by Carol Rivers
Ettie gasped. ‘Didn’t the bank’s men take it?’
Michael chuckled. ‘Terence nabbed it before they arrived. He knew how much it meant to you.’
Ettie stifled a little choke as she looked into Rose’s face. ‘I thought I would never see her again.’
‘Surprising, eh, what life holds in store?’ He lifted her hands in his and stroked them lightly. ‘Do your fingers still hurt?’
‘No, they’re better now.’
‘They’re not too badly scarred. But maybe scars are a good thing sometimes. They remind us what we shouldn’t do. Although, well, I don’t regret …’
Ettie watched as his face turned pale. ‘What, Michael?’
‘I did a bad thing.’
Ettie felt a shiver go over her neck. ‘What is it?’
He took off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeve. Over the proud muscle of his right arm, his skin had withered and turned pale pink. Knitted together across his elbow were ugly discolourations and Ettie sucked in a breath. ‘You’ve been burned?’
Without replying he rolled down his sleeve and put on his coat again.
‘It must have been a fire, then.’ She stopped, the truth suddenly dawning and she trembled at the thought.
‘It was me who killed the bishop.’
Ettie stared at him wordlessly.
‘I went back to the orphanage one night. I had to see if it was true that the nuns and you and all the kids had gone. When I got there, there was a light in the chapel. I looked through the window and saw someone had lit the altar candles. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw it was the bishop. He was nicking all the valuables, stuffing ‘em in a bag.’
‘What did you do?’ Ettie couldn’t believe that a bishop would do such a thing.
‘I went in and confronted him.’ He paused, the muscle in his jaw working. ‘It was his directive that split us all up. He wasn’t no bishop to my mind. And that proved it.’
‘Oh, Michael, how could he have done such a thing?’
‘He didn’t bat an eyelid. Had the nerve to threaten me. Told me to keep my trap shut or else he’d tell Old Bill it was me who snaffled the stuff. And the coppers weren’t going to believe otherwise, were they? But I saw red and went for him. He tripped over his bloody bag and fell into the candles. He went up in seconds along with the cloths on the altar. Didn’t help himself by running out and the wind whipped up the flames. I tried to bash them off, but they caught me an’ all. That’s how I got this.’ His expression darkened as he whispered, ‘It was horrible, Ettie. He just didn’t stop burning.’
‘Oh, Michael, what an awful thing to happen.’
‘I couldn’t do nothing more. But I laid low for months ‘cos I was scared Old Bill would blame me.’
‘It wasn’t your fault. He should never have tried to take what wasn’t his.’
He shuddered and took in a deep breath. ‘Well now you know the truth.’
‘Thank you for telling me.’
‘It was what happened to the bishop that made me go straight. I knew I had to change before I ended up like he did.’
‘I’m very proud of you.’
‘You don’t blame me?’
‘Michael, you must know I love you. You are my other half.’
‘I love you, Ettie. I want us to marry and live here and run our business and have a family. Not be afraid of the past, because we’ll have each other. Do you want that too?’
‘More than anything,’ she said with emotion and he kissed her with all the passion that she knew was in his nature.
She clung to him, knowing that they had both suffered and yet through their suffering they had found each other again. God, in his wisdom, had reunited them, most strangely of all, in a place that meant so very much to her.
She gazed over Michael’s shoulder and looked at the portrait of Rose, who seemed to be smiling and Ettie, wiping a tear from her cheek, returned her smile. For hadn’t she done as Rose had whispered all that time ago?
‘Buck up Ettie! Show the world your mettle.’
And, in doing so, she had found her true place in life at last.
THE END
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Acknowledgments
The idea for this story developed from the tales I heard as a child of my pipe-smoking great-aunt Rose whose rich Irish American ancestry and life in Soho has had a marked impression on my writing. I offered many thanks to her other-worldly presence during the creation of this book and feel deeply indebted to her inspiration.
Grateful thanks go to Carol Waterkeyn for her fine editing and proofreading.
To my dear friend Beverley Ann Hopper and all the wonderful Booklovers.
To chums Susanna Bavin and Julie Boon for their continuing and awesome support.
Immeasurable thanks go to Rachel’s Random Resources and the incredible bloggers who read and reviewed Christmas Child for my first ever Blog Tour.
Thank you Twitterers and Facebookers everywhere who have shared the journey with me.
A special acknowledgement to Alan Kean for his invaluable East End blog, “A Celebration of Life Past and Present,” from which I have learned so much.
I am indebted to all those brilliant reviewers who have read and commented on my books. You are part of the fabric of my work. Thank you.
And last but not least, a very special thank you to my excellent team of Arc readers and their help with my new Victorian Saga Romance series.
About the Author
Mum and Dad were both East Enders who were born on the famous or should I say the then infamous Isle of Dogs. They were costermongers selling fruit, veg and anything else that would stand still long enough!
Their family were immigrants who travelled to the UK from Ireland and France, while others emigrated to America.
As a child I would listen to the adults spinning their colourful stories, as my cousins and I drank pop under the table.
