For The Sake of Her Family (2 page)

She was turning to make her way back to the house when Mr and Mrs Battys’ cart arrived, with her mother’s cheap, rough-made coffin strapped on the back. Alice looked at it, hoped it
was strong enough to protect her mother from the cold, dark earth. It was a pauper’s coffin, probably not even the right size for her mother’s frail body. Tears came to her eyes and a
feeling of bitterness filled her stomach. One day, she vowed, she would have money. No one she loved would ever again be given a pauper’s funeral. And no one she loved would die for want of
cash to pay a doctor. She would make certain of that.

The light from the kitchen spilled out onto the dour couple as they carried the shabby coffin into the house. Alice lingered in the yard, watching as Will pulled the curtains in the parlour
– when she caught herself referring to the shabby living room as a parlour, Alice smiled; her mother had always called it ‘her parlour’, furnishing it as posh as money would
allow. It might not have chandeliers and sparkling crystal ornaments like the manor, but Mum had kept it spotless and loved. It was only right that she would be laid to rest in there for folk to
pay their respects.

Alice delayed a while longer, sheltering inside the barn, giving old Mrs Batty time to make her mother respectable and for the coffin to be carried into the parlour. She’d have stayed
there until the sickeningly pious Battys had gone, but eventually the cold drove her into the kitchen to face them.

‘Ah, Alice – we were wondering where you’d got to.’ Bob looked at her with concern.

‘I was just making sure all was fed, Father. And I closed the barn doors before the snow comes.’ Having placed the eggs in a dish and hung her shawl up, she turned to look at the
couple who dealt in death. ‘Mr and Mrs Batty, thank you for seeing to our needs and being so quick bringing the coffin.’ It cost her an effort to be polite; she felt more like spitting
the words at them. In her mind’s eye she pictured the Battys’ yard with its ugly pile of coffins, hastily thrown together and left out there in all weathers, until some poor soul like
her mother needed burying. These coffins were meant for the poor. The lovingly polished oak coffins intended for the posh folk of the dale could only be seen if you peered through the door leading
to the workshop.

‘Aye, you’ve got a grand lass here, Bob.’ Ernie Batty smacked his hands together, his ample body slumping into a kitchen chair. ‘A right polite bit of a lass.’

‘We were sorry to hear of your mother’s death, Alice.’ Hilda Batty put her arm around Alice. ‘She’s at peace now, my dear. I’ve made her look so pretty, at
rest in her coffin.’

Cringing at the old woman’s hand of death resting on her skin, Alice moved away on the pretext of getting supper ready.

‘Right then, Bob, we’ll be on our way.’ Ernie Batty heaved himself to his feet. ‘Now, you know I don’t want to ask this,’ he said, his face turning sombre,
‘but I need paying for the coffin, and my old lass here will expect a bit of something for laying your good lady out.’

‘Tha’ll get the money. You can take this for your bother now and I’ll give you the rest at the end of the month when our Will gets paid.’ Scowling, Bob reached up to the
tin cashbox kept above the fireplace. Opening it up, he threw what coins he had onto the table. ‘I’ve always been a man of my word, tha knows that.’ The cheek of the man! Asking
for his money before his wife was even cold, let alone buried. ‘Alice, open that door and see Mr and Mrs Batty out.’ The sooner they were gone, the faster he and his family could grieve
in peace.

‘With pleasure, Father.’ Alice darted to the door, eager to get rid of the predatory couple.

‘Our condolences once again.’ Ernie bowed his head as he left the building, his wife shoving him out of the door as he tried to count the handful of coins.

The snow was falling steadily now. There was a good covering on the ground already, the wind whipping it up into white blankets over the walls. As their horse and cart set off down the lane, the
sound of Mrs Batty chastising her husband for having no tact could be heard above the howling of the wind.

Alice put her arm around her father. ‘Never mind, Father. We’ll manage. We will get the money some end up.’

‘I know, lass. Grovelling old devil – fancy asking for his brass straight away. Now, I’m going to have five minutes with your mother. I need to talk to her.’

Patting Alice on the shoulder, Bob turned and wearily made his way into the parlour and his beloved Bess.

