Charity

by Lesley Pearse

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About The Author

  Also by Lesley Pearse

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Copyright

  Charity

  Lesley Pearse was born in Rochester, Kent, but has lived in Bristol for over twenty-five years. She has three daughters and a grandson. She is the bestselling author of nineteen novels, including Ellie, Georgia, Tara, Camellia and Charity, all five of which are published by Arrow. She is one of the UK’s best loved novelists with fans across the globe and sales of over three million copies of her books to date.

  Also by Lesley Pearse

  Georgia*

  Tara*

  Elle*

  Camellia*

  Rosie

  Charlie

  Never Look Back

  Trust Me

  Father Unknown

  Till We Meet Again

  Remember Me

  Secrets

  A Lesser Evil

  Hope

  Faith

  Gypsy

  Stolen

  Belle

  * Also available in Arrow Books

  For every adopted child, especially those born in the Fifties and Sixties. It is my hope that some of the events in this book will give them a clearer understanding of the climate for unmarried mothers at the time, and perhaps give them the comfort of knowing they were never given up easily, or ever forgotten by their natural birth mother.

  Acknowledgements

  Louise Moore, Katie Green and Rebecca Salt at Mandarin for their unfailing enthusiasm and hard work on my behalf; John Potter for his support and wisdom and Darley Anderson, my agent, for just being there whenever I needed him.

  Special thanks too for all those people who helped in my research, Sig. Capineri of the Hotel Berchielli in Florence, the staff of Studley Priory near Oxford, Dr Jane Fornear in Bristol and Peter Marsh.

  Chapter One

  Greenwich, London 1960

  ‘Make sure you get carrots from the front of the counter,’ Gwen Stratton glanced up from writing a shopping list. ‘There were several bad ones last week. And don’t go hanging around in Woolworth’s, Prudence, you know how Father feels about that!’

  To an outsider stepping in from the frosty streets, the Saturday morning scene in the kitchen of number 14 Easton Street had a look of almost Victorian cosy domesticity. Mother sitting at the scrubbed wood table juggling a list of requirements against the meagre pile of coins in front of her; the four children dutifully engaged in various tasks around her.

  An Aladdin paraffin stove, a pan of boiling handkerchiefs and meat being browned in a frying pan added diverse smells to the warm, steamy fug. The clatter of dishes, the polishing of brass and little James chattering to himself as he sat on his potty, almost concealed the resentment which emanated from all but the youngest member of the family.

  All four children were remarkably alike and small for their ages. Four white-blond heads, pale, thin faces, big blue eyes. Charity and Prudence, fifteen and ten respectively, dressed alike in quaintly old-fashioned navy blue serge smock dresses and long grey socks, both with their hair neatly plaited. Tobias was nine, his shirt, long shorts and pullover all grey, his face streaked with black from the Brasso he was rubbing into candlesticks and an embossed wall plaque of a boat.

  Young James, aged two, was shuffling around on his pot. Chuckling with delight at a rag book, he was wearing only a yellowing wool vest, his baby hair still fluffy and as yet unbrushed.

  Everyone in Greenwich thought the Strattons were odd, but despite their eccentricity and poverty they were accepted, even admired.

  Bertram Stratton was a preacher. Not an ordinary vicar like Reverend Soames at St Michael’s but an Evangelical preacher at Babylon Hall. He took his fiery sermons out into the streets, shouted out hell and damnation to anyone that would listen. His flock weren’t the people with smart clothes and nice houses but the poor and the downtrodden.

  Their neighbours in Easton Street were ordinary people – bricklayers, plumbers and bus drivers – but they had a grudging admiration for a man who could stand out in all winds and weathers shouting out his godly messages with such ferocious certitude. They respected his life of piety, the lack of comfort or luxury in his home and nudged each other when they saw the four blond children who looked like frail angels going with him to his church.

  Extreme orderliness masked the poverty and lack of modern appliances in the somewhat gloomy kitchen. Jars of bottled fruit sat in lines on bare wood shelves. Scoured saucepans hung with military precision on hooks above the old gas cooker. Even the few items of clothes hanging on the overhead airing rail were ironed and folded. There was nothing unnecessary; no letters poked behind cups on the dresser, odd buttons, books or toys left carelessly.

  The only word which summed up Easton Street accurately was ‘mean’. Built in 1890 of plain red brick, this terrace close to the River Thames was intended to house the poorest workers in the community. Even the amount of land used was frugal. The houses squashed and stretched up to squeeze in more rooms, rather than give their inhabitants comfort or space.

  The Strattons’ neighbours had made the best of their homes. They painted and papered, knocked down walls, built bathrooms and modernised their kitchens. But number 14 remained just as it was built; even the old gas mantles on the walls were still in place, despite the addition of electric light.

  A dark, draughty house, almost impossible to heat. Damp crept in each winter, peeling off paint and paper, leaving a musty smell that nothing could disguise.

