood alongside the platform, water dripping from its pipes and steam like the breath of a dragon puffing out of its chimney and engine. The driver wiped his sweaty brow with a coal-dusted cap and blew the whistle as he watched the first passengers from Ribblehead board his pride and joy.

  ‘All aboard!’ the newly appointed stationmaster shouted loud and clear, strutting like a prize cockerel as he herded the people on to the carriages, slamming shut the open-windowed doors. Then he blew a long blast on his whistle and waved his flag, and the train was off. As the first passenger service made its way down the Ribble Valley, he felt as if he would burst with pride. Then he turned to admire his future home, a gothic building adorned with the Midland Railway emblem. He couldn’t wait for the roof to be finished so that he could show off their new residence to his wife and young family. He smiled and checked his pocket watch. With a few hours to go before the train returned, he’d have plenty of time to start planning their new garden.

  ‘Oh, Mam, I can’t believe it – us on a brand-new train.’ Lizzie giggled as she tried to hold on to her shawl as they walked along the corridor, looking in each compartment to see who was in it and if there was room for them.

  Molly stopped outside a nearly empty compartment and turned the brass handle on the door.‘In here, Lizzie – there’s only a man reading a paper in this one.’ The train jolted as she opened the door, almost making her lose her balance, and Lizzie tumbled in and collapsed on the seat beside her. They both slumped giggling on to the patterned upholstery, causing the man opposite to give a disapproving cough and glare over the top of his paper.

  Lizzie looked in dismay as she recognized the Reverend Tiplady.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Mason,’ Reverend Tiplady said primly, eyeing them with disfavour. ‘I’m surprised to see you here.’

  Molly couldn’t have wished for a worse fellow passenger. It was on the tip of her tongue to demand what he meant by that, knowing full well that he was questioning how a navvy’s widow could afford the price of the tickets.

  Lizzie broke the ice for her mother: ‘It’s my birthday and this is my treat from Mam. We’re only going to Settle, but I can’t wait.’ Eyes wide, she gazed around the compartment, taking in the polished woodwork, the mirror engraved with the Midland Railway emblem, as her fingers stroked the velvet upholstery.

  ‘Indeed,’ sniffed the Reverend. ‘I’m travelling to Bradford where I’m needed by my colleagues. This dreadful smallpox is rife there. The curate who was with me for a short time at Batty Green sadly died of the disease – the last one of his family. Imagine, a whole family wiped out.’

  Molly felt the anger rise within her as she listened to the preacher. Now she knew where the disease had come from.

  ‘No doubt your curate was the one who brought the disease to Batty Green. The doctor has been wondering where Rose Pratt could have caught it. She was cooking and keeping house for you, wasn’t she? I’d think twice about returning from Bradford, if I were you.’

  ‘The Lord will look after me and guide me, madam, never fear. He looks after every God-fearing soul.’ With a smirk of condescension, he raised his paper and resumed reading.

  Molly’s eyes burned into the paper, fuming at the ignorance of the man. She felt like knocking the paper out of his hands and asking how come the Lord hadn’t done a better job of guiding Rose Pratt. But this was Lizzie’s big day and she didn’t want to spoil it, so she said nothing.

  Lizzie peered out of the window, her nose squashed to the glass. ‘Doesn’t the dale look lovely, Mam. I love living here, with not a mill chimney in sight – just the rolling fells and the clouds sitting on top of them.’

  Molly smiled, sitting back in her seat enjoying the experience swaying with the rattle of the train as it crossed the points on the line. She’d never experienced such comfortable travel.

  There was a whistle from the engine and a judder as the brakes went on, and they peered from the window to see Horton-in-Ribblesdale station coming into view. Doors slammed as the passengers boarded, and then the stationmaster blew his whistle and the train puffed on its way.