Alice went to join Will, who had been sitting quietly next to the fire since letting in the Battys. ‘One day I’m going to have so much money that people like the Battys will have to
grovel to me, same way they expected our father to grovel to them tonight. You’ll see, Will: my parlour will be a proper parlour with maids and servants, and I’ll be a lady.’

Will looked up. ‘Alice, does that really matter? We’ve just lost our mother, Father’s in mourning, and at the moment we haven’t a penny – so stop thinking of your
bloody self for once.’

Alice flicked her long blonde hair from out of her face and got up to start supper. Why did people always get her wrong? She wasn’t thinking only of herself; she was thinking of all of
them and the parlour they were going to share.

It was five long days before they could bury poor Bess. The snow had fallen for forty-eight hours, covering the dale with a white blanket so thick that it made travel
impossible, and digging a grave was out of the question. When the mourning family did finally manage the journey down the rough stony track into the little churchyard of Dent village, it was
raining. The rain added to the greyness of the day, bringing with it encircling mists.

Walking behind the coffin in the shadow of the four bearers, Alice shed tears for her dead mother. In church, she silently took her seat in the pew, smiling bravely as her big brother squeezed
her hand in sympathy. As she gazed through brimming eyes at the rough wooden coffin, a steady stream of raindrops splashed down on it from a hole in the church roof. The light from the candles
fragmented and shone like a miniature rainbow in the drips. Anger swelled up into her throat as the congregation sang ‘Abide with Me’. She cursed the world as she looked out of the
church window, the trees outside waving their branches wildly in the wind, raging with the same anger as Alice.

Some day, she told herself, things would be right; they’d have money and a fine house. She didn’t know how, but as long as she had breath in her small body she would fight for her
family and never would they have to beg for help again.

There, that was the parlour dusted; another job done for the day. The sun shone through the small-paned windows only weakly yet, but it gave hope that spring was on its way.
During the four months since her mother’s death Alice had been keeping house, cleaning, cooking and helping out around the farm. She didn’t want to admit it, but having more
responsibility had turned her from a girl into a young woman.

Alerted by a random sunbeam to a streak of coal dust that had managed to survive the attention of the duster, she turned to give the edge of the dresser one last going over. It was then that the
gap caught her eye . . .

Not the clock, please not the clock!
Alice gazed unbelieving at the space where the little brass carriage clock had stood. Crestfallen and exhausted, she slumped into the one comfy chair
that the Bentham family owned. In the absence of the clock, the green chenille mantelpiece cover looked bare, its tassels hanging limp over the unlit fire, held in place only by the two grinning
Staffordshire pot spaniels. Her mother had been so proud of that clock, which had been presented to her when she left service at Ingelborough Hall to get married.

It wasn’t the fact that the clock was missing that made her put her head in her hands and sob; it was the fact that she knew all too well what had happened to it. How could he!

Anger spurring her on, she surveyed the room for other missing items. What else had he pilfered? At least the paintings were still hanging, the highland cattle serene as ever in the face of her
distress. The mock-silver teapot was still on the table, but then it would be – mock silver wasn’t worth much. Hands on hips, mind racing, she forced herself to take a deep breath. If
only her worries could be expelled as easily as a lungful of air. Never mind, it was done now. Too late to get the clock back, even though she had a good idea where it was. Besides, the loss of the
clock paled into insignificance alongside the real problem: how the hell was she going to cope if things carried on like this? She might be only sixteen, but the seriousness of their situation was
not lost on her.

‘Ali, get the pot on – we’ll not go hungry tonight!’ Will’s voice rang out, followed by the sound of the kitchen door closing. ‘Would you look at these
two!’ He appeared in the parlour doorway, stooping because of the lack of headroom, his gun resting on one shoulder and two very dead rabbits in his other hand, dripping blood onto the clean
floor. ‘What’s up, our lass? What’s to do – you’ve not been worrying over supper, have you?’

Alice turned from the window and smiled. ‘Why should I worry about supper when we have the finest shot this side of Leeds living under our roof? Now get yourself out of this parlour, Will
Bentham, before you get blood everywhere.’ She pushed him lovingly out of the doorway. ‘Them rabbits are a grand size, all right. Just you be careful that Lord Frankland doesn’t
catch you – he’d have you up in front of the magistrates before you had time to blink.’

