Candy Kisses
Freda Lightfoot
Originally published 2007 by Hodder & Stoughton Ltd. 338 Euston Road, London NW1 3BH
Copyright © 2007 and 2012 by Freda Lightfoot.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-9568119-9-8
Published by Freda Lightfoot at Smashwords 2012
‘Romance doesn’t come sweeter than this tale of love and chocolate set in the grimy streets of 1950s Manchester.’ Lancashire Evening Post
‘The new series will be greeted with joy by the thousands of women who enjoy her books.’ Evening Mail, Barrow-in-Furness
‘You can’t put a price on Freda Lightfoot’s stories from Manchester’s 1950s Champion Street Market. They bubble with enough life and colour to brighten up the dreariest day and they have characters you can easily take to your heart.’
The Northern Echo
‘A bombshell of an unsuspected secret rounds off a romantic saga narrated with pace and purpose and fuelled by conflict.’ The Keswick Reminder on The Bobbin Girls
‘a fascinating, richly detailed setting with a dramatic plot brimming with enough scandal, passion, and danger for a Jackie Collins’ novel.’
Booklist on Hostage Queen
‘Lightfoot clearly knows her Manchester well’
Historical Novel Society
‘Kitty Little is a charming novel encompassing the provincial theatre of the early 20th century, the horrors of warfare and timeless affairs of the heart.’
The West Briton
‘Another heartwarming tale from a master story-teller.’
Lancashire Evening Post on For All Our Tomorrows.
‘a compelling and fascinating tale’ Middlesborough Evening Gazette on The Favourite Child (In the top 20 of the Sunday Times hardback bestsellers)
‘She piles horror on horror - rape, torture, sexual humiliation, incest, suicide - but she keeps you reading!’ Jay Dixon on House of Angels.
Extract from Putting On The Style
Also by Freda Lightfoot as ebooks
You’ll find bargains galore and life in the raw at Champion Street Market.
In 1950s Manchester, folk are just emerging from the shadow of the war. Money is still tight, and the bustling market is a source of tempting bargains – as well as the local gossip.
Everyone loves Aunty Dot’s homemade sweets and chocolates. And everyone loves Aunty Dot: the plump, smiling woman has provided a loving home for many a troubled child. Lizzie Pringle would do anything for her foster mother – even taking on local sweet manufacturer and bully, Cedric Finch. Until she falls for his son, Charlie…
Dena can’t believe that Barry Holmes would hurt her beloved daughter: he’s been like a favourite uncle to the little girl. But rumours are rife, and chocolate can be bitter, as well as sweet …
Chapter One
The rich scent of chocolate was strong in the air as Lizzie Pringle entered the tiny kitchen. She stopped in the doorway, smiling as she took in the sight of all those bright little faces, mouths rimmed with chocolate, small fingers sticky with the delicious velvety substance despite Aunty’s strict rules that they must never be licked.
There was Joey, the tallest of them all, his spiky blond hair standing on end as if something had surprised him; eight-year-old Beth bossing her younger brother Alan around, telling him how it should be done as usual, and young Cissie who, at three, had to kneel on a stool to reach.
And there was Aunty Dot herself in her familiar flowered overall, supervising the entire operation, gently pouring the melted chocolate into a mould, tipping it from side to side so that it was evenly coated, and then pouring the excess back into the jug before placing the moulds, hollow-side down, on to waxed paper to set.
Occasionally she would reach across the big scrubbed table and gently guide a small hand struggling with a ribbon, or turn to jiggle the handle of the pram where a baby snoozed, oblivious to all the heat and bustle in the over-crowded kitchen, the happy noisy chatter.
Aunty looked up and smiled at Lizzie. ‘We’re making chocolate rabbits.’
‘How exciting!’ Lizzie took off her hat and shook out her dark auburn curls. She unbuttoned her coat and hung it behind the door. ‘Can I help?’
‘Not till you’ve put your feet up and had a cuppa. Put the kettle on, Beth, yer big sister’s home from work.’
‘It’s okay, I can do it myself.’
‘You will not. Sit down and read the paper for five minutes. I expect you’ve been rushed off your feet on that stall with Easter coming up. I hope so. Don’t we need the money with all these greedy little tykes to feed?’
Aunty Dot beamed at all the rosy faces around her and they smiled happily back, knowing that stuffing them with good food was one of Aunty’s greatest pleasures in life.
‘Anyway, we need it for our day trip to the seaside, don’t we, chucks?’
A loud cheer went up all round. Easter Sunday had been chosen for their day out, and all the children were excitedly looking forward to it. It would be a reward for all their hard work preparing chocolate eggs for Easter.
‘Will we go on a train?’ Joey wanted to know.
‘We certainly will. And on the Big Dipper.’
Another cheer, louder this time, so that Aunty quickly brought them to order. ‘Beth, don’t forget that tea.’
