Family Drama 4 E-Book Bundle

by Pam Weaver

  ‘That’s what parents do, though, isn’t it? Unconditional love. But if he’s gone to London …’

  ‘How unconditional is unconditional?’ Gracie asked.

  ‘Blimey, missus, that’s a bit deep …’

  ‘I’m learning, I’m learning. Oh, it’s the phone. I’ll get it.’ She went out into the lobby and then put her head back around the door. ‘Ruby, it’s Johnnie. He says it’s urgent.’

  ‘I don’t want to speak to him.’

  ‘He says it’s really urgent.’

  ‘No. I can’t speak to him, I can’t. Tell him another time. If it’s urgent he can tell you.’

  She could hear Gracie talking to him but she couldn’t hear the words. Then Gracie came back into the room.

  ‘I don’t want to hear it, Gracie.’

  ‘Oh, you do, you really do.’

  ‘I don’t. I have to shut him off.’

  Gracie smiled. ‘When he left here the other day he went home and found the babies on their own and his missus over the road having it away with a neighbour, a Greek waiter from Soho … though I don’t know why he told me that.’

  ‘Nooo, I don’t believe you, Gracie McCabe. You’re lying to me.’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die. He said he can’t see you for a while because he’s got the boys with him at his sister’s and he doesn’t want Sadie finding out anything and dragging you into it. Now there’s a fine kettle of fish for you.’

  Ruby leaned forward. She felt sick and faint. In a few moments everything had changed.

  ‘He wants you to phone him on this number.’ Gracie handed her a piece of paper. ‘Shall I cancel the Pekingese?’

  Ruby smiled. ‘We’ll see. At the moment I really need a brandy.’

  That evening, after she’d spoken to Johnnie, Ruby sat out on the balcony thinking about everything that had happened and wondering how it might all pan out in the future. In a few short weeks her life had roller-coastered up and down so much she was scared to think about anything positively for fear of it all whooshing back down again.

  Johnnie Riordan. Could it happen? She didn’t know … His life was so tied up with Sadie and Bill Morgan. Despite what Sadie had done, the threat from Morgan was there. If he divorced Sadie then he lost everything: his home, his job, his car; but he would keep his boys, which was the most important thing to him.

  But would he go that far? She wasn’t sure. Only time would tell. But the thought that maybe she and Johnnie Riordan, the love of her life, could be together one day was enough for the moment.

  She picked up the binoculars and looked out across the water. It was damp and misty, but she could knew Leonora was out there somewhere, keeping an eye on her hotel and her protégée.

  She was so far away she jumped when Gracie came up behind her.

  ‘Babs rang. They’ve found Derek Yardley’s body. He hanged himself with his belt in the place he’d called his den, so Maggie was right about that. Really spooky place, a proper hut in the woods, which was only found by chance by a farmer shooting rabbits and following his dog into the undergrowth. The police never found him.’

  Ruby put her fingers in her ears. ‘I don’t want to hear about it, not now. I can’t think about him because I feel sorry for him and I don’t want to, he took Maggie.’

  ‘That he did, but he brought her back and he didn’t do anything bad to her. That’s the main thing. There’s good and bad in all of this, that’s for sure.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right … Do you think we could both take a day off?’ Ruby suddenly asked Gracie. ‘Just one day. I really want to go and see my mother but I can’t drive with my arm like this. I was thinking, it’ll soon be a new year … a new year, a new start. I want to get everything cleared in my head and start afresh.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  Gracie and Ruby stood together looking over the balcony.

  ‘Are you watching, Lady Leonora?’ Gracie shouted. ‘We love you!’

  Epilogue

  Johnnie Riordan turned the car into the drive and pulled up in front of the garage.

  ‘I’m dreading this, you know.’

  ‘Well, don’t. Just think of it as an extended family get-together. It happens all the time – aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces. Maggie is just like that.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘I know, but you have to pretend it is. You’ll get used to it. I have.’

  ‘I know.’ Although the engine was turned off his hands were still gripping the steering wheel.

  Ruby smiled reassuringly. ‘How’s Betty coping with two babies in the house?’

  ‘She’s grumbling but she’s loving it. It’s a bit cramped, though, with me as well. Poor Betty …’

  ‘So Bill hasn’t put a hit out on you then?’

  ‘No. Just sacked me, took the car, chucked me out of the house and threatened to break my legs if I ever showed my face in Wanstead again, that’s all.’

  ‘But she was in the wrong …’

  ‘Does it matter? Nope. Bill Morgan always had a soft spot for her so he was automatically going to believe her. She’s even working in the Black Dog again!’ Johnnie shook his head and grinned. ‘Life, eh? So, shall we go in? I’m scared, if I’m honest.’

  ‘It’ll be OK. I’m her sister Ruby, and you’re my friend Johnnie.’

  ‘Sounds like a storybook’.

  ‘It is a bit like a fairytale, and all’s well that ends well. Right, here we go. Come and meet Maggie.’

  ‘I can’t believe we have a daughter.’

  ‘You must never ever say that out loud.’

  ‘What about us?’

