Christmas Fireside Stories

by Diane Allen, Rita Bradshaw, Margaret Dickinson, Annie Murray, Pam Weaver

  Ambrose Constantine was a self-made man. He had been born in one of the poorer areas of the town, the third son of a deckhand on trawlers. He, too, had begun his working life at sea as a deckie-learner, but Ambrose was ambitious. He soon worked his way up to the position of Mate, working hard and enduring the vicious conditions of life at sea to earn good money and save every penny he could. Oh, how he saved his money. But by the time he was twenty, his father and two older brothers had been lost at sea. Broken-hearted, his mother died the following year, leaving Ambrose alone, though the loss of his family only hardened his determination to succeed. He left the sea and became a fish merchant and by the age of twenty-four was employing ten men in the fish docks. He first saw Sarah Armstrong across the aisle of a church, when they were both attending a funeral in late May 1874. She was no beauty, but she was tall and walked with a haughty grace that appealed to Ambrose. She had a strong face and a determined set to her chin. At the gathering in a nearby hotel after the service, Ambrose contrived an introduction to her and found himself gazing into her dark blue eyes and wanting to know all about her.

  ‘How do you know Mr Wheeler?’ he began, referring to the deceased, whose coffin they had just watched being lowered ceremoniously into the earth.

  ‘I didn’t know him well, but I’ve accompanied my father today. He used to do business with him and felt he should pay his respects.’

  ‘So – is your father in the fish trade?’

  Sarah had laughed. ‘No, no, he’s a farmer, but he met Mr Wheeler on market days.’ Abraham Wheeler had been an auctioneer throughout Lincolnshire, conducting sales of anything from fish to sheep and cows.

  Curious about the fair-haired, stocky young man who, she knew, had deliberately sought an introduction to her, Sarah asked, ‘And you? How do you know him?’

  ‘The fish markets.’ He smiled. ‘He was very helpful to me when I started out.’

  ‘And where have you finished up?’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t finished yet, not by a long way.’

  Sarah’s eyes gleamed as she heard the fire of ambition in his tone. She liked that. She had always bemoaned the fact that she’d been born a girl; men could do so much more with their lives than women, who seemed destined to be wives and mothers and housekeepers. Her father’s farm would one day be hers – she was an only child – yet she had no interest in the land. Every summer brought her hayfever misery and even getting too close to a horse could set her sneezing. Each June she spent time near the sea, which seemed to ease her symptoms.

  Crossing her fingers at the lie she was about to tell, she said boldly, ‘I’m coming to stay in Cleethorpes next week.’ She paused, knowing instinctively that he would suggest a meeting. And he did.

  Their romance – if it could be called that – progressed swiftly, much to Sarah’s parents’ dismay. It was more a meeting of like minds, of shared ambition, than a passionate love affair.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Edward Armstrong said to his wife, Martha. ‘And I don’t like him. But what can I do? I’ve talked to her, pleaded with her, even raged at her, but she’s set on marrying the fellow. She’s twenty-one next month and I suppose if they’re really in love . . .’

  Martha had put her arms around her husband and laid her dark head against his chest. ‘Is it because of the farm, my dear?’

  ‘Only partly. I wanted to pass it down the generations.’

  As she heard the heavy sigh deep in his chest, Martha had raised her head and said, with a twinkle in her violet eyes: ‘Never mind, perhaps Sarah will give you a grandson who will one day take over Meadow View Farm.’

  But Sarah had only given them a granddaughter, Annabel, and it was on her that Edward now pinned all his hopes. He had never agreed with the belief that genteel young ladies should spend their time drawing, painting, sewing and playing the piano. Instead, he had instructed his daughter, Sarah, in the basic rudiments of accountancy and had introduced her to the precarious delights of buying and selling shares. At the time, he could not have foreseen that her quick mind and intuitive head for business, together with all that he had taught her, would equip Sarah not for running the farm as he had hoped but for helping her husband run his growing business.