The little girl scrambled down from her chair to do as she was bid, although reluctant to leave the chocolate rabbits and ordering her brother not to touch anything while she was gone. She ran to Lizzie and gave her a warm hug before pushing the kettle into place on the stove and lighting the gas jet under Aunty’s watchful eye.
Lizzie likewise obediently did as she was told, settled herself comfortably in the chair by the fire and picked up the evening paper.
This was always a good moment in her day, when she returned home to the heart of her family. Not that it was a real family, not in the strict sense of the word. Beth wasn’t her real sister. Five year old Alan might be the little girl’s brother but none of the other children were related. Aunty Dot wasn’t even their real aunt. But they felt as if they were a family, and that was what counted.
Aunty Dot was the children’s foster mother. She was a small, plump woman who was always smiling, with a shiny nose red as a cherry. Her round cheeks seemed to be permanently dusted with sugar or smeared with streaks of chocolate powder, and her eyes were like big brown sultanas.
‘I’m like a Christmas pudding,’ she would tell the children. ‘Put custard on me and you could eat me right up.’
Aunty Dot had a heart as big as Manchester City football ground. Social workers, the NSPCC, or the ‘cruelty people’ as the children called them, knew they could bring a child or a baby to Dorothy Thompson’s house at any time, day or night.
Clad in her blue flowered overall with the two big pockets in which she carried clean hankies, safety pins, and a few wrapped mints, she would gather them to her soft bosom for a cuddle. Then she would heat water and bathe them with Pear’s soap till their skin was silky with cleanliness. She would shampoo their filthy hair and patiently comb out the head lice, teasing apart the dreadful tangles. She would tend the inevitable sores and bruises, the red patches of scabies and ringworm, then wrap the child in warm towels and give them hot cocoa and home-made biscuits for their supper before putting them to sleep in a clean bed, often for the first time in their lives.
For as long as they stayed at number thirty-seven Champion Street, Aunty Dot would do her utmost to put some flesh on their bony little bodies.
She’d done this for Beth and Alan, who’d been with Aunty for five months now. They’d come to her wild and unkempt with a background no one cared to explore too deeply; it hadn’t been easy for her to tame and calm them into anything like normal behaviour.
She’d gently shaved every scrap of hair off Beth’s scabby head and carefully tended the raw skin till it healed and a fresh silky crop of dark brown curls sprang into life. Aunty had weaned the small boy off his baby’s bottle, the only food he’d known in his entire life, and given him the confidence to handle a knife and fork so that he could eat hot pot and creamy rice pudding like grown-up people.
Most children stayed only a short time with her and were then returned to their parents, who by then would hopefully have resolved whatever problems had beset them. Others became regulars, the NSPCC using Aunty as a sort of respite home, a place where children could be properly fed and cleaned up.
So it was with Joey who’d first appeared at Aunty’s door almost a year ago, one dark stormy night. He’d been locked in his own silent world and was only just starting to speak, thanks to Aunty’s cuddles and endless patience. But his mother, who was struggling to cope on her own while hiding from a violent husband, wanted him to come home whenever it felt safe for him to do so. Too often she was wrong and the result of these visits would be Joey’s abrupt retreat into that dark private world of silence once again, and when he returned to Champion Street he would sit in a corner and rock himself back and forth for hours on end.
Cissie had been here a week and was a sweet little girl, though she wet her bed every night. And the baby – there was always a baby - who’d arrived only yesterday morning had rarely stopped crying since. His poor mother had threatened to kill herself, or him, if they didn’t take the little mite away.
For Lizzie Aunty had done much more, something the young woman would never forget or be able to thank her for enough, if she lived to be a hundred. Aunty Dot had rescued her at the age of twelve from an industrial school run by the Sisters of Mercy, (who were anything but). The pair of them had hit it off right away and in this bustling household Lizzie had found the love and care for which she’d always longed.
Aunty Dot was the anchor of Lizzie’s life, the centre of her heart and soul, and her loyalty and love for the older woman were unwavering.
Now Lizzie sat watching fondly as the children fetched trays and knives and forks, and napkins folded in their own individually painted wooden rings, while Aunty heated up the stew for supper. The chocolate rabbits were all made and the family would eat the meal on their knees so as not to disturb the moulds on the table. The children weren’t required to help. They could play with the toys that Aunty provided, or take a turn on the tricycle they all shared. But few of them could resist joining in with all the exciting culinary adventures that went on in Aunty’s kitchen.
Lizzie felt exactly the same. There was nothing she liked more than to assist Aunty in making the chocolates and sweets for the Chocolate Cabin, the stall Lizzie ran on Champion Street Market. It wasn’t possible to stock it entirely from this tiny kitchen, but Aunty did what she could because she enjoyed sweet-making and it helped keep costs down.
Today, after a busy day on the market, Lizzie was tired and glad of the opportunity for a rest. She enjoyed the stipulated five minutes, which actually lasted nearer half an hour but when the food appeared, she gladly set the paper aside. It had little in it of interest anyway other than a story about Elvis Presley swapping his guitar for a gun as he joined up to do his stint in the US Army.