  ‘You spoke too soon, our Lizzie – look: smoking mill chimneys. Seems they have ’em up here and all.’ Molly pointed at Christie’s cotton mill on the banks of the River Ribble. ‘They make sheets and towels with cotton from America, they even supply the Queen down in London.’ Molly enjoyed telling Lizzie about her environment; she felt it was important that she knew about her surroundings. ‘Next stop’s ours, Lizzie. We’d best get ready.’

  Molly stood up and Lizzie followed suit. As she tugged on the handle to open the door on to the passageway, she wondered whether she ought to say goodbye to the horrible Reverend Tiplady. After a moment’s hesitation, she decided against it. He’d had the chance to acknowledge them when they got up from their seats, but he’d kept his newspaper in front of his face. Bugger him! Ushering Lizzie out of the compartment, she closed the door behind them and then set off unsteadily along the narrow passageway.

  ‘Mercy me!’ she gasped, glancing out of the window. ‘Don’t you look down, Lizzie Mason – we’re on top of a viaduct!’

  ‘Oh, Mam!’ said Lizzie, ignoring the advice. ‘We’re ever such a long way up – and this isn’t half as big as the one back at Ribblehead. Just think what it’ll be like crossing that.’

  Overcoming her nerves, Molly peered out over the market town of Settle. The viaduct spanned the winding road that led out of town, completely dwarfing the church that stood alongside it.

  Lizzie laughed with delight at the miniature people and horses and carts going about their business in the streets below. She wasn’t the least afraid, and she was enjoying the opportunity to tease her mother, who had gone white.

  The train blew its whistle and pulled in to the station, the huge engine letting out steam as the stationmaster bellowed out the station’s name and the porter ran about helping people with their luggage and ensuring that those who needed steps had them. Molly and Lizzie gazed in envy at the people alighting from the first-class carriages.

  ‘One day, Liz, we’ll be able to travel first-class and have hats with feathers in and fancy coats, I promise you. Then we can look down on others like they are muck on our shoes.’ Molly raised her voice as a well-dressed lady gave her a disdainful stare.

  ‘I ain’t bothered, Mam. At least I’m here and not dead like Florrie. Come on, let’s see what Settle’s like.’ Lizzie wished her mother wouldn’t be so outspoken. It was her birthday and her first ride on a train – she wasn’t bothered what anyone else thought of them.

  Settle was full of shoppers. Molly had forgotten what it felt like to be amongst ordinary townsfolk. She peered down at the clothes she was wearing; no wonder the snooty woman had given her that look. She was like something from the back of beyond in her metal carckers on her boots and mud along the bottom of her well-worn skirts. She’d forgotten how a proper woman dressed. Catching sight of a woman shaking her head in disapproval, Molly adjusted her hair. Her heart sank at the thought of people staring at her and her daughter. It was all right at Batty Green: there, nobody judged you by the way you dressed. But here in civilization it was a different matter.

  Lizzie was oblivious to the stares; she was too busy gazing in shop windows. They
walked along Duke Street and both giggled at the pub called The Naked Man with a sign depicting a little naked man holding what appeared to be a pair of trousers with the date the pub was built on them. They gazed across at the houses built on three levels with a walkway on the top row and shops on the second row and another row of houses at basement level. Rising behind the buildings was a huge limestone crag that dominated the market square. They could hardly hear themselves think for the clamour of traders yelling the virtues of their wares.

  Exhausted from her shopping, Molly decided it was time for a breather. ‘I can run to a cup of tea, Liz, before we go back.’ She picked up her shopping basket and waited for Lizzie to answer.

  ‘Can we, Mam? I know that we’ve not much money, but that’d make the day even more special.’

  ‘Come on then. I saw a little spot down the road we took from the station. If you’re good, I might even run to a slice of birthday cake.’ Molly put her arm around her daughter. ‘Had a good day then?’

  ‘Yes, but it isn’t over yet. We’ve the ride back on the train still to go. I can’t wait till tomorrow when I’m back at work – George is going to want to hear all about it.’ Lizzie grinned.

  ‘You and that George! Do you never get fed up of him?’