  Grudgingly, Edward was forced to admit that Ambrose was a clever and successful man. In 1883, Ambrose had been the first owner of a steam trawler and by the time Annabel reached adulthood, he was the biggest steam trawler owner in the Grimsby docks. Seeing that Sarah was well provided for by her prosperous husband, Edward made his will in favour of his granddaughter, leaving his five-hundred-acre farm in the Lincolnshire wolds to her. One day it would all belong to Annabel, but for the moment, Edward and his wife remained in good health and continued to run Meadow View Farm themselves. And on her frequent visits, Edward delighted in the young girl’s intelligence and her capacity for learning quickly. He was heartened that she seemed to possess nothing of the ruthless ambition of her father and – it had to be said – of her mother. She soon knew all the farmhands by their first names and, as a youngster, played with their children. But it was when riding on horseback around the fields with her grandfather that Annabel’s face shone and she chattered with a multitude of questions. In turn, Edward was thrilled by the girl’s enthusiasm and growing love for the land. His farm would be in safe hands and he began to teach Annabel, too, the rudiments of bookkeeping and the ups and downs of the stock market. He introduced her to the stockbroker he used in Thorpe St Michael, Henry Parker, and together the two men guided and schooled the young girl until she was old enough to deal for herself.

  What Edward didn’t know – and for a long time neither did Ambrose – was that it was on these journeys to visit her grandparents that Annabel and Gilbert Radcliffe began to meet. Only Jane knew and now the burden of knowledge was too great for the young maid to endure. But she need not have worried that she would be questioned or even blamed; word had already reached Ambrose from his office manager, who had heard the gossip and noticed that his young protégé’s absences from work coincided with Miss Annabel’s visits to her grandparents.

  Ambrose had acted swiftly.

  ‘Father, I’d like to pay a visit to the docks. It’s quite some time since my last visit,’ Annabel said at breakfast the following morning.

  Ambrose was a familiar sight on the dockside in his dark suit and bowler hat inspecting the most recent catches laid out neatly in containers. Annabel loved The Pontoon, the covered fish market where the early morning catches were auctioned. Whenever Ambrose could be persuaded to take her with him, she stood quietly watching and marvelling at the speed of the auctioneer conducting sale after sale. He seemed to know what each of his customers would want. But, much to Annabel’s disappointment as she grew older, Ambrose forbade her to go so often. He didn’t like to see the fishermen eying his lovely daughter. The docks, he decreed, were no place for a lady.

  ‘But I’m not a lady,’ Annabel had argued futilely.

  ‘Ah, but one day you will be,’ had been her father’s only reply.

  ‘Of course, my dear,’ Ambrose agreed smoothly now. ‘What would you like to see? The ships? The fish docks? Of course, the herring girls aren’t here for some months yet. I know you like to watch them, but—’

  ‘Your offices, Father. I’d like to visit your offices.’

  ‘Then you may come with me this morning.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. I can make my own way there.’

  ‘No need,’ he replied, deliberately keeping his tone mild. ‘I should like you to drive with me.’

  Annabel had no choice but to bow her head in acquiescence.

  Ambrose wanted to shout at her, to roar his disapproval of her actions, but he knew it was not the way to deal with his strong-willed daughter. The path he had chosen was far better and was already bearing fruit, if his suspicions regarding the previous evening’s escapade were correct. Instead of causing a confrontation, he smiled across the table at her. ‘It pleases me that you should take
an interest in the business. I thought you were all set to become a farmer.’ They all knew the terms of Edward’s will. Ambrose’s tone sobered as he said warningly, ‘One day you will be a very wealthy woman. Not only will you inherit your grandfather’s farm, but also my company. You do understand that, don’t you?’

  Annabel smiled. ‘But not for many years yet, I hope, Father.’

  ‘I hope not, but your grandparents are both in their sixties. Just remember that. And now’ – he rose from the table – ‘I have a little paperwork to do, but I’ll be ready to leave in about an hour.’

  Ambrose closed the door of his study and went to stand before the window looking out on to the garden behind the house. He was pensive for a few moments before sitting down at his desk, picking up his pen and beginning to write a letter.

  Dear Lord Fairfield . . .