There was never much conversation while they ate. To these children, who had known the reality of starvation, eating was a serious business.
Even so, Aunty couldn’t relax. Every now and then she would get up to inspect how the process was coming along, and as the chocolate began to dry out would gently scrape away the excess from around the rim of each mould. Once it was completely set the chocolate shrank a little, and then Aunty gave each mould a gentle tap so that the half rabbit dropped easily out on to the paper.
‘We’ve got a good crop,’ she told her helpers, pressing one hand surreptitiously to her side as she returned to her seat and her plate of beef stew.
Lizzie considered her with a thoughtful frown, blue eyes clouding with worry, for there was a shadow over this happy household. Aunty was not quite her usual cheery self. ‘What’s wrong? Have you got that pain again?’
‘It’s only a stitch from leaning over the table too long. I should sit down. I keep telling myself, but do I listen?’
The children giggled. Aunty was famous for her talking aloud, issuing firm instructions to herself to hurry up or she’d miss the bus, or to keep her chin up and stop complaining. Not that she ever did anything but hurry, and certainly never complained.
Following the death of her son in Tobruk in 1941, Lizzie knew that Aunty had buried the pain of her loss by caring for other people’s children. First it was war orphans, now it was children who’d been neglected or abused. Aunty had suffered an abused childhood herself, her own father had terrified her. Consequently she wasn’t one to tolerate bullies. Nor did she have much patience with the so-called authorities since she’d got little or no help from them at the time. But then Aunty Dot wasn’t one to take any nonsense from anyone.
Lizzie was also aware that all that suffering had taken its toll. However chirpy Dot might appear in front of the children, more often than not she was dropping on her feet from exhaustion by the end of the day. Consequently Lizzie did what she could to take as much weight from Aunty’s shoulders as she possibly could. A task which was far from easy.
But that pain in her side, which had started up recently, was becoming a real worry. If only Lizzie could persuade her to see a doctor.
They were spooning up the last delicious scraps of rice pudding when there was a loud hammering on the door.
Aunty clicked her tongue in annoyance. ‘Now who can that be at this time?’
‘I’ll go.’
‘Right, kids, half an hour’s play before bed, not a minute more.’ The back door slammed shut on their disappearing figures before she’d finished speaking. Laughing, Aunty tickled the baby under his chin, then picked up the trays and began to clear away.
Lizzie opened the door to find Jack Cleaver standing on the doorstep. Jack was the commercial traveller for Finch’s Sweets, Lizzie’s main supplier. She wasn’t surprised to see him here as he’d taken to popping round fairly frequently lately in a bid to persuade her to go out with him. Somehow though, with his forties-style slicked back brown hair and double-breasted suits, the prospect of a night on the town with Jack Cleaver did not appeal.
But because he seemed lonely and so obviously besotted, Lizzie always tried to be kind and let him down lightly. Not that he was good at taking no for an answer because he’d be back the next day, or the one after that. Now she braced herself for another polite refusal, but on this occasion he didn’t have courting on his mind.
‘Evening, Lizzie. Sorry to disturb you but Mr Finch would like a word.’
‘Mr Finch?’ Now Lizzie was surprised. It was a rare occurrence for her to see Jack’s boss, the proprietor of the sweet factory, and unheard of for him to call at her home.
‘He’s waiting in his car.’ Jack nodded in the direction of a big black Humber parked at the kerb. It was clear that the large man seated inside, well muffled up in overcoat, scarf and Homburg hat against the cool March evening, had no intention of stepping out of it, so Lizzie walked over and tapped on the window.
‘Good evening, Mr Finch. How are you?’ She didn’t quite know what else to say.
Cedric Finch wound down the window and considered her with eyes that looked cold and hard behind his spectacles. ‘I’ve been hearing disturbing things about you, Lizzie Pringle.’
Surprised by this, Lizzie judged it wisest to maintain her silence until he’d explained further.
‘I hear your Aunty has set herself up in competition.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t deny it. I make it my business to keep my ear to the ground and be aware of what’s going on. I have my spies, you understand, who keep me well informed. I believe the terms were set out clearly from the start when I agreed to do business with you. Finch’s was to be your sole supplier.’
Lizzie was struggling to take in exactly what he was accusing her of. ‘And so you are.’
‘I think not. Jack informs me that your aunty also makes sweets and chocolates for the stall. Your chocolate Easter egg order is pathetic, almost non-existent. I have to say, Lizzie Pringle, I find that most unsatisfactory, most unsatisfactory indeed. It simply isn’t good enough. Your orders are falling far below what I require from a customer. Unless you put a stop to the amateur efforts of that interfering Aunty of yours, and start putting all your business our way, then I shall have no alternative but to stop supplying you.’
Lizzie was incensed, not only by his nasty remarks about Aunty, but by his threatening manner. She certainly had no intention of being pushed around by anyone, however posh they were. ‘Finch’s isn’t the only factory that makes sweets in Manchester. I could find another supplier.’
