by Diane Allen
‘Is Mother alright? And what about the baby?’ Lucy gasped.
‘Your mother’s alright; give her a day of peace and she’ll be right as rain. There was no baby, or nothing that looked like a baby. She was only a few weeks gone – more blood than anything,’ Bill lied. ‘Her bedding is in the corner over there. It’ll need washing, and I dare say a cup of tea would be welcomed by her, once you’ve lit the fire and seen to the rest of them’s needs. I’m off out to the yard; there’s a delivery come and I’ll have to sort the men out.’ Bill looked at the doubt on Lucy’s face and knew that she realized he was lying.
‘I’ll see to the fire and put a brew on. I’ll bring you one out to the yard, along with some bread and dripping for your breakfast. I’ll send our Nathan on his way to school to tell Adam Brooksbank what has happened, and that I’ll be back with him as soon as I can. I’m sure he will understand.’ Lucy bowed her head and thought about her mother recovering upstairs from yet another lost baby.
‘Aye, well, he can please himself what he thinks. Your mother and your family come first and, just this once, you are needed at home. Make sure that Nathan doesn’t go into what ails your mother.’ Bill scowled as he closed the kitchen door. The fewer people who knew about the business, the better. Besides, it was women’s business and not to be shared with the likes of Adam Brooksbank.
Lucy sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and looked around her. So it had happened again – another baby lost, and no tears from her father and no explanation of what had happened to the poor lost soul’s body. Her mother had been more than a few weeks pregnant. Her father was a fool if he thought he could get away with that lie. She’d seen her mother being sick, so she was definitely more than a few weeks gone. Lucy didn’t want to think the worst of her parents, but couldn’t help but think that perhaps they were killing the babies on purpose. She’d heard that in Keighley there were women who got rid of babies that were unwanted, and her mother had visited Keighley only the previous day. What if she had visited one of these women and got a potion or suchlike? It didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Now then, our lass. Where’s our mother? The fire’s not lit, and my breakfast’s not ready. What’s going on?’ Nathan pulled his braces over his twill shirt and slumped down in the chair next to Lucy.
‘Mam’s not well. You’ll have to wait until I get the fire lit, then I’ll make you a brew. Go into the pantry and bring me a loaf out. You and William can make do with bread and dripping this morning, else you won’t have time to do what I’m going to ask you to do before school.’ Lucy stood up and riddled the embers in the hearth and opened the door of the side-oven, where a handful of sticks had been drying overnight for use as kindling that morning. She screwed up a sheet or two of newspaper from next to her father’s chair and placed it and the kindling sticks on the still-warm ashes, adding a lump or two of coal from the scuttle in the hearth, before wiping her hands on her apron as the flames leaped and caught hold.
‘I don’t want to bloody well go and see your fancy fella and tell him you’re not going to work today. It’s a right trail up to that spot, and I promised I’d meet Stanley Hodgson and we were going to look for some frogspawn in Ing Beck. William can go – he runs faster than me,’ Nathan moaned.
‘Do you want me to lose my job? I won’t hear you moaning when I give you and William a ha’penny each for a barley sugar, next time we are at the shops. Now, you can both go and tell him. The frogspawn will still be there tomorrow. Besides, it’s a bit too early for it yet.’ Lucy looked at her brother as he pulled a face, then she filled up the kettle from the shared water pump with the yard, just outside the kitchen door. ‘Go on, get the bread. William’s coming down the stairs and if he wakens Susie and our Bert I’ll not have time for either of you, and you’ll be going to school with nothing in your bellies and no snap tins for your dinner under your arms.’
Nathan got up and went to the pantry, scowling at his younger brother as he placed the loaf of bread on the table in front of Lucy.
‘Where’s Mam?’ William looked up at his older sister and then noticed the dark mood his brother was in.
‘She’s not well, and instead Miss Bossy Boots here is running the house. The sooner we get to school, the better.’ Nathan picked up his slice of bread with butter and dripping adorning it and bit into it. ‘Just get me a drink of milk, our Lucy. I’ll not wait on the kettle boiling, and then I’ve more time to do what you want me to. Our Will here will have the same. Won’t you? Then we can get away.’ Nathan winked at his younger brother as Lucy made them jam sandwiches for their snap tins to take to school.
