Contents
Also by Rosie Goodwin
Dedication
Prologue
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
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Acknowledgements
Welcome to the world of Rosie Goodwin!
A Letter from Rosie Goodwin
Recipe of Cissie’s Roast Chicken
More from Rosie Goodwin
Tales from Memory Lane
Memory Lane Advert
Copyright
Also by Rosie Goodwin
The Bad Apple
No One’s Girl
Dancing Till Midnight
Tilly Trotter’s Legacy
Moonlight and Ashes
The Mallen Secret
Forsaken
The Sand Dancer
Yesterday’s Shadows
The Boy from Nowhere
A Rose Among Thorns
The Lost Soul
The Ribbon Weaver
A Band of Steel
Whispers
The Misfit
The Empty Cradle
Home Front Girls
A Mother’s Shame
The Soldier’s Daughter
The Mill Girl
The Maid’s Courage
The Claire McMullen Series
Our Little Secret
Crying Shame
Dilly’s Story Series
Dilly’s Sacrifice
Dilly’s Lass
Dilly’s Hope
The Days of The Week Collection
Mothering Sunday
The Little Angel
A Mother’s Grace
The Blessed Child
A Maiden’s Voyage
A Precious Gift
This one is for my wonderful children,
Donna, Sarah, Christian and Aaron.
You’re my world xxxxxxxxxx
Saturday’s child works hard for a living
Prologue
November 1930
Sunday Branning smiled as she stood at the window of Treetops and watched her daughter Lavinia – or Livvy, as she was affectionately known – gallop down the drive on her horse. Livvy adored horses and riding, just like her father, who had once again built up a reputation for being the finest stud breeder in the Midlands. It had taken years to rebuild his stables after the Great War, but somehow, he had managed it, and once again people were coming from far and wide for his horses. Sunday could well remember how heartbroken Tom had been when she had written to tell him that his stock had been taken for war horses after he had left to fight in the Great War. He had raised many of them from foals and knew that it was unlikely any of them would survive. It was to his credit that through sheer hard work he had got his business up and running profitably again once he had returned.
It was just as well, for following the stock market crash the year before, money was tight for most people and businesses were closing daily. Treetops was an expensive house to run and now they no longer ran it as a children’s home, Sunday was constantly trying to find little ways of saving money.
Once Livvy had disappeared from sight, Sunday returned to her desk, where she had been writing out invitations for her sixtieth birthday party, which she’d be holding in two weeks’ time.
Sixty! She sighed as she thought back over her life. It hadn’t started so well – she had been left on the steps of the Union Workhouse as a newborn – but things had improved when she had finally been reunited with her birth mother. And then there was Tom, the love of her life. She still adored him as much as she had on the day she had married him, if not more. As if thoughts of him had conjured him from thin air, he suddenly stuck his head round the door and gave her a cheeky wink.
‘All right, sweetheart? Hope you’re not working too hard?’
Sunday laughed as she waved him away. ‘Oh, be off with you and let me get this done.’
He grinned and blew her a kiss, and once he was gone, she tried to concentrate on the job in hand again. It was hard to believe she was this old, but then she supposed age caught up with everyone in the end and Tom had always assured her she didn’t look it. Glancing towards the mirror, she stroked her fair hair as if to convince herself that he was speaking the truth. It was streaked with grey at the temples now, but her eyes were still a clear, bright blue, and apart from a few lines around them and her mouth, her face was still attractive. Livvy took after her in looks, with her fair colouring, whereas Tom’s son, Ben, was dark, and as he had matured had become the double of his father. And then there was their adored Kathy, who at nearly twelve was the double of her mother, Kitty. Sunday and Tom had brought Kitty up from a baby and had loved her as their own, until she left them at sixteen to join her birth mother in London. Once there, Kitty had become the darling of the music halls – but her pretty face and vulnerable nature had made her a target for an unscrupulous man. When she had finally returned to Treetops, she was heartbroken and hiding a secret. She tragically died giving birth to an illegitimate daughter, and it had come as no surprise to anyone when Sunday and Tom had adopted her baby too.
Smiling, Sunday turned her attention back to the invitations – but she had barely started to write again when the door burst open and Cissie Jenkins, her long-term friend, burst unceremoniously into the room, all of aflutter.
‘You’d best come straight away, pet,’ Cissie gasped, holding her hand to the stitch in her side. ‘My George says Tom has had a fall in the paddock. I’ve sent Ben off for Dr Lewis.’
Whereas time had been kind to Sunday, Cissie looked her age and had grown portly with the years. Their friendship had started when they were both children incarcerated in the Union Workhouse, and had withstood the test of time until now they were more like sisters than friends, and Sunday loved her unconditionally.
