No Greater Love - Box Set

by Prowse, Amanda

  ‘Think about it, Kathryn, think about it logically.’

  ‘Mark, if you touched her, I swear to God…’

  ‘What, darling? What will you do? Kill me?’

  He laughed loudly.

  ‘I only stayed with you to keep them safe, and if they weren’t safe…’

  ‘That’s right, darling – it would all have been for nothing. Ironic, isn’t it? Oh, Kathryn, what a price you have paid. Was it worth it, amor vitae meae?’

  Kate slid down onto the floor. Her tears snaked into her mouth.

  ‘NO!’ she screamed into the ether. ‘It was not worth it! I want my kids back! I want my children and I would go back to that life in a heartbeat if it meant I got to see my babies every day! It was NOT worth it, Mark! You have won! Are you happy? You have won!’

  Her throat was raw from shouting. She lay in the small gap between the sofa and the coffee table and she slept where she fell.

  * * *

  Kate busied herself with tidying the mess from the night before, vacuuming and plumping the cushions in the sitting room. She couldn’t control the tremor that dogged her right hand as she wrote out cheques in the study. That was all the bills up to date. A few more lines were penned and sealed in envelopes and she was all set. Dishwasher on. Loos cleaned. Plants watered. Laundry folded. Bed made.

  Kate pulled the front door behind her and relished the feel of the morning sun on her cheeks. This had always been her favourite time of day. As the path flattened out and the stones gave way to sand, Kate’s faltering steps turned into strides. She ran the last few metres with a smile on her face as the salt-tinged breeze lifted her fringe and buffeted her chest.

  Kate removed her T-shirt, folded it neatly with arm holes and hems together, and laid it on the sand. Next she slipped out of her jeans, which she placed with precision on top of her T-shirt. She unhooked her bra and let the straps fall along her muscular arms and finally she stepped out of her pants. Her clothes sat in a neat little pile, like laundry waiting to be collected and put away on wash day. She was done.

  Kate felt the bite of small stones and shells on the soft soles of her feet. She did nothing to ease the discomfort, figuring that it mattered little compared to the journey that she was about to undertake. A second or two of foot pain meant nothing in the grander scheme of things. She ran her palms over the backs of her thighs; she’d had worse. ‘Good morning, Mrs Bedmaker… Good afternoon, Mrs Bedmaker… Mrs Bedmaker… Mrs Bedmaker…’ She always noticed, always.

  She walked forward to the dark shadow on the sand where the water lapped, staining it the colour of dark tea and pitting it with fizzing holes in which small worms and crabs bathed.

  Kate trod gingerly, feeling the shock of the icy current on her exposed flesh. It was colder than she remembered for the time of the year. Her mind flitted briefly to the warm Caribbean Sea that had caressed her under a hot sun all those years ago. She remembered throwing herself into the balmy current and feeling the heat smooth the knots from her muscles; she remembered dancing in the rain at Carnival and wearing green feathers. She recalled being held in strong arms with nothing but a towel between her nakedness and a beautiful man; she remembered a kiss that had been full of love and promise. That had been a perfect day.

  The man reversed on the winding lane and struggled with the unpredictable gearstick of the hire car as it crunched and whined in protest. He pulled into a lay-by to allow the caravan and hefty 4x4 to pass by. His female passenger winced and squealed, closing her eyes against the impossible manoeuvre. The man exhaled loudly through puffed out cheeks; these roads were going to take a bit of getting used to. Relief and laughter filled the car.

  Kate strode further into the water and allowed the tiny waves to lap her with their salty tongues. She turned and faced the shore, stepping backwards until the sea covered her shoulders. Her teeth chattered in her gums and her limbs jerked involuntarily, trying to counter the effects of the cold.

  The man pulled the car into the driveway. This was it. Bulky luggage and a partly defrosted shepherd’s pie were quickly retrieved from the tiny boot and lugged to the front door.

  The girl shielded her eyes from the sun and looked out over the ocean.

  ‘I am so going to paint this!’

  The man put his arm across her shoulders.

  ‘Nervous?’

  She nodded and bit her bottom lip.

  ‘Me too,’ he said.

  Kate gazed up to the top of the cliff for one last look at Prospect House. This was the one place that she had been happy, the one place she had been comfortable and felt needed. Kate knew when she was beaten. Mark was right, he had won. She would never be free of the memory of what he had done; her scars ran too deep and the pain hovered too near the surface. There would never be peace for someone like her; she was too broken. The prospect of a life without her children was one that she could not contemplate. Deep down she had always known this. She would rather bow out than face that reality.

  Prospect House looked beautiful. She thought of how easily her last vista could have been something else – Mark’s grinning face, the underside of a pillow at Mountbriers, a reflection of her own face, begging. This was better, much better. She liked the fact that it was by her own hand and not his. She was in control.