Now he smiled at her, but the sight did nothing to warm her. ‘I don’t think so. I’d make sure no one else would look at you, love. Take my advice, have a word with dear old Aunty Dot. Tell her to stick to minding kids and leave chocolate and sweet-making to the experts. Otherwise, it could be curtains for your little stall. ‘
Then he instructed Jack Cleaver to drive off which, after an apologetic backward glance at Lizzie, he did, leaving her standing on the pavement with her mouth hanging open.
Later, when the children were all tucked up in bed, Lizzie read them a story from the big book of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Aunty heated a baking sheet then quickly touched the rim of each hollow rabbit against the hot metal so that when she placed the two halves together they melted slightly and stuck together to form a seal.
Usually, Lizzie would argue that this task could wait till morning, and Aunty would insist it must be done tonight and the chocolate rabbits properly stored away so that the kitchen could be cleaned and tidied ready for breakfast. The children always ate their porridge sitting together at the big table.
But on this occasion Lizzie was thankful for the distraction of helping with these extra chores, telling Aunty it had only been Jack at the door, making a nuisance of himself as usual. She made no mention of his boss’s threats.
Chapter Two
Dena Dobson wondered what it was that made her so strong. On this particular cold March day, one she’d looked forward to for almost twelve months, she felt strangely elated; blood pumped through her veins with a new vigour, a tingling excitement touched every nerve-ending. The past had finally been laid to rest.
She pushed back her chestnut brown hair and glanced about her at the crush of people still streaming from the courthouse, her eager gaze seeking out Carl although she could see no sign of him yet. He would be somewhere close by, and she smiled to herself at this new burst of confidence and hope within her. Maybe now they could begin again, start afresh and put the unpleasantness of these last months behind them at last. They were still young, after all, with all their lives ahead of them.
Before the end of this month on 27 March, Dena would turn nineteen. It surprised her sometimes to think how very young she still was when often recently she had felt world-weary, mature beyond her years. But then she always had been stubborn, never one to give up easily. How had that come about exactly?
Perhaps it was spending so much of her childhood with hunger sharp in her belly, largely because her selfish mother had been too busy fretting about her own concerns to remember to feed her. Or else later, when she was taken into care and had been forced to cope with the rigours of Ivy Bank Children’s Home. But no matter how her character had been formed, she was undoubtedly a survivor. No one could say otherwise.
Despite an on-going sense of insecurity, the birth of an illegitimate daughter, and almost falling into the trap of marrying the man who’d caused the death of her young brother, Dena believed she’d dealt with the problems life had thrown at her remarkably well. She’d made a home for her child, built a successful business on Champion Street Market, and managed to hold her head high.
She loved her dressmaking work, and had made so many friends here on Champion Street Market: Patsy Bowman and Lizzie Pringle, Big Molly and Amy George, Betty Hemley, and best of all, Winnie. She had a lot to be thankful for.
Dena looked around again. In the crush of people leaving the court, the noise and mayhem of newspaper reporters pressing her for a comment on how she felt about the verdict, she’d completely lost sight of Carl. She’d been searching for him in the crowd ever since, longing for the man she loved to appear, sweep her up in his arms and carry her away to a new future.
But now she pictured the look on his face, the shock reflected there, when the verdict had been announced, revealing all too clearly his bitter disappointment that his younger brother Kenny hadn’t been let off with a lesser plea of manslaughter, the heart-rending cry from Carl and Kenny’s mother Belle that had echoed dramatically around the court room when Kenny was sentenced.
It came to her then that that was where Carl would be: consoling his mother. Belle Garside had naturally hoped for a more merciful verdict for her younger son than being sent down for life for the murder of young Pete Dobson. Yet in Dena’s opinion that verdict was entirely justified. In fact, Kenny was very fortunate that his neck wasn’t going to be stretched.
‘Are you all right, chuck?’ Winnie asked, patting her arm.
Dena shook away the icy shiver that had rippled down her spine as she remembered the way her brother had died. ‘Never better. The slate is wiped clean. Justice has been done and we can get on with our lives at last. A new beginning.’
In truth she’d half expected the world to have changed in some way when she left the courtroom, for the sun to shine brighter, the flowers on Betty Hemley’s stall to smell sweeter.
She’d even expected Champion Street itself to appear different, but it looked as it always did on any busy Friday. The stalls lining the pavement from Tonman Street to Deansgate, some little more than trestle tables piled high with goods, were being picked over by bargain hunters and browsers alike. There was the pot man juggling his plates, pretending to let one fall every now and then, just to get people’s attention, before beating down his own prices and shifting dozens in a mock auction.
Molly Poulson was still squabbling with her daughter as they busily sold hot meat and potato pies. Jimmy Ramsay slapped his big fat aproned belly as he called out in his great, booming voice: ‘Best pork sausages in all of Manchester! No, love, they’re not full of bread, they’re full of meat. Try a couple, on the house . . . and if you find a sandwich in there, let me know and I’ll give you yer money back.’
