For a Mother's Sins (18 page)

‘I love you, Molly Mason. That’s the truth. I want to marry you!’ John shouted after her as she walked home, not so much as turning her head in recognition. ‘Are you
listening? I said, I want to marry you.’ His voice boomed around the navvy huts, cutting the air with his declaration of love. Lifting his arms to the skies, he yelled again, but it was in
vain.

‘Get yourself in here now!’ said Rose, pulling at his shirt. ‘What a thing to shout, with your brother still warm in his grave. How could you?’

‘Be quiet, Mother. I’ve just lost the woman I love – all because of you. Are you satisfied?’

‘Shut your mouth, you stupid boy! She’s not fit for the likes of us. Why, Molly Mason’s as common as muck, and you should think yourself lucky that this happened, else
she’d have been a weight around your neck all your life.’

John wasn’t listening. Hanging his head dejectedly, he walked away.

Molly sat in her chair, thoughts running through her head. Had she been too hard? She’d stood there yelling that he should be hanged and all the while the lad was dead.
But what did they expect her to do? He’d tried to rape Lizzie, and then he’d walked away, leaving her for dead. It was no thanks to him that she’d survived. And what did his
family do? Bloody hypocrites! Never again would she have anything to do with the Pratts. She looked around her at the shelves John had put up and the cups and plates that he’d bought. Was it
his way of paying her off, easing his guilt, or had he actually done it all for love? The words he’d shouted after her were ringing in her ears. Had he really wanted to marry her? She
remembered the night their bodies entangled with passion on the floor of the hut, the way he’d kissed her and looked at her. That couldn’t be false, surely? Molly felt sick, torn
between hatred for one brother and the love she’d felt for the other. How could she walk away from the man she loved for the sake of his brother’s sins? But she had to be right by
Lizzie and she couldn’t court a man whose face would be a constant reminder of the terrible wrong that had been done to her. She put her thoughts away as she heard Lizzie stirring from her
bed.

‘You all right, Ma?’ Lizzie slowly walked towards her mother.

‘Aye, I’m all right, pet. It’s you we’ve to look after. That bastard Bob – he’ll not be harming anyone ever again.’ Molly wanted to tell her that
he’d hanged himself, but Lizzie had endured enough revelations for one day. ‘How about I make us a brew and some drop scones?’ She got up and placed the griddle pan on the
stovetop and went to the store cupboard to gather the ingredients. ‘Your ma’s got a bit of news, lass: I’m going to be training as a proper nurse from tomorrow.’ Molly
grinned at her daughter. ‘Let’s get you mended and walking better, then I’ll give Nurse Starchy Drawers a run for her money, eh?’

Lizzie gazed tearfully at her mother. ‘I don’t want to go back to help Mrs Pratt again, Mam.’

‘You’ll not be going back there, pet, don’t you worry. Those hyprocrites’ll have to find themselves another skivvy.’ Molly took her anger out on the scone batter,
beating it for all she was worth.

‘I’m sorry, Mam. Happen it was my fault – I did used to smile at him, but he always looked miserable so I thought it would cheer him up.’ Lizzie’s eyes filled with
tears once more.

‘Lizzie Mason, you did nothing to be ashamed of! Nothing! You didn’t encourage him – that lad never was quite the full shilling. And as for his mother, well . . . I just
don’t know what to say. Here, pass me the butter and let’s forget them, we’ve some scones to eat.’

Lizzie passed her mother the butter and hugged her at the same time. ‘I love you, Mam. I’m sorry.’

‘Nowt to be sorry for, lass. It’s them buggers over there that should be sorry.’

Molly bit her lip in concentration, it was the first time she had dressed a broken arm and she didn’t want to cause her patient pain. She stepped back and scrutinized her
efforts. It was a bit scruffy, but it seemed to be keeping the bones tight and in place, and that was what mattered.

‘Well done, Mrs Mason. I couldn’t have done it better myself!’ Doctor Thistlethwaite congratulated her. ‘Don’t you think she’s done a neat job, Nurse
Thompson? I knew she was a natural!’ Roger Thistlethwaite smiled and moved on to his next patient, proud of his teaching skills.

Molly bent to tuck her patient back into bed and found Nurse Thompson’s face glaring at her as she stooped to tuck in the covers on the other side.

‘Don’t you think you can worm yourself in that fast,’ hissed Nurse Thompson, pulling the sheets tight over the injured man. ‘Bandaging an arm’s nothing!’

