by Tania Crosse
Recent Titles by Tania Crosse
MORWELHAM’S CHILD
THE RIVER GIRL
CHERRYBROOK ROSE *
A BOUQUET OF THORNS *
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THE WRONG SIDE OF HAPPINESS *
*available from Severn House
THE WRONG SIDE OF HAPPINESS
Tania Crosse
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published 2011
in Great Britain and in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2011 by Tania Crosse.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Crosse, Tania Anne.
The wrong side of happiness.
1. Fathers and daughters–Fiction. 2. Devon (England)–
Social life and customs–19th century–Fiction.
I. Title
823.9'2-dc22
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-145-3 (epub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8080-2 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-387-8 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
To all our wonderful Dartmoor friends, but especially to
THE HAIRY BEARS.
What amazing times we have spent together!
And, as always, to my darling husband
for sharing the tears and the laughter.
Acknowledgements
With many thanks to all those who have contributed to this novel: my Irish cousin, Peggy O’Sullivan, for her help with the Irish Gaelic; retired physician and co-founder of the Berkshire Medical Heritage Centre, Marshall Barr, for his advice on historical medical matters; my friend Geri Laithwaite, who lives in part of the old dairy and kindly shared her knowledge of the building’s history; Tavistock historian Gerry Woodcock; and last but not least, my friend Paul Rendell, Dartmoor Guide and historian and editor of The Dartmoor News, for his help and support.
One
‘Here, you, give me that back!’
The young girl buying a pasty at the stall in Tavistock’s Market House grabbed the arm of the youth who had snatched her purse, her reactions as quick as lightning. The lad tried to shake her off, kicking at her shins, but she replied by smashing her fist across his face. He dropped the purse, which was back in her possession in a trice, and disappeared into the crowd before anyone could stop him.
‘Yes, that’s it, run away afore I call the constable!’ the girl shouted after him, flushed with rage, and turned back to the stall with an angry jerk of her shoulders. ‘Now then, where were I?’
The stallholder had his hands on his hips, laughing uproariously. ‘Got a proper right ’ook on you there, cheel! Wouldn’t ’ave expected it from a little thing like you! ’Ave the pasties on me. It be worth it for the entertainment.’
‘Oh, right, thank you,’ the girl replied as the fury slid away from her.
She took the pasties gratefully, although she wasn’t going to tell the man that there was barely enough in her purse to pay for them, the rest of her money being prudently sewn into her bodice! It wasn’t a very good start to their life in the small market town. Still, at least they had got a free meal out of it, she considered as she made her way back to the main square where she had left her father guarding her basket and his own bundle, which contained the few possessions they had in the entire world.
‘Here,’ she said, handing him one of the pasties, but not telling him that she had managed to acquire them for free. She held the purse strings, and if her father thought there might be some money going spare, he would want to spend it on a bottle of beer.
They munched on the pasties, both of them ravenous since they hadn’t eaten for two days. They had been on the road for weeks, traipsing through the countryside searching for work and sleeping rough, until that afternoon when they had arrived in the vaguely familiar town of Tavistock.
‘What we’m goin’ to do next then, cheel?’ her father pondered, scratching his unshaven jaw.
Tresca felt so much better now she had eaten and her brain snapped back into action. The prospect of sleeping in a proper bed again filled her with ridiculous excitement and she suddenly sprang across the square and approached the first likely looking passer-by.
‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ she said politely. ‘Would you know where my father and I might find a suitable room? We can’t afford an inn, but somewhere clean and dry?’
To Tresca’s relief, the young woman’s plain but serene face broke into a friendly smile. ‘Well, it isn’t easy with all the railway folk here,’ the modestly attired stranger replied in a well-spoken voice, which nevertheless had a West Country lilt. ‘The railway has two hut villages a way down the track, but it isn’t nearly enough. The town’s bursting at the seams. But try Mrs Mawes in Bannawell Street. She can be somewhat brusque, but her rooms are very clean. Tell her Vera Miles sent you.’
Tresca nodded her gratitude. The railway . . . that was the reason they had come into the town. The Great Western Railway had arrived in Tavistock in 1859, but now, nearly thirty years later, a rival company was building an alternative line and, like many unemployed farm-workers, her father was hoping to be taken on as a labourer.
‘Thank you very much,’ Tresca said to the young woman. ‘Can you tell me the way, please?’
Vera Miles gave her directions and then, wishing her luck, went on her way. Tresca turned back to find her father. There he was, sitting on the churchyard wall and leaning against the railings, enjoying the autumn sunshine. Tresca crossed the square to join him, irritated that he hadn’t been doing anything more useful.
‘Come on,’ she said tersely. ‘I’ve found out where we might find lodgings.’
‘Aw, cas’n an ol’ fellow ’ave a rest?’
‘No, you can’t. And you’m not old. You’m just lazy.’
‘No, I’s not! I’s an ’ard worker, you knows that!’
‘Yes, I do,’ she replied, suddenly grinning as her love for this exasperating man broke through her annoyance.
