by Diane Allen
Lucy placed Bert down on the pegged rug by the fire and passed Susie her doll, as she sat sulking in the chair next to her mother, who was busy ironing.
‘Thank you, Lucy, I knew you’d find it. Dolly will have been crying all day without me – she doesn’t like to be left alone.’ Susie kissed her older sister and grinned. ‘I’ve missed you too, and Mam says we’ve to get to bed in good time tonight, to get out from under her and Father’s feet. I don’t want to go to bed without you, and I thought you weren’t going to come home when it went dark.’ Susie hung onto her sister’s neck and wanted Lucy’s assurance that all would be well, now that she was home.
Lucy stood up and looked at her mother, after kissing four-year-old Susie. ‘So, we are due a new one in our family, and you’ve told my father? He’ll not be pleased.’
‘Aye, he’ll not be in a good mood when he comes home tonight. But what does he expect? I told him to sleep away from me; that he’s only to look at me and I’d be with child again. My mother was the same – we catch on so fast. You’d do well to keep your legs closed until you are wed to a good man, else you’ll end up the same as me, with a house full of bairns and no time for nowt.’ Dorothy looked at her eldest; if she had lectured her once about the virtues of keeping pure, she must have lectured her a dozen times. She wanted better for her daughter than a life married to a temperamental husband, and a life of drudgery, with children tugging on her apron strings every second of the day, as she had.
‘I’m never going to be like you. I don’t care if I never have any children. I’ve seen all too well what it does to a woman. Besides, I’m going to find me a man that will look after me and not keep me chained to housework and bringing up his children.’ Lucy smiled at her young sister; she did love her siblings, but when it came to having a family of her own one day, that was a different matter. She’d seen all too well the anguish of bringing up a family on little money, and with little or no help from the breadwinner of the family.
‘You’ll change your tune when the right man comes along, and catches your eye and corners you with his soft words and loving touches. We’ve all said the same as you, and before you know it, you are wed with children around your feet and the bloom of youth faded from your cheeks. Now, help me get these children to bed before your father arrives, because aye, he’s not pleased and it’s best that you are all out of his sight.’ Dorothy sighed; she needed to protect her children from her husband’s wrath, and the best way to do that was to get them all in their beds and out of earshot of the harsh words that she knew he’d be yelling, if not more.
Lucy lay next to her sister in their attic bedroom at the top of the house. Even though she was as high up as the house was tall, she could hear her father’s voice bellowing in the kitchen below. She glanced at her sister and was thankful she was fast asleep, and that it was only her who could hear their father’s ranting and the plates being smashed on the kitchen floor. Her poor mother. It wasn’t only her fault that she was with child yet again; it took two, as anybody knew. Her father should have kept his John Thomas in his pocket, and then every nine months or so neither her nor her parents would have to endure the rage that followed the news of yet another baby to be born within the family. She only hoped that this night Father would not raise his voice any louder at her mother, and that perhaps the amount of ale he’d drunk would make him ready for his bed.
She held her breath and looked up through the attic skylight at the frosty night sky outside. If only she could escape this life of drudgery; of being responsible for her siblings and having to smell the stench of the flay-pits every day. She’d got to the age when she was ashamed of her roots and of her father’s profession – a stinking hide-tanner with too many children, and a home that was volatile with worry, although there was still love within it. No wonder none of the more well-to-do young men of the district would give her a second glance. It didn’t matter that she was the bonniest lass in the district; she was nothing: no money, no class and a father who was a drunk at least one night of the week.
She bit her lip as she heard her father’s footsteps, dull and heavy, ascending the stairs to his bedroom below, and then heard her mother come up the stairs after him, sobbing. Thank God the row was over for the night, although it would be carried on again more than likely until the next baby was born, dead or alive. It wouldn’t be the first time her mother had given birth to a stillborn baby; the first two had been given proper churchyard graves, but the other two were quickly got rid of, buried in the quicklime in a corner of the yard that only her father used. Their soft bodies decomposed over time and were never acknowledged by anybody except her mother, when a wave of depression and grief for her lost children came over her.