‘They’re from our high pasture, Ali, honest. Besides, even if they were that bastard Frankland’s, he wouldn’t miss ’em – too busy carrying on with his
floozies, from what I hear.’ Will lumbered out into the farmyard, tugging his knife out of his pocket ready to skin and gut his kill.

‘You listen to too much gossip, our Will. His lordship’s a gentleman, and he’s always polite to me.’

‘That’s ’cos he has an eye for the ladies – I’d watch him, if I was you. And I don’t need to listen to gossip. I know exactly what he’s like because I
see him every day, working his charms at the big house. When it comes to what goes on at the manor, what I don’t know isn’t worth knowing, our lass.’

‘You talk rubbish, our Will, but I’m glad you caught those rabbits. I don’t know what we’d have had for supper otherwise. Get a move on and skin ’em, then I can
stick them in the pot and have everything ready by the time Father returns.’

Alice busied herself filling the big stockpot and placed it to boil on the Yorkshire range. She’d decided not to tell Will about the missing clock; no need to worry his head when he had
enough on already, looking after the farm and working three days a week for the Franklands.

Besides, she knew who had taken it, and why – and there was nothing she or Will could do about it.

Uriah Woodhead wiped the pint tankards with a cloth that had seen better days, spitting on the stubborn marks and rubbing them vigorously, before hanging them back on the hooks
around the bar of the Moon Inn. At this time of day, the pub was quiet; in fact, he had only one customer. Over the last few months, the man had become his best customer, but it was high time he
went home. Soon the place would start to fill with evening drinkers and the last thing Uriah wanted was a non-paying guest sleeping in his snug. Stepping out from behind the bar, he gave the
wretched body of Bob Bentham a rousing shake.

‘Aye, I’ll have another pint with you,’ Bob slurred, dribble running down the front of his already filthy jerkin as he stumbled to his feet.

‘Nay, I don’t think you will. Come on, Bob, you know you’ve had enough. Besides, your credit’s run out – that little clock’s not worth what you’ve
already drunk. Only reason I took it off you was because I knew you had no brass; it’s not as if it’s much use to me.’ Seeing that his words were having no effect and the man was
about to settle back into his seat in the snug, Uriah grabbed him by the arm and began steering him towards the door. ‘Time you got yourself home, Bob. Your lass will be wondering where
you’re at. She’s having it hard, from what I hear.’

‘You bastard!’ protested Bob, swinging his fists in an effort to resist the strong arms hauling him over the threshold. ‘You’ve robbed me, you thieving bugger!’

Dodging the drunken punches with ease, the landlord ejected Bentham from the premises with a final push that sent him sprawling onto the narrow cobbled street.

‘Get yourself home and square yourself up, Bob. You’ve a family that needs you.’ With a shake of his head, Uriah closed the door on him. It was sad to see a man go downhill so
fast. Sometimes his trade was not the best to be in.

Bob lifted himself up and, head swimming, stumbled along using the walls of the cottages lining the street to steady himself. His erratic gait and frequent falls soon began to draw taunts from
the local children, who abandoned their games to enjoy the spectacle of him sprawling on the cobbles. Their laughter ringing in his ears, he dragged himself out of the village and along the road
home. At least it was a mild spring evening; during the winter there had been times when Bob had felt like giving up and crawling into a hedge, drifting off to sleep while the warmth of the alcohol
still filled him with a fake sense of well-being, hoping that the bitter cold would do its work and end his suffering, and he would wake up in the arms of his Bess . . . How he missed his Bess.
Without her, he was lost.

He paused to rest his weary body on a seat at the side of the road. From this vantage point he had a wonderful view over the dale. Looking around him, he noticed the first flowers of spring in
the roadside bank: delicate wood sorrel and the pale yellow hues of the first primroses. His Bess would have been picking them and bringing them into the house. Bending to take in the sweet smell
of the flowers, he lost his balance and toppled into the road, landing on his back. Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, he lay there for a while, until he became aware of the sound of hooves
tripping along the road. A few minutes later, a horse and trap came to a halt inches from his head.