I know the seeds of all my stories come from those far off times that feel like only yesterday. So I would like to say a big heartfelt thank you to all my family and ancestors wherever you are now ... UK, Ireland, France or America, as you've handed down to me the magic and love of story telling.
Excerpt of Christmas to Come
If you would like to sample a little more of my Christmas magic, please enjoy the excerpt from the acclaimed Amazon bestseller about the notorious Bryant family. This book has it all; star-crossed lovers, East End gangland life and power struggles, a gritty drama romance that spans generations. Enjoy!
Prologue
Christmas Day 1940
Isle of Dogs
East London
'Terry's cold, Bella.' Five-year-old Terry Doyle squatted next to his sister in the dank, rubbish-strewn alley opposite the row of derelict cottages. Bella Doyle, only eight-years-old herself, slid her arm protectively around her brother's bony shoulders, painfully aware his thin white shirt was no protection against the winter's bite.
Terry was starving and today was no exception. They'd been scavenging on the debris all day and found little to satisfy their appetite. If only their mother and that pig of a man she'd picked up at the Rose hadn't decided to come home early! They must have had a skinful, then run out of booze or money or both.
Bella was weighing up this problem carefully; a problem she had been faced with more times than she had eaten hot dinners. In fact, to Mary Doyle's children, a hot dinner was something they could only dream about, and often had.
Bella knew that to enter their home now, a rundown dockside cottage dripping water from its mouldy walls
, would be a risky business. After the week-long binge that their mother and her boyfriend Jack Router had enjoyed, even setting eyes on her children would be aggravation to Mary Doyle.
Bella understood the evils of alcohol even at her young age. If asked, she couldn't put it into words. But she knew through bitter experience how it could corrupt a person's nature. Their mother hadn't always been the drunkard she had turned into and Bella somehow understood this. She sensed the sinful nature of Mary's work and the crucifying poverty of their lifestyle, though she suspected that once upon a time her mother had been a child too. Perhaps with a brother or sister or both, and part of a real family. Mary Doyle had been innocent once. Before she had turned into a wild animal and lay with men to earn her living. And the blame for this degradation, Mary had daily informed Bella, lay squarely on her children's heads. They were bastards, appearing unbidden in her life. At the best of times, the sight of them was almost more than she could bear. At the worst, she left them alone with Jack Router.
'What we going to do?' Terry mumbled, trembling with the cold, his hand frozen inside Bella's.
'We'll wait a bit, right? Till they go out again.'
'But the planes might come over.'
Bella shook her tousled and filthy copper curls. 'They won't come over tonight. It's Christmas. Even the Germans know that.'
'Do Germans have kids as well?'
'Course they do.'
'Do they give 'em presents?'
'Dunno. Might do.'
Terry leaned his slight weight against her and Bella sighed heavily. All the buildings in Bow Street were condemned. She knew that because she'd read the notice nailed to their door. "This dwelling is considered unfit to live in and is condemned by the council."
But this had been in the summer before the Blitz started. Since then, the paper had worn away and life had gone on much the same, Blitz or no Blitz. Bella had been thankful that at least, she and Terry still had a roof over their heads. More so, when Mary and Jack were not sleeping or fighting underneath it.
Now snow was drifting across the street and Bella's stomach churned emptily. She had stowed a crust of bread between the floor and the bug-ridden mattress they slept on in a corner of the cottage. Bella had planned to share it with Terry as soon as they'd got home from the debris where they'd been looking for anything of value left over from the raids. But today they had come home empty-handed. And they'd been waiting an eternity in the hopes that the cottage would soon be vacated.
'They must be asleep,' Bella decided, taking off her coat and folding it around Terry's shoulders. It wasn't much protection; threadbare and darned, it was the only comfort she could give him. If only Terry could remember to dress himself properly. He didn't seem to know what kept him warm and what didn't. He had a habit of forgetting and Bella was always looking out for him.
'I don't like it here,' Terry complained, his bare knees knocking under his short, raggedy trousers. 'I'm cold. I wanna go in.'
'So do I,' Bella agreed impatiently. 'But not for a bashing. And we'll get one, as they won't be in no mood to see us.'
'Where we going, then?' Terry asked forlornly, swiping the running snot from his nose. 'To Micky's?'
'Don't reckon Micky would like that, either,' Bella said, shivering in her thin dress that was more tears and holes than fabric. 'It's Christmas Day. His mum will be dishing up the dinner.'
Micky Bryant was their benefactor. The one light in Bella's dark life. He was twice as old as her, but he didn't seem like it. He seemed like her other half. He looked out for them. And all the other street kids. He paid them for what they found. And sometimes gave them grub. He told them to keep shtum, as if his mum knew he was knocking off stuff, she wouldn't be best pleased.
Micky had two brothers too. Sean was all right. But Bella didn't care for the oldest one. She'd seen him at a distance and he looked - well, she didn't know how he looked. But she suspected he wouldn't encourage Micky's friendship with kids from the slums. Micky would laugh at that if she told him. He'd give her a wink and roll his lovely eyes. Micky didn't have airs and graces. Not like his brother, Ronnie.