Lucy held her breath, not daring to think the worst of her parents, but sometimes she wondered if the babies her mother had borne, and who had been declared dead at birth, had actually been alive; and that between her mother and her father, they had simply agreed to do away with them in the quicklime. It was a dark thought that she kept to herself and didn’t want to acknowledge to anyone. It was a thought that was best kept a secret and not breathed to another soul. After all, it was an act of murder, and Lucy didn’t dare think that of her parents.
6
Adam woke to the noise of banging on the back door and his name being shouted in desperation. His mind was coddled from the heaviness of the previous night’s taking of Black Drop, and it took him a while to realize that he was not lost in one of his illusion dreams. Reaching for his pocket watch, he squinted and focused his eyes as he tried to read the time.
‘Mr Brooksbank, sir. Are you alright?’ Adam recognized the voice of Lucy, shouting with concern up at his bedroom window, between bouts of hammering on the back door of Black Moss Farm.
Nine o’clock – no wonder she was worried, as he was usually up and about by six. Adam sat on the edge of the bed for a second and then slicked back his hair, pulling on his trousers and braces before going to the window to reassure a worried Lucy.
‘I’m fine, Lucy.’ Adam leaned out of the window and squinted in the sharpness of the sun’s light. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realize the time. Give me a minute and I’ll be down to open the door.’
Lucy looked up at her drowsy employer and sighed with relief. She was beginning to worry that something was wrong and she hadn’t known what to do.
Adam quickly freshened his face with cold water from the jug in his bedroom; a shave would have to wait. Then he walked as fast as he could down the stairs to the cold, empty kitchen. His head was swimming with the excesses of his previous night’s indulgence in pain relief, as he pulled back the bolt on the front door and let Lucy in.
‘Are you alright? I thought you were ill or, even worse, that someone had murdered you in your bed.’ Lucy bustled past him. She threw her shawl down and looked at her employer. ‘You look ill, sir. Are you sure you are well? Perhaps you did too much yesterday. I’ll get the fire lit. By the looks of you, you could do with a drink of tea and something to eat.’ She looked hard at her employer and made Adam feel uncomfortable, by the long stare she gave him.
‘It’s not like me to not realize what time it is. I’ve had such hard days since I came here – it’s just sleep catching up with me. I’d welcome a cup of tea. I’ll go back upstairs first and shave quickly.’ Adam watched Lucy as she set about riddling the fire’s ashes and laying kindling sticks, before relighting the fire and placing the kettle to boil on the newly flickering flames. Lucy said nothing as he left the room and, climbing the stairs to his room, Adam swore quietly under his breath. She could have been right; she might have found him dead in his bed, not from murder, but by his own hand and an overdose of Black Drop as a substitute for his preferred laudanum. Laudanum he could handle; the effects of it might sometimes make him feel drowsy, but not like Black Drop, which made him hallucinate and sleep too hard. Damn the pain in his leg and the pain in his heart! Opium and laudanum were his only release from both, but he’d have to
be more careful that they did not rule him.
‘Here you go, sir. Some porridge and a warm-up in front of the fire will soon make you feel more like yourself.’ Lucy pulled up Adam’s chair at the end of the table for him to sit in, as he arrived, clean-shaven and more awake, back in the kitchen. ‘It’s like you say, sir, you’ve done a lot of late, and what with your bad leg and all. It will have taken things out of you.’
‘Thank you, Lucy. I’m sorry you had to wake me. It’ll not happen again. You look tired yourself this morning. Are you alright? I’m not driving you too hard, am I?’ Adam looked up at the pale-faced young woman and smiled.
‘Oh no, sir. It’s just that I didn’t sleep well. It was as I had suspected: my father came home in a temper and I heard it all going on downstairs. And I’m always afeared for the young ones when he’s like that.’ Lucy bowed her head.
