Ragamuffin Angel

by Rita Bradshaw

  Ragamuffin Angel

  Rita Bradshaw

  Hachette UK (2010)

  Tags: Sagas, Fiction

  * * *

  Synopsis

  Sunderland 1900-1918

  Connie Bell, newly orphaned, is just twelve when she's taken on at the laundry in Sunderland's grim workhouse. Although she's little more than a child the events of her past have forged a driving determination to rise above her beginnings. But when she applies for a job as a nurse Connie's turned down: her mother was forced by poverty to work the streets and the Bell name is tainted. Bitterly hurt but undaunted, Connie's soon assistant housekeeper at the Grand Hotel and saving hard for her own business. When her path crosses Dan Stewart's, though, everything Connie's ever dreamed of is threatened. There's a dark and terrible history between the Bells and the Stewarts, and Dan's mother Edith will do anything to keep Dan and Connie apart.

  Ragamuffin Angel

  RITA BRADSHAW

  headline

  www.headline.co.uk

  Copyright © 2000 Rita Bradshaw

  The right of Rita Bradshaw to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2010

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

  This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

  eISBN : 978 0 7553 7585 1

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Part One – 1900

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part Two – 1905

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Part Three – 1913

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Part Four – 1914

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Part Five – 1918

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Rita Bradshaw was born in Northampton, where she still lives today with her husband (whom she met when she was sixteen) and their family.

  When she was approaching forty she decided to fulfil two long-cherished ambitions – to write a novel and learn to drive. She says, ‘the former was pure joy and the latter pure misery,’ but the novel was accepted for publication and she passed her driving test. She has gone on to write many successful novels under a pseudonym.

  As a committed Christian and fervent animal lover, Rita has a full and busy life, but she relishes her writing – a job that is all pleasure – and loves to read, walk her dogs, eat out and visit the cinema in any precious spare moments.

  In memory of Hannah Eley, a very special little girl who had the face of an angel and a spirit to match Connie’s any day! In spite of all the pain borne so bravely in her eleven years on this earth, she was sunshine and laughter and everything that is good in the world, and we all miss her more than words can say.

  Part One

  1900

  The House In The Wood

  Chapter One

  The January night was raw and cold, the sort of mind-numbing cold that only the biting winters of the north produce, and the thin splinters of ice in the driving wind caused the man emerging from the dark cobbled street to tuck his muffler more securely into the neck of his thick cloth coat.

  He glanced back the way he had come as he paused, pulling his cap further down on to his forehead, but there were no running footsteps, shrieks or cries disturbing the frozen streets, in spite of the scene he had just endured. And he knew who had been behind that, by, he did. He’d known immediately he’d stepped through the front door that her mam had been round to see her the day.

  He began to walk swiftly now and with intent, not, as one might have expected, past Mowbray Park and towards the hub of the town centre of the rapidly growing Bishopwearmouth, where the countless pubs and working men’s clubs provided a brief haven from the daily grind for hundreds of Sunderland’s working men. He turned in the opposite direction, entering Mowbray Road, towards Tunstall Vale, and when he was hailed by two other men as they emerged from a side road he merely raised an abrupt hand in response, his walk checked in no way.

  ‘By, Jacob’s in a tear the night.’

  It was said laughingly, even mockingly, and the second man answered in the same tone, shaking his head the while. ‘It’s fair amazin’ what some women’ll put up with. Now, my Bertha’d break me legs afore she’d consent to what his missus allows.’

  ‘Aye, well likely Jacob’s lass don’t have too much say in the matter, eh?’

  ‘Aye, man, you could be right there. Damn shame though, I call it. They’ve not bin wed six year an’ she’s a bonny lass when all’s said an’ done. Aye, it’s a shame right enough.’

  The men didn’t elaborate on what was a shame, but now there was no laughter softening the rough Sunderland idiom as the two of them stared after the big figure, which had long since been swallowed by the freezing darkness.

  ‘Makes you wonder though, don’t it, what goes on behind locked doors? Aye, it makes you wonder . . .’

  The lone form of Jacob Owen was walking even faster now, in spite of the glassy pavements and the banks of frozen snow either side of the footpath, and before long he had left the last of the houses bordering Tunstall Road far behind, passing Strawberry Cottage and then, a few hundred yards further on, Red House. The sky was low and laden with the next load of snow, and with no lights piercing the thick blackness the darkness was complete, but it would have been obvious even to a blind man that Jacob had trod the path many times before as he strode swiftly on, his head down and his shoulders hunched against the bitter wind.

