The Woman From Heartbreak House

by Freda Lightfoot

  The Woman From Heartbreak House

  Freda Lightfoot

  Freda Lightfoot (2011)

  Tags: Historical Fiction

  * * *

  Synopsis

  The Great War is over and Kate is ready to welcome back Eliot with open arms.

  But her husband is a changed man. Kate has become used to her independence, and to running the shoe factory and Eliot's return creates tensions both at work and at home, particularly with Kate's son, Callum.

  It tears Kate apart to see such strife between the two men she loves most. And her sister-in-law seems determined to stir up the animosity in order to benefit her own son. But when tragedy strikes, Kate cannot imagine just how much trouble Lucy's ambition can cause ...

  The Woman From Heartbreak House

  Freda Lightfoot

  Originally published 2005 by Hodder & Stoughton Ltd. 338 Euston Road, London NW1 3BH

  Copyright © 2005 and 2011 by Freda Lightfoot.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-9568119-2-9

  Published by Freda Lightfoot 2011

  ‘The new series will be greeted with joy by the thousands of women who enjoy her books.’ Evening Mail, Barrow-in-Furness on Champion Street Market

  ‘You can’t put a price on Freda Lightfoot's stories from Manchester's 1950s Champion Street Market. They bubble with enough life and colour to brighten up the dreariest day and they have characters you can easily take to your heart.’

  The Northern Echo.

  ‘Lightfoot clearly knows her Manchester well’

  Historical Novel Society

  ‘Kitty Little is a charming novel encompassing the provincial theatre of the early 20th century, the horrors of warfare and timeless affairs of the heart.’

  The West Briton

  ‘Another heartwarming tale from a master story-teller.’

  Lancashire Evening Post on For All Our Tomorrows.

  ‘a compelling and fascinating tale’ Middlesborough Evening Gazette on The Favourite Child (In the top 20 of the Sunday Times hardback bestsellers)

  ‘She piles horror on horror - rape, torture, sexual humiliation, incest, suicide - but she keeps you reading!’ Jay Dixon on House of Angels.

  ‘This is a book I couldn’t put down . . . a great read!’

  South Wales Evening Post on The Girl From Poorhouse Lane

  ‘a fascinating, richly detailed setting with a dramatic plot brimming with enough scandal, passion, and danger for a Jackie Collins’ novel.’

  Booklist on Hostage Queen

  ‘A bombshell of an unsuspected secret rounds off a romantic saga narrated with pace and purpose and fuelled by conflict.’ The Keswick Reminder on The Bobbin Girls

  ‘paints a vivid picture of life on the fells during the war. Enhanced by fine historical detail and strong characterisation it is an endearing story...’

  Westmorland Gazette on Luckpenny Land

  ‘An inspiring novel about accepting change and bravely facing the future.’

  The Daily Telegraph on Ruby McBride

  Table of Contents

  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

  Now Read a Sneak Preview of For All Our Tomorrows

  Also by Freda Lightfoot available as ebooks

  About Freda Lightfoot

  The Great War is over and Kate is ready to welcome back Eliot with open arms. But her husband is a changed man. Kate has become used to her independence, and to running the shoe factory and Eliot’s return creates tensions both at work and at home, particularly with Kate’s son, Callum.

  It tears Kate apart to see such strife between the two men she loves most. And her sister-in-law seems determined to stir up the animosity in order to benefit her own son. But when tragedy strikes, Kate cannot imagine just how much trouble Lucy’s ambition can cause …

  Freda Lightfoot first introduced Kate O’Connor in her delightful saga, The Girl from Poorhouse Lane. In this third book in the Poor House Lane series, she gives us a vivid picture of the radical changes on society effected by the First World War.

  Author’s Note:

  It has been a joy to revisit this series in order to prepare them as ebooks for a new market. The Girl From Poorhouse Lane suffered some criticism from readers for having too abrupt an ending, leaving loose ends dangling. I’d deliberately done it that way in order to leave the way open for the sequel, but it wasn’t popular. This time I’ve split the books into three, which resolves that issue and, I think, makes much more sense. Otherwise, I was pleased to see that it needed very little in the way of revision, apart from the odd clumsy sentence here and there. I hope my regular readers will enjoy revisiting this popular favourite and new readers will enjoy it too.

  Best wishes,

  Freda Lightfoot

  April, 2011

  Kendal 1919

  Chapter One

  ‘How can I stay calm?’ The high treble voice rang the entire length of the landing, right to the small room at the back of the house where Callum was sitting hunched on his bed with his fingers in his ears, trying not to listen to their row. ‘Would you, if you’d just put your bare feet on to a slimy toad?’