The colour drained from Sunday’s cheeks and she stood up so abruptly that she almost overturned the chair. ‘A fall …? Is it bad?’
Cissie shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea, you’d best come and see.’
Side by side the two women rushed through the house and, once they had emerged into the stable yard, they turned as one and began to race towards the group at the back of the stables, where Tom trained the horses.
‘Was it Storm he fell from?’ Sunday asked breathlessly, and when Cissie nodded she bit her lip. Hadn’t she told him that she didn’t think Storm was ready to be ridden yet? He was a beautiful young stallion and admittedly from brilliant stock, but had proved very difficult to train.
They rounded the corner to see Storm tossing his head, snorting and pawing the ground at the other side of the paddock, while George leaned over Tom, who was lying motionless on the ground.
Sunday was glad of the new calf-length skirts that were fashionable now as she sped towards them.
‘Don’t try and move him,’ George warned as she dropped to her knees beside them.
She showed no sign of hearing him as she focused her attention on her husband and gently lifted his hand.
‘Oh, Tom, why didn’t you wait for another couple of weeks before you tried to ride him?’ she whispered.
‘He’s out cold,’ George said unnecessarily. ‘Best not touch him till the doctor gets here in case he’s broken anythin’. We might make things worse.’ Then, turning to his wife, he said, ‘Run an’ fetch a blanket to cover him, would yer, love?’
Cissie set off straight away; the late autumn air was cold. Luckily the cottage she and George lived in was close by and she was back, huffing and puffing, in minutes. George had barely had time to cover Tom with the blanket when they heard the sound of horses’ hooves followed by that of an engine and Ben and the doctor arrived back at the same time.
As Ben leapt nimbly from his horse, the young doctor climbed out of his car and hurried towards them, clutching a large black leather bag.
Dr Lewis was a nice young man, fresh out of medical school, who had recently taken over the practice when Sunday’s family doctor retired.
‘Is he conscious?’ he asked, as he too fell to his knees beside Tom.
Sunday shook her head fearfully, still holding tight to her husband’s hand. ‘N-no, he isn’t.’
The doctor nodded as he hastily took a stethoscope from his bag. ‘Could you all stand back please and give me some space?’
His face was grim as he bent to listen to Tom’s heart, then very gently he lifted Tom’s head. It lolled to one side and Sunday’s heart began to pound so loudly she was sure they would hear it.
The doctor sat back on his heels for a moment then shook his head as he looked at Sunday and told her gravely, ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Branning. I’m afraid he’s gone. It looks like he broke his neck in the fall; death would have been instantaneous. He wouldn’t have felt anything.’
‘No-ooo!’ Sunday’s head wagged from side to side in denial and Cissie started to cry, while George and Ben stood so still they might have been turned to stone.
‘B-but he can’t be dead …’ Sunday began to shake Tom’s hand and Cissie leaned down and gently drew her to her feet.
‘Come away, pet,’ she muttered through her tears. ‘There’s no more you can do here. The men will do what needs to be done.’
Sunday suddenly uncharacteristically lashed out, almost sending Cissie flying. ‘So, what do I do then?’ she cried in an anguished voice. ‘Just leave him lying there?’ Then, turning to George and Ben, she ordered in a voice quite unlike hers, ‘Get a door from the stables and carry him inside. I refuse to leave him lying out here!’
The men instantly went to do her bidding, as Sunday turned and staggered back towards the house. At that minute, Livvy appeared on her horse at the end of the drive and she drew her mount to a halt, just as Cissie and her mother were about to go in by the front door.
‘What’s wrong with you two?’ she asked, as she stared at Cissie’s tear-stained face.
‘Let Cissie take your horse round to the stables and come into the drawing room,’ Sunday said. ‘I need to tell you something,’
With a deep frown Livvy dismounted and did as she was told.
‘What’s happened, Mum?’ she asked only a few moments later, as they entered the drawing room. She knew it was something bad. One look at her mother’s lint-white face and shaking hands told her that.
‘I … it’s your father …’ Sunday gulped deep in her throat and forced herself to go on. ‘I … I’m afraid he had a fall from Storm and he’s …’ She found that she couldn’t say the terrible word. But she had said enough and Livvy’s pretty face crumpled.
‘Y-you mean he’s dead?’
When Sunday slowly nodded, Livvy broke into sobs and dropped onto the nearest chair as her mother rushed over and gathered her into her arms. Sunday was in deep shock and, somehow, she couldn’t take it in. Just a few minutes ago all had been right with her world but now she knew it would never be the same again.