  Just past Tunstall Hills Farm Jacob turned off the road, climbing over a dry stone wall and into the fields beyond, where the mud and grass were frozen hard. The going was more difficult now; the ridges of mud interspersed with snow and puddles of black ice were treacherous, and the blizzard forecast earlier that day was sending its first whirling flakes into the wind, obliterating even the faintest glow from the moon, but Jacob’s advance was faster if anything.

  When he turned into a thickly wooded area some minutes later, he emerged almost immediately into a large clearing in which a tiny ramshackle thatched cottage stood, a small lean-to attached to the side of it enclosing a large supply of neatly sawn logs piled high against the wall of the dwelling place.

  Now, for the first time since leaving the sprawling outskirts of the town of Bishopwearmouth, Jacob stopped dead, drawing in a deep hard breath as he ran his hand over his face, which in spite of the
rawness of the night was warm with sweat. His eyes took in the thin spiral of smoke coming from the cottage chimney, and, as though it was a welcome in itself, he smiled and exhaled.

  He was across the clearing and its freshly dug vegetable patch in a few strides, the thickly falling snow just beginning to patch the spiky winter grass at the edge of the plot of land with ethereal beauty, and he opened the cottage door without knocking or waiting.

  For a moment he stood outlined in the glow and warmth of the cosily lit room beyond, and then the sound of voices drew the dark silhouette inwards, the door was shut and all was quiet again.

  It was some two hours later that the lone hoot of an owl was disturbed by a band of men-five in all-moving stealthily into the clearing from the exact spot Jacob had emerged from earlier. The snow was now a thick blanket muffling any sound they might have made, and the whirling curtain of white provided extra cover as they approached the cottage, their big hobnailed boots marking the virgin purity with deep indentations.

  The first man, who was small and stocky, paused at the side of the curtained window, gathering the others around him in the manner of a general marshalling his troops. ‘We’re all agreed with what needs to be done then?’

  ‘I don’t like this, John.’

  ‘For crying out loud, Art!’ The first man rounded on the much taller man who had spoken, his voice a low hiss. ‘He’s making our name a byword and you know it. Mam said Mavis was beside herself again this morning when she called in. You know what folk are saying as well as me; why, when Mavis Owen has got five brothers, does her man think he can get away with keeping a fancy woman in the house in the wood? And they’re right, damn it. We should have stepped in months ago when Mam first found out what was what.’

  ‘I know Mam would have it that’s what people are saying. I’m not so sure myself.’

  ‘Don’t talk daft, man.’

  ‘Aye, well supposing you’re right, how does tonight solve anything? If Sadie Bell has already given him one bairn he’s not likely to walk away just because we tell him to, now is he? And there’s talk she’s expecting another.’

  ‘I don’t care how many bastards his whore drops, he’ll do what we tell him and finish it. And who says this third one is Jacob’s anyway? Her stomach was already full when she came snivelling back from Newcastle years ago, so that’s two bastards to two different men as we know of. She’s likely got blokes visiting here every night of the week.’ The smaller man’s tone was pugnacious, his voice a low growl.

  ‘I don’t think she’s like that.’

  ‘I’ve heard it all now.’ The smaller man turned his head as though in appeal to the other three, who all shifted uncomfortably. ‘She’s a trollop, the sort who’d open her legs for anyone, and what really sticks in my craw is that she hooked Jacob when she was working at the firm. You think she doesn’t laugh up her sleeve at us all? Oh aye, I know her sort all right.’

  He didn’t doubt it. Art Stewart looked at his oldest brother – whom he had never liked – and he had a job to keep his thoughts to himself. He had shared a bedroom with this brother once the twins, Gilbert and Matthew, who were four years younger than him, had been weaned, and he knew John had had women from puberty onwards and that he had paid for them most of the time.

  ‘What are you going to say to him, John?’

  This last was spoken by Dan who, at fourteen, was the baby of the Stewart family, but although his face had the look of a young boy, his physique was already that of a man, and he towered over his oldest brother by a good three or four inches. He was a good-looking lad – all the Stewart boys were, and their sister, Mavis, who at twenty-five was the second born, was also far from plain – and like Art and the twins he was tall and lean; it had been left to the eldest two, John and Mavis, to inherit their mother’s small, chunky stature.

  ‘I’ll tell him all this is finished.’ John’s hand made a wide sweeping motion towards the cottage.

  ‘And . . . and if Art’s right and Jacob won’t listen?’