That was Jimmy, always ready with the repartee. On any other day Dena would have laughed out loud, but today, after the strain of the trial, she could manage little more than a tired smile.
The last few weeks had been immensely stressful, leaving her tense and emotionally drained, yet now that it was over, Dena felt an airy lightness inside her she hadn’t experienced in an age. Hope reborn, the feeling that perhaps she did have a future after all. She felt so overwhelmed by relief that the trial was at last over and done with that she couldn’t even bring herself to resent the fact that Carl was with his mother, and not rushing to her side with kisses and congratulations. How could he be expected to do that when the man on his way to life imprisonment was his own brother?
But he would meet up with her later, she was sure of it.
Dena hugged Winnie, and kissed her paper-soft cheeks. ‘Is our Trudy all right?’
‘She’s right as ninepence. Amy George is keeping an eye on her today, since Barry and I wanted to be there for the verdict. She’ll be fine.’
‘Good, I’m dying for a cup of tea.’
‘Or something stronger? How about half a Guinness to celebrate?’
‘A brandy and Babycham more like,’ Dena said, and she did laugh this time, as if the bubbles were already fizzing inside her.
Linking her arm with Winnie’s, she led her friend across to the Dog and Duck. Old men in flat caps and mufflers watched them go by as they stood smoking their pipes by the ancient horse trough, as they had been doing for as long as Dena could remember. No doubt they were eagerly discussing the odds on the three-thirty before handing over the shilling or two they could ill afford to Billy Quinn, the bookie, certain it would make them a fortune. Women in headscarves argued over the price of fish; harassed mothers kept a close eye on their children in case they should wander off and get lost in the crowds. The wind blew chip papers and cabbage leaves across the cobbles. A normal day on the market, just like any other.
But when had life ever been normal for Dena? It certainly hadn’t been when she was a mere slip of a girl working Saturdays in Belle’s Café, earning the only money that came into the house, her mother Alice having taken to her bed in grief.
Dena’s gaze turned inward at the thought, no longer seeing the market, but something entirely different, the scene playing in her mind like an old film. Their assailants had sprung out at them from the darkness . . . little more than shadows, jumping out upon them to attack with feet and fists, battering and thumping, punching and kicking.
She’d heard them running, fading away into the darkness, although not before they’d given her a good beating too, pummelling her in the stomach, kicking her in the back and legs when she fell so that she feared they might not stop till she too was a goner. Then with only the distant sounds of the city washing over her, and the wind whistling under the canal bridge Dena had risked moving a leg, terrified it might be broken because she had to get up. She had to save him.
But she hadn’t saved him. Pete, her cheeky young brother, had drowned. Beaten up by Kenny Garside and his mates and tossed into the mucky canal like so much garbage.
Her young brother had died that day and Dena had carried the weight of his loss every day since. If only she could have saved him. If only she’d fought back more fiercely. But she’d been little more than a child herself and knocked near senseless by the faceless bullies. Even so, she’d jumped in anyway, and swum about in the filthy, tar-streaked water looking for him until she’d been in danger of drowning herself.
And now, at last, Kenny had stood trial for that crime. He’d been charged with murder and sent down on a life sentence. Justice had been done.
Dena became aware of Winnie’s hand gently squeezing her arm. ‘Keep that smile in place, love, this is a good day. Remember that.’
‘Oh, yes, Winnie, I will!’
In the pub Winnie’s new husband, Barry Holmes, waited with a bottle of champagne. Smiling friends gathered around to help Dena celebrate. She looked into their kindly, sympathetic faces and her heart filled with love for these people. Lynda Hemley, Marc Bertalone, Patsy Bowman, Alec Hall in his trademark pink bow tie, even Clara Higginson was here; anyone in fact who could manage to sneak away from their stall for five minutes to share in the celebration. They might have gossiped about her in the beginning, but when it came to the push, they’d stood by her in the end. How could she have got through it all without them?
Champagne corks popped, Barry was pushing a dripping glass into her hand and raising his in a toast to the sound of much laughter and clinking of glasses.
‘To a new beginning for our Dena! A new future. She deserves it.’
‘A new beginning!’ cried Lizzie Pringle.
Dena could feel her cheeks grow pink as everyone kissed and congratulated her, wishing her the very best. ‘Thanks Barry. Thanks to all of you.’ But even as she sipped at the bubbles she found herself glancing around.
Two people were missing from this gathering: her mother Alice, which didn’t surprise her in the slightest since they were hardly on good terms, and more significantly Carl, who still hadn’t shown up. Dena began to feel a twinge of concern she could no longer ignore.
Not surprisingly, given the circumstances, a gulf had widened between them in recent months. Dena was guiltily aware that deep down, in the place where she’d locked away all the pain and hurt, she couldn’t feel real sympathy for anyone’s problems but her own.