'I'd like an 'ot dinner,' Terry said hopefully, his thin face and hollowed dark eyes under his thin black hair looking to Bella, like the face of an angel. A dirty, grubby, smelly little angel, but an angel none the less. She loved Terry with all her heart. She'd cared for her baby brother since the day he was born. Mary had brought him into this world with language so foul that even the old girl - who was always in at the deliveries - had turned away in disgust.
Bella remembered the violence of her mother's labour. As though she cursed nature and everything in it for her unwanted condition. But to Bella the miracle of birth had opened her young eyes to the first sensation of love. The blood soaked newspaper on the floor where Terry had suddenly appeared from between Mary's legs had seemed like a royal blanket of welcome. The old girl had slapped his silent body, all mauve and sticky with blood, and Bella had held her breath as she listened for Terry's first cry.
When it came, it was as if her own lonely heart had called back. And because there was no where else to put him, Bella had reached out and there he was! In her arms. This speck of life, staring up at her, with eyes like jewels in an old man's wrinkled face. She'd loved him from the off. And instinct had told her to keep him safe. So she'd kept him away from Mary until his pathetic screams had to be silenced by her huge, milk-swollen breasts. Mostly Mary had fallen asleep and Bella had held him there, snuggled up to the round fullness, his tiny fingers pleated around Bella's as he learned to suck.
Bella looked at her brother now. He didn't have a bad bone in his body. At least, what bones were left after the bashings he got from Jack Router. And that was what hurt her the most. What made her angry. What made her feel so powerless. She could take the man groping her. She made herself take it, so he wouldn't touch Terry. And the one thing in her favour was Mary's jealousy, her need for men as much as their money. She was still young and beautiful in her own eyes. Her daughter's youth was an anathema to her. She resented it. Jack knew that too and he played on it.
Another hour passed and dusk began to fall. The pretty snow flakes stuck to Bella's dark lashes and surrounded her brown eyes like tiny stars. They couldn't stay here much longer. Bella knew they would freeze to death. Terry's lips were blue and his face a ghostly white.
'Come on, we're leaving,' she told him, shaking him awake from the frozen doze he was falling into.
'Where to?' Terry whimpered as she hauled him to his feet.
'Back to the debris.'
Terry's big eyes filled with tears. 'I want to go home, Bells.'
In a grown up fashion far beyond her eight years, Bella took hold of her brother's shoulders. 'Listen Terry, might as well face it. We've got no home. Not when he's with her. Not when he thumps you like he does. And certainly not when they're both pissed. We'd be dead meat if we went back now and you know it.'
The tears trickled down Terry's cheeks. He said nothing, just stared at Bella and sniffed back the mucous streaming from his nose. She took his hand and squeezed it. 'I promise I'll find us a place to kip. And something to eat. All right?'
He nodded slowly and Bella took one last glance at the cottage. No sign of them coming out yet. She could only guess they'd drunk themselves daft. There would be hell to pay when they woke; in the absence of alcohol, the fighting and screaming would start. Bella had hoped that her mother would tire of the man, but for better or worse, she kept with him. And as far as her children were concerned, it was mostly the worst.
Shivering uncontrollably herself now, Bella hugged Terry to her. 'About a mile down the road is the pie and mash shop. In the blackout, no one will see us turn over the bins.'
Terry sobbed softly. 'I was sick last time we did that.'
'Listen,' Bella consoled him with her innocent logic, 'if pigs can eat that muck, so can we.'
He hung his head and she pulled him along the alley. It was dusk and the blackout
was strictly enforced. There was no light showing, not even a full moon. But she knew every step of the way. When they'd eaten, they'd walk to the debris. She'd seen the remains of a burned-out house today. Some of its blackened rafters hung loosely inside. She'd take Terry there. It was better than sleeping in the open. And if the rest of the roof didn't fall in on them, that would be a bonus.
They could even make-believe they were in a posh house and were having a proper Christmas. They could pretend to open presents from under a Christmas tree. And sit round an imaginary fire opening them. She liked pretending. As they stuffed themselves with plum pudding, she would tell Terry the story about Joseph and Mary riding on the donkey and following a star. Mary and Joseph didn't have no home at Christmas either. In the end, the star led them to a stable where Mary had her baby in the straw. There was cows and sheep and the donkey, too. It was a pity there wasn't no animals on the island, only rats. Thousands of 'em, all over the place. Just as hungry as she and Terry were.
Bella hurried on, dragging Terry beside her. She was eager to investigate the bins at the back of the pie and mash shop and find shelter before it was too dark. And she might be wrong about the Germans. Their planes could be on their way over this minute. P'raps they hadn't even heard of Christmas.
Well, nor had she and Terry, really. Not until last year, when Micky had bunged them both a tanner along with two of his mum's apple pies.
Chapter 1
PART ONE
The London Blitz
March 1941
'You bugger, don't you hit our Terry again!' Eight-year-old Bella Doyle stared defiantly up at the big man whose fist was clenched in readiness to strike.