‘Ah, go boil your head!’ said Molly, wondering what the poor man in the middle was making of finding himself stuck between two warring nurses. From the grin on his face, he appeared
to be revelling in it. ‘For goodness’ sake, Gladys,’ she said, ‘can’t you see there’s room for two of us here?’

Nurse Thompson’s only response was to stick her nose in the air and turn away.

‘Right,’ muttered Molly. ‘If that’s what you’re wanting, I’ll give you a run for your money.’ She’d had enough of Starchy Drawers accusing her of
flirting with the doctor. Since nothing she could say would put a stop to the jealousy, she might as well go ahead and flirt.

‘Roger – oh, I’m sorry, I meant Doctor Thistlethwaite – what would you like me to do next?’ Molly winked at her patient and wiggled her bottom as she walked over to
where the doctor stood. She knew Nurse Thompson would be apoplectic with rage, hearing her address him by his first name.

‘This patient came in with frostbite. Stand here next to me and I’ll show you how to dress his feet,’ said Doctor Thistlethwaite, leaning over and carefully wiping the
navvy’s feet, before talking Molly through the procedures that he was undertaking.

Moving as close to him as she could, Molly bent over, her tight-fitting bodice revealing her plump breasts as she pretended to be interested in the man’s frozen feet. Roger Thistlethwaite
found himself losing track of what he was saying as his eyes kept wandering to Molly’s cleavage. ‘Perhaps I should have Nurse Thompson help me,’ he stammered. ‘My mind is
not quite on my job today. Nurse Thompson, come and see to this patient, would you please? I need some fresh air.’

Doctor Thistlethwaite rose and walked out of the ward, leaving Molly smiling and Nurse Thompson fuming at having to take over the unsavoury task.

‘There you go, Gladys –
that’s
flirting. If you don’t want me doing that all the time, stop your jealous ways and give me a chance.’ She bent and picked up
the navvy’s discarded socks. ‘These are threadbare. He needs some decent socks before he goes back outside again – I’ll see if we have any.’

Molly walked away smiling to herself. With luck, she’d have no more trouble from Nurse Thompson. Her only concern was that Roger Thistlethwaite might have taken her advances to heart.

October changed into November and work on the viaduct remained at a standstill, thanks to the snow. The dale was buried in snow, freezing winds blew through the partly built
viaduct and the railway navvies barely ventured out of their huts. The Pratt family appeared to have turned their backs on the world. Since the day Molly had hammered on their door, the only time
they’d been seen out was when they attended church. Even John had elected to stay indoors. A handful of his fellow tunnel builders still made their way up to Blea Moor, blasting their way
through the rock, the tough little fell ponies emerging from the gaping entrance with loads of dark frozen earth which was deposited on spoil heaps either side of the line. The work was hard and
cold and the navvies spent their time either getting chilled to the bone outside the tunnel or working up a sweat inside. Pneumonia was rife, keeping Molly and Nurse Thompson so busy that they
finally called a truce and devoted their energies to combating the spread of the disease.

By the end of the day, Molly was so exhausted she could barely stand, but she looked forward to getting home to her daughter. Undaunted by the snow, Lizzie spent her days getting out and about
as much as possible, with the result that both her leg and arm seemed to be healing well. She was standing by the stove, stirring a pot as Molly staggered in from the cold, her legs heavy with
tiredness and a gnawing pain in her stomach that seemed to be getting worse as the day went on.

‘Are you all right, Ma?’ asked Lizzie. ‘You don’t look too good.’

‘I’m all right lass, just tired. We lost two to pneumonia today. I hate the sound of a man drawing his last breath.’ She winced, her face grey with pain and fatigue. ‘Oh,
my Lord, my stomach’s bad tonight.’

‘Here, Mam, I’ve made us some potato soup. That’ll soon warm you up.’ Lizzie placed a steaming bowl of soup in front of her mother with a hearty slice of bread.

‘You’re a good lass, our Lizzie. I’ll try a mouthful, but then I’m away to my bed.’ She managed only a few sips and a nibble of the bread before setting down her
spoon. ‘I’m sorry, pet, but I can’t eat any more – I just want to lie down.’ Molly dragged her tired body across to her bed and started to change into her nightie.
‘I know it’s hard on you, love, being on your own all day. I wish I could sit up and keep you company for a bit, but I’m really not up to it tonight.’

‘Don’t worry about me, Mam. I’ve been busy reading.’

