For a Mother's Sins (4 page)

‘You can’t take money from the church, that’s wicked!’ Lizzie remonstrated, appalled. ‘I may not go to church but I know what’s wrong.’

Florrie paid no heed. She was too busy collecting the pennies.

‘Stop it, Florrie – you’ll never go to heaven if you do that. Put it back!’ Lizzie rushed over and grabbed at Florrie’s hand, sending the coins flying. As they
rained down on to the wooden floor, Lizzie fell to her knees and began picking up the rolling pennies. She was so busy trying to rectify Florrie’s theft that she didn’t realize that her
wayward friend had darted out of the church.

A dark shadow loomed over her.‘Get up, you thieving child! How dare you steal from the Lord’s house? God will smite you down with a great blow, for there is no greater sin than
stealing from Him.’

Lizzie raised her eyes and saw the long black cassock of the vicar. Head bowed, she scrambled to her feet, clutching the bronze pennies in her hand.

‘But I . . .’ she stammered, too shocked to get her words out. Hurriedly she placed the coins back on the collection plate, shaking with fear as the vicar loomed over her.

He raised his hand and brought it down hard on her ear, making her head spin. Tears sprang to her eyes and she wiped her nose on the sleeve of her dress. Her face burning with shame at the
wrongful accusation, she raised her eyes fearfully to meet the vicar’s implacable glare and tried to stammer out an explanation.

‘Quiet, you terrible child. You think I haven’t noticed that you’ve been stealing from my church for weeks? But then, what should one expect of a navvy’s brat – you
people are like a pestilence infesting the dale!’ He leaned forward, scrutinizing her face. ‘Wait – didn’t I bury your brother only yesterday? Hah! You would do well to bear
in mind that the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away – and in your case he’s taken your brother, all because of
your
sins.’ The vicar grabbed Lizzie by the scruff of the
neck and shook her.

‘I haven’t done anything, it’s her,’ Lizzie sobbed, pointing to the empty porch. Florrie must have heard the vicar coming and made herself scarce. ‘I loved my
brother. I didn’t do anything to hurt him.’ Her head was throbbing where the vicar had hit her and tears and snot were running down her face. She tried to clean herself up using the
sleeve of her dress, but the vicar had tightened his grip on her neck and was steering her out of the church, her feet tripping over themselves in an effort to keep up.

‘Enough!’ he roared. ‘This will be the last time you steal from my church – I’m taking you back to that forsaken place they call Batty Green and we’ll see
what the local magistrate has to say.’

As soon as they were out of sight, Florrie crept from her hiding place behind the church wall. Seeing the few remaining coins in the collection plate, she grabbed them and made good her escape.
Too bad the vicar had showed up, she thought. It would be too risky, helping herself from that plate again.

The vicar hammered on the weathered wooden door of Lizzie’s shanty with such force that the whole building shook. Lizzie’s eyes were red and she couldn’t stop
sobbing even to draw breath. He’d finally released his hold on her neck, which felt bruised where he’d gripped it as he marched her all the way up the hill to Batty Green, but now he
had her arm clamped in his fist. The pain was nothing compared to the humiliation and terror she’d endured as he ranted at her throughout the long walk, accusing her of being in league with
the Devil and telling her that she would burn in eternal hell along with the rest of her vile family.

‘It’s no good repenting now – tears won’t wash your soul clean,’ the vicar hissed in her face, giving her another violent shake.

Then he pounded on the door again, determined to gain admittance. The response from inside the hut was a muffled ‘All right, all right, I’m coming!’ Not satisfied with this,
the impatient vicar hammered on the door with his fist again, as if he was trying to break it down by brute force.

At last the door opened, to reveal Molly Mason, squinting in the daylight, her hair uncombed and alcohol on her breath. Beyond her, in the rear of the hut, a half-naked Cloggie could be seen,
sitting on the edge of Molly’s bed.

The vicar was all too familiar with Cloggie, who was a regular in the local drinking establishments and a shameless whoremonger. Clearly, the child’s mother was another of his whores.

‘Fornicators – ye shall have thy part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone!’ he roared. Faces were appearing in other doorways now, curious to see what all the
commotion was about. ‘You disgust me, woman!’ he told Molly. ‘I see now where this wretch gets it from – a prostitute for a mother and no father. The child doesn’t
stand a chance. No wonder she was thieving from the church. I saw her with my own eyes. It was my intention to take her before the magistrate, but under the circumstances I think the workhouse at
Sedbergh would be more fitting. At least there she will find holy guidance and be put to good honest work.’

