The House By Princes Park

by Maureen Lee

  It was said she was only seventeen, though she looked older. Her long face with its sharp nose and wide mouth could appear pinched when she wasn’t smiling, but as she seemed to be smiling all the time, not many people noticed, just as they didn’t notice when her dark eyes grew sombre as they sometimes did when she looked at her child who wasn’t thriving as well as she should. She lived in Foster Court, an appalling slum, where twenty or thirty people dwelt in a single house, whole families in just one room. And, yes, she had a husband – she wasn’t that sort of girl. It was rumoured that he, the husband, drank his wages. The pawnshop runner supported him, just as she did her baby and herself.

  Those who had spoken to her said she was clever. She used long words and knew all sorts of funny things, though she didn’t talk posh. Her accent was more Irish than Scouse and she’d obviously fallen on hard times. Oh, and her name was Ruby – Ruby O’Hagan.

  Maureen Lee’s award-winning novels have earned her many fans. Her recent novel, The Leaving of Liverpool, was a Sunday Times top 10 bestseller. Maureen was born in Bootle and now lives in Colchester. Find out more at: www.maureenlee.co.uk.

  By Maureen Lee

  THE PEARL STREET SERIES

  Lights Out Liverpool

  Put Out the Fires

  Through the Storm

  OTHER NOVELS

  Stepping Stones

  Liverpool Annie

  Dancing in the Dark

  The Girl from Barefoot House

  Laceys of Liverpool

  The House by Princes Park

  Lime Street Blues

  Queen of the Mersey

  The Old House on the Corner

  The September Girls

  Kitty and Her Sisters

  The Leaving of Liverpool

  Mother of Pearl

  The House

  by Princes Park

  Maureen Lee

  AN ORION EBOOK

  First published in Great Britain in 2002 by Orion Books.

  This ebook first published in 2010 by Orion Books.

  Copyright © Maureen Lee 2002

  The right of Maureen Lee to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the copyright, designs and patents act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978 1 4091 3235 6

  This ebook produced by Jouve, France

  Orion Books

  The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

  Orion House

  5 Upper St Martin’s Lane

  London WC2H 9EA

  An Hachette UK Company

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  For Patrick

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedtication

  About the Author

  By Maureen Lee

  Olivia

  Chapter 1

  Emily

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Jacob

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Beth

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Ruby’s girls

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Daisy and the twins

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Brendan

  Chapter 19

  Matthew

  Epilogue

  Olivia

  Chapter 1

  1918–1919

  Olivia had only been to London once before, on her way to France, and she’d liked the busy, bustling atmosphere. But now, she hated it. She hated everyone looking happy because the war was over. Surely there must be people around who’d had relatives killed? And women who felt as empty and desolate as she did.

  There might even be women, single women, single pregnant women, who could advise her, tell her what to do, how to cope, where to go.

  Because Olivia didn’t know. She didn’t know anything except that she couldn’t look for work in her condition. She’d always planned on going straight from France to Cardiff when the fighting ended. Matron had promised to take her back at the hospital where she’d been a nurse. But she’d got off the train in London and there seemed no point in going further. Matron wouldn’t want her now. She was ashamed of feeling so helpless when, since leaving home, she’d thought of herself as strong.

  Never before had she had to think about money or somewhere to live or where the next meal would come from. The small amount of money she’d earned was more than enough to buy occasional clothes and over the years she’d managed to save a few pounds. Now, the savings had almost gone on accommodation in a small hotel in Islington. She was eking it out, eating only breakfast which, as a nurse, she knew wasn’t enough for a pregnant woman.

  Despite this, she felt well and had never had a moment’s sickness. It was one of the reasons she hadn’t suspected she was pregnant when she missed her August period. She’d thought it was because she was upset over Tom. It could happen to women; their periods ceased when they were faced with tragedy. For the same reason, she wasn’t bothered when there was still no period in September, but by October, she had started to feel thick around the waist, and the terrifying realisation dawned that she was expecting a child. At that point, her brain seemed to freeze. She became incapable of thought.

  With November came the Armistice. Olivia was glad, of course, but instead of rejoicing, she felt only despair.

  She still despaired, weeks later. New clothes were needed because she could hardly fasten the ones she had. Soon, she wouldn’t be able to go out, and the proprietor of the hotel, a woman, was looking at her oddly because she was in her fifth month and seemed to be growing bigger by the day.

  It was strange, but she rarely thought about Tom. If it hadn’t been for the baby squirming lazily in her womb, she wondered if she would have thought of him at all. The ring he’d given her that had belonged to his grandfather was in her suitcase. It wasn’t that the memory of him hurt, but it was impossible to believe the night had actually happened. It seemed more like a dream. She couldn’t remember what he looked like or the words he’d said or the things they’d done.