  ‘It isn’t slimy, and it’s a frog not a toad,’ Georgie shouted back, hooting with laughter.

  ‘I don’t care what it is, it shouldn’t be in my bed!’

  A fair enough point, Callum thought, pulling the pillow over his head.

  As if having the woman who’d abducted him back in this house wasn’t bad enough, he now had her children to contend with as well.

  Georgie was forever up to some stupid schoolboy prank or other, like tying tin cans to the cat’s tail or putting that frog in his sister’s bed this evening. Callum could hear Bunty … (stupid name) … still screaming like a banshee and running all over the landing. Heaven help Georgie when she finally catches up with him, Callum thought, without too much sympathy.

  She’d barely glanced at him since arriving earlier in the week in time for the funeral, except to look at him down her nose when her mother introduced him -
if you could call Lucy’s offhand remark an introduction: ‘and this is the workhouse boy.’

  Bunty had not responded, not even to say hello, but there’d been curiosity in her eyes, and, surprisingly, sympathy. He was sure of it.

  Jack had snorted with laughter, but then he was a pompous, middle-class prat. Full of his own importance, he looked upon himself as the man of the family. Even the way he dressed in cravats and three piece suits worn with silk waistcoats, made him seem like a forty year old instead of a boy of eighteen. And he was so arrogant! Callum could hear him now lecturing his younger brother, scolding his sister, just as if she had encouraged Georgie to play this practical joke on her.

  The door burst open and Bunty burst in, flinging herself on Callum’s bed in a paroxysm of tears. ‘You’ll protect me, won’t you? I hate to be teased! It’s not fair, two against one.’

  He gazed at her in utter astonishment while she turned upon him a pair of blue eyes puffy with crying in a round face that was crimson with fury. She was a plump girl with untidy, mouse-brown hair. For once her mouth had lost its perpetual pout as she pursed her full lips tightly together in temper. Nobody could call her beautiful, yet there was something about Bunty which was appealing. Perhaps it was the sense of humanity so obviously missing in the rest of her family.

  Callum glanced anxiously at the door, which she had quickly closed after her. ‘I’m not sure I can do owt,’ he said. He preferred to keep himself to himself and avoid becoming embroiled in their constant rows and upsets.

  ‘Oh, but Georgie makes me so mad I could kill him!’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  She looked up, startled, and then the fury in her eyes instantly died, to be replaced with compassion. ‘Oh, I didn’t think. I’m so sorry. Do you miss your father terribly?’

  ‘He weren’t me father. He adopted me. Mam came to tackle him about her brother being sacked, and he offered to take me, and herself as nursemaid, rather than have me starve to death. Then one afternoon some years later I was snatched and taken away to that farm. I were nobbut a nipper, so I never really got the chance to get to know him that well.

  She seemed to consider all of this for a long moment. ‘It must have been awful for you. I don’t remember much about my father either. He died when I was quite young. Did you hate it there, at the farm?’

  ‘Aye, I did. Not the farm so much as the people, the Brocklebanks. I quite liked the animals, they were my friends.’ Callum could have kicked himself the minute the words were out of his mouth. Heaven help him, what would she think of a chap who had sheep for friends? But Bunty wasn’t laughing. Quite the contrary, she seemed to be agreeing with him.

  ‘I used to have a cat called Tiddles.’ She gave a half smile. ‘I wasn’t a particularly imaginative child. Anyway, it disappeared, and then I discovered that Georgie had swapped it for a jar of worms from a friend. I hated him for that. Tiddles was my friend. I never had many either, as a child. I was away at school, you know, and people there prefer you to be pretty or terribly clever or rich, and I was none of those things. And I couldn’t – couldn’t make things happen like Jack can, or make fun of everything as Georgie does. And I’m not beautiful like Mummy. I was always the odd one out. Do you see?’

  They looked at each in complete understanding and then Callum solemnly nodded. ‘Aye, I do.’

  She was nibbling on her finger nails, as she so often did. ‘I was the one always feeling awkward, trying not to listen when they called me names like “fatty”, or “chubby-chops”. I hate being called names and made to feel stupid.’

  ‘The Brocklebanks never called me by a name at all. I was always “you” to them. “Hey you,” they’d say, “go and fetch me t’shovel.” Or “Hey you, go and feed t’sheep. You do this. You do that.”’

  She looked at him, round-eyed with sympathy. ‘It must have been awful, having no family of your own and being bullied like that. Kate blames mummy, doesn’t she? No, you don’t have to answer that. I suggest we don’t talk about what our parents did, don’t you agree? Then perhaps you and me could be friends. I’d like that very much. Would you?’

