Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015
Copyright © Josephine Cox 2015
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015
Cover photographs © Mark Owen/Trevillion Images (girl); Stephanie Frey/Trevillion
Images (dog); John Race/Trevillion Images (gate); Shutterstock.com (field and house).
Josephine Cox asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007476718
Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780007476749
Version: 2015-02-16
Praise for JOSEPHINE COX
Jo is one of the world’s best-loved writers and continues to captivate readers across the globe with her powerful storytelling. Here are just some of the many endorsements she has received about her writing:
‘Another beautifully spun family epic’
Scottish Daily Echo
‘Written from the heart’
Daily Mail
‘Another hit for Josephine Cox’
Sunday Express
‘The latest emotionally charged story from this mega-selling author won’t disappoint her army of fans’
Bella
‘A born storyteller’
Bedfordshire Times
‘Cox’s talent as a storyteller never lets you escape the spell’
Daily Mail
‘A surefire wrinner’
Woman’s Weekly
‘Readers will find it impossible to tear themselves away’
News of the World
‘Another masterpiece’
Best
Dedication
For my Ken – as always
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise
Dedication
Part One: Dark Memories
Prologue
Part Two: Badness Will Out
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part Three: Realisation
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Part Four: The Aftermath
Chapter Twelve
Part Five: Revelations
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Keep reading - The Runaway Woman, Josephine Cox’s stunning 50th book
Also by Josephine Cox
About the Publisher
PART ONE
Dark Memories
Tanner’s Farm, Bucks Village, Southern England, 1960
PROLOGUE
CROUCHING LOW BENEATH the bedroom window, young Rosie peered through the murky darkness of a cold November evening.
Anxiously training her gaze along the pathway that ran by the big barn, she wondered if her mother might show at any moment. Rosie would not mind if her mother stayed away for ever, but she knew her father would be sad because he loved her, even though they were always arguing.
So, for his sake, Rosie hoped her mother might somehow manage to find her way home from the village pub where she worked as a barmaid. Often her shift would slip into her social life. She liked a drink and a laugh. She also liked the admiration of men, who were drawn to her dark looks and enticing smile.
Whenever her mother was late coming home, Rosie had good cause to fear the worst. Keeping her vigil at the window, she wondered what kind of mood her mother would be in if she did come home. Would she be in one of her dark rages? Would she be feeling spiteful and ready to fight with Rosie’s father? Or would she be laughing and playful, or impossible to talk with and so drunk she could hardly stand?
Rosie could never decide which was worse, because whichever way it was, it always ended badly.
Neither Rosie nor her father ever knew what to expect when Molly Tanner returned from a night out. She never spoke about exactly where she had been, or who she had been with, and if John Tanner dared to pursue the truth, a fierce row would inevitably ensue, and Rosie would run upstairs in fear, to hide under her bedclothes.
Looking back, Rosie realised that nothing much had changed over the years except that they all had grown older and a little wiser. Her mother was forever complaining that she was ‘coming up to her dreaded fifties’. She was still proud of her sultry looks, and rumour had it that she was still cheating on her loving and hard-working husband. Her dislike for her only child had reached the point where she could hardly bear to be near her.
Molly Tanner had never possessed the strong maternal instinct that bonds a mother with her child. She had neither the instinct nor the wish to be a mother, and made that clear to all who would listen. Consequently, she played precious little part in Rosie’s life.
After a while, young Rosie had stopped caring. Her daddy had been, and still was, her whole life. If she was ever worried or hurting, it was her father’s help she sought; she had learned long ago that there was no point in seeking comfort or advice from her disinterested mother. The little girl had grown and flourished without her help.
Growing irritable, Rosie brought her thoughts back to the present, while she continued watching out of the window.
‘Don’t get upset because your mother never loved you,’ she told herself. ‘You’re not a baby any more. You’re turned fifteen and very soon, you’ll be leaving school.’
Rosie was greatly excited at the prospect of leaving school. At long last she would be able to get a job, although she was adamant on one point. When I do start earning a wage, I’ll give it to Daddy … not to her, because she’ll only spend it down the pub, or on fancy clothes and make-up to impress the men she flirts with, Rosie resolved.
Glancing at the bedside clock, she realised that she had been keeping her vigil for her wayward mother for over an hour.
I expect Daddy’s worried sick, but what does she care, so long a she’s having a good time? she thought.
