Our Lizzie (2 page)

Sam looked at him thoughtfully. Everyone knew that Percy Kershaw was as soft as butter and a worrier. You couldn't help taking to him, though. He'd do anything to help you and was well respected at the works, knew his job better than most and was studying to learn more at night classes. “Come an' have a drink, lad. We need one after that.”

“Thanks, but I can't.” He'd have loved to go into the warmth and bustle of the pub after a hard day's work, especially with a big confident fellow like Sam, but Percy didn't allow himself luxuries like beer at the moment. He had to watch every farthing if he was to save enough money to go to Technical School part-time next year. Mr. Pilby himself had given permission for Percy to work part-time in order to do that. It was all arranged.

“The drink's on me,” Sam offered. “I had a win on the horses.”

But Percy was stubborn as well as soft. “No. Thanks all the same, but I couldn't afford to buy you one back, an' I prefer to pay my own way.”

“Just a half, then. I don't like drinking alone.” Sam took a grip on his companion's arm and led him firmly, still protesting, into the Hare and Hounds. They passed a woman with soft dark hair and green eyes, and for a moment he was reminded of Lizzie. But this woman's eyes were dull and she was slouching along.

As he chuckled at the memory of the little lass spitting fury at him, Sam knew suddenly that he wanted her. Not now, but later. He didn't lust after children, and for all her lively wits Lizzie was a child still, but when she grew up—ah, then he'd be waiting for her. Something in her wild, defiant nature appealed to him, as other girls' flattery and admiring glances never did. He'd enjoy taming her, wooing her first and then mastering her, as all women loved to be mastered. Marrying her, perhaps. Yes, that idea pleased him. He didn't want his sons mothered by a whining fool like that other lass. And Sam was going to have sons, lots of them.

He waited to be served, brow creased in thought. The Kershaws were well respected in Southlea, the district at the bottom end of the low hill across which the small town of Overdale sprawled. Mrs. Kershaw was a cut above her neighbours, for she'd been a housemaid to the gentry before she married, and she talked better and ran her home better than most. So would her daughters, with her training, which would suit Sam just fine. He had ambitions for his future. Oh, yes. Big ambitions.

He grinned as he paid for the two half-pints and pondered on his tactics. He was about to become Percy Kershaw's best mate, and all for the sake of that cheeky little brat! And he'd better soft-soap the mother a bit, as well. He enjoyed making folk do what he wanted, setting his sights on something and getting it, too. He hadn't done badly for a whore's bastard—he scowled briefly as he thought of the mother he'd never met, but heard of, oh, aye, heard of and been taunted about many a time.

The two young men's glasses of light ale were only half-empty when someone came pounding into the pub. “There's been an accident down at the brewery!” he gasped, then his eyes fell on Percy, sitting at the back, glass halfway to his mouth. “Oh, you're there, Percy!” His voice became gentle. “Eeh, I'm that sorry, lad. It's your dad, I'm afraid.”

*   *   *

Several weeks before the accident at the brewery, another man had died suddenly in a comfortable house on the edge of the moors. Bonamy Harper had been haranguing his two daughters, a pastime in which he often indulged, playing out all the tricks of a domestic tyrant and shouting at them for their extravagance—though indeed they had no capacity for extravagance with the meagre amount he gave them on which to keep house. Suddenly he clutched his throat, his face turned an even darker red than usual and he keeled over.

It was a moment before they bent over him and then, after another moment of startled disbelief, the main emotion each felt was relief.

The next morning the family lawyer paid a hurried visit to warn them to keep the funeral costs down. “There are debts to be cleared, you see, due to some rather rash investments your father made.”

“How much is owed?” Emma asked.

“Several hundred pounds, I'm afraid.” Mr. Peelby inclined his head towards Blanche. “Your annuity from your godmother is safe, of course, Miss Harper. However, that only amounts to about fifty pounds a year … Um, you'll have to sell this house and its contents, I'm afraid, but I can tell you now they'll barely cover the debts. You can stay on here till it's sold, but don't remove anything apart from your personal effects—though you can give your father's clothes away, if you like. None of the debtors will want those.”