‘But I like—’ William started to say, only for his brother to kick him under the table to shut him up.
‘Alright then. Here, drink it all, mind. I’m not having that prim Miss Procter saying that you were sent to school unfed and unwatered. You’ve both washed this morning, haven’t you? I’m not sending you to school mucky, either.’ Lucy looked at both brothers as they quickly ate their bread and dripping, followed by a glass of milk, before both grabbed their now-full snap tins and headed out of the kitchen door. ‘You’ll not forget to go to Black Moss, will you?’ Lucy yelled after both brothers.
‘Nah! We’ll go,’ Nathan yelled back, pulling his younger brother with him as they ran across the flay-pit yard as fast as their legs would carry them.
‘What are we going all the way up to Black Moss for?’ William asked his brother.
‘We’re not. Miss Bossy Boots can think again. We are off to meet Stanley Hodgson, like we agreed yesterday, and bugger our Lucy! Frogspawn’s far more important than trailing up to Black Moss.’ Nathan grinned as he and his younger brother passed the turnoff for Black Moss Farm, with no intention of giving Lucy’s message to Adam Brooksbank.
‘Are you alright, Mam?’ Lucy picked baby Bert out of his cot and stopped him crying, which had wakened her mother from an uneasy sleep. She looked at how pale her mother was; her greying hair, unbrushed and tangled around her on the pillow, made her look older than usual.
‘I’ll be fine, now don’t you fret. I just need a day in bed, and then I’ll be up and going in the morning. You’ll manage all the jobs, won’t you? There’s no need to bake any bread, as I made plenty yesterday. And you’ll find some cooked ox tongue in the pantry for your father’s dinner. That’ll do him, and I know you’ll feed the children and see to them alright.’ Dorothy looked at her daughter, with her youngest balanced on her hip, and noted the concern on her face.
‘I’ll be fine, Mam, as long as you are alright. Can I bring you anything? Do you need a drink or something to eat?’ Lucy juggled baby Bert as he started to whine yet again. He was hungry, and his nappy was full and in need of her attention.
‘No, you’ve enough on. Leave me to sleep, and then I’ll be up and going again in the morning. Will Adam Brooksbank be alright with you missing a day? He’ll wonder where you are at,’ Dorothy said, nearly in a whisper, as she closed her eyes.
‘Nathan went to tell him before school that I’d not be with him today, so don’t worry on his part. He’ll understand.’ Lucy stood in the doorway and watched her mother drop off to sleep, then she gently closed the door behind her and gave her attention to her youngest brother, who wailed loudly as she carried him downstairs into the kitchen and the warmth of the fire. Once in front of the fire, with a full belly of bread porridge inside him and a clean nappy on, Bert was content to crawl and stand on unsteady legs around the kitchen table, as his sister Susie sat up at the table and ate her breakfast. Susie was unconcerned that it was Lucy seeing to her needs and not her mother, and she watched Lucy fill the copper boiler in the corner of the kitchen with water, ready to wash the soiled bedclothes from her mother’s bed.
Lucy picked up the soiled bedding and dropped it all into the almost-boiling copper, adding soda crystals to the wash to get rid of any stains, before she turned her attention back to her two young siblings. This was not the kind of life she wanted – beholden
to bringing up squabbling children all her life, washing and cleaning, with no thanks for the long days of toil. If she was to marry, she had to be careful not to become pregnant, although she knew it would take more than good luck not to, as children were an inevitable part of a marriage.
She sighed and thought about Adam Brooksbank. There was something about him; although he was quite a bit older than her and more worldly-wise, she quite liked him. He was handsome and, if it wasn’t for the limp he had, he’d be physically attractive. More so than poor, shy Archie; he’d always be just a friend, much loved but nothing more. Although even Archie was better than the scowling, moody Thomas Farrington. God forbid that she ever had to marry him; he was getting more and more odd by the day, and the lads in the yard had warned her that he was fixated upon her, which she knew to be true, as she often caught him looking at her in a strange way. It was better that she set her sights on Alex Braithwaite, the son of the owner of the quarry, no matter what her father thought of her chances. But in the meantime she’d work hard for Adam Brooksbank, when her family allowed. She could dream for now, but dreaming was all it would be, as she set about tidying the kitchen table and pacifying both of her young siblings.
