'It's no dream, Richard!' Marigold reassured him. 'But how did you find me? And the girl – Inge?'
'Inge is married now, she doesn't need me to manage her hotel. How did you know about that?'
'I went to Switzerland, and I thought – you seemed so happy with her – they said she was getting married.'
'To me?' He sounded both amazed and horrified.
'I must have misunderstood.'
'I will never, ever, want to hold another woman in my arms! How could I, after loving you, bear to be with anyone else.'
'That's how I felt,' she admitted shyly. 'I somehow always knew you were still alive.
'I never thought you could be dead until I got the letter. You know? Who could have done that to us?'
Marigold sighed. 'It was Ivy. She was jealous. She stole your letter to me. But I've done with her now, she'll never be able to harm us again.'
After another interval Richard sighed deeply.
'I thought I was coming to look for your grave. And – the child? Did it die?'
'No! Oh, Richard, we have a son! I called him Dick.'
'Where is he?'
'With your parents. We'll go there straight away.'
'Tomorrow,' Richard insisted gently. 'I can wait another day for my son, but I need you to myself for a while.'
Marigold was content. Suddenly her world was once more bright and shining. Richard loved her still.
Explanations could wait, they now had all the time in the world to talk, to explain, to rediscover one another. She cared for nothing else now she was once more safe in his arms. He was her love, her life, and she knew beyond all doubt they would never again be parted.
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Marina Oliver has written over 50 novels, and many of them are available as ebooks.
Details on her web site: www.marina-oliver.net
This extract is from my second Midlands saga.
I hope you enjoy it and want to find out what happens.
The Glowing Hours
By Marina Oliver
Chapter 1 of The Glowing Hours
'Ain't none on yer comin'?'
Nell, poised astride the narrow windowsill, stuffed her ragged petticoat into the red flannel bloomers. She looked over her shoulder. Nine pairs of eyes, some envious, most apprehensive, stared back at her. How defeated they looked, she thought with a spurt of irritation. They were so passive, so unwilling to fight. Little red-haired Amy was the only one ever to show a scrap of spirit, and she'd soon have it beaten out of her. Then she was ashamed of her scorn. They hadn't had any chance to experience a different sort of life. How could they know it was possible to live without endless anger and violence? She was the eldest of the girls, and had only recently summoned up the courage to rebel.
No one spoke, and with a shrug she grasped the rope made from a rough, almost threadbare blanket, tied to the brass bedstead, and swung her leg out. 'Yer'll rue it,' she warned, then hissed, 'Shut winder, mind, Danny,' as she slid part way down the rope. The frighteningly familiar thumps and bangs from the room beneath ceased, and heavy footsteps could be heard staggering up the narrow, twisting stairs.
She made sure her treasured old patch-box of blue Wednesbury enamelling was safe in the belt she had fashioned for it. It was the only item in the house which was truly her own, and she hid it jealously from everyone else. No one would take this away from her. It was her talisman, her good-luck symbol. Then she dropped the last few feet onto the cobbles of the yard. Keeping in the shadows cast by the small houses, Nell ran swiftly towards the alley and freedom. In the dark entry she untied the shabby black skirt she'd slung round her neck, grinning at the picture she must present. She'd been in too much of a hurry to dress fully, just grabbing the skirt and a shawl that was more holes than substance, and for easier movement draping them round her.
Eth had protested when she dragged the shawl from on top of the blankets. 'That's ours, an' we'll be cold,' she whined nasally.
'You've still got a blanket,' Nell retorted. 'I'll be out in cold all night. 'Sides, there's three on yer to keep each other warm in bed.'
She shivered, more with anger than cold, as she struggled into the skirt. She couldn't endure Pa's constant beatings, she thought, tucking in the blouse, which was too small for her now her breasts were full and round, but was the only one she possessed. Finding somewhere else to sleep on the nights he was drunk and belligerent was all she could do. She bent to fasten her boots properly. At least her feet hadn't grown, and the boots her Gran had bought her three years ago when she was thirteen still fitted, or she'd be barefoot like the rest.