Emmanuel realized she was teasing and laughed back. ‘Cheeky so-and-so,’ he chuckled. ‘Let’s find this yere lodgin’s, an’ then us’ll see ’bout earnin’ some money.’
They set out, arm in arm and full of hope. Rounding the corner of the churchyard, they walked up the side of the imposing church. Opposite, on a street corner, was a footwear shop stretching through several old and rickety buildings. It was evidently a thriving business, with thousands of pairs of boots and shoes on display.
‘That must be the biggest shop I’ve ever seen!’ Tresca declared, suppressing a smile. ‘Maybe they need an assistant in the Ladies’ Department. I’ll go in and find out later.’
‘That’s my girl!’ Emmanuel crowed with pride. ‘So where does us go now? Up this ’ill with all the shops?’
‘No. The lady said to turn up by the shoe shop. Come on.’
As they turned the corner, the narrow road of Market Street was littered with other smaller shops. It quickly opened into the square Vera Miles had described, and Tresca noted it all with satisfaction. Tavistock was a flourishing town, and surely she would be able to find work, either in one of the shops or as a servant in one of the more prosperous houses?
Go up Lower Back Street on the far side, Tresca remembered, and further up it turns into King Street and then Bannawell Street. She noticed that all the shops and houses gave directly on to the road, but as they climbed steeply upwards they left the grander buildings behind; now each side of the narrow street was lined with smaller houses forming one long terrace. Back in the town centre, elegant ladies and gentlemen in top hats had rubbed shoulders with all and sundry, but Bannawell Street instantly gave the impression of poverty and overcrowding. Tresca noticed paint peeling off the woodwork of many a neglected house, and here and there a broken windowpane had been left unmended. Ragged children with bare, filthy feet played in the street among the muck in the gutters and the horse dung in the middle of the road. Women loitered in doorways, calling across to one another or yelling at their offspring as a rumpus broke out.
Tresca’s optimism sank at once. It was an unfamiliar world, one she had never experienced before. To someone who had only ever known the quiet of the countryside, the noise was horrendous. And the smell . . . Fresh manure with its good, natural aroma was the worst odour she had ever come across, but here the stench of what appeared to be rotting vegetables hung in the air like a fog.
A woman, arms folded across her stained apron, was gossiping with another lounging against the wall of a house. They scowled at the strangers as they passed as if blaming them for interrupting the conversation, and Tresca felt so many eyes boring into her back. Even a dog, guarding an open doorway, snarled at them – until the unseen owner threw a well-aimed shoe at the animal from somewhere inside and it slunk back into the depths of a dark hallway.
‘Everyone’s looking at us,’ Tresca whispered from the corner of her mouth, even though her head was held high.
‘Lookin’ at my beautiful darter,’ Emmanuel winked back, although Tresca could tell it was forced and that he was feeling as uneasy as she was.
Oh dear, had they made a terrible mistake coming into this town whose centre, on the odd occasion they had been there, had always appeared so attractive and prosperous? But what choice did they have when the harvest was over and they had been thrown out of the permanent jobs they had secured at Tremaine Farm? But a moment later, a woman with an infant in her arms and a hoard of little ones around her skirts gave them a pleasant smile, and Tresca nodded back, feeling encouraged as they trudged on.
‘Arternoon,’ a friendly voice said, and Tresca turned to see an elderly man on crutches whose leg ended just below the knee. ‘Strangers in town, are us? Can I ’elp at all?’
Tresca felt fired with confidence again. ‘We’m looking for a Mrs Mawes. We were told she has rooms to let.’
‘Mrs Mawes, eh? Near the top she be. But whether ’er ’as any rooms, I cud’n say. All the railway folk, see. Good luck, anyway!’
‘’Er seemed nice enough,’ Emmanuel said as the fellow stomped off on his crutches.
‘Yes, he did. Perhaps it won’t be so bad. As strangers, we’m bound to arouse curiosity. Come on. It can’t be far now.’
The houses, including Mrs Mawes’s, now had tiny but pleasant front gardens, and Tresca experienced a surge of hope. The face of the woman who opened the door, however, was as hard as nails, and Tresca braced herself to enquire about a room.
‘I’s sorry,’ the sharp voice answered, not sounding sorry in the least. ‘All my rooms be taken.’
Tresca was filled with disappointment at the frosty reply. It might be the first place they had tried, but they didn’t want to traipse all over the town if they could help it. She trawled her brain for some words to change the woman’s mind, and suddenly remembered the modest young lady she had spoken to in the town square. ‘We’m to say that Mrs Miles sent us,’ she announced hopefully.
‘Mrs Miles? Oh, you means Vera? Miss Miles. Oh, why didn’t you say? Friends of hers, are we?’
Tresca hesitated. ‘Well, not exactly—’
‘Us doesn’t like strangers, see. Us has to be careful with all they railway folk about. Now I’ve one room in the attic free. Small, an’ it’s only got a single bedstead, but there’s a mattress on the floor your father can sleep on. You really are father an’ daughter, I take it?’ she added, looking them up and down suspiciously.
