The Cuckoo's Child

by Marjorie Eccles

  Recent Titles by Marjorie Eccles

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  THE CUCKOO’S CHILD

  Marjorie Eccles

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2011

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2011 by Marjorie Eccles.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Eccles, Marjorie.

  The cuckoo’s child.

  1. Industrialists – England – West Yorkshire – Fiction.

  2. Woollen and worsted manufacture – England – West Yorkshire – Fiction. 3. Fires – Casualties – Fiction.

  4. Family secrets – Fiction. 5. Police – England – West Yorkshire – Fiction. 6. West Yorkshire (England) – Social conditions – 20th century – Fiction. 7. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  823.9’14-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-062-3 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8032-1 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-345-8 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  Prologue

  1887

  When Benjamin Kindersley left his home on Castleshaw Moor on the bleak Pennine heights between Manchester and Huddersfield, the day after his nineteenth birthday, he took with him the only clothes he possessed, plus a pound of ripe cheese, five pieces of oaten havercake from the creel above the kitchen fire where they’d been drying, the last spice loaf left from Christmas, a pork pie and two stone bottles of Prue’s home-brewed ale. And his books.

  ‘All t’same, he’ll get neither far nor fat on that,’ Mary fretted, thinking of how much six-foot-two Ben could eat at a sitting. If he gets far at all, she thought, peering anxiously through the kitchen window at the darkening winter sky.

  ‘He must ha’ gone for a soldier!’ Lisbeth, who was only thirteen, was desolate, but she pictured how grand her big brother would look in uniform, even handsomer than the recruiting sergeant in the market last month. Though if he had gone to fight for the Queen there wouldn’t have been any need to take his own victuals, the army would surely feed him – and why had he taken the velveteen waistcoat Heloise had stitched for him, that he’d scorned ever to wear?

  ‘To sell, of course,’ said Prue, sharp as usual. ‘What d’you think he’s going to live on, fresh air?’

  He would have nothing else to sell. He’d never sacrifice his few precious books, packed in with the food in the best carpetbag slung over Grandpa Kindersleys’ walking stick.

  But it wasn’t until they all met in the kitchen for a breakfast which none of them, except Prue, had much appetite for, that they discovered he had taken Lucie Picard, too.

  ‘He’s sure to come back,’ Mary said softly, though Ben’s brief note had sounded very final:

  To my dear family. I am going away, I am no good at being a farmer, and I do not want to be. Do not try to find me, remember me in your prayers and I will write when I am settled somewhere, though that is not my intention just yet.

  ‘There now, don’t you go crying your eyes out, Lisbeth, love, he’ll be back.’

  ‘Appen he will,’ said Prue, putting the note into her apron pocket with finality. ‘But you know our Ben. When he says summat he generally means it.’

  ‘Aye, and ’appen he’ll find hissen not welcome, if he ever durst show his face at North Brow again,’ said Pa, and walked out of the kitchen, leaving the rest of his bacon on his plate and Ben’s three sisters looking at one another. His face had sort of folded in on itself, the way it had when their mother died, and then, later, Heloise. He had never mentioned either of them since.

  Though Mary had tried to speak confidently, in her heart she agreed with Prue. Ben had learnt to think before he spoke, since most of what he did say was likely to get Pa’s back up. Like his book-reading did, and the scribbling he was for ever at. Joe Kindersley didn’t believe farmers had any need to read, and as for writing, well, there’d been Kindersleys at North Brow since the seventeenth century, and not one of them had ever felt the need to put pen to paper, apart from the odd letter.

  But what had Ben been thinking of, taking Lucie Picard?

  Part One

  London

  Twenty-Two Years Later

  One

  It was a room of no distinction, plain and shabby, with drab-olive paintwork and the walls washed in a faded parchment colour, but it had a friendly warmth: a bright fire glowed in the grate, there were books all around. Best of all, it was blessedly quiet, the only private space in an overcrowded house that more often than not was shrill with women’s voices and noisy with children’s shouts and laughter, and the crying of babies. Laura never ceased to be amazed how, amongst all that, in addition to the raucous noises from the street outside, this little room could be so peaceful. Especially now, when the green rep curtains were drawn, a single lamp burned, the firelight winked on the leather spines of the books, and there was the warm nutty smell of toasting muffins.

  There wasn’t the money to spare for luxury. The Settlement here in Stepney was run on a shoestring by an ecumenical group of committed Christians, with a doctor willing to be called upon in emergencies, of which there were not a few. But most of all, it depended upon the quiet influence of Ruth Paston.