As the trial had drawn nearer she’d felt increasingly detached from this man she loved more than life itself, and from other people too, as if she were set apart from everyone, living in a different world. They fretted about trivial things like what to make for tea, what they should wear for a party, or the price of beef, while Dena felt as if she were hanging on to her sanity by her fingertips, waiting and longing to be set free from this nightmare.
Of course there were other terrible events happening in the world: the Manchester United football team – the Busby Babes – had been killed in a terrible air crash only last month. Then there were the protests about nuclear disarmament with the CND planning Easter marches upon London. But Dena couldn’t feel involved even in such vitally important matters.
Carl accused her of being selfishly wrapped up in own feelings. ‘You don’t need me any more,’ he would complain. ‘You don’t talk, or share things with me like we used to. It’s as if I’m superfluous to your life.’
Dena hadn’t disagreed with that because in a way it was true. She’d longed simply to turn back the clock and pretend that terrible day her brother had died had never happened. Since that was impossible she wanted just to get the trial over and done with.
‘We all feel for you,’ Carl had told her when she’d tried to explain why she was like that. ‘We understand how you must be feeling. But you have to understood how we have feelings too. Kenny is still my brother. Misguided, stupid, a violent bully too ready to use his fists when things go wrong . . . I accept all of that, but I still can’t look upon him as a murderer.’
‘But he is a murderer,’ she’d insisted. ‘He murdered my brother! We can’t ever get away from that fact.’
‘In your opinion.’
‘And in the judge’s too, I hope,’ she’d snapped, and they’d turned away from each other, on opposite sides of the chasm opening up between them.
But hopefully, now that the trial’s looming presence was behind them, all these disagreements and misery could be set aside, and she and Carl could at last begin to plan their future. She could relax in the joy of bringing up Trudy, her precious child, could give proper attention to the development of her little fashion business. She might even dare to dream of a wedding . . . Dena sincerely hoped so because she loved Carl so very much.
‘A toast to British justice,’ Barry called out and, laughing, Dena kissed him. She really didn’t know how she would have managed without Barry Holmes at her side over these last months. He’d been a tower of strength, like a father to her.
As more bottles were opened, someone struck up a tune on the piano and Dena settled in a corner with Winnie and Lizzie, the merriment around them increasing. Carl had clearly decided to stay with Belle, perhaps thinking it was not appropriate for him to join the celebration of his brother’s conviction.
Dena was disappointed but in her heart she understood. They’d get together later, of course they would, for Carl Garside was to be a major part of this new future she planned for herself.
Chapter Three
‘Not another visitor. What a racket! Who would come calling at this time of the morning? It’s getting as busy as London Road Station.’
Nobody rushed to answer the door. Lizzie was eating her porridge standing up while she fed the baby at the same time. Aunty Dot was helping Alan not to turn his spoon upside down before it reached his mouth while stroking Joey’s head and urging him to eat something at least, but the older boy only pushed the dish away.
‘Don’t like porridge.’
‘Yes, you do. Put some syrup on it. You like syrup.’
‘Don’t like that school. And I don’t care what anyone says, I’m not bloody going!’
Joey had been taken on a visit to the secondary modern school he’d be moving to in September, assuming he didn’t pass for the grammar, which was hardly surprising considering the interruptions his education had suffered. Unfortunately he’d taken against it from the start.
Aunty was sorry he felt so bad but didn’t scold him for swearing because she knew that this was the kind of language he was most familiar with, and ‘bloody’ was a fairly mild expletive in his repertoire.
‘I won’t even flaming be here by then!’ he shouted, which confirmed Aunty Dot’s view that he liked the school far better than he was admitting, but fear of an unknown future was overwhelming the boy yet again.
She kissed the top of his tousled head, told him everything was going to be fine then went to answer the door, throwing a desperate comment back to Lizzie as she did so.
‘I can’t take another child, not today.’
But it wasn’t the cruelty man, it was Winnie Holmes. She came bustling straight into the kitchen, beaming at all the porridge-smeared faces, the pom-pom on her woolly hat bouncing in a jolly fashion which made the children giggle.
‘It may not be any of my business but I thought I’d let you know that you had a visitor yesterday, Dot.’
‘You mean Jack Cleaver? Aye, he came pestering our Lizzie to go courting with him. So what? Half of Champion Street is in love with my girl.’
‘I don’t mean him.’ Winnie jerked her chin meaningfully at the children. ‘Someone else. Someone who is the bane of your life.’
Aunty frowned, then led Winnie out of the kitchen to a relatively quiet corner of the living room where they could talk in peace. ‘Who?’
‘It were that Miss Rogers what took our Dena off once, if you remember?’
Aunty patiently nodded, waiting for Winnie to get to the point. ‘I do.’
‘You need to watch her. She’s a right nasty piece of work, a real hard-faced madam.’
‘I can handle Miss Rogers. She’s a regular at this house, as you know, so what was it about her that bothered you particularly on this occasion, Winnie?’ Aunty quietly asked, privately thinking this was probably all an excuse on her neighbour’s part to dig out a bit of gossip, or to pass some on.
