Also by Chrissie Walsh
The Girl from the Mill
THE CHILD FROM THE ASH PITS
Chrissie Walsh
AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS
www.ariafiction.com
First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Chrissie Walsh, 2019
The moral right of Chrissie Walsh 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.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781789541519
Aria
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.ariafiction.com
Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Author’s Note
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part 2
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Become an Aria Addict
In memory of my mother, Dolly Manion (1914–1989).
‘God could not be everywhere, and therefore he made mothers.’
Rudyard Kipling.
Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are the product of my imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Part 1
1
In the shelter of the ash pits Cally huddled against the wall, her cheeks wet with tears, her stomach churning. She wanted her mam, but her dad had shouted at her the minute she’d arrived home from school, then he’d locked her out.
Cally knew why. He and Annie were doing things they shouldn’t; her dad hadn’t had his trousers on. It wasn’t the first time she had caught her dad, George, and her aunt, Annie, doing naughty things behind Mam’s back, and now they were at it again. A sudden wave of nausea filled her throat and she vomited.
The puddle of stinking bile was too close for comfort, so she shuffled on her bottom to the other side of the ash pit, and blinking away her tears, gazed across the wasteland that separated the ash pits from the giant slag heaps and the pithead at Calthorpe Colliery. Infuriating questions and ugly thoughts buzzed inside her head.
Had her dad stopped loving Mam? Did he love Annie now? Annie’s a hateful pig, she lets Dad stroke her titties, and she’s always giving him secret smiles with her sticky red lips when she thinks I’m not looking. Mam never wears lipstick; she says it’s common. Does Mam know he doesn’t love her any more?
A gush of bile choked her throat again as she dwelt on these awful thoughts and she spat it out angrily. If the new baby would hurry up and get born, Mam wouldn’t be in bed, she’d be downstairs and her dad and Annie wouldn’t dare kiss and cuddle in front of her. And if the pits weren’t on strike again Dad wouldn’t be hanging about the house messing with Annie, Cally told herself, her eyes on the motionless pithead winding gear.
She thought back to the previous day, anger fizzing inside her chest. After school she’d been upstairs with Mam; she always rushed home to see her. When she came down to go to the lavatory, Annie was sitting on her dad’s knee. She’d jumped off when she saw Cally, and Cally had stared balefully at her.
‘What are you staring at, you cheeky little sod?’
‘Your blouse’s unbuttoned, Aunt Annie, and your neck’s gone all red, Dad,’ Cally had replied insolently, sounding much older and wiser than her seven years. She knew as she spoke that she would pay for it later and, the accusation delivered, she had fled to hide in the ash pits.
Now, as Cally traced the bruises Annie had inflicted on her left wrist with the tip of her right forefinger, she recalled how pleased and excited Mam had been when Annie had arrived in Calthorpe several weeks ago. She’d even shed a few tears, telling Annie she had arrived just at the right moment; but that was before she found out how lazy and selfish Annie was. Mam had said Annie could stay and help out until the baby was born, but Annie wasn’t helping; she was making matters worse.
It’s because she wears pretty dresses that show off her titties and her tiny waist, and that stuff she paints on her face, and the way she flutters her eyelashes when she’s fussing over my dad, thought Cally; that’s what my dad likes about Annie. Then she thought about Mam’s puffy, grey face, her swollen hands and feet and the huge mound of her belly; were they the reason Dad didn’t love her any more?
Cally pressed her back hard against the sharp brick of the ash pit wall, the scratchy feeling through her old winter coat nurturing her frustration. Mam would be lying in bed upstairs full of aches and pains, waiting for Cally to go up and see her… and downstairs… she wondered what her dad and Annie were doing at that very moment.
She’d been thrilled when Mam first told her about the baby, a little brother or a sister to play with, but she didn’t feel like that now. It’s the baby’s fault Mam’s poorly and Annie’s staying to mind the house, she silently told the distant slag heaps. All I want is for Mam to get back to the way she used to be and for Annie to go away.
Her thoughts black, and her bony little bottom chilled from sitting on the cold flagstones, Cally wandered onto the wasteland in search of something pleasanter to occupy her mind. Trailing vetch and fescue grasses tickled her ankles and a film of white blossom iced her crow-black hair where it grazed the tallest parsley fronds. In a bedraggled thorn bush a pair of robins flitted from branch to branch. Cally stopped to watch them, their beady little eyes twinkling back at her and making her giggle. Close by the bush a cluster of aconites sprouted amongst the weeds. Cally plucked them, her fingers nimble with impatience. She’d take them home for Mam; Mam liked flowers.
Then she remembered. Her dad had locked her out. She badly wanted to go to her mam but she didn’t dare go back home until her dad called her. Tightening her grip on the bunch of aconites, she crushed the sappy stalks to slime before tossing the wilting posy into the air: Babies! Pit strikes! Annie! They all stank!