  When they arrived at her father’s offices, not far from where the dock tower stood guardian over the forest of masts and funnels as the trawlers jostled for position to unload their catches, Annabel hurried to the manager’s office. She knew that Gilbert occupied a desk in the same room. Ambrose followed his daughter at a more leisurely pace, deliberately allowing her to go ahead of him. A small smile played on his lips. In the outer office sat a middle-aged man at a desk and in the corner a young woman tapped at a typewriter.

  ‘Good morning,’ Annabel greeted them both and then turned to the older man. ‘Is G— Mr Radcliffe in?’

  The man blinked, but before he could answer, the door to the inner office was flung open and Mr Smeeton, the manager, appeared.

  ‘Ah, Miss Constantine, please come in. Is your father with you?’

  ‘Yes, he’s coming.’

  She moved quickly into his office and glanced around. There was no sign of Gilbert. Neither was there any sign of his desk on the far side of the room where it had once stood.

  ‘Please sit down,’ Mr Smeeton said kindly. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘No, no, thank you. Mr Smeeton—?’ she began urgently, but her question was interrupted by the sound of voices in the outer office. The door opened again and her father entered the room. Annabel cast a beseeching glance at Mr Smeeton, but said no more.

  ‘Good morning, Smeeton.’

  ‘Sir.’ Mr Smeeton gave a tiny deferential bow towards his employer and moved a chair for him to sit down.

  Ambrose looked about him and asked casually, ‘No Radcliffe this morning?’

  ‘No, sir. He – um – he’s left.’

  A startled gasp escaped Annabel, but with amazing self-control she bit back her question. Instead, it was Ambrose who raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Really? That was rather sudden, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Very sudden, sir. He didn’t even stay to work out his notice.’

  ‘How come?’ Ambrose asked quite calmly, laying his hat and cane on Mr Smeeton’s desk and pulling off his gloves whilst Annabel watched and listened with growing alarm. She gripped the arms of the chair and bit down hard on her lower lip.

  ‘It seems,’ Mr Smeeton went on, ‘that he came into a sum of money very unexpectedly and he’s – um – used it to emigrate to America, I believe.’

  ‘Emigrate?’ Annabel gasped, no longer able to keep silent. Nor could she stop the colour rising in her face. Gilbert gone? Without a word to her? ‘For how long?’

  Mr Smeeton avoided meeting her gaze. ‘I presume for good, Miss Constantine.’

  ‘But what about—?’ she began, but managed to stop the words just in time. Instead, she finished rather lamely, ‘his family?’

  ‘I don’t think he has much in the way of family. His parents are dead. He has one brother, I believe . . .’

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father frown and Mr Smeeton added hastily, ‘But I don’t even know where he lives. I understand they never saw much of each other.’

  Annabel dared not say more, dared not ask any more questions – not in front of her father. But somehow, some time, she would interrogate Mr Smeeton further.

  ‘Now, my dear,’ Ambrose said smoothly, ‘you said you wanted to look around the docks.’

  ‘Of course, Father,’ she said meekly and rose, though she found her legs were trembling. She felt faint with shock. Gilbert had gone, had left her without a word.

  ‘Are you all right Miss Constantine?’ Mr Smeeton asked gently, with genuine concern. He had noticed how the girl had flushed on hearing the news about Gilbert Radcliffe, but now she had turned very pale.

  Annabel lifted her chin. ‘I am perfectly well, thank you, Mr Smeeton. Now, Father, where shall we begin?’

  Annie Murray

  Annie Murray was born in Berkshire and read English at St John’s College, Oxford. Her first ‘Birmingham’ novel, Birmingham Rose, hit The Times bestseller list when it was published in 1995. Annie Murray has four children and lives in Reading.

  More Books by Annie Murray

  Birmingham Rose

  Birmingham Friends

  Birmingham Blitz

  Orphan of Angel Street

  Poppy Day

  The Narrowboat Girl

  Chocolate Girls

  Water Gypsies

  Miss Purdy’s Class

  Family of Women

  Where Earth Meets Sky

  The Bells of Bournville Green

  A Hopscotch Summer

  Soldier Girl

  All the Days of Our Lives

  My Daughter, My Mother

  The Women of Lilac Street

  Meet Me Under the Clock

  MEET ME UNDER THE CLOCK

  by Annie Murray

  Growing up in Birmingham, Sylvia and Audrey Whitehouse have always been like chalk and cheese. When the Second World War breaks out, Sylvia is still dreaming of her forthcoming marriage to fiancé Ian while Audrey jumps at the career opportunities the WAAF throws her way.