Winnie lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper. ‘It’s not for me to say, of course, but she was in a real lather, banging on your door loud enough to wake the dead. Barry went over in the end and told her you were out, probably taken the babby to the clinic and wouldn’t be back for an hour or two. He offered to take a message but she tartly told him to mind his own business, said that she’d call again later.’ Winnie sniffed. ‘Something’s up, so I thought it best to warn you. I wouldn’t trust that woman as far as I could throw her!’
Aunty nodded, saying nothing, and half glanced over her shoulder at Joey who was scooping his porridge down at record pace now. ‘Well, thank you for telling me.’
‘I don’t know how you cope, I don’t really. How many have you got staying with you this week?’
Aunty had Winnie by the arm and was edging her towards the door, anxious to be rid of her nosy visitor. She was a good woman, at heart, but Dot really didn’t have time to chat right now, not when she was rushing to get the children off to school, and the baby was already starting to grizzle though he’d only been awake five minutes. Winnie, however, was determined to milk her fabricated moment of drama for all it was worth and she hung back, glancing towards the kitchen.
‘Poor little beggars. No one else but you would give them house room, Dot. Soft as butter you are. It must break your heart every time you have to give one of them up. Still got that Joey, I see. Oh, aye, that reminds me. Our Barry wants to know if the lad’s coming to the boxing club tonight. He missed on Tuesday and Barry has hopes for him in the under twelves trophy, if he sticks to the training. He’s very particular that his lads keep up their training.’
Aunty turned to Joey and relayed the question to him. When the boy didn’t immediately answer, she gently asked him again: ‘Joey, I’m speaking to you. Will you be at the boxing club tonight?’
Joey vehemently shook his head. ‘No!’ he said, with surprising firmness for a boy who only spoke when it was absolutely essential.
Aunty smiled apologetically at Winnie. ‘He’s not too happy this morning. He doesn’t like the look of the new school he’ll be going to. I’ll speak to him later about the club. Tell Barry he’ll be there, not to worry. As for that other little matter, I’m sure it was nothing important. Probably just someone wanting me to take another child, only I’m full right now.’
Or to take one away, Dot thought, finally managing to man-handle Winnie out on to the doorstep. She always hated it when children left, but some were more precious to her than others. And some she really had no wish to lose at all. Dot just hoped it wasn’t Joey Miss Rogers was after. Or Beth and Alan, for that matter. That was the only downside to this job she loved. She really would have preferred to keep all the children, given the choice. Instead she had to live with endless goodbyes, and not show her true feelings.
‘Oh dear, try not to think about it,’ she muttered to herself, as she closed the door on Winnie, then watched through the window, frowning, as her neighbour walked away, spine rigid with self-righteous indignation that her dramatic announcement hadn’t received the attention she felt it deserved.
But why would she go to such trouble to come and tell Dot about a visitor who called at this house at least twice a month, if not every week? Most odd. Then the baby started to cry and Aunty returned to the business of getting her brood off to school, putting Winnie and her nosiness right out of her mind.
Jack Cleaver called twice at the stall to see Lizzie after Mr Finch had issued his warning, partly by way of apology and partly to warn her.
‘You’ll have to do as he says. He won’t give up. Once my boss has issued a threat he generally carries it out. You must talk to Mrs Thompson, insist she stops making all those sweets and chocolates.’
Lizzie paused in her task of filling up the jar of sherbert lemons, looking at him with eyebrows raised in polite surprise. Yet, deep inside, the wrath she felt was so great it was as if a fire burned in her soul, a red-hot sea of anger she had to fight to contain. If there was one thing Lizzie had learned throughout the turbulent years of her youth, it was how to keep her thoughts private, for none of this emotion showed in her serenely lovely face. ‘I suppose he told you to say that, did he?’
Jack’s tone remained conciliatory. ‘He didn’t, as a matter of fact, but it’s true, Lizzie. You must listen to what he says. If Finch’s stop supplying you, where will you be then?’
‘Looking for another supplier,’ Lizzie calmly retorted. ‘He isn’t the only sweet maker in Manchester.’
‘No, but he’s the best. Top dog.’ Jack Cleaver spoke as one might to a small child, painstakingly emphasising each word. ‘He’d tell everyone you were a debt risk, or some such. Make sure nobody else would do business with you. He’s used to having his own way.’
Lizzie’s blue gaze was unwavering. ‘He doesn’t scare me. Tell Mr Cedric Finch I’ll not be bullied. I do what’s right for my family, as well as good for my stall.’
Jack groaned and his tone became wheedling. ‘Nay, Lizzie lass, you know I care for you. I’d cut off me right arm if you asked me to . . . but don’t ask me to stand up to Finch. I want to wake up in a morning all in one piece, not with me head bitten off. He’s a difficult man to cross. Rules that family of his with an iron fist.’