That evening Adam made his way down from the moorside. He ached all over and was tired after drystone walling for the best part of ten hours. He was looking forward to seeing the welcoming face of Lucy, and to warming up by the fire that he knew she would have lit, along with eating whatever she had concocted for his supper. She might not have been with him long, but he already valued her company and the running of his small household. He stopped short of the yard gate and noticed that there was no smoke rising from the chimney of the farmhouse, and the cow in the bier was making a fearful noise.
Where was Lucy? He shouted her name as he entered the house he’d left early that morning. The fire was unlit and nothing had been touched since his departure, so she’d not been at her work today. No wonder the cow was sounding distraught; she was in need of being milked, and she would be in pain. Adam swore as he pulled his knapsack off his shoulder and looked around him, before storming out of the house. Damn the girl – had she left him high and dry, just as he was beginning to enjoy her company and appreciate the work she did for him?
He stomped across the yard and opened the cowshed door, pulling up the milking stool as he placed the wooden bucket underneath the wild-eyed cow, then he relieved the pressure from the over-full udder by milking her. ‘Shush now, lass. I don’t know what’s become of the maid, but she’s let both me and you down, and I’ll want to know why in the morn.’ Adam put his head on the side of the cow and milked her steadily, leaving her fed and content as dusk fell over the farmyard. Tomorrow, if Lucy did not appear, he’d go and pay a visit to Providence Row and the flay-pits and see what had kept her. He stood outside the long, low farmhouse and watched as lit candles and oil lamps started to appear in the windows of the houses in the valley below, twinkling and shining like magic along the moor and valley sides. He found himself wishing, and hoping, that nothing had befallen Lucy Bancroft. It was not in her character to let him down, of that he was sure. Something must be wrong, and if she did not show her face first thing in the morning, he’d find out what, and why she had not worked for him that day.
10
The morning broke dark and sullen, with rain coming down so hard that Adam had to run from the shelter of the cowshed to the warmth of the farmhouse kitchen. Once again Lucy had let him down and he had to light his own fire, make breakfast and milk the cow, without a word coming from either her or any of her family. It was out of character, he thought, as he hung his oilcloth coat up behind the kitchen door and went to make himself warm again next to the fire.
He looked out of the window as he warmed his hands next to the flames. It was a sod of a day, that was for sure – typical spring weather, just what always came about the week before Easter and during the festive period itself, or so it would seem. Nevertheless, it would not bother him; he could keep himself dry and not be worried by the rain for the next day or two. And he could always find young Archie an inside job, mending the hayloft in the adjoining barn, or whitewashing and mending one of the old, derelict outhouses ready for a pig, which he aimed to rear and fatten for bacon later in the year. He would, however, dress for the weather once again and go down to Providence Row and the flay-pits and call on the Bancrofts. If Lucy had decided against working for him, then he’d need a new maid. He’d have thought better of her if she had told him herself that she no longer wished to be in employment, instead of having to go and find out for himself.
He swore quietly under his breath and decided that rather than get wet again later in the day, he would visit Lucy now. He’d give her a piece of his mind; the least she could have done was be civil with him and tell him, if she no longer wished to work for him. Adam grabbed his still-dripping coat and set out to walk down the rutted track. There was no joy sitting astride a drenched horse in this weather; better that he walked the half-mile or so down to Lucy’s home.
The wind and rain blew across the valley, making the moorland rushes and grasses bend in the strength of the powerful gusts. Adam swore yet again, as water seeped down his neck, getting his shirt and body wet. Damn the maid; he must be mad chasing after her in this weather. Perhaps it would be better if he advertised his need for a new one. After all, Lucy was quick to give her opinion and often spoke out, not knowing her place. But those were the things that he knew he liked about her: she wasn’t afraid to say what she thought. Besides, she had been just the right tonic for his new life back home – full of life, a good cook and bonny with it, too.