‘Oh, I see, so the news was not greeted well, I take it?’ Adam watched as she stirred the pot of porridge, before pouring some into a dish and passing it to him.
‘No, not at all. He’ll not be talking to any of us for a day or so now, he’ll be in such a mood. God help any of his workers, because they’ll not be able to do anything right today, the way he’s storming about the yard.’ Lucy watched as Adam ate his porridge. ‘Are you still going into Keighley today? It’s a bit late in the day for you to be making tracks now, sir.’
‘No, I must go today, I’ve urgent business. And besides, the quicker I get a horse bought, the better it is for me. Once I’ve eaten this porridge I’ll be on my way. Could you see to my bedroom? It needs a good clean, as it’s not been touched since I moved in, and the spiders seem to think they have free run of the room, the way they are hanging down from the beams in their intricate webs.’ Adam sat back and pulled on his boots, leaving half of his breakfast uneaten. He had to get to Keighley, come hell or high water, to visit the apothecary for something less potent than the Black Drop, which he could all too easily become too dependent upon.
‘You’ll take care, won’t you, sir? Have you got my list of what you need? Although if you are to buy a horse today, I can manage without some of the things upon it, as I know old Mr Gaine will natter you to death. He can talk for England, folk say.’ Lucy watched as Adam put on his jerkin and headed for the door.
‘I’ll be back before dusk, Lucy, hopefully with a four-legged friend and whatever provisions you have requested. Will you be alright until I get back?’
Lucy stood at the farm’s doorway and looked up at Adam. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage. Those spiders will have had to find new homes by the time you are back. Take care, sir, and watch your wallet – there’s a lot of light-fingered pickpockets down there, who would rob you of your last penny.’ She smiled.
‘Don’t you worry about me. I can hold my own. I didn’t serve in the Queen’s army for nothing.’ Adam looked down at Lucy, who looked a little wan and worried. ‘Now, make sure you get something to eat while I’m away, and I’ll be back for my supper.’
Adam watched as she closed the door, feeling concerned that he was leaving her on her own and that she seemed beset with worries. Although he hardly knew her, he still couldn’t stop himself worrying about her, as the life at home that she had disclosed to him was not a happy one and Lucy seemed obsessed with the fact that her mother was with child again. It was probably as she said – her mother and father falling out over the unwanted baby, and nothing more.
He walked briskly down the cobbled road from Denholme, leaving the wild bleak moors, making his way down the Halifax road into the busy town of Keighley. He stopped only to rest his aching leg outside a row of smoke-blackened mill cottages called Hermit Hole, and looked down the steep sides of the Aire valley towards the town of Keighley. Along the busy River Aire’s banks stood worsted mills and ironworks, and between the mills and works were cottages filled with wool-combers working in their own bedrooms, making a meagre living. In the far distance he could hear the whistle of a steam engine from the recently built railway station that now connected Keighley to other industrial towns of Yorkshire.
His mind went back to the days when he was a young man, full of dreams and hope for the future, and when he had patrolled the dark, dank wool town as a young peeler. How stupid he had been, judging people by the way they lived their lives. He hadn’t realized how cruel life’s hand could be, and that not everyone had a decent home to go to, with food on the table. All that had changed with the death of Mary. His life had been left in tatters by the worthless pickpocket that fateful afternoon, spiralling into an abyss of self-loathing and hate, filling his emptiness and sleeplessness by taking laudanum nearly every day, even before his injury. Until, in an effort to put himself out of his misery, he’d accepted his old friend Captain Linton Simmons’s offer of a position in the godforsaken Crimea. He’d gone partly with the hope that some brutal Russian in the Balkans would put him out of his misery and kill him. But when he had looked death in the face, he had fought for his life, and now he knew that life was a most precious gift.
The reason for his trip today called Adam back to his senses. He hated his dependence on laudanum, but it brought relief from his pain, and a drop of a night helped him sleep and was not as strong as the Black Drop. Along with his need for a horse, he had to visit Keighley now, whether he was feeling like it or not.