  Audrey joins the ranks at RAF Cardington but soon finds that her new freedom also brings temptation. When she goes too far, the consequences ripple through the Whitehouse family. Meanwhile, Sylvia is doing her bit as a railway porter, much to Ian’s dismay. Ian thinks the job is unfeminine – unlike Sylvia’s new friend Kitty, who is as sweet and pretty as can be. But Kitty’s innocent nature hides a dark secret . . .

  As the pressures of rationing, bombing raids and sleepless nights grow, the two sisters must decide what they really want from life and whether they’re brave enough to fight for it.

  Read on for an extract from Meet Me Under the Clock

  by Annie Murray

  1940

  One

  SEPTEMBER 1940

  Sylvia was helping her mother with the weekly wash when she heard it. She was standing at the kitchen table, hands in a bowl of soapy water, while Mom was feeding clothes through the mangle. Sylvia pushed some dark curls of hair away from her forehead with her arm and tilted her head.

  ‘Ssh, listen – what’s that?’

  Her mother, Pauline Whitehouse, her thick red hair held back in a flowery turban, stilled the handle of the mangle. They could both hear it then, coming from next door’s garden.

  ‘Oh good Lord, it sounds like Marjorie!’ Pauline rushed for the back door, wiping her hands on her apron.

  It was raining outside. Over the pattering drops Sylvia could clearly hear the sounds of distress. Her heart pounded. Surely those noises weren’t coming from cheerful, good-natured Mrs Gould? But already she knew, with a terrible dread: something had happened to one of the boys.

  In the distance she heard her mother’s soothing tones and Marjorie Gould’s choking cries. Mom led Marjorie through the gap dividing the two gardens and towards the house. Sylvia forced herself to move. She rushed to wipe her hands and put the kettle on.

  ‘Come on, bab, let’s get you in the dry,’ Pauline was saying. ‘That’s it, let’s sit you down . . .’

  There were dark spots of rain on Mom’s apron and on Marjorie’s dress, which was royal blue, patterned with little white anchors. Sylvia froze again with shock
. She had known Marjorie Gould all her life – Marjorie was like a second mother to her – and she had never, ever seen her like this before. Marjorie was a big-boned, normally splendid-looking woman with thick, blonde hair, who favoured bright frocks and lipstick. But today she was hunched over, shaking and weeping, her face contorted. As Mom guided her to the chair by the unlit range, Sylvia saw that Marjorie had no shoes on. She had run out into the wet in her stockinged feet.

  ‘No!’ she was sobbing. ‘No . . . No . . . !’ There was a piece of paper crumpled tightly in her right hand.

  ‘Get the kettle on, Sylv,’ Pauline said.

  ‘I already have.’ Her eyes met her mother’s and Pauline caught hold of Sylvia’s arm and pulled her hurriedly down the hall, out of earshot.

  ‘It’s Raymond.’ They were standing by the coat hooks. An old black mac of Dad’s sagged from a peg. ‘He’s . . . Oh good heavens—’ Sylvia saw the awful truth of it hit her mother. Her hands came up to her cheeks. ‘His ship’s gone down.’

  ‘No!’ Sylvia gasped. Raymond was the oldest of Marjorie Gould’s three sons: Raymond, Laurie and Paul. ‘But does that mean . . . ? Is he . . . ?’

  Pauline looked down with a faint nod. ‘Must be.’

  Sylvia felt sick and shaky, even though her mind could not fully take in the news. Raymond, the boy next door. Raymond, a gentle, dark-haired lad who had gone off and joined the Navy, looking for a new life, a way to escape from his father and to separate himself from the girl he loved, but who did not love him back – Audrey, Sylvia’s elder sister.

  ‘If only Laurie hadn’t just joined up as well,’ Pauline said, anguished. Laurie had not long gone into the RAF. ‘This terrible, wicked war . . .’ She squeezed Sylvia’s arm. ‘I must go back to her.’