‘You and them books! I’ll have a scholar on my hands, if I’m not careful. You’ll end up like Doctor Thistlethwaite.’ Molly gave a wan grin as she undid her stays,
pulling her nightie over her head and drawing the covers around her. ‘Don’t you go reading all night,’ she muttered as a pain gripped her. She closed her eyes tight, wishing sleep
would come upon her.

Lizzie put the pan of soup to one side; they could heat up the leftovers for dinner tomorrow. She pulled her chair up next to the stove and got her latest book out, leaving her mother in
darkness as she took the oil lamp to read by. Soon she was lost in the adventure written on the pages.

It was dark and silent when Molly woke up, a terrible pain ripping through her body, so bad it almost made her scream. Her nightdress was damp, and when she ran her hands over the mattress
beneath her, it felt damp and sticky. It was too dark to see, but when she put her damp fingers to her face she could smell the iron tang of blood. Trying not to disturb Lizzie, she fumbled to
light a candle. Her bedding and nightdress were saturated in blood, so much blood that Molly had to fight off a wave of nausea. She gulped hard and sat on the edge of the bed, totting up how many
weeks had passed since she slept with John. There was no doubt in her mind: she’d lost a baby, a baby that would have been loved by both its parents. Tears ran down her cheeks. If only Bob
hadn’t laid a finger on Lizzie, things would have been fine. She held the pillow to her face and sobbed into it. Two babies in one year: the world could be so cruel.

‘Lizzie told me you were ill and unable to work today. I feel so guilty. I’ve been asking too much of you lately.’ Roger Thistlethwaite looked at Molly with
concern.

‘I told Lizzie to let you know it was only something I ate that didn’t agree with me. You needn’t have come all the way up here. There’s worse cases than me to worry
about.’ Molly stood up from her chair, trying to prove that she was fine. ‘It was that pork I had the other night. I never could stomach the stuff. Now stop fussing, both of
you.’

‘Are you sure there’s nothing else wrong – no pain or fever? You’re looking extremely pale,’ said Roger.

‘I’m all right, for God’s sake. Give me a day or two to shake off this belly ache and I’ll be back with you.’ Molly knew she shouldn’t be so sharp with him,
but she was desperate for Roger to leave before he pieced together enough clues to suspect her secret.

‘Right then, if you’re certain, I’ll go. Lizzie, you’re to come straight to me if your mother gets any worse.’ Roger Thistlethwaite reached for his hat, but then
paused to look at her one last time before making for the door. ‘How about tea at my hut on Sunday? Lizzie, you could choose another book and it would give me a chance to make sure your
mother’s well enough for work.’

‘Can we, Ma? Please? Go on, Ma, I’ve nearly finished the one I’m reading and I’d love to have tea with Doctor Thistlethwaite.’ Lizzie couldn’t contain
herself. The one good thing about being in hospital had been the books that Roger had given her to read. She’d never dared hope that he would go on lending her books now that she was
home.

‘We’ll see,’ said Molly. ‘After all, we might be snowed in by then. I’ve never known weather like this.’ She smiled and took Lizzie by the shoulder,
surreptitiously leaning on her to say her goodbyes to the doctor.

‘Three-ish, all right?’ Roger Thistlethwaite tipped his hat and closed the door.

They stood in silence for a moment, listening to him whistling as he made his way back to the hospital.

‘Let me get back into bed, our Liz. I need to lie down,’ said Molly weakly. ‘Don’t you tell anyone how badly I am. I’ll be back on my feet by Sunday, you mark my
words.’ Molly struggled back into her bed, more broken-hearted than in pain, and lay listening to Lizzie singing. At least Lizzie was happy; she was glad that she had kept the miscarriage
from her, managing to change the bloody sheets and hide the evidence while Lizzie slept. It would have been too awkward, trying to explain to her.

Molly felt as if her heart would burst with pain. Both the pain of losing another baby and the pain of losing John, the man she thought she had truly loved but now couldn’t stand the sight
of. She missed him so much, that smile and the easy way he had with her and Lizzie. She had felt so comfortable in his presence – how could he not have told her about his bastard of a
brother? How could he have kept that from her?

Molly hugged her pillow and wept into it, stifling her cries so that Lizzie wouldn’t hear.

‘Are you feeling any better, Molly? I must say, your colour has improved. I was rather concerned when I called in to see you the other day.’ Roger Thistlethwaite
took a long sip of his tea and studied Molly. ‘I’m so glad you decided to come, you’ve made an old man happy.’ He watched Lizzie inspecting his book-laden shelves, the smile
on her face answering his question: ‘You like reading and writing, Lizzie?’