  Ruth was middle-aged, unremarkable and dowdy, and yet underneath it all she had such a sense of quiet strength, purpose and warmth. No wonder the women who found themselves washed up here were so ready to turn to her. Supported by her Quaker beliefs, Ruth never showed outrage or astonishment and could be relied upon to give a balanced and clear-eyed opinion. She rarely said outright what she thought ought to be done, but after a chat with her, one usually left with a feeling of some satisfactory decision having been reached. However, it wasn’t advice Laura sought tonight. A modern young woman at the beginning of the twentieth century, she had already made up her own mind: one of the quick, and occasionally mistaken, decisions that characterized her impulsive nature.

  She knelt on the hearthrug, holding the long-handled toasting fork to the fire while Ruth made the tea, and then, after the muffins had been disposed of and they were both provided with a second cup, she sat back and came straight out with it: ‘Ruth – I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid I’m going to be leaving you in the lurch. I shall be going away in a week or two.’

  A small silence fell until Ruth laid a quiet hand on Laura’s arm, the hand that had stilled many a weeping woman, and often those who were too angry or too drunk to know what they were saying or doing. ‘I shall be sorry, too, you’ve been worth your weight in gold, but I hardly expected you to be here forever, child. And as for leaving us in the lurch, that’s nonsense. Help always comes fro
m somewhere. Tell me . . .’

  ‘I don’t expect to be away for long. May I come back afterwards?’

  ‘Of course you may, that goes without saying.’ For a while Ruth said nothing. ‘But only as a friend. You’ve been here long enough, and I hope it’s given you something you needed. You have your life before you – and who knows where it will lead?’

  What she was too tactful to say, Laura felt, was that although Laura had energy and willingness to spare, she did not possess the dedicated motivation the other helpers had, especially Ruth herself: that strong, calm commitment she had through her faith as a Friend, which kept her going, tirelessly, selflessly, year after year, in what was all too often a thankless task. And it was true, Laura admitted humbly, she could never aspire to that. She often felt torn in two, consumed by guilt at the contrast between the Spartan surroundings here and the luxurious comfort of her own home, while knowing she could not forsake that part of her life forever.

  Yet over the last months, she had given of her best. Who could do less? It was in a sense repayment. The Settlement had been something of a lifeline for her after leaving college, when she had found herself feeling uncharacteristically lost, unable to make up her mind what to do. Her friends at the Royal Holloway had already made plans for their future. Most of them were taking up teaching, two already having gained positions in prestigious girls’ schools. But Laura had no burning desire to be a teacher. The truth was that she had no burning desire to tie herself down to anything yet. She had chosen to go to college mainly as a gesture of independence.

  And what had independence done for her? For several weeks after saying goodbye to the friends she had made, she had trailed along in her aunt’s wake, doing all the things expected of her, inwardly despising their triviality. It was only by chance that she had heard of the work being done here in the East End with destitute women, and had immediately volunteered her services. To her amazement, her offer had been gratefully received. They were always glad of an extra pair of hands at the Stepney house, a temporary shelter for women who found themselves homeless for whatever reason: wives and their children knocked about by drunken husbands until even the streets were preferable to the marital home; young women pregnant and without a husband; rough, incorrigible women who had been in prison. Women for whom the only alternatives were the workhouse, prostitution, or the river. As long as they kept themselves and their children clean and sober, did not fight with each other and took their share of the cleaning and cooking, no one was turned away. Relieved that they were not forced to read the Bible or get down on their knees and pray unless they wished, they by and large followed the unspoken rules and respected those who ran the shelter.

  Laura’s privileged upbringing had not prepared her for work that was so physically back-breaking, and sometimes heartbreaking. She had often, at first, been shocked by the women’s language, and their unruly behaviour, but she had grown used to it. Her eyes had been opened for the first time to appalling situations she had never dreamed could exist, the grinding poverty of the people she had worked amongst, the conditions in which they were forced to live. All the same, she had always known that her time in Stepney must sooner or later come to an end.

  ‘You see, it’s like this,’ she began, pushing back her hair, that bothersome light brown mop, whose pins would slip out, no matter what, while Ruth listened with her usual attentiveness. ‘I’m afraid my aunt and uncle won’t understand – well, Aunt Lillian anyway,’ she finished ruefully. ‘But I mean to go on with it.’ Laura’s chin, a rather sharp, determined little chin, went up. ‘I don’t see what all the fuss is about. I’m not committing myself permanently. It’s only a temporary thing.’

  ‘Well. You must do as you think fit. But be sure of your reasons for doing it, first,’ Ruth replied, after the careful consideration she gave to everything. ‘Do think carefully about why you’re doing this . . . are you sure you’re not reading into it more than Mr Carfax intended?’