  Callum looked at her in surprise. Even now that his life was a thousand times better, he still didn’t have many friends, beyond Flora and his mam, of course, and what Bunty said did make sense. Living in the past did you no good at all. ‘Aye,’ he agreed, surprising himself with his fervour. ‘That’d be grand.’

  In the weeks following they became inseparable. Bunty, who hated her name with equal fervour, was keen to get away from her brothers at any and every opportunity. Callum taught her how to fish, either in the River Kent or else they’d walk down to Sedgwick, where it was quieter, and bring back some trout for Mrs Petty to cook for lunch.

  Then one Saturday Lucy declared that she’d had enough of being gloomy and they should all go on a picnic. The aunts did not approve.

  ‘The family is still in mourning, Lucy. It is not appropriate.’

  ‘It’s not fair to my darling children to be stuck inside on such a lovely day. I’m sure Eliot would not have objected to their having a little fun.’

  ‘We shall not join in your little bit of fun,’ said Vera, somewhat testily. ‘Nor will dear Kate.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be room for all of us in any case, not even in that old carthorse of a tourer.’

  Jack perked up. ‘Why don’t we take both cars, Mother? I could drive your Austin.’

  ‘No, you could not!’

  He laughed. ‘I’m eighteen years old! I can drive, you know. Freddie Makepiece’s father lets me drive his Mercedes whenever I go and stay.’

  ‘More fool him.’ But Callum noticed his aunt was very pink about the cheeks. Now why was that?

  While Lucy hurried off to instruct Mrs Petty to pack a large hamper, he sneaked out of the back door and crept quickly round to the stables, now used as garages. There was the old Crossley tourer which Eliot had bought before the war, and beside it stood Lucy’s Austin 20.

  Checking that he was unobserved, Callum slipped inside the garage and began to examine the car. It was gloomy in the garage, and not easy to see, nevertheless he found what he was looking for. The right hand wing had a dent in it, and one of the front lights was broken.

  Lucy was using the telephone when he came back into the house, speaking rather quickly and breathlessly but she put the receiver down as he entered so he’d no idea who she was talking to. All he’d heard were the words, ‘See to it.’

  She turned to him with a falsely bright social smile, hands clasped tightly together. ‘I shouldn’t think you’ll wish to come with us on the picnic, will you, boy?’ He’d noticed that she never used his name. So, apparently, had Bunty. She heard her mother now as she came into the room.

  ‘He’s called Callum, and of course he wants to come, Mummy. Callum is teaching me how to fish.’

  ‘Oh, very well. Don’t keep us waiting, boy, if you must come. Hurry up, we shall be leaving very shortly.’

  ‘Callum! His name is Callum.’

  The thought of being out in the sun, tickling a few trout was sorely tempting and Callum bit back a sense of guilt because his mother would be staying at home. Not that Kate objected to his going. Autumn was coming and the leaves were turning to gold and crimson, falling in crisp heaps on to the spongy earth. There wouldn’t be many good days left. She thought the outing would do him good.

  ‘Have fun, my darling. Are ye not young and full of life? Take care of Flora, that’s all I ask. She spends far too much time in this dull room with her mammy.’

  ‘Why don’t you come too? The fresh air might bring some colour to your cheeks.’

  For a brief instant, Callum thought he saw a spark of something in her eyes, as if maybe she did want to start living again after all. Some weeks after Eliot’s death, she’d sat up half the night in a bid to come to terms with things, had promised him that she would make a real effort, and he and Flora had vowed to help her start again. But the will to go on had soon fa
ded, swallowed up by grief over the loss of her husband and unborn child. She remained strangely morose, quite unlike her usual self, too lethargic to even set foot outside of her own bedroom, let alone care about what was happening over at the factory. He leaned closer, on a note of eagerness. ‘Have you not wondered who did it, Mam? Who would want rid of him?’

  He’d startled her, he could tell by the way his mother’s gaze suddenly focused keenly on his. ‘What makes you say that?’

  Should he tell her about what he’d discovered in the old stables? No, not just yet. Where was the point in upsetting her further until he had more proof? But he could plant a seed of doubt in her mind. ‘Don’t you think I was all a bit too convenient, a bit peculiar it should happen just after you’d told everyone about the babby?’

  ‘I - I don’t know. I hadn’t thought. It was just an accident.’

  Kate stared at him, riveted. How had Callum become aware of her own crazy thoughts? She hadn’t mentioned her concerns, had she?

  ‘What car would accidentally be going at such a speed? It demands a lot of effort, for one thing. Keeping your foot flat down on the pedal isn’t easy. Cars don’t go fast of their own accord.’