‘Indeed, ma’am.’ Emmanuel gave his most winning smile. ‘The name’s Ladycott, by the way. Emmanuel Ladycott, an’ this be my darter, Tresca.’
‘Well, you looks respectable enough,’ Mrs Mawes conceded, hitching up her bosom. ‘Come in and I’ll show you the room.’
Emmanuel met Tresca’s eye dubiously as they entered the dark little house. It reeked of stale, boiled cabbage, and as Mrs Mawes led them up two flights of stairs, the bare wooden treads creaked under Emmanuel’s weight.
‘There. What d’you think?’
Tresca’s eyes swept over the room. It seemed so tiny compared to the accommodation over the byre that they had been used to at Tremaine Farm. But it was a roof over their heads and she should be grateful for that.
‘How much?’ Emmanuel finally spoke.
‘Two shilling a week.’
Tresca was so shocked that the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. ‘What? That’s daylight robbery!’
‘You’ll not find cheaper, missie, with all the railway folk in town.’ Mrs Mawes nodded emphatically, her lips compressing into a stubborn line. ‘They reckons over two thousand navvies and their families have come yere since work began on the line back in the spring, to say nort of the blacksmiths and foundry workers. My price includes clean sheets once a fortnight. You do your own cleaning, mind, and coal’s extra when you wants it,’ she concluded, jabbing her head at the grate.
Tresca glared back, equally determined. ‘One and sixpence,’ she said, her chin tilted defiantly.
The woman frowned. ‘One and ninepence. And two weeks in advance. That’s my last offer. Take it or leave it.’
Tresca glanced at Emmanuel, hoping he might try to negotiate further, but he didn’t. ‘All right,’ she answered. ‘We’ll bring the money down to you in a minute.’ For she wasn’t going to show their new landlady where she kept her money!
Mrs Mawes grunted, and then left them alone as she clomped down the stairs. Tresca turned back into the room. Her father had already sat down on the bed, looking about him as if expecting some fascinating feature to emerge from the stark walls.
A weary sigh escaped Tresca’s lips as she sat down next to him. ‘Oh, well,’ she murmured. ‘It’s better than nothing, I suppose.’
Beside her, Emmanuel’s face twisted with remorse. ‘Aw, I’s that sorry, cheel,’ he breathed. ‘I knows ’ow you loved it at Tremaine Farm. It were a good summer there, an’ I knows it were all my fault us ’ad to leave. But I’ll make it up to you, princess, I promises.’
Tresca gave a weak smile. Oh, yes. She’d heard that one a thousand times. He was a good man, her father, kind and well meaning. He had brought her up single-handed since her mother and little brother had died of fever when she was but five years old. It couldn’t have been easy for an itinerant farm labourer, and she appreciated how he had always insisted she went to school wherever they happened to be, never begrudging the pennies he had to pay as she seemed to have such an aptitude for learning. It had been the two of them against the world; they were the best of friends as well as father and daughter. She had loved him with a passion. She still did. But as she grew older, she had begun to realize that he wasn’t the hero she had always believed him to be.
Tresca got to her feet and went to open the roof light. She was just tall enough to see out. It overlooked the narrow
street, and Tresca pressed her forehead against the glass. Children still played in the dirt, kicking a stone aimlessly along the compacted earth or idly scrapping among themselves. A woman was dragging herself up the hill with a heavy basket on each arm. A mangy cat ran out in front of her, nearly tripping her up. A man was staggering along in the gutter, a bottle swinging from his hand. Tresca drew back with a shudder. It was the last thing she wanted to see.
Welcome to Bannawell Street, she whispered bitterly to herself. And girding up her courage, she turned to her father with a determined smile.
Two
‘Oi, look where you’m going, you!’
Tresca had gone down to pay Mrs Mawes the precious two weeks’ rent. The landlady had taken the coins grudgingly and nodded to a pile of bedclothes on the table. Tresca had expressed her thanks through equally tight lips and begun to make her way back up the dark, narrow staircase armed with the bundle of bedding. There was shouting from one of the rooms on the first floor and then a door slammed loudly. The sounds of a baby crying, other children playing noisily and a woman swearing came from a second open door, making Tresca cringe. Above all the din, she did not hear the man storming down the stairs and she bumped into him as he passed.
‘Sorry, but I couldn’t see over the top of this lot!’ she called indignantly at his back, but he had already thundered down the remaining flight of stairs and out of the front door. Tresca sighed wearily and was almost sent flying again as a hoard of small children clothed in little better than rags streamed past her, chased by a woman with a screaming baby in her arms.
‘An’ don’t come back till your dad comes in!’ she hollered after them. Seeing Tresca pressed against the wall, she glared at her with hostile eyes. ‘What you’m staring at?’ she snarled, and then her door, too, was slammed shut.
Tresca stood for a moment, letting the misery wash through her. Oh, Lord. She didn’t want to live in a house like this, crammed into one room with her father – although by all accounts an entire family occupied the larger room below theirs. She took a deep breath and climbed the second staircase, wondering with trepidation who rented the other little room in the attic next to theirs.
