OK, I've skipped a couple of chapters and I'll put just one more extract here. We've reached 1916, about a year before the very first chapter of the story as I've written it. There's been a marriage, a cot death and 5 more births in between and the family are now living in Penistone in Yorkshire.
The wind was blowing, cold, from the moors as they laid Lizzie in the ground. The small knot of mourners stood with heads bowed as the vicar spoke.
“And so we commit to the Earth the body of our sister, Elizabeth”.
“Why did he say that?” Harry thought to himself. “She’s not our sister, she’s our mam, was our mam, I mean.” He gripped Teddy’s hand tighter and stared at the plain pine box, now laid in the deep hole.
“Stupid man,” Harry’s brow contracted into a frown. “That’s our mam in that box and she’s not anybody’s sister and I want her to get up and say it’s just a joke then we can all go back home.”
Someone passed him a small shovel with earth on it and his father nudged his hand to throw the earth on the coffin then took the shovel from him, dug a little more earth from the graveside and passed it to Teddy. The tears started in Harry’s eyes but he bit his lip and blinked them away.
Harry looked round at the others standing beside the grave. His father was standing like a soldier now, shoulders back and eyes front. Teddy was weeping quietly and Jacky, the oldest boy, was sniffing back tears. Billy, the second oldest, was scowling at the ground. Billy was angry; with his mother for leaving him, with his father for letting it happen and with the rest of the world because it was still going on as though nothing was wrong. He would stay angry for a long, long time.
Uncle Bill and Uncle Jim stood together opposite Dad. Harry liked his Uncle Bill but not Jim, now living back in Lancashire, who had always ignored him. He didn’t like Jim’s wife, Aunt Jane, either. She had once been Mam’s best friend, when they were both young girls at the mill, but in recent years, before Jim and Jane had moved away, there had been a coldness between them. Harry suspected it had something to do with himself and his brothers, and Aunt Jane having no children of her own. He had overheard her once, when he was younger, saying to his mam that she should spend more time scrubbing her steps and less on her back. Mam had been angry and shouted back that at least she could keep her man by her side and he didn’t have to go elsewhere to get children. Harry had no idea what this meant but Aunt Jane had stormed out of the house and Uncle Jim had come round and had a long talk with Dad, in the back yard. The two women had hardly spoken since then.
Only little Jimmy, just 3 years old, seemed unconcerned. He didn’t understand what was happening and only wondered where his mammy was. He cried for her at bedtime and wondered why she didn’t come to tuck him in the big bed he shared with Harry and Teddy, but they were crying too. So were Jacky and Billy in the other bed in the little, cramped back room.
Soon Jimmy would forget the nice lady with the prematurely grey hair who used to cuddle him to sleep and even sooner he would forget standing in the churchyard, holding his father’s hand, on a cold, Spring day in 1916.
Harry knew he would never see his mother again but his mind didn’t want to believe it. Mothers shouldn’t die, Billy had said. He had said she couldn’t really have loved them to just go and die like that but Harry knew that wasn’t true. He remembered the blood on the floor when his mother stood up and the moaning in pain before the doctor came and gave her more morphine. He remembered when she called her sons into the front parlour, where she lay on a sofa, and kissed them all and told them to be good boys for their dad. He remembered before that, when she was still well, and he would come home from school with his older brothers to find her sitting by the fire reading a book, oblivious to time, the little ones playing on the unswept floor at her feet. She would jump up, guiltily, and cut them each a thick slice of bread from the loaf on the table, plastering it with strawberry jam and a scraping of butter, asking them about their day at school and smiling, always smiling that wide, shy smile.
He remembered her stepping in front of him, once, when his dad had taken off his thick, leather belt to give him a hiding for some misdemeanour. She had grabbed the cast iron frying pan from the stove and stood in front of her husband, who was almost a foot taller than her, waving the pan aloft like a small, furious Amazon, and she had yelled at him that if he laid another finger on one of her lads she, Lizzie Sleddon, would flatten him. Jack, whose quick temper was always just as quick to cool, had looked at her, first menacingly then in bewilderment, before heading down to the cellar for a jug of ale, slamming the cellar door behind him.
