For a Mother's Sins (37 page)

John came back with his cart laden. The old black mare stood patiently as beds and tables and crockery were unloaded. Rose Pratt’s best china took pride of place in the
kitchen, making it look like a proper workplace again.

‘There’s no going back now, lass. Folk are wanting our huts already, so we’re here to stay.’ John put his arm around her shoulders and rocked her. ‘This is our new
life. What do you think, Lizzie? Are you happy, have you claimed your bedroom?’

‘I had, but Mam chucked me out. I’ve had to settle for second-best.’ Lizzie gave her mother a black look.

‘It’s better than behind a curtain in a wood hut, lady, so don’t you sulk.’ Molly pulled her young daughter up.

‘I know, but I wanted the view up the fell.’

‘Well, it’s ours. Besides, that room’s over the bar so you’d only be woken all hours with the noise. Trust me, you’re better off where you are.’

Molly counted the tokens in the cashbox behind the bar. ‘Go and see if you can buy four pounds of mutton off old Lawson – we’ve had a request for Lancashire hotpot
tomorrow.’ She handed them to Lizzie.‘And don’t let him rob you.’

Lizzie pulled on her hat, grabbed her basket and jangled the tokens in her hand. It would be good to get a breath of fresh air and escape from the two lovebirds.

‘Can you make Lancashire hotpot? John asked Molly.

‘Never made it in my life. I’ll sling some mutton, tatties and onion in a pot and hope for the best.’

While Molly continued getting the kitchen straight, John went to work in the cellar. When he came back up an hour later, there was a handwritten notice in the window:

‘I take it we’re renting the spare rooms and stables as of today,’ he said, pulling a glum face. ‘I was hoping for a few days with you on my own, without somebody in the
next room.’

‘It could be weeks before anyone applies,’ Molly turned to kiss him.

‘Please, you two, not while I’m about!’ Lizzie entered with a basket on her arm. ‘Here, this is all he’s got left.’

John and Molly peered in the basket and saw four pig’s trotters.

‘What the hell am I going to make with them?’ Molly looked dismayed.

‘He says get your order in the previous day and it’ll be there, providing you pick it up by seven. And he won’t take tokens from here – it’s cash only, because
we’re in competition with his pies. I’ve ordered your mutton for tomorrow.’ Lizzie took the basket into the kitchen and picked one of the trotters up gingerly. How could anyone
eat pig’s feet?

The air was filled with flour as Molly pounded and kneaded her bread. The elastic dough was sticking to her skin, getting brushed into her hair and binding her fingers
together. She’d never seen Helen’s bread look like this. She added more flour and pounded the dough into loaf shapes, then set it next to the fire to rise. The realization that she
would have to do this every day filled her with horror.

Brushing her sticky hands free of the dough, she put the huge brown basin to one side and tackled a dozen onions that needed peeling. As she pulled the skin off the first one, the strong acrid
smell stung her eyes and tears started to stream down her face. She chopped and peeled all twelve before adding them to a stockpot that hung over the open fire. All she needed now was the mutton,
and John should be coming back with it at any minute. The trotters were already boiling at the side of the fire, the white liquid giving off a pungent smell. She felt sick at the sight of them,
without having to breathe in the vapours as well. Some folk liked them, cold and jellied, but at this moment she’d happily have thrown them away, the smell was that horrible.

So – the menu for the day: Lancashire hotpot, jellied trotters, or ham and eggs. That should keep them all happy. Happen she should attempt a pastry . . . then again, perhaps not.
She’d put a rice pudding in the side oven instead. Once the bread was out it could cook away all day there, without her having to keep checking it.

Molly sighed and looked around the kitchen. She felt stupid: a woman of her age, with butterflies flitting around in her stomach over a bit of cooking. She’d to remember she was in charge
and if they didn’t like her food, tough.

She made her way across the flagstone floor of the snug and tried to peer through the mucky brown windows. Once Lizzie was up, her first job would be to clean the glass. She’d not heard a
murmur from the girl since they’d said goodnight. It must have been the best night’s sleep that she’d had since leaving Bradford.

A welcome blast of fresh air came in when she opened the back door, cooling her red cheeks. John was going to saddle the horse and make the trip to Lancaster later in the day. He’d be gone
overnight, but it had to be done. He needed to make himself known to the brewers at Lancaster docks. She didn’t want him to go; she’d miss having his warm body next to her. Her cheeks
flushed at the thought of their lovemaking these last few nights and she giggled to herself.

