He reached the flay-pits still in two minds, as he wandered into the yard to find Bill Bancroft. Then, if he had no explanation, he would visit Lucy at home in the row of terraced houses that backed onto the yard. Although the weather was as wild as you could get, the men of the yard were still working. The flay-pits were filled to the brim with smelly mixtures of toxins, softening the leather, and the piles of skins were heaped high, ready to be scraped and made supple before reselling. The stench was terrible and the excess water, mixed with lime and whatever else was in it, ran down the yard into a drain behind the row of houses. Adam looked around, trying to stop himself from retching.
‘You – is Bill Bancroft here?’ Adam shouted to a dark, moody-looking man who was pulling treated leather out of one of the pits. The weather was not making any difference to him, as he was used to being wet most days; it was part of his life and, if the heavens opened, it just meant that his head was wet, along with everything else.
‘Nay, he’ll be in his home. There’s nobbut us fools that work for him getting sodden this morning. Besides, his wife is badly – he’s with her.’ Thomas Farrington scowled and looked at the stranger in his midst. His dark hair stuck to his head like rats’ tails, and the many layers of protection from the rain made him look bigger than he actually was. ‘Third door down over there, that’s where you’ll find him.’ Thomas motioned to the back door of the row of cottages and sniggered, as Adam looked down at the pool of filthy water that lay all around him.
Adam walked over to the door that was indicated and wondered how anybody could put up with the everyday smell from the pits and the filth. His home was like heaven compared to this, although it was out in the wilds and remote. Most days he smelled just the wild moorland air and had grassland under his feet. He stopped at the back door of the terraced house and stood next to the water pump for the whole row. The drained water from the yard rushed down a ginnel beside the row of houses and bubbled down a drain next to it, and Adam looked down at the putrid water, hoping that both drinking water and the filthy water from the yard were not one and the same. He knocked heavily on the door and waited as he heard children’s voices from within, and the sound of a man shouting to let the visitor in.
‘Mr Brooksbank! What are you doing here, in this weather?’ Lucy opened the door and looked shocked. ‘It’s terrible out there – come in and get dry. Have you come to see how my mother is? That’s terribly kind.’
Adam took his sodden cap off his head and shook it free of the excess water, before stepping over the cottage’s threshold. ‘On the contrary, I’ve come to see what ails you, and why you have not shown your face at work,’ he growled and then looked around him at the cramped living conditions. Bill Bancroft was sitting by the fire while the baby sat next to him, and a small blonde-haired girl was sitting at the scrubbed kitchen table, playing with two carved wooden dolls.
‘Did you not get my message? Did Nathan not call and tell you that my mother has lost the baby, and that I was needed here to mind the family?’ Lucy looked at Adam and then quickly glanced at her father. She knew that he did not want to make their grief public.
‘No, I’ve not heard so much as a by-your-leave from any of your family. But now that I know why, I am more at ease with the situation.’ Adam looked at Lucy and then at Bill Bancroft, who sat and said nothing, not even turning to acknowledge him standing there. ‘You have my sympathies, Mr Bancroft. Is your wife recovering? It is heartbreaking to lose a child,’ Adam said, playing with his cap, as he felt he had judged Lucy wrongly and should have known that something was amiss.
‘I told Nathan to tell you, on his way to school yesterday. Wait until I get hold of him – I’ll scalp his backside,’ Lucy muttered as she went to the aid of Bert, who had pulled himself up to his full height and then fallen hard on the stone flags of the kitchen floor and was about to cry.
‘I thank you for your kind words,’ Bill said. ‘Dorothy is mending; she will be up and about tomorrow. You’ll have my lass back with you in the morn. But save your sympathies. I doubt you know the pain we are feeling. Although we are blessed with a decent-sized family, the Lord’s decided that we must lose as many bairns as we already have. Dorothy’s heart breaks a little bit more, each time we lose one. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but my heart is also heavy today, as my wife is weak and the weather is dark, and I am beside myself with anguish, as I feel that we are being punished by the good Lord himself.’ Bill held his head in his hands. Dorothy
