For a Mother's Sins (7 page)

His friends immediately staggered to their feet, calling, ‘Come on, girl – come and have a drink, we won’t bite!’

Mollie walked on, wrapping the shawl more tightly around her.

‘Hey up, girl, sit here,’ said Cloggie, moving his wiry form along the fallen tree they were using for a bench.

‘No, I’m not stopping. I want nothing more to do with you, Cloggie McFarland. Now let me be.’

‘What do you mean?’ Cloggie jumped to his feet and hurried towards her. ‘Come and sit down – have a drink, you know you want to.’ He grabbed her arm, leering at her
and offering her the bottle in his other hand. Though short in stature, Cloggie had a reputation as a dirty fighter. Most of the navvies gave him a wide berth, knowing how dangerous he could be
when his temper flared.

‘Leave me be, Cloggie. I don’t want to have anything more to do with you.’ Though inwardly she was petrified, Molly yanked her arm free and carried on walking.

‘You’ve changed your tune. I didn’t hear you complaining when I spread your legs,’ roared Cloggie, grabbing at her shawl. He brought his face close to hers, the reek of
his foul alcoholic breath wafting under her nose.

‘Let go of me, I wish I’d never let you touch me.’ Molly glared at him without flinching, even though she feared for her life.

‘Why you stuck-up bitch!’ Cloggie lifted his hand to hit her.

‘Go on then, what’s stopping you?’ Molly stared him in the eye.

‘Ah, fuck off! You weren’t up to much anyway.’ Cloggie let go of her and wandered back to his mates, who were gawping at her, their filthy faces split in toothless grins. A cry
of laughter rang out and Molly heard her name and a string of filthy comments, but she walked away, her legs shaking with fear as she crossed the road to the hospital.

When she reached the hospital doorway, she paused to take a deep breath, trying to gather her thoughts and calm her pounding heart. ‘Well, Moll, you’ve nailed that one dead, and made
an enemy into the bargain,’ she told herself. But she had no doubt that she’d done the right thing. Cloggie was nothing but a chancer. Even under the influence of a gin-fuelled haze, it
was hard to understand what she’d ever seen in him.

‘Is there something I can do for you, or have you just come begging?’ asked Doctor Thistlethwaite briskly, looking up from a patient to inspect the woman standing
in the open doorway. It took him a moment to recognize Molly Mason: she’d tidied herself up since the last time he had seen her, on the day he called at her house to write a death certificate
for her baby. When her face wasn’t twisted in grief, she was quite a good-looking woman.

Molly was trying hard not to lose her nerve. The sight of the hospital interior, the groans of the patients and the overpowering smell of carbolic soap mingled with ether had brought back
painful memories. She tried to focus on the doctor and shut out the surroundings. He was a dapper gent with penetrating almond eyes that seemed capable of reading into your soul. ‘I was
wondering what you do with your dirty bedding. I thought maybe I could wash it for you. Say a farthing a sheet . . . ?’ The speech Molly had been rehearsing during her walk to the hospital
had failed her. Faced with the doctor’s stern gaze, her words came out in a faltering, almost incoherent jumble.

‘My good woman, the Midland Railway Company ensures that hospital laundry is collected once a week. And besides, with the best will in the world, you would never be able to cope with the
demands. A few days of bad weather and you’d be unable to deliver.’ He stepped forward, intending to wish her good day and close the door firmly behind her, but at the last moment it
occurred to him that the hospital might yet have a use for her services.

‘Tell me, does the sight of blood bother you? I could do with an assistant, but you’ll be no use to me if you swoon whenever you see a spot of blood. I’m looking for a jack of
all trades, someone willing to turn their hand to anything – there are lots of menial tasks around the ward that the nurses don’t have time for, as well as little jobs like writing
letters for patients. I assume you can write?’

‘Yes, sir, I can write.’ Molly bobbed a curtsy and smiled, sensing that there was a job within her grasp.

‘Show me your hands.’ He gestured for her to step into the light so he could scrutinize her hands, which were spotlessly clean. She thanked the Lord that she had scrubbed under her
nails after she finished cleaning the house earlier. Satisfied with their condition, Doctor Thistlethwaite gave a nod of approval and beckoned her to follow him to his desk. ‘Now write your
name on this piece of paper.’ He handed Molly an ink pen and writing paper, on which she dutifully wrote her name.

