Our Lizzie Read Free Page A

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—”
    â€œ 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?”
    â€œIn 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.”
    â€œAye.” Gran drew the blanket back across the face. “They allus do. An’ he’ll get colder yet.”
    â€œWhat happened, Mam?” It was a whisper.
    It was Gran who answered, for Meg was weeping into her handkerchief again. “An accident at the brewery.”
    â€œIt’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?”
    â€œNo. 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