Annie of Ainsworth's Mill by Katie Hutton

Author:Katie Hutton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bonnier Publishing Fiction

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Crossfield Road, Cleator Moor

‘. . . every nun is bound to the will of the Priests; she is to live for their own use, whenever they choose.’

H.M. Hatch, Popery Unmasked, Showing the Depravity of the Priesthood and Immorality of the Confessional, Being the Questions Put to Females in Confession, 1854

Robert lay on his bed that Sunday evening wishing he was alone. The other three were sitting on theirs smoking – they’d given up ribbing him for not doing so when it got too repetitive to be fun, though sometimes they’d call him ‘our Methody’ though they knew he was as Presbyterian as themselves. None of the three had come home the night before – they’d been ‘on the blatter’ in Whitehaven. In their absence, Robert had thrown up the window sash and swept the varnished boards, shaken the rag rugs out of the window. He’d wanted to keep the memory of the scent of oil of roses, to not suffocate it in the reek of stale sweat, unwashed clothes and tobacco. If the others had noticed the room was cleaner, they’d said nothing.

‘Took our turn up the ginnel so we did.’

The others cackled and tow-haired Willie made a lewd gesture. Robert turned his face towards the window, thinking of Annie’s face on their walk, the breeze blowing a strand of hair across her cheek.

‘You’d’ve thought the hoor coulda given us a shilling off for a bulk order, wouldn’t ye?’ said Ernie, cueing more hoots of laughter and a thump on the wall from the adjoining house.

‘Yous are disgusting,’ muttered Robert.

‘Disgusting yourself. One o’ them sodomites, you must be,’ snarled Willie.

‘I am not!’ shouted Robert, his head turning, his hands beating on the bed. Another thump came through the wall, and a muffled yell.

‘Lads, lads . . .’ said George, a hand raised for silence. ‘Leave the feller alone, won’t yous? Can’t you see he’s sweet on someone?’

Robert pushed himself up on his elbows, wary. ‘Get away!’ he said.

All three faces swivelled towards him, scenting their prey.

‘Who is she, then, Robbie? Sure we’ve done you a favour then, leaving the place clear for you on a Saturday night?’ said Ernie, leering.

‘Which of our beds did you have her on?’ said Willie, pretending to examine the cover of his own.

‘All of ’em, wasn’t it?’ cried Ernie.

Feet came thumping up the stairs then, and the door opened without warning. Their landlord put his head round the jamb. ‘Any more of this and you’ll be out on your ears in the morning.’

The door slammed before anyone could respond. Ernie suppressed a snigger, which set off Willie. But George, his face stiff with hate, said, ‘It’d better not be thon wee taig.’

‘What wee taig?’ said Robert.

‘The one that was disrespectful to us.’

‘She wasn’t,’ said Robert, without thinking. All three faces swivelled back towards him.

‘Them priests teach them,’ said George with quiet menace. ‘They think they’re the Lord Jesus Christ himself, so they do. And them wee girls delivered up to them in their wee white wedding dresses. That’s

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