She clambered up and closed the curtains. Then she crossed the floor to switch on the light, and for a while continued to pace back and forth, occasionally peering through the gap between the curtains and growing increasingly agitated.
The minutes ticked by and, with still no sign of her mother, Rosie went to sit at the dressing table. Absent-mindedly studying her reflection in the mirror, she was greatly relieved that she had not inherited her mother’s striking looks – or her bad temper either.
Although her own hair was waist-length like her mother’s, that was where the resemblance ended because Rosie’s hair was the same light chestnut colour a
s her father’s, while Molly’s was dark and fell in luscious waves. Rosie’s strong blue eyes were also inherited from her father’s side of the family, although her father’s eyes were tinged with a hint of green, which deepened when he was angry, which was not very often.
Anxiously, Rosie studied herself in the mirror, thinking of her mother and the unkind things she would say.
Molly often complained that she found it hard to believe that she had such a plain-looking daughter. ‘You remind me of my sister, Kathleen,’ she would tease spitefully. ‘She was always the plain, shy girl at school. At playtime, she would stand in the corner while everyone else was having fun. When we were younger, the boys always came after me. They never went for her. Hmm! She would probably have been left on the shelf if it hadn’t been for your uncle Paddy. Like her, he’s a plain-looking sort with not much about him. They’re two of a kind,’ she’d smirk. ‘I always knew they would get together, but only after lover-boy had enjoyed playing the field.’
Rosie knew this was unjust. Uncle Patrick and Auntie Kathleen were funny, kind, and a devoted couple. Rosie loved them dearly, as she did Harry, Patrick’s son from his first marriage.
Over the years, Rosie had often been shocked at her mother’s cruel remarks about her family. There had been one particular occasion that she would never forget, when she was just five years of age.
As the memories of that awful episode crowded her mind, she forced herself to concentrate on the path alongside the big barn, but the darkness had thickened, and all was quiet, save for the occasional howl of a lonely dog.
Rosie moved closer to the window, peering into the darkness and listening for the familiar click-clack of high-heeled shoes against the concrete path.
‘Where are you?’ Rosie muttered angrily. ‘Why do you never come home when you should? And who are you with when you’re not with us?’ She realised that she was mimicking the questions her father might ask of his wayward wife.
Troubled, she moved away from the window. ‘All right, stay away then,’ she grumbled. ‘If you don’t come home, we’ll be happier without you.’
Close to tears, she recalled that many times over the years her mother had said to her, ‘I don’t love you … and I never will!’ Her cruel words had cut Rosie to the heart, but it was the events of her fifth birthday that played through her head so strongly this evening.
Surprisingly, for the first time ever her mother had organised a wonderful party for her only child. She had also made a cake, with candles and pretty icing, and Rosie was especially thrilled when the children from neighbouring farms were invited to celebrate her birthday with her.
Normally, her mother did not like Rosie mixing with what she called ‘the rabble’, but that day, for whatever reason, she decided to break the habit and be nice to everyone.
John teasingly told his wife it was because Rosie was going to start school the following morning, and she would not have the child under her feet every day.
It was such a happy day for Rosie. All the children stood in a little group to sing ‘Happy Birthday’, before cheering five times – one cheer for each of her years. She was thrilled, and afterwards she thanked her mother for making her birthday so wonderful.
The joy of her party, however, was short-lived, because after everyone had gone home, Molly threw a tantrum. She complained about the noise and the mess, about the washing up, and about one of the children weeing on the bathroom floor, which she forced Rosie to clean up. Afterwards, she ordered Rosie to bed. Being afraid of her mother’s swift and dangerous change of mood, Rosie ran up the stairs and quickly climbed into bed where, tired out from her wonderful party, she quickly fell asleep.
Some time later, she was woken by the loud noise of things being thrown about, and the angry voices of both her parents, yelling and arguing. Rosie felt very frightened, most especially that her mother might come upstairs to hurt her. Hiding deep under the bedclothes, she wondered how the woman who was screeching and throwing things could be the same kind person who had made her birthday party so very special.
The next day, however, Molly was remarkably jovial and attentive to her young daughter, leaving Rosie to wonder again whether this person and the crazy woman of last night were actually one and the same.
Nervous and excited about starting school, Rosie had just washed herself and cleaned her teeth when her mother appeared with her new school uniform.
Rosie had been sitting on the stool in front of the dressing-table mirror, brushing her long hair. When her mother ordered her to hurry up or they would be late for her first day, Rosie got into a panic and accidentally dropped the brush onto the floor.