*
Meanwhile, in the larger of the two bedrooms in number eleven, Jackson’s Yard, Ada Manfield wakened from an uneasy sleep. Gazing up at the ceiling, she solemnly assessed her situation. She hadn’t suffered like this when she was expecting Cally; she had positively bloomed in her first pregnancy. Not even the three b
rief miscarriages that followed had caused this much grief. Now, her limbs swollen with fluid and every breath agonising, she feared death might easily find her. And if that wasn’t enough to contend with, she was now faced with the George and Annie thing.
Through closed eyes Ada recalled the day Annie had arrived at the door of number eleven, begging to be taken in. At first she hadn’t recognised the trollopish young woman standing there, a battered Gladstone bag at her feet. It wasn’t until Annie had thrown herself against Ada’s chest gabbling a tale of woe that Ada had realised this was the sister she hadn’t seen for seven years.
And I was pleased to see her then, thought Ada, tossing back the bedcovers. I even thought it propitious that she should arrive just when I needed someone to help run the house and care for Cally whilst I was laid up. How wrong was I?
But I had no way of knowing she had grown into a devious, spiteful young woman, thought Ada. After all, she was only a child when I last saw her. And now she’s a brazen seventeen-year-old vamp with an eye for your husband, urged an inner voice, and he, the fool, seems happy to play his part.
Ada heaved herself to the edge of the bed, thinking back to the first time her suspicions had been aroused. Then she had contented herself with the idea that it was her condition making her unusually sensitive. She had come downstairs unexpectedly, to find Annie in George’s arms, their lips almost touching. ‘She’s got something in her eye,’ George had blustered, Annie twittering that a spark had shot out from the fire whilst she was tending it. And I wanted to believe them, Ada told herself, planting her feet on the floor and struggling upright.
She shuffled round the bed, silently acknowledging that taking in her younger sister had been a big mistake. Maybe marrying George had also been a mistake. It hadn’t seemed so at the time. She had fallen head-over-heels for his flamboyant good looks and rakish manner within weeks of coming to work in Calthorpe.
Perhaps I should have listened to my father after all, thought Ada, his words fresh in her mind as she leant against the edge of the dressing table to catch her breath: ‘Marry him and you’ll bring yourself down, girl.’ When she had, he had disowned her; the rift never healed. You make your bed and you lie in it, Ada silently told her reflection in the mirror, at the same time thinking she looked nearer forty than twenty-seven.
She studied her bloated body and her puffed, grey face, purple shadows ringing her eye sockets and the bluish tinge to her lips. Her spirits drooping further, she gathered her hair in both hands, scraping it into an untidy bun at the nape of her neck. There, that’ll do, she thought angrily: no point in trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.
She pictured Annie’s trim figure and painted lips, lips that curved knowingly whenever George glanced in her direction. Ada had seen those secret smiles that met with telltale nods and winks from George. Even so, she still wanted to deny them: they wouldn’t betray me under my own roof and me in my condition, would they?
Maybe I’m just being fanciful, thought Ada, covering her nightdress with a robe. And if you’re not, the inner voice taunted, then what? I’ve neither the strength nor the will to face such serious confrontation right now, Ada told it wearily before briskly adding, but once this baby is born I’ll give Annie her marching orders and things will revert to normal, whatever that is. Or maybe they won’t, whispered the inner voice. Ada shivered involuntarily and then silently prayed. Please let George be kind to my little girl, should I not survive this awful pregnancy.
And where was Cally?
The shadows in the room told her the afternoon was drawing to a close. Cally would be home from school by now. Half expecting her to come running up the stairs at any moment, Ada paused on the landing, listening to the house sounds.
A dull, rhythmic thumping interspersed with moans and grunts had her tottering to the head of the stairs, her bare feet making no sound as she lowered herself onto each tread, the unborn child heavy in her womb. On the last step she opened the door into the parlour, puzzled as to why the curtains were drawn at this time of day. She peered into the gloom.
Annie was flat on her back on the hearthrug and George, clad only in a clean singlet, covered her with his body. They moved rhythmically, their own gasps and groans dulling their ears.
Ada clung to the edge of the stairs door, her eyes riveted on the plunging bodies. She hadn’t imagined it after all. A frenzied scream burst from her throat and she pitched forward, a welcome blackness obliterating the ugly scene.
George and Annie rolled apart, staring in horror at the body huddled at the foot of the stairs.
‘Oh my God!’ George leapt to his feet, striding to where Ada lay. He stared down at her, impotently. Annie, wailing pitifully, scrabbled across the floor to Ada’s side, staring into the lifeless face.
‘Is she dead?’