  ‘No, he’s a good friend and I like him a lot,’ said Lizzie, blushing a deep shade of pink.

  ‘Well, don’t get hurt, my love. Men break hearts at the toss of a coin.’ She smiled sadly at her grown-up daughter. Having known loss and heartbreak, she wanted only to spare her daughter the pain.

  ‘I know, Mam.’

  Molly and Lizzie entered the small tearoom and looked around the room. The place was half-full with people chatting and eating. Everyone fell silent when they entered. The owner approached them.

  She looked them both up and down and said, ‘I’m sorry, but we are busy at the moment.’ She’d come across their sort before: navvies’ women who sat down, ordered all sorts, and then did a runner while her back was turned.

  ‘All we want is a pot of tea and a cake. You don’t look that busy to me.’ Molly stood her ground.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t serve your sort. I learned my lesson when the railway was being built through here. Now here’s the door.’ The owner threw open the door, the little bell above it jingling the insult into Molly’s ear.

  ‘I’ll pay you before we sit down. It’s my lass’s birthday and I’ve promised her a cup of tea before we go back up the dale.’ Molly was surprisingly calm as she handed the woman the last of her money.

  ‘All right,’ she sniffed. ‘At least you’re not Irish – they cause no end of bother. I’ll give you what this pays for. You eat it and then you get out.’

  Molly and Lizzie pulled up chairs at the table next to the window and turned to look out on to the street as their fellow diners started to talk in hushed voices.

  ‘Thanks, Mam,’ Lizzie whispered.

  Molly nodded as she ate her cake and drank her tea. Next time they came to Settle, she’d make sure she had a better dress on and good boots, and Lizzie would look like a princess. She couldn’t do with the shame of being talked about; she had her pride.

  Dusk was falling fast as Molly and Lizzie boarded the train. As they crossed the viaduct they gazed out of the window, marvelling at the huge green dome of Giggleswick School Chapel and the twinkling gaslights of Settle until the train took them back into the darkness of the dale.

  It had been a day to remember for both of them. A day that had reminded Molly she was a female, not a navvy, and perhaps it was time to be more ladylike.

  23

  John looked around the shabby hut that had become his new home. It was a mess; four men in a small shed with no sanitation, just a designated spot of moorland for ablutions. If the weather was bad at Batty Green, it was even worse up at Jerusalem. On top of Blea Moor the wind howled incessantly and the rain whipped you until it felt as if it would flay your skin. There were times when he wondered what the hell he was doing there. Then he’d remind himself that, if he was to win Molly Mason’s hand and rent one of them new railway houses that were being built, he’d need money.

  He smiled as he imagined the look on her face when he finally asked her to be his and put the keys to their new home in her hands. She couldn’t say no, not to the offer of him and a house with gainful employment all on a plate. Of course, he’d have to make it right with that Ashwell bloke, but he was confident he’d get a house. He was a hard worker and well liked in the offices of the good and great.

  Spitting out his baccie, John pulled on his oilskins – his only protection against the elements until he reached the shelter of the tunnel entrance. He was not looking forward to the long dark trudge through the candlelit tunnel. The first few yards were now bricked and secure, but further towards the Dent Head end blasting was still taking place, cutting deeper and deeper into the huge rolling hillside. He pulled the wooden door to and started down the slope of the railway banking. Horses and carts were lined up waiting for their heavy loads of earth from the bowels of the mountain.

  ‘Now then, John,’ said the foreman, ‘nobbut a few more yards, then we should be breaking through to the other side. The Dent Head lads are a good way in already. If our lot go quiet, you can hear ’em hammering and braying. Bye, I’ll be glad when there’s just bricking up to do, then we can get them retaining joists out the way and we’ll have a tunnel.’

  ‘Aye, it’s getting a move-on now. Us tunnellers are faster than them viaduct builders – precious lot. Is it all right, boss, if I take an hour off this afternoon? I want to put my name down for one of them new Midland houses. I thought the sooner I do it, the better.’ John put his hands in his pockets and crossed his fingers as he waited for a reply. The rain was dripping down off his cap and running down the back of his neck under his oilskins. He was looking forward to getting to the shelter of the tunnel.