  John brushed the snow from his shoulders, taking off his cap and shaking it before pulling it back over his thick springy hair, his actions slow and deliberate. It was a full thirty seconds before he responded to the question, and then his voice carried a grating sound when he said, ‘Then we’ll have to make him listen, lad, won’t we. We’re here tonight so’s his whore can see we mean business and her meal ticket’s finished, all right? Mam said it’s the only way and she’s right. Gilbert, Matt, you with me on this?’

  ‘Aye.’ The twins spoke in unison as they mostly did. Along with Dan they were still living at home, John having married a year after Mavis, and Art the year after John. The twins were bright enough to know on which side their bread was buttered however – you didn’t argue with their mother and get away with it, nor John if it came to that.

  ‘Right.’ John’s eyes flicked over them all again but he avoided direct contact with Art’s steady gaze. ‘Let’s get on with it then, we’re turning into blooming snowmen out here with all this jawing.’

  John’s first knock at the gnarled shabby door of the cottage went unanswered, but as his hand was lowering for the second time the door was wrenched open and Jacob himself stood framed in the aperture, minus his coat and cap and muffler. John watched his brother-in-law’s eyes narrow, and after a quick, ‘Stay where you are, I’ll deal with this,’ to the occupants of the room, Jacob stepped down into the snow, pulling the door shut behind him whilst keeping his hand on the latch.

  ‘Evening, Jacob.’

  John sounded as though he was enjoying himself, and his small stocky frame seemed puffed up with importance, but it was to Art that Jacob said, ‘Aye, well what’s all this about then, man?’ after he had glanced at them all in turn.

  ‘You know damn well what it’s about so don’t play that game.’ John cut in before Art could open his mouth.

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Aye, it’s right.’ John was fairly bristling now.

  ‘And if I say I don’t?’

  ‘Look, Jacob, don’t make this any more difficult than it needs to be.’ There was a conciliatory note in Art’s voice. ‘We’ve come to talk to you, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ Jacob’s narrowed eyes swept over the five men in front of him before coming to rest on Dan, and he continued to look into Dan’s worried face as he said, ‘And you had to bring the lad with you, did you? I thought better of you, Art.’

  ‘He’s old enough to work and he’s old enough to be here.’ Again John’s voice brought Jacob’s gaze his way. ‘And who are you to say what’s right and wrong anyway?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning you stand outside your fancy woman’s cottage and then have the gall to criticise us? You’re a cool one, I’ll give you that, Jacob Owen, but your days of visiting here are over.’

  ‘I work for your father, John, and when we’re there you have the authority to give me any orders he tells you to, but outside is where it finishes. When I step out of those doors of an evening I’m me own man. I don’t interfere in your marriage and I don’t expect you to interfere in mine.’

  ‘I don’t keep a whore on the side.’

  He was spoiling for a fight. Jacob looked at the small man in front of him, who had all the aggressive tenacity of a bull terrier, and something in the other man’s eyes told him how this was going to end. Whatever was in Edith Stewart had been passed down in the genes to her eldest all right, and he’d bet his last penny it was his mother-in-law who had instigated this little visit. She controlled John, she controlled them all, even the old man. His thoughts prompted him to say, ‘Does Henry know you’re here the night?’

  ‘You leave our father out of this.’ Gilbert had summoned up the courage to speak, and the answer and the manner in which it was spoken told Jacob his father-in-law was ignorant of the nocturnal visit. He was glad of that. He had always liked Henry Stewart and he knew Edith’s husband liked him; indeed, he had always suspected that Hen
ry had almost anticipated his daughter’s marriage being a troubled one in view of the fact that Henry had lived with her mother for nigh on thirty years. Thirty years. And from what Mavis had sobbed at him on their wedding night regarding her mother’s instructions to lie perfectly still and endure what had to be borne, Henry’s married life could not have been easy.

  ‘Go and get your coat and cap.’ John thrust his chin forward as he spoke. ‘You’re coming with us, and you can tell her’ – he jabbed towards the cottage with a fierce finger, his eyes screwed up – ‘that you won’t be back.’

  ‘Over my dead body.’

  ‘And that can be arranged an’ all.’

  They were staring at each other now, and although the rage in Jacob was high there was fear there too. John was a belligerent individual and could be vicious, and he was never so nasty as when his mother had stirred him up about something or other. John by himself he could possibly handle – at five-foot-ten he was a good four inches taller than his wife’s eldest brother – but all five of them . . .

  ‘Jacob, come back with us now.’ Again Art was the peacemaker. ‘You’re our brother-in-law, we don’t want bad blood between us any more than you do, but Mavis is our sister. Surely you can understand how we feel? And when all’s said and done you’ve only been married six years come next month.’