He patted his pocket, making sure his letter to his dear friend Ivy was still safely inside it. Ivy Thwaite had been Mary’s and his own closest friend, and she was a link between him and Mary in the world that lay between them. Ivy gave him the hope of everlasting life and showed him that one day he would be with Mary again, through the seances that she held with him, before he went to do his duty in the Crimea. He’d written asking that Ivy come and visit him and reignite their friendship, so that he could speak to Mary through Ivy and tell her of his new life back home. Although he knew that plenty of people thought of seances as a fanciful notion, and one that no sensible person would give the time of day to, sensible people had not seen or dreamed the things that he had, after the death of his beloved Mary. He was convinced that there was more to life than the one on earth, and heaven and hell. Ivy was the connection between the shrouded, misty world where souls tried, in desperation, to contact their loved ones, and he needed her services.
A rag-and-bone man passed him, shouting loudly his requirements, his old horse, its head down, pulling the heavy, dirt-ridden cart up the steep hill. ‘Rag and Bownes!’ His voice ran around the small terraced houses, as he waited for women with their cast-offs to run to him and haggle a price. Adam quickly came to his senses and watched the filthy man and his beast, before carrying on his way. The man would be the first of many traders that he’d meet, once he was down in Keighley. The potato blight in Ireland had seen an influx of Irish, who were eking out a living from knife-sharpening, shoe-cleaning, tinkering and any other trade that they could turn their hands to. If Keighley had been a poor town before their arrival, then it was even poorer now, with families in up to the teens living in two-bedroom houses, and open gutters running with human and animal waste. Those who had money had started businesses along East Street, and above the shop doorways were names that depicted their Irish roots: Murphy’s and O’Haggan the butcher’s being just a couple.
Reaching the centre of Keighley, Adam made his way to the corner of College Street and deposited his letter, to be sent to Ivy in Kendal by the daily mail-coach. The new postal building and service were a lot more professional than when they were run from the parlour of the Hare and Hounds by old Mrs Martha Cooke, who had scrutinized every letter sent or received, before passing them through a hinged pane in the window. Perhaps Keighley was progressing. The Mechanics’ Institute and the Court House on North Street showed progress, Adam thought, as he stood and summoned up the courage to enter the apothecary’s shop.
Adam recognized it well, from when he had patrolled his beat, and knew the chemist would perhaps recognize him, despite the fact that he had aged in his tim
e away from the area. He looked around the shop at the various coloured jars of poisons, drugs and concoctions. People were obsessed with their health and would buy anything that promised a fix for their ills. A display of Dr Airey’s Celebrated Indian Pills, Fox’s Anti-Cholera Mixture and Fox’s Never-Failing Cure for Thick Necks adorned the polished wooden counter, leading people to think they would cure whatever complaint they had.
‘Can I help you?’ The chemist turned round from measuring out some dark, vile-looking mixture and glanced at Adam.
‘Some laudanum, please.’ Adam spoke in a low voice; even though laudanum was a common everyday drug, he knew the chemist would know its properties, and that he had been at one time a regular visitor for the drug.
‘Pills or drops?’ The chemist stared at him.
‘Drops, please,’ Adam answered quickly.
‘It’s a penny for twenty-four drops – will that be enough?’ The chemist looked harder at him. ‘I seem to recognize you from somewhere.’ He measured the drops out into a bottle and passed it over to Adam.
‘Perhaps you’ve mistaken me for someone else.’ Adam exchanged his penny with the chemist and placed the bottle and its contents safely into his pocket.
‘They say people experience pain because of their sins. Do you think that is correct?’ the chemist quizzed. He’d realized who his customer was: older now and not as cocksure, but it was definitely Adam Brooksbank.
‘I wouldn’t know, sir, as my pain came from a Russian’s sword. Thank you for your service.’ Adam turned and made for the door, knowing the old man would not stop there.