Blanche, white and trembling, clutched at her sister's hand. “But—where shall we live?”

“With your aunt, I suppose. I'm sure Mrs. Reed will offer you a home when she hears how things stand.”

Emma groaned. “Oh, no! Not Aunt Gertrude.” For their sole surviving relative was as domineering as their father had been.

Mr. Peelby spoke somewhat impatiently. “Times are hard. Poorer people lack work and whole families are starving. You're lucky to have someone to turn to.”

Immediately he'd left, Emma turned to Blanche. “Whatever happens, I'm not going to live with Aunt Gertrude. You can if you wish, but I absolutely refuse.”

“But what else can we do?”

“I don't know, but I'll find something. For a start, I'm not going to give Father's clothes away, I'm going to sell them. Even if they're only worth a pound or two, it'll help.”

“But how…?”

Emma pondered for a moment, then said slowly, “Sam Thoxby will probably know what to do. I'll send him a message.”

“But the debts…”

“Are Father's, not ours.”

*   *   *

That evening, when Sam turned up at the house he'd been in and out of since the days his gran had done the rough charring work for Mrs. Harper, he said the wardrobe of fine suits and hats was worth something and agreed to sell the stuff. Emma was a little older than he was and Blanche older still. They and their mother had been kind to him as a lad, feeding him leftovers and giving him old scarves and gloves of Mr. Harper's to keep him warm in winter. He never forgot a kindness because he hadn't known many. Mind you, that wouldn't stop him turning a penny out of this.

“What about selling some of the other stuff as well?” he asked, looking round at the furniture and ornaments.

Emma shook her head. “This all belongs to the creditors now.”

“Only if they get their hands on it.”

The two women stared at him, then at each other. It was Emma who nodded. “I suppose we could sort out a few things.”

“Smaller stuff would be best. I'll come back with my handcart after dark.”

Only when he'd left did Blanche ask, “Should we?”

“We need to. And,” Emma added thoughtfully, “we'll keep Mother's jewellery for ourselves.”

“I don't like to think of leaving debts unpaid.”

“Well, I don't like to think of us not having something to fall back on.”

“My annuity—”

“Is not enough, dear. You know it isn't.”

That night, Sam and a friend brought a handbarrow round to the back door and took away three loads of stuff. Some of it would be sold, the rest kept to give the sisters a start in their new home.

Emma worked herself to exhaustion sorting it all out. Blanche wept almost continuously and was of little use.

*   *   *

Lizzie was in the children's playground when their neighbour found her. She was letting the swing move gently to and fro as she dreamed about a story she'd read at school.
She was an orphan, the lost child of a duchess, kidnapped when she was very young by gypsies. She had long, curly golden hair, and
—

“There you are, Lizzie Kershaw! I've been looking all over for you.”

She jerked out of her daydream and scowled at Mrs. Preston from across the street. “Well, now you've found me, haven't you?”

That should have earned her a scolding, or at the least a muttered, “Cheeky young madam!” but all Mrs. Preston did was mop her eyes and pat Lizzie's shoulder. “Eeh, you poor thing!”

Lizzie jerked to her feet, leaving the swing rocking to and fro behind her. “What do you mean?” she demanded, arms akimbo. “We're not poor.” Poor people only had bread and dripping for tea. They wore clogs and their clothes smelled sour. How dare anyone call her that?

Mrs. Preston's hand dropped from her shoulder. “You'll be cheeking the angels as folk lower your coffin into the grave, you will!” Then her mouth trembled and she flourished a handkerchief. “Look, lass, there's been an accident. At the brewery. You're wanted at home. Your father's—”

“
Dad!
”

Before the explanation was complete, Lizzie set off running, twisting between the iron posts at the entrance to the playground with barely a pause and haring off down the road as if she were being chased by a mad dog. When she arrived home, she found a knot of people gathered near the front door, as always happened when there was trouble. She pushed her way past them and they started saying, “Poor lass!” as well.

The fear became stark terror and she stopped for a minute at the door, suddenly afraid to go inside. Why were the blinds pulled down in the front room? It wasn't dark yet. She went into the long narrow hall and pushed the front door to behind her with her foot, then stopped again, not daring to take another step.

