Free For The Sake of Her Family by Diane Allen

nine months of the year belching smoke. The few possessions that Alice had brought with her from Dale End looked strangely out of place in her new home. And was it her imagination or had the
Staffordshire pot dogs’ smiles developed a downward tilt? Now ensconced on the small chest of drawers in the corner, they certainly looked much sadder than they had on the mantelpiece in her
mother’s parlour. Still, the woollen blanket that her mother had knitted brought a splash of colour, as did the posy of meadow flowers she had picked that morning before leaving home. They
brightened up the black iron fireplace where she had placed them, nestled in a vase that had belonged to her grandmother.
    ‘There, Alice, I’ve brought you a jug of water for your morning’s ablutions. I thought you might like this too.’ Mrs Woodhead handed Alice her mother’s carriage
clock. ‘It’ll only get broken down in the bar, so let’s have it back where it belongs. Your mother would have wanted that.’
    ‘Thank you, Mrs Woodhead, that is very thoughtful of you.’ Alice was too choked at this act of kindness to say more. Her hands held the clock lovingly, fingers tracing the outline of
its face. Seeing it brought back sweet memories, but also reminded her of everything that had been lost.
    ‘Nay, lass – it’s got a double purpose. You’ll need to know the time if you’re working for us. I want you up bright and early, lighting fires and making breakfasts
for Mr Woodhead and any guests that’s staying with us. No use having a dog and barking yourself, is there?’ This was accompanied by a laugh that sounded to Alice very much like a bark.
‘So let’s have you down in the kitchen at five in the morning. Oh, and one other thing: when we are alone, you may call me Annie, but in front of residents and Mr Woodhead, I think we
had better be more formal.’ Briskly adjusting her mob cap, which was struggling as usual to confine the abundance of auburn curls, a legacy of her Scottish ancestors, Mrs Woodhead bustled
from the room.
    Five o’clock! The only time Alice was ever up that early was when the sun beamed through her window in midsummer, and the combination of clear blue skies and the twitter of swifts
compelled her to venture out of doors and up the fellside before anyone else was awake. Now she going to have to do that every morning – not in order to breathe in pure mountain air, but to
lay coal fires and prepare other people’s meals, without so much as a glimpse of the outside world.
    As she placed the clock in its new place next to her bed, Alice realized that she would never again see it as a reminder of her old life at the farm. From here on the clock would be her master.
She’d be counting off the hours to Sunday lunchtime, her one afternoon of rest; maybe even counting to the day she went to the manor.
    Oh, why had she sat listening on the stairs that terrible evening instead of marching in there and fighting for her birthplace, for her right to remain at Dale End? Alice tightened her fists in
frustration, fingers going white and numb with anger. Perhaps working at the Moon hadn’t been the right decision, but for the time being she had no alternative but to put her head down and
make the best of it. It would do for now, but she had no intention of remaining in this attic bedroom a moment longer than she had to. When and if an opportunity arose to better herself, she would
be ready to grab it with both hands – and damn the consequences.
    ‘Put your back into it, you lazy bugger! No wonder they fecking well call you Glassback Murphy.’ Sean O’Hara wiped his brow with his sleeve; sweat was
dripping off him as he oversaw the loading of the marble slab. That Murphy was going to have to go: he was bloody useless. The rest of them weren’t much better. ‘Come on, men –
what are you waiting for? Open the sluice gate, damn you. Let’s get this wheel turning. Bloody stuff won’t cut itself!’
    As the