‘No, no, I won’t go to the workhouse, you can’t make me,’ Lizzie screamed, trying to pull free of his grip. ‘Tell him, Ma! Tell him he can’t take me
there!’

But the once-proud Molly Mason had no fight left in her. Swaying unsteadily, she shrank from the overbearing man of God. Avoiding her daughter’s pleading eyes, her voice dull and listless,
she said, ‘Do with her what you want. Maybe she’ll be better off at the workhouse – I can’t feed and dress her any more, I can’t even look after myself.’ And
with that she closed the door.

Even the vicar was sufficiently taken aback to release his grip on the child, who now fell to her knees, sobbing and screaming. ‘Now then, now then, what’s all this about?’
demanded Rose Pratt, shuffling through the gathering crowd. ‘What’s all this about, Vicar? I could hear the racket from over in my hut. What’s up, Lizzie pet?’ she asked,
stooping to clasp Lizzie’s hand, but instead of bringing comfort this only succeeded in making Lizzie cry all the harder.

‘You may well ask, Mrs Pratt,’ said the vicar to Lizzie’s neighbour, a prominent member of the local Methodist congregation. ‘I found this wretch thieving from my church.
Far from castigating the child, the wanton slut of a mother has just disowned her. I am left with no option but to take her to the workhouse.’

‘Now, Vicar, don’t be so hasty.’ Mrs Pratt laid a protective arm around the sobbing girl’s shoulders. ‘Our Lizzie’s a good lass, she’d not steal. And
her poor mother’s not herself – burying a baby within six months of losing her husband has taken a terrible toll on her.’

Lizzie sniffed and tried to stop the tears. ‘I wasn’t pinching, Mrs Pratt, honest. I was only picking up the pennies to put them back.’ She turned her pockets out to demonstrate that she hadn’t been trying to make off with the
collection money.

‘See, Vicar? I think you’ll find it’s all a misunderstanding. And as you can see, Lizzie doesn’t have anything in her pockets, so she’s not really pinched anything,
has she?’ Laying a hand on the vicar’s arm, she said, ‘Why don’t you come and have a nice cup of tea at mine – and bring Lizzie with you? I’m sure we can sort
this out.’ Then she lowered her voice conspiratorially and added, ‘Why, if I were to tell you the things that go on in this godforsaken place . . . well, let’s just say your
pennies would seem of no consequence.’

His interest piqued, the vicar allowed himself to be led away in the direction of Rose’s home.

‘Well, that’s worked out grand, Vicar. Lizzie will stop with us until her mother finds her feet again. I’m so glad we’re all in agreement. I’ve
always wanted a daughter, and Lizzie will have a good home here, never fear. So that’s that then, eh. Mind how you go, Vicar.’

Rose Pratt practically had to push the vicar out of the hut, but finally she closed the door behind him with an enormous sigh of relief. Even she had heard enough of his pompous sermonizing. ‘I thought he was never going to go! My word, he could
talk the legs off a donkey, that one.’

Lizzie, who had been sitting in the corner, too afraid to breathe a word while the vicar was present, peered anxiously at Mrs Pratt. She couldn’t for the life of her understand why the old
lady had come to her rescue, but she was grateful that she had. She’d heard terrible stories about the workhouse and what happened to people who went there.

‘I didn’t take that money, Mrs Pratt, I swear. I’d never do a thing like that. I’m much obliged to you for standing up for me – and for letting me stay.’

‘Aye well, let’s say I owe you a favour and least said about it the better. Only thing that worries me is how do I explain to my lads that you’re stopping? Two of them are
going to have to sleep head to toe for a night or two until we sort you a bed of your own. Still, it’ll not hurt ’em.’ She began clearing the table, gathering up cups and plates,
then lifting the lid of the biscuit barrel to check the contents. Empty – the vicar had eaten his way through the entire lot, greedy so-and-so.

Seeing Lizzie still sitting in the corner, she said briskly, ‘Come on, young Lizzie, time to earn your keep. The lads’ll be home soon and wanting something to eat, so come over here
and peel me these potatoes.’ Rose emptied a dozen potatoes into an enamel dish and gave Lizzie a knife. ‘Get a move on, lass, they’ll not peel themselves.’ Then she shuffled
off to rearrange their sleeping quarters to accommodate her new guest.