He reached the flay-pits still in two minds, as he wandered into the yard to find Bill Bancroft. Then, if he had no explanation, he would visit Lucy at home in the row of terraced houses that backed onto the yard. Although the weather was as wild as you could get, the men of the yard were still working. The flay-pits were filled to the brim with smelly mixtures of toxins, softening the leather, and the piles of skins were heaped high, ready to be scraped and made supple before reselling. The stench was terrible and the excess water, mixed with lime and whatever else was in it, ran down the yard into a drain behind the row of houses. Adam looked around, trying to stop himself from retching.
‘You – is Bill Bancroft here?’ Adam shouted to a dark, moody-looking man who was pulling treated leather out of one of the pits. The weather was not making any difference to him, as he was used to being wet most days; it was part of his life and, if the heavens opened, it just meant that his head was wet, along with everything else.
‘Nay, he’ll be in his home. There’s nobbut us fools that work for him getting sodden this morning. Besides, his wife is badly – he’s with her.’ Thomas Farrington scowled and looked at the stranger in his midst. His dark hair stuck to his head like rats’ tails, and the many layers of protection from the rain made him look bigger than he actually was. ‘Third door down over there, that’s where you’ll find him.’ Thomas motioned to the back door of the row of cottages and sniggered, as Adam looked down at the pool of filthy water that lay all around him.
Adam walked over to the door that was indicated and wondered how anybody could put up with the everyday smell from the pits and the filth. His home was like heaven compared to this, although it was out in the wilds and remote. Most days he smelled just the wild moorland air and had grassland under his feet. He stopped at the back door of the terraced house and stood next to the water pump for the whole row. The drained water from the yard rushed down a ginnel beside the row of houses and bubbled down a drain next to it, and Adam looked down at the putrid water, hoping that both drinking water and the filthy water from the yard were not one and the same. He knocked heavily on the door and waited as he heard children’s voices from within, and the sound of a man shouting to let the visitor in.
‘Mr Brooksbank! What are you doing here, in this weather?’ Lucy opened the door and looked shocked. ‘It’s terrible out the
re – come in and get dry. Have you come to see how my mother is? That’s terribly kind.’
Adam took his sodden cap off his head and shook it free of the excess water, before stepping over the cottage’s threshold. ‘On the contrary, I’ve come to see what ails you, and why you have not shown your face at work,’ he growled and then looked around him at the cramped living conditions. Bill Bancroft was sitting by the fire while the baby sat next to him, and a small blonde-haired girl was sitting at the scrubbed kitchen table, playing with two carved wooden dolls.
‘Did you not get my message? Did Nathan not call and tell you that my mother has lost the baby, and that I was needed here to mind the family?’ Lucy looked at Adam and then quickly glanced at her father. She knew that he did not want to make their grief public.
‘No, I’ve not heard so much as a by-your-leave from any of your family. But now that I know why, I am more at ease with the situation.’ Adam looked at Lucy and then at Bill Bancroft, who sat and said nothing, not even turning to acknowledge him standing there. ‘You have my sympathies, Mr Bancroft. Is your wife recovering? It is heartbreaking to lose a child,’ Adam said, playing with his cap, as he felt he had judged Lucy wrongly and should have known that something was amiss.
‘I told Nathan to tell you, on his way to school yesterday. Wait until I get hold of him – I’ll scalp his backside,’ Lucy muttered as she went to the aid of Bert, who had pulled himself up to his full height and then fallen hard on the stone flags of the kitchen floor and was about to cry.
‘I thank you for your kind words,’ Bill said. ‘Dorothy is mending; she will be up and about tomorrow. You’ll have my lass back with you in the morn. But save your sympathies. I doubt you know the pain we are feeling. Although we are blessed with a decent-sized family, the Lord’s decided that we must lose as many bairns as we already have. Dorothy’s heart breaks a little bit more, each time we lose one. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but my heart is also heavy today, as my wife is weak and the weather is dark, and I am beside myself with anguish, as I feel that we are being punished by the good Lord himself.’ Bill held his head in his hands. Dorothy was taking her time to recover from her loss this time, and every time he walked into the yard he thought about the not-yet-formed bodies of the babies that he had buried in the unused pit.