  Mrs Thomas O’Hagan! She recalled whispering the words to herself the day he’d left.

  ‘What was that?’

  Olivia was eating breakfast in the dingy dining room of the hotel. She looked up to find the proprietor glaring down at her. ‘Sorry, I must have been talking to myself.’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to have a word with you, Miss Jones,’ the woman said officiously. ‘I’ll be needing your room from Saturday on. I’ve got regulars coming, salesmen.’

  ‘I see. Thank you for telling me. I’ll find somewhere else.’

  ‘Not in a respectable place you won’t,’ the woman sniffed as she went away.

  It had been bound to happen; either she’d run out of money or be asked to leave. Olivia’s thoughts were like a knot in her head as she walked towards the city centre. She preferred the noise of the traf
fic to the quiet streets, even if the West End clatter was horrendous. There were homes for women in her condition. They were terrible places, so she’d heard, but better than wandering the streets, penniless. But how did you find where they were? Who did you ask?

  If only she didn’t feel so cold! Specks of ice were being blown crazily about by the bitter wind. She turned up the collar of her thin coat, pulled her felt hat further down on her head, but felt no warmer.

  On Oxford Street, one of Selfridge’s windows had a display of warm, tweed coats, very smart. Olivia stopped and eyed them longingly. Even if she’d been working, they would have been way beyond her means, but she hadn’t enough to buy a coat for a quarter of the price from a cheaper shop.

  She could, however, afford a cup of tea. She made her way towards Lyons’ Corner House, noting all the shops were decorated for Christmas – only a few weeks away – and trying not to think where she would be when it came.

  A large black car driven by a man in uniform drew alongside the pavement in front of her. Two young women got out the back, wrapped in furs, silk stockings gleaming. Their matching handbags, gloves and shoes were black suede. They swept across the pavement into a jeweller’s shop in a cloud of fragrant scent.

  Olivia had always been perfectly content to be a nurse, earning a pittance. She’d never envied other women their clothes or their position in life. But now, standing shivering outside the jeweller’s, watching the two expensively-dressed women seat themselves in front of a counter, the assistant bow obsequiously, a feeling of hot, raw jealousy seared through her body. At the same moment, the baby inside her decided to deliver its first lusty kick.

  ‘Are you all right, darlin’?’

  A man had stopped and was looking at her with concern as she bent double clutching her stomach with both arms.

  ‘I’m all right, thanks.’ She forced herself upright.

  He nodded at her bulging stomach. ‘You’d be best at home in a nice warm bed.’

  ‘You’re right.’ She appreciated his kindness. Perhaps he wouldn’t be so kind if he knew that beneath her summer gloves she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  She recovered enough to make her way to Lyons. As she drank the tea, Olivia realised with a sinking heart that there was only one way out of her predicament. She would have to ask her parents for help.

  She couldn’t just turn up, not in her condition. Mr and Mrs Daffydd Jones could never hold up their heads in public again if it got out that their unmarried daughter was having a baby. Her father was a town councillor, her mother given to good works which she carried out with a stern, disapproving expression on her cold features. Olivia, an only child, was already in disgrace. There’d been a row when she gave up her job in the local library to take up nursing in Cardiff, and an even bigger one when she announced her decision to nurse in France. She daren’t go near the place where she was born, let alone the house in which she’d lived.

  A letter would have to be sent, throwing herself on their mercy, and it would have to be sent today, so there would be time for a reply before Saturday when she left the hotel.

  The tea finished, she searched the side streets for a shop that sold inexpensive stationery, then went to the Post Office and wrote to her mother and father, explaining her plight. She didn’t plead or try to invoke their sympathy. She knew her parents well. They would either help, or they wouldn’t, no matter how the letter was framed.

  The reply came on Friday morning. She recognised her father’s writing on the envelope. Although he wrote neatly, he had managed to make the ‘Miss’ look as if it might be ‘Mrs’ – or the other way round. The proprietor didn’t look impressed when she handed the letter over. It crossed Olivia’s mind that she could have bought a brass wedding ring and signed the register as Mrs O’Hagan, claiming to be a widow if anyone asked, but she’d been so confused it hadn’t crossed her mind. Still, all it would have avoided was the indignity of, in effect, being thrown out. She would have had to leave in another few days when she came to the end of her savings.

  The envelope contained a rail ticket and a curt note.

  ‘Catch the 6.30 train from Paddington Station to Bristol on Saturday night. I will meet you. Father.’

  Bristol wasn’t far from where she’d lived in Wales. Relief was mixed with a sense of sadness as she re-read her father’s note. No ‘Dear Olivia.’ He hadn’t signed ‘Love, Father’.