  Kate’s body had gone numb with extreme cold and her skin was peppered with a million goosebumps. Her fine hair floated like brown seaweed around her head. Still with her eyes on the shoreline, Kate took two more steps backwards, until the soft sand beneath her feet gave way to nothing and she was treading water, preparing to go down, under the sea.

  As the cold water began to engulf her, she was overcome with a beautiful calmness. Kate smiled at the prospect of the peace and escape that lay ahead. She would just take a moment… prepare.

  Her eyes scanned the sand; she saw an image of the kids. They were toddlers with fat little tummies and chubby, splayed feet. They trudged up and down the beach carrying little red buckets filled with water that sloshed and slopped so that when they eventually reached the sandcastle moat there was nothing to tip. She laughed into the water and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the kids were nine and ten. Lydia, resplendent in oversized yellow sunglasses and her first bikini, lay on a beach towel, trying to be so grown up. Dominic, sneaking up behind his sister, held a clump of wet seaweed that in a matter of minutes would be deposited on her stomach.

  Her precious memories would go with her. It had been an unfortunate life in one sense, but Kate could safely say that she would go through it all again, just for the sweet joy of being a mother to two such exceptional human beings. They would always be her greatest achievement, her legacy and no one, not even Mark could take that away from her.

  Kate took a deep breath and prepared to submerge. She squinted at the shoreline, slowly exhaling, blinking through saltwater lashes to try and better focus. Another memory, only this felt different… The kids looked older and try as she might to search the crevices of her mind, she couldn’t remember it. It was more like a premonition. Here they were, adult at last. Dominic standing tall in a white open-necked shirt with his arm across Lydia’s shoulders. They were shouting, waving. Had they come to say goodbye? She strained to catch their words, but only Simon’s lilting tone filled her head. ‘Try and remember that hope comes in many forms; sometimes it’s a place and sometimes it’s a person.’

  Lydia and Dominic stood on the shoreline. This was no memory, they were real and they had finally arrived. Standing arm in arm now, the siblings waited tentatively at the water’s edge. What on earth was she doing? They held her bundled clothes and beckoned her inland with open arms.

  ‘Hurry up! Some of us are desperate for a cup of tea!’ Dom bellowed in her direction.

  Kate smiled and wept into the current.

  Or people, she thought. Sometimes it comes in the form of people.

  Kate began to swim, towards the shore, towards the hope that had been there all along, towards a futu
re, a future with her children. She knew that she was free. Finally she would be able to tell her children the story of Mrs Bedmaker without fear.

  ‘I am Kate!’ she shouted. ‘I am Kate!’

  She had won after all.

  We hope you enjoyed this book.

  To read the next heart-stopping book, Clover’s Child, read on or click here.

  For notes for your book club, click here.

  To find out about Amanda Prowse, click here.

  To discover more books by Amanda Prowse, click here.

  For an invitation from the publisher, click here.

  Notes for your book club

  Kathryn only kills Mark after many years of abuse. Why did she keep it secret for so long? Do you think that is a “normal” thing to do?

  Why does Kathryn immediately confess to Mark’s murder? Is this a believable thing to do?

  If Kathryn had reported Mark to the police, would he have been sent to prison? Do you think Kathryn should have been sentenced to jail? Is her crime worse than Mark’s?

  Kathryn’s story is often told in flashbacks. Why did the author choose to start with Mark’s death? How might you feel about Kathryn Brooker if you had never met Kate Gavier?

  When we first meet Kathryn, she loves books and reading. When Mark destroys her secret library, she is devastated. Why does she value books so much? Do you think she feels the same way about books after he dies?

  After her husband’s death, Kathryn Brooker changes her name. How do you think of her before and after she changes her name, as Kathryn, or as Kate, and what do you call her now? Would changing your name change who you are? Why does she do it?

  What do you think makes Kathryn reach out to Janeece in particular?

  If killing Mark was the “right” thing to do, why are Kathryn’s children so angry with her? If she had known how they would react, do you think she would still have killed him?

  What Have I Done? tackles some very harrowing issues. There are moments when Kathryn feels life is not worth living. By the end of the book, do you feel hope for the characters?

  Why has the author chosen to tell a story about such a painful subject? Do you think the topics are appropriate for a novel? If so, why?

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the incredible team at Head of Zeus whose passion for the written word means that they take a good story and make it great, especially Laura who is not afraid to suggest the bold changes that make all the difference.

  My lovely Caroline Michel and the team at PFD whose support and encouragement was just what a wobbly newbie needed.

  My lovely boys Josh and Ben who have taken being abandoned in their stride and have pizza delivery on speed dial for those evenings when mum has her head in a lap top.

  Thank you to all those women who have shared their stories with me, women from all walks of life who dread the sound of a key in the door. You are not alone.

  Finally to my Simeon who is the polar opposite of Mark Brooker, he has my heart in his hands and handles it with great care, I am blessed.

  First published in the UK in 2013 by Head of Zeus Ltd.