  No one could accuse Reverend Stratton of the sin of pride or even of laying up treasures on this earth. Although it was kept scrupulously clean and tidy, every stick of furniture had been given to them. The only adornments were framed biblical quotations on the walls; the one in the kitchen read ‘Honour thy Father and Mother’.

  ‘Are you listening?’ Gwen Stratton scowled round towards Prudence washing up just inside the scullery. ‘If you bring back mouldy carrots again I shall just send you back!’

  ‘Yes mother,’ Prudence sighed. She was dreaming of a pale blue velvet dress in the window of the haberdashery shop. She knew of course she’d never own it, any more than she’d ever be allowed to have her hair curled in rags or have patent leather bar shoes. But then, even her parents couldn’t stop her dreaming.

  ‘That’s enough Brasso.’ Gwen Stratton rapped her pencil over the back of Tobias’s hand. He was sulking because he wasn’t allowe
d out to play football in the street like the neighbours’ children. ‘Polish it off and put some elbow grease into it.’

  Charity cut carrots and onions into slices at the end of the table.

  ‘What is the matter with you?’ Gwen Stratton looked up at her eldest daughter, irritated by her slow progress. ‘There’s more to do this morning than chopping carrots. Get a move on!’

  Charity couldn’t meet her mother’s eyes.

  ‘I’m just tired.’ She glanced up at that biblical text on the wall. ‘I didn’t sleep much last night.’

  The glass on the text acted as a mirror, revealing all her shortcomings so clearly. The childish plaits, pale face and stick-thin legs showed exactly how she got the nickname of Weed.

  She was tidy enough – many people pointed out what a credit all four children were to their mother – but no one else at school had such awful old-fashioned clothes and clumpy shoes.

  ‘Pass the iron tonic here,’ her mother snapped. ‘You’re always tired these days. As if I haven’t got enough to worry about without you dripping around the place complaining all the time.’

  Charity handed the bottle and spoon over silently.

  Had a stranger observed Gwen Stratton pouring two large tablespoons of tonic into her eldest daughter’s mouth, they might very well have wondered why she didn’t take the medicine herself. For although the obedience of the children, the cleanliness and order in the house suggested she was a good wife and mother, something clearly ailed her.

  Everything about Gwen Stratton was drab, from her weary voice, her clothes and her stooped narrow shoulders to the plain brown dress and shapeless cardigan she wore every day except Sundays. Thick lisle stockings, feet in worn carpet slippers suggested she was far older than her forty years. Bitterness wafted out of her like a sour odour.

  Charity gulped down the tonic, quickly following it with a glass of water, then turned to the stove to flip over the browning meat. She had no need to ask what chores she had to do today. As the eldest, five years older than Prudence, she was responsible for the washing.

  She added flour, stirred it well in, adding a jug of stock, then deftly transferred the bubbling mixture to a large saucepan, scraping in the vegetables. Nausea welled up again as a thick brown scum rose to the surface. She spooned it off, wishing she could do the same for her teeth, which seemed to be coated with the iron tonic.

  ‘Turn that down and leave it,’ Mother barked. ‘James has finished!’

  Charity dutifully turned to her little brother, and lifted him from the pot to wipe his bottom.

  ‘Pooh!’ She smiled lovingly at James. ‘Hang on while I empty this, then I’ll get you dressed.’

  She took the pot out through the scullery to the outside lavatory, emptied it and sluiced it round. She paused for a moment in the frosty air, fighting back the desire to burst into tears.

  A burning soreness down below, hatred for her father seething in her heart and a feeling of utter dejection were enough to make her run down the back alley to the river and let herself sink into the glutinous brown mud. Yet as always she knew she had to stay here and bear it, for the sake of her brothers and sister.

  Charity hadn’t even known there was a name for it until just recently. She’d heard the rude ones in the school playground, but not the real one.

  She was looking up the word ‘incessant’ in the dictionary when she stumbled upon it: ‘incest’. Sexual intercourse between persons related within prohibited degrees.

  Being able to put a name to it didn’t really help. It just made her dark secret even more shameful. She was certain her mother knew, or at least suspected. If Mother let it happen, how could Charity expect anyone else to help, or even believe her?

  It tainted everything, like an incurable disease. Father had come to her the first time just after baby Jacob died four years ago. It had hurt so terribly she’d cried for days, but everyone assumed she was just upset about Jacob dying. It had stopped for a while until James was born but then started again soon after. Now she was sure nothing would stop it.

  She could bear the funny handmade dresses mother insisted on her and Prudence wearing. She accepted the endless prayers, church and chores and even lack of freedom, but Father made her feel so dirty inside, nothing could wash it away.

  In a few weeks’ time, at Easter, she was due to leave school. To any other girl this might mean a chance to escape. But Charity was more than just the eldest child. She was nursemaid, cook, cleaner and housekeeper. She could turn her back easily on her parents, but not on Prudence, Tobias and James. If she left who would love them? Would her father turn his attentions to Prudence?