‘Excellent. The job is yours. I’ll see you here, first thing on Monday morning. There’s no way of knowing how many hours you will be required each day – much will depend
on events beyond our control. In the event of an accident at the construction site, we have no option but to work on until our patients have been attended to. We can discuss the matter of your pay
when I’ve had a chance to see how well you manage. You will be under Nurse Gladys’s supervision – I’ll introduce you to her on Monday. Report here at six a.m., not a moment
later. We run a tight ship – can’t afford to do otherwise.’

He escorted Molly out and briskly shook her hand before closing the door behind her. She stood on the step, head reeling, wondering what she had let herself in for. Still, a job was a job. Soon
she’d be earning money and proving to everyone that she’d turned the corner. It wouldn’t be long before she’d be on top of her life again.

‘Now then, Lizzie, don’t forget – tomorrow’s Saturday, the day when my men get paid and we all go into Ingleton for supplies. I expect your mam used the
provision hut run by the Midland.’ Rose couldn’t resist a sniff of disdain at this, but quickly recovered herself: ‘Of course, there’s nothing wrong with the provision hut,
but I like to go and get myself something decent, and there’s a right good butcher’s in Ingleton. Plus you never know what you might pick up at the market. But whatever you do, keep
clear of them hostelries.’ This was accompanied by a shudder of disapproval and shake of the head. ‘Such drunkenness, you wouldn’t believe! Why the sinful goings-on in those
places on a Saturday evening . . . Well, you won’t see any of
my
men indulging.’

‘Not for want of trying,’ mumbled Jim Pratt under his breath.

‘What was that, Father?’

‘I said, Aye, it can be very trying.’ Old Jim winked at Lizzie, knowing that she’d heard his original response. He found the religion a bit wearing at times, and always turned
a blind eye when his lads slipped away for a quick gill while Rose was shopping, only wishing that he could escape her watchful gaze occasionally.

‘You won’t get any of mine spending their wages on liquor, like most of them do around here. I blame that Henry Parker, him as runs the Welcome Inn. The railway never should have
given him the job of doling out the wages. He picks the money up on a Friday night from Ingleton and then he pays the men on a Saturday morning – and by Saturday night most of their earnings
have been spent in his establishment. The man’s not daft.’ Rose sighed and cleared the table of breadcrumbs.

‘Leave him be, Mother. Henry’s only making a living like the rest of us.’ Jim kept his head down, puffing on his pipe and reading his paper, not bothering to look up.

‘And why aren’t you working today? We’ll not have as much coming in this week if you’ve only worked four days.’ Rose stood with her hands on her hips, face red with
annoyance at her husband’s defence of a man she considered to be a denizen of the bowels of hell.

‘I’m fifty-two, woman, with three grown lads. Let them keep us for a while.’ Jim folded his paper down and defiantly met Rose’s gaze.

‘Aye, well, I can’t be doing with you getting underfoot when we’re trying to get on with our work. Clear off while Lizzie sweeps the floor. And then we’re going to set to
and do some baking – them lads will expect summat good for their supper.’ She wiped her hands on her pinny and subjected Jim to her steeliest glare.

‘I’m off!’ he said, conceding defeat. ‘Reckon I’ll go and read my paper in the earth closet, where I won’t be disturbed. It’s a devil when a man
can’t get peace in his own home.’

‘Well, you’ll be thanking me when we’re back in Durham in a nice little cottage with everything we could ever want. Maybe then you’ll admit it was worth coming here to
make some brass.’

Lizzie and Rose watched Jim skulk out of the hut, his braces hanging off his shoulders as he made his way to the small lean-to that served as a toilet. Lizzie couldn’t for the life of her
understand why anyone would want to spend more than a minute in there, let alone the time it took to read the paper, but she kept her thoughts to herself.

‘That’s it, use the tips of your fingers, don’t get it on to your palms – pastry doesn’t like getting warm. It’ll be worth nothing if it
gets too hot.’ Rose was leaning over Lizzie, teaching her to bake. ‘Keep going until it gets like bread crumbs and then add your water bit by bit. Don’t get it too wet, mind. You
just want it to hold together enough for you to roll it out.’

Rose was proud of her baking skills and had always longed to pass them on. She’d leapt at the opportunity to train Lizzie in the art.