‘Shut your bloody yawping an’ tidy yourself up,’ hissed George.
He fished his shirt and trousers from the chair, hastily thrusting limbs into legs and sleeves.
Annie pulled on her knickers and skirt.
Almost choking with remorse, George lifted Ada in his arms. ‘We’ll take ’er back upstairs.’
‘Is she dead?’
George shook his head. ‘No, she’s still breathin’. She’s just had a shock, that’s all.’
He mounted the narrow staircase sideways, taking care not to bump Ada’s head against the wall.
*
Footsteps in the yard had Cally running from behind the ash pits to see who it was. Cissie Sheard, the midwife, was standing outside number eleven. Cally ran faster; her dad would have to let her in if she was with Cissie.
‘Hello Cally, luv; I’ve just come to check on your Mam. See if that babby’s ready to be born. How is she?’
Cally didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
Cissie rapped the door and then tried the sneck. ‘It’s locked,’ said Cally. Cissie looked puzzled. Pounding feet thundered down the stairs and George opened the door, his eyes wild and his face gaunt. Seeing Cissie with Cally, he struggled to gain composure.
‘Oh, thank God it’s you, Cissie. Ada’s taken a bit of a tumble, she…’ He ran out of words, his lips flapping soundlessly as he feverishly searched his pockets for a packet of Woodbine and a box of matches. He lit a cigarette, then said, ‘Annie’s up there wi’ her.’
Cissie headed for the stairs. In the bedroom she gazed with concern at her patient. Ada gazed back through glazed eyes, her face an agonised rictus. Cissie glared at Annie. ‘Have you sent for t’doctor?’
Annie shook her head. ‘She only fell a minute or two ago.’
Cissie let out a roar. ‘George! George! Run for Dr Blackstock; tell him it’s urgent.’
George, halfway up the stairs, turned tail and ran.
Cally knew something was terribly wrong; the house smelt of fear and panic. Annie clattered down into the kitchen. ‘What’s wrong with my mam?’ Cally pleaded.
‘She’s having the baby,’ said Annie, setting the kettle to boil, then smearing dripping on a slice of bread. Forcing the sandwich into Cally’s hand, she added, ‘either that or she’s dying.’ With a callous smirk she headed for the stairs.
The sandwich fell to the hearth, unnoticed. Did mams die having babies? Cally didn’t know of any that had. What would she do if her mam died? She shuddered violently, the shaking sensation galvanising her into action. She raced upstairs.
John Blackstock set aside the syringe he had just used to inject the phenobarbitone that might save his patient’s life. He glanced from Ada to Cissie, shaking his head despairingly.
On the landing Cally slowed her pace, tip-toeing to the open bedroom door. Ada lay pallid and fretful, the pathetic moans escaping her feverish lips making Cally think of ghosts. She let out a frightened wail. ‘Is my mam dying?’
Cissie whirled round. ‘Go downstairs like a good girl,’ she snapped.
Stationed in the corner opposite the stairs door, Cally watched Cissie and Annie clatter up and down carryi
ng bowls of hot water and towels. She listened as Dr Blackstock and George held an urgent, whispered conference in the kitchen before hurrying back upstairs. And she listened when George and Annie stood at the foot of the stairs whispering angrily at each other, thinking nobody was within earshot. But Cally understood none of it.
The minutes ticked by and no one took any notice of her: Cissie and the doctor were too busy trying to save the lives of their patient and her unborn child, and George and Annie were each wrapped in their own thoughts. After what, to Cally, seemed ages, George stalked out into the yard, a cigarette clamped between his lips: he neither looked at nor spoke to her.
Upstairs John Blackstock wiped his hands on the cloth Cissie handed him, failure accentuating his haggard features. ‘Pre-eclampsia,’ he muttered, his tone heavy with despair, ‘we couldn’t have saved her, and the foetus is dead. Get the husband.’
George turned expectantly as Cissie called across the yard to him. Her face told him all he needed to know. His shoulders slumped and a great sob forced its way up from his throat. Like a savagely beaten dog he slunk back into the house and followed Cissie up to the bedroom.
He stood beside the bed like a man of stone, gazing long and hard at Ada, and when the doctor walked across the room and shook his hand George knew he had lost the one and only woman he had ever truly loved; the mother of his little girl. He fell to his knees, clutching at Ada’s inert body, weeping as though demented. Cissie gently prised him away.
‘Leave her be, lad,’ she said, her voice thick with unshed tears. ‘She’s gone; she’ll suffer no more. There’s no babby, an’ that in itself’s a blessing for it wouldn’t have been right had it been born. You’ve got one lovely little lass. See that you mind her now her mam’s gone.’
George walked from the room without a backward glance. Out in the yard he gazed up at the darkening sky.
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