‘Here you are, woman – four pounds of mutton. And I’ve ordered four pounds of shin of beef for tomorrow. The man’s a bloody thief, though, his prices are
scandalous!’ John shouted through from the kitchen, pulling a chair out and sitting down at the table. ‘He’ll need watching – I’d to tell him to put in a different bit
of mutton, in else we’d have had the lump he dropped on the floor. You didn’t want it covered in sawdust, did you?’

Molly came in and unwrapped the parcel of meat. ‘Do you think that’ll be enough?’

‘Aye, chop it up into little lumps and it’ll go further. Put plenty of tatties in too.’

‘It’ll have been a bloody old sheep, this ’un – it’s all stringy and full of gristle.’ She started chopping the meat, practically having to tear some pieces
off by hand it was so tough. Then she tossed it in the stockpot. ‘I’ll put the tatties in later. John, open the front door, time for business – our first day, Mr Pratt, as
hosts.’

‘Aye, but I’ve to leave you, remember. I’ll not be back from Lancaster until late tomorrow – will you and Lizzie be all right?’

He wasn’t happy about leaving the two women on their own, but it was important to make himself known to Samuel Sedgwick. The brewery manager needed to know he was dealing with a man of his
word.

‘Of course we will, love. I can look after myself, you know I can.’ Molly really wanted to say, No, please don’t go, I can’t cope. But she didn’t. After all, what
was two days? They’d be fine.

‘Good morning, sleepy head.’ John put his arm around young Lizzie, who was still rubbing her eyes as she came into the kitchen. She yawned and fell into the chair opposite Molly.

‘You’ll have to be up earlier in the morning, lady. I’m going to need your help while John’s away.’ Molly placed a mug of tea and slice of bread and jam in front of
her daughter.

‘I don’t think I can eat anything – not with that horrible smell.’ Lizzie wrinkled her nose in disgust.

‘Pig’s trotters. I’m boiling them up and then leaving them to go cold. Some folk love ’em.’

Molly looked at her bread. It had risen a bit, but nowhere near as much as Helen’s. Still, it would have to do. She placed the bread in tins and then into the oven and stoked up the fire.
That left only the rice pudding and the tatties to do later. ‘Can you clean the snug windows today, Liz? We might even get a bit of light in there if you can get the muck off.’

‘I suppose so.’ Lizzie toyed with her bread and jam.

‘You help your mother, do you hear?’ John stood up. ‘I’ll get the trap and horse ready. Sooner I’m away, the better.’

John swilled his tea down and then went out to harness the horse and cart.

‘Come on then, lazy bones. You clean the floors and windows and I’ll see to the dinners and customers. I’ll need you tonight when the bar gets busy, so you’d better watch
what I do through the day.’ Molly put a mobcap over her hair and busied herself making the bar ready while Lizzie swept and mopped the floor, getting ready for the first customer of the day.
The smell of bread filled the pub and the mutton cooked slowly over the fire. Molly pulled the bread tins out of the oven, emptying one out into her hand the way Helen had shown her. She gently
tapped it. It sounded hollow, just like Helen said it should. She felt the weight in her hand; perhaps a bit heavy, but then, this was only her first batch. Gently emptying the tins on to cooling
racks, she admired the fruit of her hard work and drank in the uplifting smell of newly baked bread. She replaced the bread in the oven and popped in the rice pudding, adding a few sultanas and
some blobs of butter on the top to make it richer. Then she added the tatties to the mutton stew. That was it, everything ready. Now all she needed were a few customers.

John urged the little black mare on. There was no rush, the day was fine and as long as they got there by evening, it would be good enough. He was enjoying the ride out. It was
his first trip away from Ribblehead in a long time and it was good to see unfamiliar faces. He passed the medieval outline of Wray Castle and plodded on down the dusty road to Lancaster, pausing to
admire the view of the Irish Sea when he turned on to the road to Quermore. The ships’ sails looked like white gulls dotted against the azure blue waves. He’d be down at the docks by
dusk, just in time to catch Samuel Sedgwick with his order and to make himself known.

‘Now then, lad, what can I be doing for you?’ Samuel Sedgwick was a portly man, well dressed in a particularly fine embroidered waistcoat. John found him in his office, puffing on a
huge cigar.

‘Helen Parker’s sent me. I’ve taken on the Welcome Inn at Ribblehead and she says you are the man for my ale.’

‘Oh, aye – grand lass, Helen. Her husband was a right bastard, mind. No wonder she had him knocked off.’ Samuel took a long drag on his cigar and leaned back on one of his
barrels, looking John up and down.