  ‘You know about us. We were meant to be.’

  They both stopped when they heard voices.

  ‘Mummy, it’s Ruby!’

  Ruby looked at Johnnie’s face as his daughter ran towards them.

  ‘One day,’ she said to him quietly, ‘one day she’ll know. Hello, Maggie. Say hello to my friend Johnnie.’

  Read an extract from Gracie by Marie Maxwell

  She made the ultimate sacrifice but can she now move on with her life?

  About the Author

  Marie Maxwell was born in London and, after living here, there and everywhere, now lives happily by the sea in Essex.

  She has written seven other books under the name Bernardine Kennedy and information on Marie and Bernardine is available at: www.bernardinekennedy.com

  The Girl From World’s End

  LEAH FLEMING

  The Girl From World’s

  End

  Dedication

  In memory of Kathleen, who loved these hills.

  Epigraph

  …grief has no wings. She is the unwelcome lodger that squats on the hearthstone between us and the fire and will not be moved…

  Arthur Quiller-Couch

  Armistice Day Sermon, November 1927

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One A Change of Sky

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part Two Darkening Skies

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Part Three The Snow House

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Author’s Notes

  About the Author

  Part One

  A Change of Sky

  1

  West Riding of Yorkshire, 1926

  A girl of about eight sat swinging her legs to and fro to keep them from going numb, watching the sky growing dark above. The weak December sun dipped behind the high moor and s
oon the cobbled streets would be crusted with frost. When was Father going to come out of the Green Man and take her home? The church clock had struck half-past four. Soon the mill hooter would buzz across the rooftops and the clatter of clogs would deafen the streets.

  It had been a grand afternoon: one of the good days when Paddy Gilchrist woke up by himself, whistling and promising her a ride on a tram to Bradford to look in the shop windows and hear the Christmas brass bands. They had got as far as the park, where he’d pushed her on the swings and slides, but then they’d made a detour through the back streets of Scarperton.

  ‘I’ll not be a minute, Mirren. Time for my medicine–just a wee nip to keep me warm,’ he laughed, his dark eyes pleading as he saw the little blue ribbon on her coat lapel and the wince of disapproval on her face.

  She was proud of that badge and the signed certificate from the Band of Hope that said not a drop of liquor would ever pass the lips of Miriam Ellen Gilchrist.

  ‘Don’t be long,’ she pleaded, trying not to pout as her lips trembled. ‘You promised me a ride up to town.’

  ‘Aye, I know, lassie, but you don’t begrudge yer dad a little comfort now, do you? You sit tight and I’ll buy you some sweeties when I’ve had my snifter.’

  She had sat on this bench so many times, dreading that the father who went in standing would be the one who’d come out on all fours. The Green Man was that sort of pub.

  Paddy and Mirren didn’t live alone. There was a master in their rooms: one who ruled over them night and day, whose presence lurked like a ghost in the corner of the compartments of the disused railway carriage that was now their home. He was a magician, full of piss and wind and wild schemes, who could turn her dad into John Barleycorn, the drunken sot who needed a guiding hand to round the corners on his way home, knocking folk off the pavement as he sang out of tune at the top of his voice. Sometimes she opened the latch and he fell through the door, stiff like a board.

  John Barleycorn had stale breath and leaking pants. He stole her father’s hard-earned wage and the food from their table, shaming her before school pals playing in the street, who would look up and snigger as she and her demon-possessed father wound their way down the ginnels from the pub, Mirren staggering under the weight of him. She worshipped her father–he was tall, handsome and strong–but she hated John Barleycorn, the drinker who was so weak and silly.

  Demon Drink was not like the pantomime devil with horns and a forked tale, all red and black, shouting from a stage, or the wily tempter from the pages of her Sunday school prize book, with forked tongue and goatee beard. He came and went for no reason.

  Sometimes he disappeared for weeks and gave her back the father she loved: the Paddy Gilchrist who had wooed and won young Ellie Yewell away from her farming family in the big Yorkshire Dales farmhouse, the railway navvy with his squeeze-box and fancy dancing and Scottish charm, who promised her the moon, sun and stars if she would be his bride. Then he went off to war, leaving his new bride with a bairn, Mirren’s angel brother, Grantley, and with no family to support them until he returned wounded right badly in the leg.

  If only Mother and little Grant hadn’t died in the terrible sickness that came when she was a baby, leaving her motherless. How she wished they were all together, snug by their fireside of an evening, not freezing to death outside a public house.

  Now the lamps were lit and Mirren was fed up of waiting. He’d forgotten she was there again and at the mercy of rough lads, making fun of her for being ‘Jill all alone’. Soon Woodbine Winnie would be touting for business and taking men in mufflers down the alleyway to lift up her skirts–to do quite what Mirren wasn’t sure, but it was something sinful.

  At last Mirren recognised one of the men coming out of the pub as Mr Ackroyd, who lived in one of the far carriages that made up their row of houses in Chapelside Cuttings; old rolling stock being the only homes left for returning heroes from the war. Some wags laughingly called them ‘the Rabbit Hutches’, but Dad shrugged off the gibe and so did she.

