For a Mother's Sins (30 page)

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.

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.

‘I’ll help you,’ offered Molly, seeing the look of doubt in Helen’s eye. ‘I’m with the lads – I don’t reckon this spot much.’ When Helen
gave the nod, she shouted to John, who was looking perplexed at the thought of not getting a pint: ‘John, will you run us down in the trap and help us get set up before this lot
arrive?’

‘Aye, I’ll take you – anything to get a pint. We’ll have to get a move-on, though – once this lot hear you’re opening up, they’ll be off. It may be half
a mile down the road, but I reckon they’re that desperate for a pint they’ll cover the distance faster than my horses can.’

‘Come on then. Our Florrie would have wanted us at home. I don’t suppose her useless lump of a father will have the doors open.’ Helen Parker lifted her youngest on to her hip
and shouted above the din: ‘The Welcome’ll be open in ten minutes.’

A cheer went up as John opened the door and held the crowd back so Molly and Lizzie could help Helen and the children out. They mounted the gig and whipped the horses into action, trotting just
ahead of the running navvies.

The Hill Inn emptied as fast as it had filled, leaving the sweating barman dumbstruck and short of takings with only the top brass sipping their whisky and eating sandwiches.

As Helen had predicted, the Welcome Inn was closed and in darkness.

‘I can pull a gill,’ said Molly, putting an apron on and nipping behind the bar. Seeing that Helen was busy lighting lamps and lining up glasses and jugs, Molly took charge:
‘Lizzie, you’re in charge of looking after them little ’uns. John, bring a barrel in from the yard – we’ll need plenty of drink in today.’

‘Thanks for this,’ said Helen. ‘I don’t know where my useless lump of a husband is.’ She was missing Florrie more than ever. In that past it had been her daughter
she’d turned to for help when crowds of mourners flooded the inn, but today it was Florrie they were mourning.

‘Happen it’s best he’s not here. From what I hear, some of them want to string him up.’ Molly started pouring pints in readiness for the thirsty crowd.

‘Aye, he’s not popular at the moment. But folk are scared of him. He still has the ear of the bosses and pays the workers out on a Saturday, and he owns this place and can ban anyone
who so much as looks at him funny.’ Helen broke off and gave Molly a frightened glance as the first mourners burst in through the door.

Conversation was lost as the inn was rapidly filled to the brim, the oak beams and seats groaning with the weight of people crammed inside.

Molly helped behind the bar while John collected glasses.

‘What the hell have you got there, Ted?’ John stopped what he was doing and stared in disbelief at what Ted and his mate were carrying through the door.

‘I thought Helen could make use of this. I’m sure it’ll not be missed.’ The carcase of a huge pink-and-black pig was heaved on to the bar. ‘I’ve sticked
it,’ said Ted cheerfully. ‘It just needs shaving and curing. I’ll do it, if you like. That’ll keep us in bacon for months.’ The navvy grinned, showing all his black
teeth, as he patted the dead pig on its head. Blood trickled on to the bar from the wound on its neck.

‘For God’s sake, take it around the back,’ hissed John. ‘You’ll get us all locked up.’

‘Nay, I won’t,’ said Ted calmly. ‘The constable from Ingleton caught me at it, but we’ve come to an understanding: he gets a joint of ham and keeps his gob shut. He
wants a bit of pork off the other ’un when I go back and help myself to that.’

A cheer went up as Ted and his mate nudged and wormed their way through the revelling navvies, struggling to carry their burden out to the shed.

John shook his head. It was theft, pure and simple, but Ted’s heart was in the right place.

‘Come on, lads, get another round in,’ shouted one of the railway gangers.

The cry was immediately followed by the slamming of tankards on the tables, and shouts for them to be filled.

‘We’ve only one pair of hands, you know,’ said Molly, cuffing one of the navvies round the ear.

While John got to work pulling pints, she swerved through the drunken hordes picking up empty tankards, dodging the hands that tried to pat her on her backside. They grinned at her through
cracked and broken teeth, enjoying the way she gave as good as she got, not standing for any cheek.

‘Bye, I don’t know how you do this every night.’ Molly wiped her hands on her skirts and confessed to Helen that she was about ready to drop.

‘You just do,’ said Helen. ‘Either that or risk a good hiding from Henry because the takings are low.’ She hung her head in shame at having to admit what she put up with
from her husband.

‘I’d be giving him a bloody good hiding if he was mine!’ Molly said as she served a grinning navvy.

‘She would an’ all. Our Moll can hold her own with any man.’ The elderly navvy gave his four penn’orth to the conversation before retreating back into his corner.

John, listening in, took Molly by the elbow and whispered loudly in her ear: ‘Don’t you get involved in this, Molly. Henry Parker is a hard man. He’d think nothing of laying
into a woman and dumping your dead body under one of those viaduct piers.’

‘That’s as maybe – he still needs bloody sorting. He’s the scum of the earth.’ Molly’s eyes flashed.

‘From what I hear, it’s in hand, so keep your mouth shut.’ Molly could tell from the worried look on John’s face that it was time to stop voicing her thoughts about Henry
Parker.

The drink flowed all night and into the early hours with tales being told and songs being sung and tears being shed as memories of home and family were rekindled. The embers in
the hearth were glowing their last dying light as the revellers slowly departed, one by one. Helen locked the door behind the last straggler and looked back into the bar to see Molly, fast asleep
in the corner next to the fire. She covered her with a horse blanket before winding the chain in the grandfather clock, her last act before bed. It had been a hard day, one she would never
forget.

Molly and Helen sat warming their hands on mugs of tea, looking around at the beer-swilled flagstone floor strewn with broken glasses. A pile of rags moved in the dim light of
the snug, revealing the body of a stirring navvy as the first rays of dawn crept through the murky windows of the Welcome Inn.

‘Well, at least the children are asleep, and John saw Lizzie home.’ Molly took a long sip of tea and looked at the state of the inn, knowing that she would have to help clean up
before starting at the hospital.

‘What time did John get away? I didn’t see him leave. He was a grand help.’ Helen stared thoughtfully into her cup. ‘You’ve a good man there.’

‘Nay, some days he’s mine, some days he isn’t. At the moment he’s living up at Jerusalem, wanting time away from me.’ Molly could have wept, her heart ached with
love for him. She was so tired and emotional after the long hours spent serving people and hiding her emotions, after seeing the people who had died in her care laid into a mass grave.

‘That lad loves you. Why, you’ve only to see the way he is with you to know that. If my bastard of a man looked at me like that, I’d be happy. Instead, he treats me like just
another one of his possessions.’ Helen gazed out of the window into the grey morning light. ‘I wish he was dead. It was him got Florrie in the family way, you know. Her own father! Evil
bastard. If I’d known, I’d have tried to stop him, but knowing Henry he’d probably have killed me. And then what would happen to the little ’uns?’ Helen was too numb
to show emotion. She’d been raped, beaten, kicked and abused so many times that she no longer cried or let her feelings show.