Percy appeared in the doorway of the front room. “Oh, Lizzie,” his voice broke, “our Dad's—he's been killed.”

She stood there for a moment with the words echoing inside her head, then started bawling, sobbing as loudly as any five-year-old child.

Her mother's voice was sharp. “Lizzie Kershaw, you can just stop that!”

With a gulp, she forced back the tears and the panic. She'd never seen her mother look so white and sad, not even when their Timmy, who had been older than her, died. “M-mam? Dad isn't—he
can't
be dead!”

Her mother's voice was dull. “He is.”

As Percy's grasp slackened, the girl moved forward. “Where is he?”

“In the front room.”

Lizzie took a deep breath. “I want to see him.”

Meg Kershaw closed her eyes for a minute and prayed for strength, finding it briefly in Percy's quick hug, then she gestured her daughter past her into the front room.

Her son stayed in the hall.

Lizzie found Gran Thoxby in the front room. She always helped out when someone died, though Lizzie wasn't sure what she did. “I want to see my dad.”

The old woman looked questioningly at Meg, received a nod of assent and lifted up a corner of the blanket.

Hesitantly Lizzie stretched out one hand to touch her father's cheek. She'd always been his favourite, always known he loved her whatever she did. As she let her hand drop, she half-expected him to wink at her, but he didn't. He lay so still she wanted to shake him, force him to move again. “He feels cold.”

“Aye.” Gran drew the blanket back across the face. “They allus do. An' he'll get colder yet.”

“What happened, Mam?” It was a whisper.

It was Gran who answered, for Meg was weeping into her handkerchief again. “An accident at the brewery.”

“It's not fair! We need our Dad!”

Gran looked sympathetically at the child, who was as taut as a bow-string, her eyes seeming huge in the whiteness of her thin face. “Think on, lass. I never even met
my
father. At least you had yours with you for twelve year. At least you'll never forget him.”

Lizzie was distracted for a moment. “You never met your own father?”

“No. Not once. An' our Sam's never met his, neither.” Well, how could he have? Even her daughter hadn't known who the father was. “Nor he hasn't seen his mother since he were three.” Trust her Janey to run out on them. One daughter, she'd had, just the one, and a right heartless little bitch she'd turned out to be. But Sam was a good lad.

Meg gave Lizzie a push and gestured towards the door. “Go and look after the others. I want to spend a few moments alone with my Stanley.”

Lizzie walked outside into the hall where her brother was waiting for her. Only then did it occur to her that she didn't know what had happened to her father. “What sort of accident was it?”

“It were that new dray horse. Dad said it were a bugger, but Mr. Beckins insisted on buyin' it because it looked good. Somethin' frit the damned thing and it trampled our Dad down in a corner of the stable yard before anyone could get to it.” Percy had seen the bloody mess below his father's waist and knew with shuddering certainty that no man would want to live on like that. He could only be thankful that the horse had finished off what it had started and that his dad had died quickly of a massive blow to the back of his head.

Lizzie looked round blindly. She hated to think of a horse trampling on her father. “It must have hurt him.”

“They said it were over very quick.” Percy suddenly leaned against the wall, feeling sick.

She saw how close to tears he was, so put her arm round his waist. “I'll brew us all some tea, shall I? I expect Mam'll be glad of a cup, too.”

In the kitchen, Eva was sitting at the table, with Polly cuddled up beside her and Johnny on her other side. For once, even clever Eva didn't seem to know what to do. They all three looked at Percy, but when he just stood there, they turned a questioning gaze upon their eldest sister instead.

Lizzie stepped forward and took charge. “You put the kettle on, our Eva. Polly, get out the cups an' teaspoons. Johnny, you fetch the milk jug. We'll all have a nice cup of tea. That'll make us feel a—a bit better.” Her voice choked on the last word.

After that, it was comings and goings, strangers knocking on their door, neighbours coming to see if they could help, some men carrying a coffin into the front room. Lizzie hated the idea of her dad being shut up inside a big box.