  Living in a neat line of compartments with steps up to their railway carriage was better than living back to back, up a steep hill with no garden to play in. She could sit for hours watching the engines shunting up and down the line, engine drivers waving and hooting. She knew the names of all the great iron boilers puffing and snorting out of the station on their way to Scotland and London; Duchess of Hamilton was her favourite.

  Dad was a ganger on the line repairing the track. When he was in work there was always plenty of coal for the stove and treats. When there were layoffs they still had vegetables from the allotment and eggs from the chicken coop, but money was always a worry. Granny Simms, who lived next door with her son and his one leg, cooked for them and took in the washing in return for coal and treats, baccy and beer for Big Brian, who hobbled about the town on crutches, begging.

  In Mirren’s life Granny Simms was a guiding light like the moon peeping through clouds. A neighbour who was mother, friend and comforter, she would know what to do. On nights like this Mirren could always knock on the window and Granny would open up, wrapped against the cold in the faded shawl she wore summer and winter, the long printed pinny with rubbed-out patches. Her face was leathery and lined with soot, hair scraped back in a knot, and she wore iron clogs, which rattled on the wooden carriage floor, and rolled-up stockings. She would take the little girl in and shove a fat rascal bun in her hand, spicy and full of currants.

  It was Granny who taught her to knit, to peg a rug and bake bread, railway slice and dumplings. She saw that she got a proper schooling at St Mary’s and was turned out neat to all Sunday school treats going in the town.

  ‘He can’t help himself, Mirren,’ Granny Simms would sigh, showing empty gums with two yellow cracked front teeth. ‘Drink is a terrible thing. There’s many a red nose makes a ragged back in this town. It’s a pity the Paddy Gilchrist what came back from France was not the young lad who went to war, nor the man yer mam wed. A wild-eyed stranger he returned, not able to keep down a job, but she got him straight again. But when the Spanish flu came to visit us, it went through the town like a dose of Epsom salts. Yer dad just couldn’t get his head round that carry-on. He did his best with you, but men are useless when it comes to babbies. It’s a terrible temptation to drown yer sorrows, lass.’

  These words made Mirren sad, for she knew her love would never be enough to mend her father’s heart. What he needed was the Word of God in his life, like the pastor in Sunday school preached, but Dad just laughed at her pleas for him to go to church.

  ‘Where was God when we needed him in the Battle of Arras? Where was he when the Angel of Death knocked at our front door? Ask your preacher man that!’ he would scoff. She had learned not to talk to him in drink but to hide in the little bench bed, under the quilt and blankets, pretending she couldn’t hear his sobs and rantings, praying that he would be in time to go to his work in the morning. Without work there was no rent money and no rent money would lead to the workhouse and pull them apart.

  Then, without explanation, the sun would rise in the morning, bright and dazzling, full of promise when her real dad rose, bleary-eyed but ready for work, unaided, bringing home gobstoppers and fish and chips. She would dress quickly and take his hand before the clouds came back.

  On such days Mirren could go to school and learn her tables and not worry about him being sent home. She liked to bury her head in a reading book and pretend she was the Little Princess in the attic or one of the Railway Children. On such days Dad would swing her round to ‘Charlie Is my Darling’ and call her his ‘own wee darling’, telling her she was pretty like her mother and what a lucky chap he was to have such a beautiful, clever daughter. When he held her hand and whistled to himself, she felt so safe until they stopped by the pub door and her heart sank with fear.

  Now, tonight, was going to be another of the bad nights.

  ‘Is my dad still inside?’ she asked the old neighbour, Mr Ackroyd, as he passed.


  ‘Aye, lass, stuck to the bench a while yet. There’s some as never knows when they’ve had enough. Better get off home now. It’s no night to be out in the cold. Happen you’d better come along with me.’

  ‘Thank you, but I said I’d wait,’ she smiled, torn between wanting the warmth of Granny Simms’s iron stove and the need to see her dad home safely. Why should she wait when he didn’t care? Why should she believe any of his broken promises? He deserved to slip on the ice and crack his head but then he wouldn’t get to work on time and would be laid off and soon it would be Christmas and she had seen a little doll in the window of Bell’s Emporium with a sticky-out skirt and real hair.

  But what was the point? He’d already spent his wages supping with his cronies. It was always the same palaver: he’d be ashamed and crawl home to sleep off the drink when she wasn’t looking, and then pretend none of this had happened.

  Why should she wait a minute longer when there was someone at hand to guide her through the dark streets?

  ‘Wait, Mr Ackroyd, I’ll come with you…’

  She spent the night at Granny Simms’s, sleeping in the chair. When it was morning, and there was no sign of Dad’s return, Mirren thought he would be lying snug in one of the refuge huts on the side of the railway track, hiding until he was sober enough to face her sullen anger. So she went to school with a heavy heart and thought no more about it.

  She ran home at dinner break, hoping there would be smoke coming out of the carriage, but there were strangers waiting on the doorstep with Granny Simms, who nodded gravely as she saw her. There was a funny look in her eyes as Mirren approached more slowly.