  At least now she was leaving she could treat herself to a decent meal with what was left of the money.

  Her father was waiting under the clock at Temple Meads station, legs apart, hands clasped behind his back, glowering. He was rocking back and forth on his heels, a big, broad-shouldered man, in an ankle-length tweed overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat that made him look rather louche, though he would have been horrified had he realised. His coat hung open, revealing a pinstriped waistcoat and a gold watch and chain.

  There was something forbidding about the way he waited, as if his thoughts were very dark. Olivia had always been frightened of him, although he’d never laid a hand on her, either in anger or affection.

  He nodded grimly at her approach and had the grace to take her suitcase. He made no attempt to kiss the daughter he hadn’t seen for two and a half years. Even if she hadn’t been returning home under a cloud, Olivia wouldn’t have found this surprising.

  She followed him outside and he stowed the case in the boot of the little Ford Eight car that was the only thing she’d known him show fondness for. He would pat it lovingly when it had completed a journey and murmur, ‘Clever little thing!’

  ‘Where’s Mother?’ Olivia asked as they drove out of the station.

  ‘Home,’ he said brusquely.

  There was a long silence. The gaslit streets of Bristol were mainly deserted at such a late hour. They passed a few pubs that had recently emptied and where customers still hung noisily around outside.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Olivia asked when the silence began to grate. She wondered if she was being taken to a home for fallen women. It would be horrid, but she’d put herself in a position where she had no choice.

  ‘A Mrs Cookson, who lives near the docks, will look after you until... until your time comes.’ His voice was grudging. ‘It’s most unlikely anyone we know will visit the area, but I would be obliged if you would stay indoors during daylight hours in case you’re recognised. Mrs Cookson has been given money to buy you the appropriate garments. You’ll be comfortable there. When everything is over, you will leave. I’ll make arrangements for the child to be taken care of, if that is your wish. If you decide to keep it, don’t expect your mother and me to help. We never want to see you again.’

  Although she’d had no wish to see them, either, the bluntness of his words upset her. They made her feel dirty. She opened her mouth to tell him about Tom, but before she could say a word, her father said tonelessly, ‘You’re disgusting.’

  She didn’t speak to him again, nor he to her. Shortly afterwards, he turned into a little street of terraced houses, and stopped outside the end one. He got out, leaving the engine running, and knocked on the door.

  It was opened by a gaunt woman in her fifties with hennaed hair and a vivid crimson mouth. She had on a scarlet satin dress and a black stole. Long jet earrings dangled on to her shoulders and she wore a three-strand necklace to match. Her long fingers were full of rings – if the stones were real, she must be worth a fortune, Olivia thought.

  Her father grunted an introduction, almost threw his daughter’s suitcase into the hall, and left. The Ford was already in motion by the time Mrs Cookson closed the door. She folded her arms and looked Olivia up and down.

  ‘Well, who’s been a naughty girl?’ she said archly.

  Olivia couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled. She’d been expecting to be treated like a wanton woman over the next few months and, although Mrs Cookson wasn’t quite her cup of tea, it was a pleasant surprise to be greeted with a joke.

  ‘Come along, de
arie,’ the woman seized her arm, winking lewdly. ‘Come and tell us all about it. Would you like a cuppa? Or something stronger? I’ve got some nice cherry wine. I’m about to have a bottle of milk stout, myself. Oh, and by the way, call me Madge.’

  Madge Cookson was the unofficial midwife in the area of Bristol known as Little Italy because of the street names. Her own house was in Capri Street, and there were other similar streets of tiny houses: Naples, Turin and Venice, as well as a small cul-de-sac called Milan Way, all off Florence Road. She had a weakness for milk stout and a rather brittle manner that hid a soft, generous heart. Olivia was to grow quite fond of her over the next few months.

  ‘How did my father know about you?’ she enquired after she’d been living in Madge’s house for a week.

  ‘He must have asked around. You’re not the first well-bred young lady I’ve had under similar circumstances to your own.’

  As a young woman, Madge had been a singer on the music halls and there was a poster in her bedroom listing Magda Starr fourth on the bill at the London Hippodrome.

  ‘That was the highest I ever got,’ she told Olivia sadly. ‘I always wanted to be top, but it wasn’t to be. I got married soon afterwards and had our Des.’ Her husband had died years ago, but Desmond had followed in his mother’s footsteps and was a ventriloquist on the halls, although he had never reached such an exalted position as fourth on the bill. Desmond Starr’s name was usually in small print at the bottom.

  ‘Was your name really Starr?’ Olivia asked. She would never cease to be intrigued by Madge’s fascinating and varied life.