  ‘Come on!’ A sharp tap on the window from her mother brought her back to reality. There was no escape, not from Father, nor Mother, or the chores.

  Back in the kitchen Charity sat down and took James on to her lap, smiling at his round pink and white baby face, despite her misery.

  ‘Me come wif you?’ he said, holding her face between his two plump starfish hands.

  ‘Can he, Mother?’ Charity asked, pulling on his pants and threading his legs into knitted trousers.

  ‘If you put his snow-suit on,’ Gwen snapped. She was stuffing towels and sheets into a pillowcase with the kind of speed which suggested she was anxious to get all the children out of the house. ‘Mind you take Father’s surplices out of the dryer when they’re still damp. And don’t go losing any socks.’

  Almost the moment Charity bumped the pram down the two front steps into the street, her spirits rose slightly. For a couple of hours she was free of her mother’s carping, weak March sunshine was melting the thick frost and although there was nothing beautiful to look at on the way to the public baths down by the Blackwall tunnel, she had James to give her some comfort.

  ‘Me walk,’ James said in a high-pitched squeak of excitement, stretching up to hold the handle of the pram. ‘We go see boats?’

  ‘Not now.’ Charity smiled down at her little brother, feeling a surge of love for him. ‘Maybe after dinner, if you’re a good boy.’

  For all the bad things in her life, Charity loved her brothers and sister with a consuming passion. She hadn’t been allowed to have a childhood herself. At five, when Prudence was born, she was expected to fetch and carry; when Tobias arrived a year later she was already an accomplished nursemaid.

  She had never owned a doll – never needed one as these children had been living, breathing ones. Each one of them had been born in the house, put into her arms just minutes after their deliveries. It was she who tucked them into bed and told them stories; she had spoon-fed them, changed their nappies, walked them in the pram. Father had never encouraged outside friendships, so she had turned in on her family and as shame isolated her further from girls of her own age, her devotion to the children had grown.

  It was a long walk to the baths, skirting through dismal back streets much like her own and and James was tired of walking long before they got there. Charity sat him between the two bags of washing, smiling as he attempted to sing baby songs for her entertainment. As they crossed the road to enter the old soot-ingrained building, Mrs Bayliss and her daughter Jenny stopped by the steps to wait for them.

  ‘Hullo ducks.’ Mrs Bayliss beamed a welcome. ‘Let’s take one of them pillers. ‘Ow’s yer ma?’

  ‘About the same.’ Charity smiled shyly. She liked Mrs Bayliss, she was fat, fifty and what her mother called ‘common’ with peroxided hair set on curlers under a headscarf, but she was kindly.

  ‘Your dad ought to try and move you. That Easton Street’s too near the river. Enough to make anyone’s chest bad.’ Mrs Bayliss clucked in sympathy. ‘And all you kids to look after too!’

  Charity didn’t comment. There was nothing wrong with her mother’s chest, but this and ‘nerves’ were the common diagnosis of Gwen Stratton’s problems.

  She put the brake on the pram, passed one pillowcase to the woman, then grabbing James under one arm, hoisted out the other bag.


  ‘How are you two?’

  ‘Fine, ducks.’ Mrs Bayliss caught the heavy door opened by her daughter with her ample rump, making room for Charity to sweep through. ‘Be better still once we’ve got this lot clean and ’eard a bit of gossip.’

  The damp heat hit them like walking into a steam room.

  ‘Grab those three machines,’ Mrs Bayliss ordered her daughter. She turned to Charity and tickled James’s chin affectionately. ‘We’ll share one for our whites, ducks. Give us yer money and I’ll pay.’

  Charity felt a flush of unaccustomed pride. It showed your status at the baths if someone offered to share a machine. Of all the things Charity could charge her parents with, lack of hygiene wasn’t one of them. Their sheets and towels might be threadbare, but they were snowy white. Father’s shirts and surplices wouldn’t have shamed an archbishop.

  Twenty huge washing machines with stainless steel lids took up the central position. On the far wall were as many vast dryers, filling the air with roaring, sloshing and tumbling sounds, belching out heat and steam. To the right was a row of sinks where women scrubbed collars or washed woollens; on the left an area for ironing, with boards, and roller machines for sheets.

  The steamy air was enough to flatten a ‘beehive’ or turn straight hair like Charity’s kinky in seconds. Winter-white arms bared, faces glistening with sweet from the intense heat and the rich sound of raucous laughter gave the room a party atmosphere.

  A place where fifty or so women displayed their dirty washing openly was bound to make them more gregarious. Stains were discussed in detail, and the events that had led up to them. Nothing was too personal. Whether it was blood from a fight, soiled linen from an incontinent parent or child, or even the aftermath of childbirth, it was aired in public.

  ‘He thinks I’m bloody stupid.’ One woman waved a shirt with a bright red lipstick mark on the collar. ‘He tried to tell me I done that! I tell you next time ’e goes down that club I’ll follow ’im and if I catches ’im with that cow, I’ll split ’her ’ead right open.’