The day of the funeral dawned dark and dismal. Going in search of Sunday, Cissie found her standing by the window in the drawing room, staring out across the lawns. Approaching her quietly, she laid her arm gently across her shoulders. Sunday smiled – a sad smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘I was just picturing Tom and me down there on the lawn on the evening of our wedding day, dancing in the moonlight,’ she said huskily. As yet she hadn’t shed a single tear since the terrible day Tom had died, but Cissie knew her well enough to know that when they did finally come, they would be hard to stop.
‘It were a grand day, all right,’ Cissie said, in a wobbly voice. ‘I can still see you both now with all the lanterns that were strung in the trees and the moon shinin’ down on you. You looked like a fairy princess in your beautiful gown and Tom looked like the happiest man on earth. It’s a precious memory that no one can ever take away from you; you must hang on to that.’
And then they saw the black hearse approaching down the drive, coming to collect Tom, who had been lying in the day room in his coffin. She said sadly, ‘Come on, pet, it’s almost time to go.’
Without a word, Sunday turned and followed her from the room.
It was with relief some hours later that Cissie escorted the last of the mourners to the front door, leaving only the solicitor who had stayed to read Tom’s will to the family.
Sunday was waiting for him in the drawing room along with Ben, Livvy and Kathy.
Cissie turned towards Mr Dixon and, without a word, led him into the room, then left, closing the door quietly behind her.
‘Before I begin, may I offer my condolences to you all?’ Mr Dixon said quietly, as he rummaged in his briefcase and produced Tom’s will. ‘Mr Branning was a true gentleman and I know he will be sorely missed by all that knew him. I have never seen so many people attend a funeral before. But now, down to business.’
He cleared his throat and began. ‘This is the last will and testament of Thomas Branning. It is all very straightforward, short and to the point, but should you have any questions, please feel free to interrupt me.’
Ben leaned forward in his seat.
‘To Cissie and George Jenkins, my long-term friends, I leave the cottage in the grounds in which they have resided for many years, with my thanks for their friendship, loyalty and support. To my only son, Ben, I leave my gold Hunter pocket watch. To my two beautiful daughters I leave all my love always. Treetops, the business, and all the rest of my worldly goods I leave to my beloved wife, Sunday Branning.’
Ben looked shocked as he leaned even further forward in his chair. ‘But surely there’s some mistake,’ he said as colour rose in his cheeks. ‘Isn’t it customary for the eldest son to inherit?’
Mr Dixon shook his head. ‘In years gone by it would have been,’ he answered. ‘But times are changing, and it is quite usual now for the first person in a marriage to pass away to leave what they own to their spouse.’
Ben’s lips set in a grim line and, without a word, he rose and marched from the room. No one seemed to notice. Livvy an
d Kathy were too busy crying, and Sunday seemed trapped in a world of her own.
Chapter One
September 1935
‘I thought we might all go to the carnival next Saturday,’ Cissie suggested, as she folded the clothes she had fetched in from the line outside.
Sunday was peeling potatoes for dinner at the sink. She shrugged. ‘Hm, we’ll see.’
Cissie sighed. So much had changed since Tom’s death five years before. And not just at Treetops. Change was afoot in the town too. Council housing was springing up to house the poor who had been forced to live in the Union Workhouse, which was now closed, much to Sunday’s delight. She had no happy memories of the place, although once she was grown, she had worked tirelessly with the board of governors to ensure that the living conditions for the residents were vastly improved.
Now that Treetops was no longer run as a children’s home, Cissie and Sunday did most of the work about the house themselves. There was no longer a need for hired staff, but although Sunday did more than her share, she had never really got over the death of her husband and rarely smiled anymore. Most of the rooms had been closed up, as it was too expensive to light fires in them all, and the furniture inside was swathed in dust sheets. Cissie often felt sad as she thought back to days gone by when the house had been full of children and their laughter had echoed along the corridors, but she was made of stern stuff and there was no point in living in the past. She did her best to get on with things.
Livvy was doing a secretarial course and working at a solicitor’s office in the town, and Kathy had started her nursing training and was working at the General Hospital in Manor Court Road. When she wasn’t at the hospital, she would still help out in the stables and ride whenever she could. In fact, she never seemed to stop, as Cissie had once remarked to Sunday.
‘Ah well, you know what they say,’ Sunday had replied with a smile. ‘Saturday’s child works hard for a living.’
Cissie had her own thoughts on that. For some time, she’d been concerned that Kathy was getting just a little too close to Ben for comfort. They had been brought up as family and Cissie feared nothing good could come of it. Admittedly they were not blood related, but Kathy was not yet seventeen, and he was well into his forties! The thought of the scandal a relationship between them would cause, and how upset Sunday would be, made Cissie shudder. Not that she dared to voice her opinion. Kathy could be feisty – like her mother Kitty had been before her – and Cissie was all too aware that should she say anything Kathy would probably snap at her and tell her to mind her own business.
Time to Say Goodbye Page 1