Before she could retrieve it, her mother rushed across the room, snatched up the brush and flung it across the dressing table. ‘You’ve wasted enough time brushing your hair,’ she grumbled. ‘You’re a selfish, vain child! Now come on, move yourself! Your father has already brought the horse and cart round, and here you are … looking in the mirror … brushing your hair like we’ve got all the time in the world.’
She hurried Rosie out and down the stairs, then through the front door. John was waiting for them in the lane.
‘What took you so long?’ he laughed, hugging Rosie and wishing her well on her first day at school. Then he held the horse while his wife and daughter climbed onto the cart.
Molly Tanner surprised the horse with a sharp flick of the whip and he shot forward at speed.
Rosie looked back to see her father waving her off and she happily waved back.
Molly, however, was all het up. ‘We’ll be late now, and all because you thought it more important to spend half an hour fussing yourself in the mirror.’
Casting her mind back now, Rosie remembered the incident so vividly it seemed as though the frightening journey to school was only yesterday.
Her mother, using the whip and yelling at the top of her voice, had forced the poor old horse to career along the winding lanes.
‘This is your fault,’ she screamed at her daughter, ‘spending precious time pampering your hair, like you were a film star or something.’
Terrified for the horse, who was soon foaming at the mouth, Rosie begged her mother to slow down. ‘You’re frightening the horse … you’re hurting him, and it’s not his fault. I promise I’ll get up earlier tomorrow, Mummy … only please don’t whip him.’
‘Don’t tell me what to do, child – not if you know what’s good for you.’
By now concerned herself that the horse was beginning to panic and might well bolt, Molly drew in the reins and eventually calmed the nervous animal.
Her daughter, however, was shown no such kindness.
‘Too damned right you’ll get up earlier tomorrow,’ Molly continued, ‘because I’ll make sure of it. I’ll have you out of that bed as soon as the cock crows, you see if I don’t!’ Her dark eyes flashed in anger. ‘What’s more, you can go to bed an hour earlier tonight, and no arguing.’
Hanging on to the wooden rail at her side, Rosie was made to endure a harrowing chase down the lanes. Once she dared to glance up at her mother. Molly’s dark eyes were angry, and her thick dark hair hung in deep waves across her shoulders, and Rosie couldn’t help but wonder how her mother could be so wicked when she looked so beautiful.
Throughout the remainder of the short journey not another word passed between them.
On arriving at school, with the cart and sweating horse safely secured, Molly rushed her daughter across the playground to the school doors. All the other children must have gone in already, though there was a young woman standing as if waiting on the other side of the road.
‘You’d better be on your best behaviour, my girl,’ Molly warned. ‘Make sure there are no bad reports from your teacher when I come to pick you up, or you’ll have me to answer to, and no mistake. All right?’
Rosie nodded, but her mother’s warning and the prospect of another nerve-racking journey had made her afraid. ‘Please … I don’t want to go to scho
ol.’ The tears began to fall. ‘I want to go home.’
‘Don’t be such a softy! If you let the other children see you crying, they’ll just laugh at you. I’m sure you wouldn’t want that, would you?’
Rosie shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Then you’d best do as you’re told.’
Without further ado, Molly grabbed Rosie by the arm and marched her into the entrance hall. ‘I mean what I say,’ she hissed. ‘Behave yourself.’
She then hurried Rosie into the main hall and handed her over to the headmistress. After saying her goodbyes she hurriedly departed, leaving behind a strong hint of the exotic scent she used, while the sharp tapping sound of her dainty high heels receded into the distance.
That afternoon, when Molly came to collect Rosie after school, the headteacher called her into the office while another teacher took Rosie to wait in the library.
‘I’ve been rather concerned about Rosie.’ The headmistress was most formal. ‘She’s hardly spoken a word all day, and she’s made no effort to play with the other children. In fact, I found her hiding in the playground after the other children were brought inside. She was crying, but when I questioned her, she refused to confide in me. It is obvious that something or someone has upset her, but she would not be persuaded to tell me.’
Molly was angry. ‘I’m not surprised. It sounds to me like you’ve blown this out of all proportion. Of course I understand you might want to know why she was crying, but what you really should know is that my daughter has a bit of a temper. Moreover, she does not take kindly to being questioned by strangers. I’m fully aware that she can be a little madam when she puts her mind to it. But if you don’t mind me saying, it is not your place to sort her out. My daughter is my business, and I shall talk to her about this, you may depend on it.’
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