Wrapping the shawl round her head, she went out into the street. To her left was the pub on the corner of Ryland Street. Half a dozen barefooted children, dressed in miserable apologies of rags, clustered near the door. Old Billy Bickley, who'd lost his legs at Gallipoli in 1916 eight years earlier, was sitting on his makeshift trolley nearby, playing his fiddle, collecting the few coppers folk could spare.
Nell could hear men carousing inside. They were the fortunate ones, with jobs to do and pennies in their pockets. Beneath the gas lamp on the corner Janie and Katie Pritchard waited hopefully, dressed in torn, seedy finery, the gleam of filthy but still bright satin showing through the encrusted dirt. Nell glanced round. If they were working tonight their brother Wilfred would be nearby, lurking in some alleyway, watching. Not to protect them, she knew, more to ensure they didn't escape his clutches and take their miserable earnings away with them. She turned the other way. Wilfred had tried more than once to entice her into his net with promises of untold wealth and a luxurious life.
'You don't mek enough ter get out o' Ladywood, even,' she'd said scornfully.
He grinned, his blackened teeth revealed, and spat out a gobbet of phlegm.
'Thass 'cos Oi'm saving it 'til Oi can goo ter posh plice loike 'Andsworth, 'ave a dacent 'ouse, proper accommodation fer blokes wot cum,' he explained ingratiatingly. 'A pretty little wench loike yow, wi' them slanty green eyes, an' curves wot mek a fella' look twoice, 'ud be a proper draw. Yow could foind yersen a rich 'un, mek 'im wed yer, p'raps,' he'd added, his sneering disbelief undisguised.
Nell shuddered at the recollection. She'd been safe then, for he'd spoken to her near the main Ladywood Road, and she knew she could outrun him. She had long, supple legs: he was grossly fat and unhealthy. She was well aware that if he caught her in some dark corner she would have no chance of getting away, and no one would interfere in her defence.
There was a full moon, and though September it was still warm. She had a sudden urge to explore further. Instead of huddling down on the stairs leading to the crypt in St John's churchyard, or finding shelter in a garden shed behind one of the big villas in streets at the better end of Ladywood Road, she'd try Monument Road.
It seemed a long way down the narrow streets and alleys. It was light enough to see clearly, and she wandered past some really big houses. But they were not so enormous as the ones to the south of the Hagley Road, which would have stables. At the sudden thought she hugged her shawl closer. Dare she attempt it? Before he died Gramps had been a coachman, and she had no fear of horses. If she could find a snug corner near the animals, with the steamy heat they produced, she'd have a comfortable refuge even in the depths of winter. If not, life would be even grimmer.
She went past Perrott's Folly, over the Hagley Road, and soon reached a street of houses with carriage drives and side entrances. She'd only been here once before. The first few, older houses had small front gardens, but no sign of occupied stables. Nell turned a corner and came to the mansions she sought, big Victorian villas set in their own secluded gardens. Sidling along in the shelter of low sandstone walls which restrained rampant clumps of laurel and rhododendron bushes, pausing to draw in deep, refreshing breaths of the clean, pungent aroma, Nell explored. She found one stable in which could be heard the snufflings of a horse. Her hopes soared, but the door was firmly locked and there was no way in. There were coach house
s where she could have been comfortable, and Nell took careful note of where these were. In one there were even cushions left in a pile, which would have made a luxurious bed. A couple of former coach houses were occupied by motor cars, and she could have slept in one of these, warm and secure. But Nell had set her heart on finding a refuge where the warmth and companionship of a horse or pony could be had.
At last she found a stable which was occupied and unlocked. There was just an iron bar hooked across the doorway. Nell retreated into a concealing laurel bush while she considered the situation. As long as she could pull the door closed from inside, and replace the bar in the morning before anyone came, she would be safe. From the subdued noises, the clink of hooves against cobbles, a cough and a wheeze, she thought there might be two occupants. The moon shone directly on the door, and she glanced round cautiously. A thick, high hedge protected her from the house and no one there could see her. There was no room above the stable where a coachman might sleep.