As Lizzie peeled the potatoes the day’s events kept running through her mind over and over. Never had she known a day like it: accused of thieving, dragged home by that horrible vicar only
to be confronted with the sight of her mother, drunk in the middle of the day and with a naked man in her bed . . . That was almost the worst part of all. Had she no respect for herself? And then
telling the vicar to go ahead and put her daughter in the workhouse. How could she?

And as for Florrie Parker: just wait until Lizzie got her hands on that little troublemaker. She was going to wish she had never been born.

Lizzie lay uneasily in the wooden bed that was her new resting place. She’d hardly slept a wink all night and now she was wondering how she would adapt to the early
morning routine of the Pratt household. She screwed her eyes tight, pretending to be asleep as she heard the men of the house rising and getting ready for another day’s work on the railway.
Coughs, grunts and the sound of the Pratt men relieving themselves made her curl under the bedclothes in embarrassment. The only man she’d ever shared a house with was her dad, and that was
different because he was kin. Although it was only six in the morning the sun shone through the window, promising a good day, but in Ribblehead such promises meant little. At any moment a change in
the wind could bring dark clouds that would envelop the great peaks and deliver a downpour that would go on for hours.

‘What were you thinking of, Mam, when you took that one in?’

Lizzie could hear the Pratt family discussing her, even though they’d lowered their voices.

‘I’d no choice, the poor lass. That dry old vicar was going to put her in the workhouse for the sake of his collection plate. I don’t think she’d taken anything anyway,
the miserable old devil. They’re all the same, that C of E lot.’

‘But we haven’t the room, Mam,’ John, the eldest, protested.

‘If we haven’t room for a soul in trouble then what are we worth? Look at what we’ve got: a warm home, food on the table and the five of us content and well fed.’ Rose
emphasized the last two words by plonking a ladleful of porridge in her son’s bowl. ‘Stop your moaning, John. We’ll soon knock up a bed and sort out quarters for her. By the end
of the week you two lads will be back to normal. In the meantime it won’t hurt you to share for a night or two. Now, I’ll not have another word said. Besides, she’ll be a good
hand for me around this spot. I’m not getting any younger and you four men take some looking after.’

‘But, Rose . . .’ Jim, her worn-down husband, started to protest.

‘No, not a word, Father. I’ve made her welcome and it’s here she’ll stay. That is, until her mother wants her back – shameful hussy that she is at the
moment.’

Rose banged the black pot on the stove top, signifying an end to conversation. The men bowed their heads and ate their breakfast in silence. They knew better than to argue.

John and Mike left the family home a few seconds later than their father and younger brother, Bob. Mike took the time to check himself in the small mirror that hung next to the
door while John was busy tying his spotted neckerchief at a jaunty angle. They were both proud, good-looking men who took pride in their appearance, unlike the rest of the navvies, most of whom
worked and slept in the same clothes day after day. Their mother had taught them well: ‘Respect yourself and folk will respect you’ was a favourite adage of hers, and she’d
drummed it into them from the time they were small.

‘I don’t know what’s got into Ma,’ John Pratt growled to his younger brother, keeping his voice low so Rose wouldn’t hear. ‘She’s been acting funny the
last few days, and now she’s taking in thieving orphans.’

‘But she’s not an orphan. She’s still got a mother and it should be up to her to sort the lass out,’ Mike said as he tapped his clay pipe empty before putting it into his
jacket pocket.

‘The mother’s in no fit state, from what I hear. That worthless case Cloggie’s been taking advantage of her grief, plying her with drink since the baby’s funeral in the
hope of having his way with her. Useless sod – she’s too good for him, if she only realized it.’

‘Aye, she’s a fair woman, all right. Not bad for someone who’s got a lass that old. I’ve seen her hanging the washing out. When the wind takes her hair, she looks like
something out of a painting . . .’ Mike lost track of his thoughts for a moment, picturing a windswept Molly pegging washing on the line.

‘She’s too much about her for you!’ John laughed, throwing a light punch at Mike’s shoulder. ‘Best let your older brother show how it’s done.’

‘Keep your bloody voice down! Ma would hit us into next week if she knew what we were thinking. She hasn’t a good word for the woman.’