‘Aye, not too rough, it needs to be handled gently.’ She nodded approvingly as Lizzie rolled out the bottom layer of the pie. ‘Now put your rhubarb in and a good cup and a half
of sugar, blackcurrants and gooseberries. You can never add enough sugar with that lot – tart, they are, a bit like your mother on a bad day! But all it needs is a bit of sweetening and then
they’re grand.’ Rose tousled Lizzie’s hair, joking with her pupil. ‘Now put its lid on and crimp the edges with your thumb. You don’t want any of it spilling out in
the oven bottom. That’s the way – then give it a wash with this spare milk. Grand, that’s your first pie done! I can leave it all to you next time.’

Lizzie stood back and admired her handiwork.

‘Did your mother never bake?’ Rose asked.

‘We’ve no oven at home, only the stove top. She used to bake when we lived in Bradford, but I was too young to learn then.’

‘Your mother must miss her city ways. I expect it’s been hard for her, leaving it all behind to come here. The things us women do for our men – and then they go and leave
us,’ Rose sighed, bending down and putting the pie in her small oven. ‘We’ll make her a cake and then you can take it to her on Sunday while we’re at chapel. She’ll
not want you coming with us, of that I’m sure. If you want, you could pop over and visit her tonight. Our John’s going across to pick your bed up – it’ll fit nice and snug
in that corner we’ve cleared. Do you want to go with him? I’m sure your mam will be glad to see you.’

‘No, I’ll not bother, Mrs Pratt.’ Lizzie’s eyes were downcast.

‘Whyever not, pet?’

‘I saw her walking down the track towards Ingleton.’ Lizzie’s voice trembled. ‘I don’t want to see her if she’s drunk.’ She looked up at Rose with tears
in her eyes.

‘Aye, pet, she’ll be fine. She knows she’s too much to lose. Our John will tell you what she’s like when he comes back. I bet you’ve nothing to worry about. Now
come here and give this old woman a hug.’ She clasped Lizzie in a tight embrace, wishing she could ease the lass’s worries. ‘We’ll get some ribbons for you tomorrow –
red ’uns, I think, for this bonny black hair. What do you think of that?’

Lizzie smiled and kissed her on the cheek. For the first time in ages, she felt loved.

John Pratt knocked on Molly’s door, having double-checked that his neckerchief was tidy and his hair brushed. His brother Mike might have been joking about making a play
for Molly Mason, but he definitely wasn’t. John had had his eye on her for a while. All right, she was a few years older than him, but so what? Better an experienced woman than a slip of a
lass, and she was still a looker even after having two children.

He waited for some time, knocked again, and was on the verge of giving up when Molly finally came to the door.

‘I thought I heard something,’ she said. ‘I was busy sorting through Lizzie’s clothes – I thought your mother would want them.’ She stepped aside and waved
him in, noticing how shy and uncertain he was in her presence. ‘Sorry, I know you’re one of the Pratt boys, but I don’t know your first name.’

‘I’m John, the eldest. My mother’s sent me for Lizzie’s bed. She says Lizzie made it right with you this morning.’ It was all he could do to look at Molly.
She’d let her long auburn hair down and it was cascading over her shoulders, but it was her eyes that had him spellbound. He’d never been close enough before to notice the colour: they
were the deepest shade of green. She was a good looker, that was for sure. He was gazing at her, lost in admiration, when he realized that she’d been asking him a question and he hadn’t
heard a word.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ she laughed. ‘I said you take the frame and I’ll bring the slats and bedding.’

‘Oh! Sorry, I must have been daydreaming,’ he stammered. ‘No, don’t you lift that. I’ll come back for the rest, you shouldn’t be carrying it.’ He picked
up the wooden frame and moved it across the room, lifting it on its end before carefully easing it through the doorway.

‘Do you want a drink, John, on your return journey?’ Molly asked as he struggled to manoeuvre it.

‘I don’t drink. I thought you’d know.’ John stood struggling to hold the frame clear of the muck and dirt. Wishing that for once in his life he could confess to liking
the odd gill.

‘I didn’t mean a drink drink, I meant a cup of tea. The kettle’s boiling and I could do with some company.’

Molly tried not to smile as the young man turned a rosy shade of red.

‘Aye, I knew that really. And yes, go on then, I’ll have a cup of tea with you.’

John set off homeward barely conscious of the weight of the bed frame, a broad grin plastered across his face. A cup of tea with Molly Mason – now that was something.

When he returned he found Molly securing a bundle of bedding. ‘There, I’ve rolled the mattress and bedclothes together and Lizzie’s clothes are in the middle of it all. I
thought if I tied it up with string then it wouldn’t get dragged in the muck out there.’ She waved him to the table. ‘Here, sit down. I’m just letting the tea brew for a
minute or two.’