She pushed back the long dark plaits which hung to her waist. She hadn't had time to bundle them up as she usually did. Then she took a deep breath and moved forward. As quietly as possible she lifted the heavy bar out of the bracket and lowered it, then carefully swung open the door. It gave a protesting squeak and Nell, nervous, whisked inside the opening and dragged the door to behind her. To her immense relief her scrabbling fingers found a loop of string attached to the wall and a hook on the inside of the door. Once this was secured she stood quietly to let her eyes become accustomed to the dimness, as diffuse moonlight streamed in through a small, rather dirty window.
There were two loose boxes, in which two equine heads were turned curiously towards her. At one end of the small passageway harness hung neatly on hooks, under a range of shelves holding brushes and curry combs, metal polish and liniments. At the other end, the best find of all, was a heap of loose hay. Several horse blankets were folded on a shelf above.
Nell breathed a sigh of relief. Tentatively she stroked the noses of the horses, fed them each a wisp of hay, and took down two blankets. She spread one out on the soft pile, and wrapped the other round her. With a sigh of pure contentment she sank down into a nest more warm and snug than any bed she'd ever known, and for a fleeting moment wished she might live here for ever.
Then the dream was shattered. The door was pulled open as far as it would go. Moonlight gleamed on a knife being used to hack away at the loop of string, and before Nell could disentangle herself from the enveloping horse blankets the string gave way. The door was flung wide open, and she was blinded by the ray of a lantern.
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THE END
Marina Oliver has written over 75 novels, all are available as ebooks.
For the latest information please see Marina's web site:
http://www.marina-oliver.net.
More Midlands sagas by Marina:
The Golden Road
Josie Shaw rejects marriage as a way of rescuing her and her mother from the debts left by her stepfather. It's the 1930s and she wants a career. She persuades her step-brother Leo to employ her in his Birmingham jewellery factory, and is also introduced to the world of motor rallies and the Monte Carlo dream.
Her world collapses when she is falsely accused of theft, and she struggles to overcome poverty to provide for her sick mother and herself.
*
The Glowing Hours
Three girls, longing to escape, become friends as they dance their way onto the 1920s music-hall stages. There is Nell fleeing from her brutal father in the slums of Ladywood, Gwyneth who has escaped from the narrow-minded Welsh preacher, and Kitty who is bored with the propriety of her upper-class home in Edgbaston. From Birmingham and the surrounding towns they dream of Paris and the Folies-Bergère.
Struggling against threats from their families, distracted by Paul Mandeville, a charismatic doctor, the languid Hon. Timothy Travers, and Kitty's saxophonist cousin Andrew, the girls fight to achieve their dreams.
*
Can Dreams Come True?
Kate wins a scholarship to a prestigious Edgbaston school and meets wealthy people. Robert offers her a ride in his motor car, and to take her flying. Kate's heroine is Amy Johnson and she is ecstatic.
Her parents object and Alf attacks Robert. She is expelled, and with no job Kate's prospects grow worse when Alf is killed and Hattie becomes unstable.
Kate struggles to support them, but more disasters strike. Will her dream of flying ever come true?
*
A Stratford Jewel
In 1926 the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre in Stratford-on-Avon burnt down, barely five weeks before the start of the annual Festival. Rosa Greenwood and her sister Celia are devastated. They had small roles in the Festival, hoping it would lead to acting careers.
While helping to remove priceless treasures from the theatre Library Rosa meets Max Higham, an American architect in Europe studying theatre design. He stays to help when the Festival plays are performed in the converted Picture House, which becomes the Temporary Theatre for six years while a new design for a replacement Memorial Theatre is sought, and then built.
Rosa is wary of her growing attraction to Max yet reluctant to marry Adam Thorn, a lifelong friend and distant cousin. There is no future with Max, who kissed her and left her to return to Virginia and the girl his family expected him to marry.
Celia is encouraged by the actor Gilbert Meadows to run away to London and audition, and begs the help of her friend Agnes.
Furious, her father forbids Rosa to contemplate more acting, while Jack, her older brother who is a changed person since he fought in the war, spends his days driving waggons for the family carrier business. Can any of them achieve their hearts' desires?
***
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