Chapter 25

The little clock on the mantel had always annoyed her. The minute hand caught every once in a while, so the 'tock' was seldom regular and it needed resetting every day or two. The uncertain syncopation set her teeth on edge. When she was very young, she had tried to fit in as many small stitches as she could in the hanging pauses. Now they just made her grit her teeth and stab the fabric with a quiet ferocity. Even humming hymns under her breath couldn't block out the uneven nerve-shredding silences.

She was annoyed by the settee too. It was lumpy and uncomfortable, and the ancient horsehair was exceedingly prickly. As for the tedious nature of her parent's conversation… she had no words to describe how she was coming to despise the sound of their voices. Her father's harsh pronouncements. Her mother's timorous responses. It was all she could to not to tell them to shut up their noise!

Elizabeth had always been a biddable and dutiful daughter – on the outside at least. She had never disobeyed her parents nor raised her voice in disagreement in any way. She knew her letters and could read the bible aloud. She could stitch and cook and manage the household accounts without needing to be watched or chivvied along. She attended church regularly and took her turn on the rotas for cleaning and flower arranging like all the other reputable women and girls. In all respects, excepting her secret friendship with Molly, she was a model daughter, and her parents could have no complaints of her.

Despite this previous good behaviour, however, she could not deny that her eyes had been opened, over recent months, to the reality of life amongst the poorer people of the town and she could no longer take refuge in placidity and unthinking obedience. It also meant that she could no longer deny that her father was a wicked man – her knowledge of her friend's day-to-day life had made that realisation unavoidable.

Likewise, Elizabeth was also forced to admit that she took after her mother in being both weak-willed and cowed in the face of her father's abrasive manner. She had witnessed the result of her fragile mother's exceedingly rare attempts at disagreeing with her father's over the years and had long concluded that she should avoid being the focus of his displeasure whenever possible.

Keeping as quiet and timid as a mouse in his presence, then escaping to seek the peace of nature in order to dream or sketch, had been her preferred coping strategy for as long as she could remember.

Meeting Molly in the old lock keeper's cottage down by the cut had thrown Elizabeth's previously well-ordered life into confusion and, although she sometimes yearned for the innocence and freedom granted to her by her previous ignorance, she knew that she had learned an incredible amount from the time she had spent with her new friend.

Now she sat calmly in the parlour, needled darting in and out mechanically as she worked through a pile of mending by the light of a gas lamp. But where she had once worked carefully, without a thought in her head beyond the placement of the next stitch, her mind now raced.

How could she rescue Molly from her frightful family? How could she improve the lot of her father's nailers? How could she herself aspire to a more productive life? These thoughts had whirled through her mind for weeks but she had failed to reach any conclusions. And now all this paled into insignificance. Molly was missing and Elizabeth had no idea what to do.

It had been an age since Molly had come to their meeting place down by the cut. Elizabeth had been down there every day for the last couple of weeks but there had been no sign of her, nor any indication that she had passed that way.

As far as she was aware, scarlet fever was no longer a concern in the town so her friend was probably not sick, nor was she dead: her father had made a point listing the dead each day as if they were merely items in his ledger. His books suggested that the Pritchetts were no longer producing the same quantity of nails that they once had but since some of the family had died and Molly was now focussing on shoeing that was no real surprise.

What concerned Elizabeth the most was that neither Molly nor her grandmother been seen at church for two Sundays in a row. In Tipton, if you weren't at deaths door, or waiting to be churched, you didn't miss a week, let alone two!

Sunday afternoon was set fair when Elizabeth decided she could wait no longer to find out what had happened to Molly. She had tried to inveigle herself into granny's coven after that day's service but the hard-eyed women had frozen her out completely, turning their backs to her and dropping their voices to ostentatious whispers. She had learnt nothing other than the fact that there was something to hide. That they despised her was not new.

Uncertain as to what she would discover if she did manage to find her friend, she prepared a small basked of items that she could pretend to her mother she was taking to a member of the deserving poor – a heel of bread and a lump of cheese, some well-mended cast-off clothing, and an assortment of penny cures. Hidden under it all she had stashed a collection of small coins wrapped in a cotton handkerchief to stifle any jingling.

Escaping her parent's scrutiny, she had headed towards the cut as if she had business to be doing. but once she reached the gate she hesitated. She knew that she had a choice to make – take the short path to the old Pritchett cottage or follow the tow path all the way to the encampment. One held Archie and the other held gypsies. She wasn't sure which of the two terrified her more.