When your mam did that, she loved you all right. And now she was gone and he missed her so much.
The wind was blowing, cold, from the moors as they laid Lizzie in the ground. The small knot of mourners stood with heads bowed as the vicar spoke.
“And so we commit to the Earth the body of our sister, Elizabeth”.
“Why did he say that?” Harry thought to himself. “She’s not our sister, she’s our mam, was our mam, I mean.” He gripped Teddy’s hand tighter and stared at the plain pine box, now laid in the deep hole.
“Stupid man,” Harry’s brow contracted into a frown. “That’s our mam in that box and she’s not anybody’s sister and I want her to get up and say it’s just a joke then we can all go back home.”
Someone passed him a small shovel with earth on it and his father nudged his hand to throw the earth on the coffin then took the shovel from him, dug a little more earth from the graveside and passed it to Teddy. The tears started in Harry’s eyes but he bit his lip and blinked them away.
Harry looked round at the others standing beside the grave. His father was standing like a soldier now, shoulders back and eyes front. Teddy was weeping quietly and Jacky, the oldest boy, was sniffing back tears. Billy, the second oldest, was scowling at the ground. Billy was angry; with his mother for leaving him, with his father for letting it happen and with the rest of the world because it was still going on as though nothing was wrong. He would stay angry for a long, long time.
Uncle Bill and Uncle Jim stood together opposite Dad. Harry liked his Uncle Bill but not Jim, now living back in Lancashire, who had always ignored him. He didn’t like Jim’s wife, Aunt Jane, either. She had once been Mam’s best friend, when they were both young girls at the mill, but in recent years, before Jim and Jane had moved away, there had been a coldness between them. Harry suspected it had something to do with himself and his brothers, and Aunt Jane having no children of her own. He had overheard her once, when he was younger, saying to his mam that she should spend more time scrubbing her steps and less on her back. Mam had been angry and shouted back that at least she could keep her man by her side and he didn’t have to go elsewhere to get children. Harry had no idea what this meant but Aunt Jane had stormed out of the house and Uncle Jim had come round and had a long talk with Dad, in the back yard. The two women had hardly spoken since then.
Only little Jimmy, just 3 years old, seemed unconcerned. He didn’t understand what was happening and only wondered where his mammy was. He cried for her at bedtime and wondered why she didn’t come to tuck him in the big bed he shared with Harry and Teddy, but they were crying too. So were Jacky and Billy in the other bed in the little, cramped back room.
Soon Jimmy would forget the nice lady with the prematurely grey hair who used to cuddle him to sleep and even sooner he would forget standing in the churchyard, holding his father’s hand, on a cold, Spring day in 1916.
Harry knew he would never see his mother again but his mind didn’t want to believe it. Mothers shouldn’t die, Billy had said. He had said she couldn’t really have loved them to just go and die like that but Harry knew that wasn’t true. He remembered the blood on the floor when his mother stood up and the moaning in pain before the doctor came and gave her more morphine. He remembered when she called her sons into the front parlour, where she lay on a sofa, and kissed them all and told them to be good boys for their dad. He remembered before that, when she was still well, and he would come home from school with his older brothers to find her sitting by the fire reading a book, oblivious to time, the little ones playing on the unswept floor at her feet. She would jump up, guiltily, and cut them each a thick slice of bread from the loaf on the table, plastering it with strawberry jam and a scraping of butter, asking them about their day at school and smiling, always smiling that wide, shy smile.
He remembered her stepping in front of him, once, when his dad had taken off his thick, leather belt to give him a hiding for some misdemeanour. She had grabbed the cast iron frying pan from the stove and stood in front of her husband, who was almost a foot taller than her, waving the pan aloft like a small, furious Amazon, and she had yelled at him that if he laid another finger on one of her lads she, Lizzie Sleddon, would flatten him. Jack, whose quick temper was always just as quick to cool, had looked at her, first menacingly then in bewilderment, before heading down to the cellar for a jug of ale, slamming the cellar door behind him.
When your mam did that, she loved you all right. And now she was gone and he missed her so much.