  Copyright © Amanda Prowse, 2013

  The moral right of Amanda Prowse to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB) 9781781853788

  ISBN (TPB) 9781781851043

  ISBN (E) 9781781852156

  Printed in Germany.

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  Clerkenwell House

  45-47 Clerkenwell Green

  London EC1R 0HT

  www.headofzeus.com

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Ten years ago

  Seven years ago

  Ten years ago

  Five years ago

  Ten years ago

  Four years ago

  Ten years ago

  One year ago

  Ten years ago

  One month ago

  Ten years ago

  Today

  Book Club Notes

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  When eighteen-year-old Dot meets Sol, she feels that love has arrived at last. Solomon Arbuthnott is a man who can bring colour and warmth to her drab life in sixties London – and what’s more, he is a young, handsome soldier with excellent prospects. Someone who wants to give her everything she has dreamed of. Someone who can promise her blue skies, laughter, sun and always, always love.

  And for a while, life is truly like a song. They stroll hand-in-hand by the Serpentine, dance cheek-to-cheek in Soho’s smoky bars, and begin to plan their idyllic future, growing old together in Sol’s ancestral home on the island of St Lucia.

  But this is 1961. East End girls don’t date West Indian boys, let alone fall in love with them and leave the country. They stay at home and live the life their parents planned for them. Even if it leaves them lonelier than they ever thought possible. Even if it rips their heart in two...

  Book Club Notes

  Table of Contents

  At last

  My love has come along...

  My lonely days are over

  And life is like a song

  Oh, yeah, at last

  The skies above are blue

  My heart was wrapped up in clover

  The night I looked at you

  I found a dream that I could speak to

  A dream that I can call my own

  I found a thrill to press my cheek to

  A thrill that I have never known

  Oh, yeah and you smile, you smile

  Oh, and then the spell was cast

  And here we are in heaven

  For you are mine

  At last

  For Paul and Stevie

  who have at last found a dream

  that they can call their own...

  27.10.13

  Prologue

  The old man sat in the rocking chair on the terrace and looked out over the twinkling lights of the distant bay. It was getting late. The night sky and blackened sea merged almost seam­lessly. The chirping crickets and hiccupping frogs provided his night­song. It was still his favourite time of the day. He wel­comed the salt-tinged breeze that bathed his face. Tucking the tartan cash­mere blanket around his knees, he placed the conch shell on his lap and ran his slim brown fingers over its nodes and cracks. He smiled.

  ‘Well, my darling, it’s been quite a day…’

  1

  It was cold, the pavement was covered with a sugar-like dusting of frost and the January wind that blew off the water felt like it could cut your cheeks. A large ship painted gun-metal grey was moored against the jetty and its unwieldy hawser stirred and scraped against the wall as the Lightermen’s barge made the water swell. The clouds were dark and threatened to burst at any moment. Dot Simpson and Barbara Harrison perched on the flat-topped bollards that stood in rows along the brow of the dock, just as they did in all weathers, in all seasons. When they were little, they had invented elaborate games using the bollards as everything from safe posts during battle to chairs at imaginary tea parties. Now in their late teens, they were more likely to be found sitting there with their faces covered in baby oil, holding up tin-foil reflectors to catch the sun’s rays. Tonight, however, they pulled their cardigan sl
eeves down over their hands and with shoulders hunched forward shouted to each other as their voices navigated the wind.

  ‘I’m bloody freezing!’

  ‘Me too! Dot, look – my fag’s stuck to my lip!’ Barb opened her mouth wide, to show her mate that her roll-up was indeed hanging free of assistance from her gob. They laughed loudly. This wasn’t unusual, they laughed at most things, sometimes because they were funny, but mainly because the two of them were young and free and life was pretty good.

  A sailor waved from the deck and the girls waved back before collapsing in giggles. He looked foreign in his dark, woolly cap and double-buttoned pea jacket. He ran up the deck towards them and as nimbly as his heavy boots would allow, clambered up the metal ladder and onto the wharf.

  ‘Shit! He’s coming over!’

  Barb yanked her fag from her lip and threw it into the wind, where it was carried along a few feet before getting lodged in Dot’s hair.

  ‘Jesus! What you trying to do, set me barnet on fire?’

  As Dot beat her head with her palms to extinguish any poten­tial flames, her friend sat doubled over on her bollard stool and laughed until she cried. By the time sailor boy reached them, they were slightly more composed. Close up, neither of them fancied him, which was a bitter disappoint­ment to all.

  ‘Hallo!’ His voice had the low staccato tones of the Baltics.

  Barb waved at him.

  ‘I am new here for some days and would like very much to take you ladies for drink.’

  ‘We don’t drink.’ Barb looked away from him, tried to sound dismissive.

  ‘What are your names?’

  ‘I’m Connie Francis and this is Grace Kelly.’ Dot fixed him with a stare.

  ‘It’s nice to see you Connie and Grace, I am Rudolf Nureyev.’ Three could play at that game. ‘Maybe I take you not for drink, maybe I take you for movies?’