  No, not Philip, thought Laura, reflecting on this now two-week-old conversation as, having said her final goodbyes to Ruth and the rest, she began her last journey across London to the solid comfort of home in Chetwyn Square, leaving behind for good the dingy poverty and squalor, the teeming life and general rowdiness of the east London streets and the Settlement house. She was never allowed to make her way home unattended after darkness fell, and tonight that duty had been allotted to a cocky, sharp-witted urchin called Artie Spink. He was only eleven years old but a survivor of life in the gutters of Stepney, and smart enough to keep her safely out of the way of street fights, drunks, pickpockets or any other danger that might arise. He kept close to her through the noisy crowds along the Commercial Road, until he could expertly whistle up the first motor cab which came along. Laura reached into her pocket and pressed a florin into his grubby palm. ‘I’m going to miss you, Artie. Good luck, and mind you keep away from the truant school.’

  ‘Ta, miss, good luck to you an’ all.’ Nonchalantly pocketing the two-shilling piece, unheard of riches, he gave her his cheeky, unstoppable grin, stepped back hastily to avoid the kiss that might be coming, waved to her and was off.

  Laura let the cab take her within a mile or two of home. ‘Stop here, cabbie, please. I’ll walk the rest of the way.’

  ‘You sure, miss?’ He looked at her doubtfully but she smiled and handed him a generous tip as she stepped out on to the pavement. ‘Well, then, mind how you go,’ he called after her.

  ‘I will.’

  No, she could not believe Philip Carfax’s intentions had been open to misinterpretation, she decided, recalling Ruth’s words as she walked through the gaslit streets. Not Philip. He was habitually cautious and thought before he spoke, not only because of his training as a partner in his father’s solicitor’s firm, but by inclination also; a trait Laura endeavoured to copy, though never with much success. What he’d said had been clear enough. This opportunity he’d presented her with was nothing more than what it seemed, just a short period of work in the north of England, which he had picked on as something that might be helpful to her; a thoughtful gesture typical of Philip. That did not preclude his having considered all the possibilities, and any likely pitfalls, before he put the suggestion to her. Always thorough, Philip would surely have done that – he always had her best interests at heart, never mind that he was sometimes perplexed in the matter of what they were. Which possibility, she reflected with a little laugh, probably applied to most men at the moment with regard to women.

  All the same, when the idea had first been broached, over an agreeable dinner at a restaurant whose prices she suspected were at the limit of what he could afford, amid the well-dressed crowd, the soft carpets and the muted hum of conversation and laughter, when she was feeling at her best, wearing a new beaded frock in crushed strawberry charmeuse, with shoes dyed to match, and her hair fixed up securely for once into a becoming style by Cox, her aunt’s maid, he had fidgeted for some time before saying tentatively, ‘I want to ask you something, Laura.’

  She put down her starched napkin. ‘Please, Philip—’

  ‘No, it’s not that. I promised I wouldn’t ask you again, didn’t I? And I won’t – or not for another six months anyway,’ he answered, still good-humoured, though more than a hint of irony had crept into his tone. He hesitated, then said, ‘I’ve come across something that might interest you. Some work.’

  At first she hadn’t thought much of the idea. It appeared that some rich manufacturer somewhere in the north apparently had a library full of books which he wanted cataloguing. It was a job any reasonably competent person could have undertaken without stretching themselves, providing one had the qualifications – which she had not. Why then had Philip thought of her? She searched his face for clues, but nothing there gave her an answer.

  ‘This may be what you need at the moment – a bit of perspective, don’t you think? Time to see your way forward. Away from . . . everything.’ He lifted her hand, then gently laid it d
own. It did not match the rest of her appearance; the nails were cut short, the cuticles jagged, it was rough and reddened, and rested incongruously against the white damask tablecloth, the glittering glass and elegant silverware. However unintentional, his gesture had been only too eloquent of how everyone regarded her work at the Settlement. In silence she finished her sole and he drank his soup.

  Was this what this business was all about – a stratagem to get her away from what they all – Philip, her aunt and uncle – really regarded as that hopelessly altruistic project of Ruth Paston’s, something they applauded in principle but deplored in practice? She thought Philip would not be so devious, but she could not be sure. Open as he was, he was still a lawyer, a breed not unknown for its wiliness.

  The only person who seemed to approve of what she’d been doing since she left college, in fact, was Eva, Philip’s younger sister, but her opinions didn’t count for much since she was, as their father constantly complained, being a bit of a handful at the moment. Stirred by an awakening social conscience, wrapped up as she had become in what he considered this foredoomed campaign for female emancipation, she had taken to lecturing everyone at every verse end, Philip grumbled.

  ‘Well, think about it,’ he said to Laura eventually, regarding with resignation this charming, animated, sometimes headstrong girl whom he had known all his life and who had for so long occupied most of his thoughts, ‘but not too long. I suspect the offer won’t remain open indefinitely. And when you come back, you may well see the future a little differently.’

  ‘Oh, Philip! I shan’t change my mind, you know . . . I do love you – as a dear friend,’ she added hastily, seeing his expression change, ‘but we should soon drive each other mad if we were married, can’t you see that? Look how we used to fight when we were children.’

  ‘So did you and Eva, but look at you now. The best of friends.’