  ‘Aye, but you’ll be wasting your time. I hear they’ve all gone already. They hired length-men at Settle last week – the railway wanted local folk, not the likes of us. We come and go with the wind, or so they think.’ The foreman walked off, shouting at a workman who was whipping an exhausted horse that was struggling to pull away an overloaded cart.

  Bugger it! He’d been sure he’d get one of them houses. John kicked out at the wheel of a cart in irritation. Well, he’d go and put his name down anyway. There might be a chance yet. He carried on into the tunnel, past a group of men standing gossiping. He heard Henry Parker’s name mentioned. The landlord of the Welcome was the talk of the dale since Florrie’s death. As word spread, feelings were running high; what the navvies didn’t know, they were making up. John only hoped that her funeral on the coming Sunday would quieten the bad mood about the place.

  The Bishop of Bradford sprinkled holy water over the acre of land that ran down to the river and extended the churchyard. The navvies had worked hard all week and now the area was cleared and walled and a mass grave had been dug for the victims of smallpox, one of whom was Florrie. The navvies stood, heads bowed in reverence, as cart after cart unloaded the cheap wooden coffins filled with the pox-ridden bodies ready for lowering into the dark earth of the churchyard. Work on the railway had stopped for the day and even the pompous director was in attendance as prayers were said over the row of coffins. Wives, mothers, husbands and siblings wailed as earth was shovelled over the dead with mourners’ eyes searching for Florrie’s father, but Henry Parker was nowhere to be seen.

  The rain was falling in the little glade as a line of black-clad mourners walked the tree-lined path, which smelled of wild garlic. For Lizzie, it brought back memories of the day she had snuck into the church with Florrie and been accused by the vicar of pinching money from the collection plate. She’d been a sharp ’un, had Florrie, but she’d been such a good friend in the end. Lizzie’s eyes filled with tears as she thought about her friend and the good times they’d shared, talking and laughing together. She’d confided in Florrie about George, and
the pair of them had giggled at men and talked about what the future might hold. Now she was gone and Lizzie felt very much alone.

  The line of mourners made their way across the main road to Ingleton and entered the Hill Inn, a tavern usually frequented by the local farmers and dales folk but today hosting a funeral tea for the navvies and the visiting railway dignitary. In contrast to the Welcome Inn, its whitewashed walls were clean and the floors were polished, and the ale was served in jugs that weren’t cracked around the rim. Molly and Lizzie watched as two fat pigs, disturbed by the parade of mourners passing their paddock, ran about emitting shrill squeals of panic.

  ‘This way, gentlemen,’ said the landlord of the Hill, doing his best to separate the toffs from the navvies by ushering the bishop, the vicar and railway dignitaries to comfortable chairs in the parlour, where a funeral tea had been laid out. Meanwhile the bar was filling with thirsty navvies, jostling to be served and getting more rowdy by the minute.

  ‘Hold your hosses, I can only serve one person at once,’ yelled the sweating barman, becoming increasingly irate as abuse rained down on him, until he finally snapped: ‘You can piss off and all, yer fucking navvy.’

  A shout went out: ‘Where’s Helen? Helen, for the love of God open the Welcome up – we aren’t wanted here.’

  Helen Parker was sitting in a corner with her young family. She’d been grateful to have the day away from the Welcome Inn. Molly and Lizzie sat next to her, Lizzie playing with the two littlest ones.

  ‘Ah! Go on, Helen – we don’t belong here. We want to drink to your Florrie’s memory, but we can’t do that without a pint in our hands.’ One of the Welcome’s regulars leaned over the table and begged her. ‘We don’t belong here with these money-grabbing bastards. Let the toffs stop here, but take us home.’ He winked and Helen knew in her heart he was right. Even though she was enjoying her day away from the Welcome, it was where she belonged.