‘Did you say what I thought you said?’ John was shocked.

‘What? That Henry was knocked off? Common knowledge round here, lad. If she hadn’t paid someone to do it, he wouldn’t have lasted long anyway. That man was hated – and I
mean hated.’ He had another puff at his cigar and got back to business: ‘So, you’re after my ale. Forty barrels a month the Welcome goes through, if my sums is right. I’ll
take my hat off to them navvies, they can sup as well as they dig. They’ve made me a very rich man.’ He rubbed his hands together, eager to do business.

‘I didn’t know we wanted that much. I thought Helen said twenty.’ John thought it must be because he was still in shock after hearing that the quiet landlady was a murderer.
Most likely it was just idle gossip; all the same, he couldn’t wait to get home and tell Molly.

‘Nay, lad, it’s forty, else it’s not worth my lad coming twice a month with the delivery. I expect prompt payment, mind. The prices per barrel and brew are up there on the wall
– you can take it or leave it. I can get a delivery to you beginning of next week.’ Samuel Sedgwick looked at his pocket watch, hinting that he’d no patience for time-wasters.

‘Right then, it’ll have to be forty. Payment on delivery all right?’ John prayed under his breath that it would be all right as he’d hardly a florin on him.

‘Nay, you don’t owe me anything for the first delivery. Helen made it right last time – she said you’d be coming and paying me a visit.’ He looked at John’s
face, knowing damn well that he wouldn’t have been able to pay for forty barrels outright. ‘Now then, you’re to come and have supper with me and th’old lass. I’ll
introduce you to the family – I’ve fifteen of ’em, one for every other year of marriage. I think I’ve called it a day now, but you never know, there could be life in the old
stick yet!’ He pulled on the black mare’s reins and guided John along the quayside. ‘I’ll have to tell you the tale of Helen over supper and you can make your own mind up,
but first a drink – we deserve one.’

‘Bloody hell, Moll, what do you call this? The Midland would pay you a fortune for this stuff – they need summat to line Blea Moor tunnel!’ The navvy looked
at Molly’s offering of home-made bread, ham covered with scorch marks, and broken-yolked eggs. ‘You can serve a good gill, lass, but your cooking’s shit.’

Molly looked at her accuser and bit her lip. She’d been putting up with it all day: not enough salt in the hotpot, bread like bricks and rice pudding with no nutmeg. She should have known
better than to take the place on, not when she couldn’t cook. It was hopeless.

‘Mam, come on, give him a free gill and let it be.’ Lizzie pulled her mother away and forced her to sit in the kitchen while she gave the navvy a free gill and apologies. She could
see that her mother was going to explode and that would do nobody any good. Lizzie shouted at the top of her voice over the hum of men talking.

‘Sorry, gents, there will be no more food served today. But we won’t disappoint you tomorrow.’

A cheer went up and a brave voice shouted, ‘Thank God for that! I thought I was going to be the next one in the graveyard!’ A roar of laughter filled the room and then the chat
resumed.

‘Listen, Mam, they’re happy enough drinking. Why don’t I have a go at the cooking tomorrow? Old Rose showed me a thing or two when I was with her. I can soon cobble together a
meat-and-tattie pie and a steamed pudding, that’ll do them tomorrow.’

Hearing the sound of a tankard being rattled on the bar, Lizzie left her mother to serve the thirsty customer.

Molly sat with her fists tightly clenched. She was more angry with herself than with her customers: they were right, she just didn’t have the knack when it came to cooking.

John had the hangover from hell as he climbed the hill out of Lancaster. As he gazed down on the sandstone buildings laid out below him, he spotted Lancaster Moor Asylum and
shuddered at the thought of the lunatics within its walls. From the stories he’d been told, many of the inmates weren’t really insane, they were just misfits who’d fallen foul of
polite society.

It had been a very entertaining night at the Sedgwicks. They’d plied him with food and drink until he could take no more. He breathed deep, drawing in the fresh salty sea breeze in the
hope of clearing his head for the long ride homewards. The mare knew its way and took no guiding, she must have travelled this route many a time. As he rode, John mulled over the tale that Samuel
Sedgwick had told him about Henry Parker’s demise. He still found it hard to believe that Helen would have done such a thing. No, he told himself, it can’t be true. For a start, surely
Henry’s body would have been found by now? His mind wandered for a while and then stopped with a jolt: what if Henry was buried under the floorboards at the Welcome? Was that why she’d
been in such a hurry to get away?