But Lizzie only smiled at this confusing declaration of allegiance, toughening herself, at least outwardly, and damping down the flutter of nerves within. She’d come across hard men before in her life, her own father included, not to mention a whole stream of ‘uncles’. She’d thought they were bad enough until she’d spent time in the Industrial School, where she’d learned that women, or those nuns at least, were far more heartless than any man when it came to inflicting pain.
Thanks to Aunty Dot her time in that school had been blessedly short, but after all she’d endured she certainly wasn’t going to run scared from one measly confectionary supplier.
Lizzie stiffened her spine and looked Cleaver straight in the eye, which was perfectly easy to do since she was easily as tall as him, maybe even an inch taller. ‘Aunty has made some toffee apples for the children’s trip to Blackpool on Easter Sunday. I’m going to ask her to make a few more. I reckon they’d sell well on the stall. I warrant I could shift dozens this summer.’
Jack scowled at her, his fleshy cheeks and chin quivering as he struggled to keep his smile in place. He’d been chasing Lizzie Pringle for months now, eager to get his hands on her little business empire which he hoped would provide him with the respectability he craved. So far he was getting absolutely nowhere. Now impatience got the better of him. ‘You’re a stubborn woman, Lizzie Pringle!’
She burst out laughing. ‘Thank you, sir, for the kind compliment. And you’ve got another button coming off your jacket. How do you manage to lose so many? Pop round one evening and I’ll sew it on for you.’
Lizzie made her offer with a beaming smile, meaning to reassure him that even though they’d disagreed over this matter she was still willing to be his friend. For all the good wages he must earn working for Finch’s, Jack Cleaver rarely spent much on himself. He was known for being careful with money. The cuffs of his old double-breasted demob suit were frayed, and his highly polished brogues had cracks in the leather. Maybe if he smartened himself up a bit, she might look upon his approaches more kindly. Lizzie considered those wide flared nostrils, like twin hairy caverns, brown eyes that always managed to look slightly furtive, and a thin mouth diminished even further by fleshy cheeks and jowls. No, that would be stretching their friendship too far.
Encouraged by her kind offer, Jack stepped closer, a flash of hope rekindled in his fervent expression. Lizzie willed herself not to take a step back, or to recoil from his bad breath and the overpowering smell of tobacco that emanated from him. Jack Cleaver was a pipe man, no doubt with slippers to match.
He wagged a gently admonishing finger in her face to drive home his point. ‘Think on. If Finch sends his lads round, they won’t be nearly so polite or considerate as me, Lizzie love. Nay, let me look after you, you know I’d give my right arm to do that.’
‘I know you would, Jack, and I’m grateful.’
Jack Cleaver was forever at pains to prove how much he cared for her, how, given half a chance, he would devote his entire life to looking after her. This was the last thing Lizzie wanted, but she could almost smell the loneliness in him, and pity overwhelmed her.
She knew very little about his background, or his childhood, except that he claimed it had been equally as miserable as her own. He’d spoken of being found on a doorstep in his home area of Islington and of spending time in a Dr Barnardo’s Home, although he’d once also mentioned an Aunt Doris, which didn’t quite seem to fit with his story. What had happened to his parents she’d no idea, nor did Lizzie enquire. In her view people had a right to their privacy, and to devise a tale to disguise the horror of their past if they so wished. Jack Cleaver was a bit of a mystery man, but largely to be pitied.
Smiling with genuine sympathy, Lizzie leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. ‘You’re a good man, good to me, and to the children. I appreciate your thoughtfulness and concern, but you’ve no need to worry. I can stand up for myself. I’ve no intention of letting myself be bullied by anyone. It only brings out the stubbornness in me and makes me more perverse than ever. Tell your boss that.’
‘He won’t like it.’
‘Nor do I like being told what to do by him. But I don’t have a glint of red in my hair for nothing, Jack Cleaver. It matches the fire in my belly. Tell you what, I’ll go and see him myself. Beard the lion in his den. I’ll get this matter settled once and for all. You can tell him that too.’
Chapter Four
Disappointingly, the elation, like the champagne, hadn’t lasted long. The bubbles had soon popped, leaving Dena feeling flat and distressed and with a slight hangover the next day. Old wounds had been opened, memories laid bare, and the pain had risen again in her as hot and raw as ever, like a band of scalding iron compressing her heart.
Carl never had emerged from his mother’s café to join the celebration, and finally Dena had gone home early to bed, although not to sleep. He hadn’t come near her all weekend either, except to push a note through her letterbox on Friday night to say that as Belle needed him badly right now, he’d come round to see her just as soon as he could.
He’d signed the note: Love, Carl, and added three kisses, but it wasn’t quite the same as having them delivered in person.
Now, on what should have been a bright Monday morning, Dena treadled away on her Singer sewing machine nursing a confusion of emotions, but pleased at least that business in the rag trade was booming. She was churning out dresses, Capri pants and blouses, and of course her famous skirts decorated with appliqué daisy, just as fast as she and her stalwart crew of machinists could make them.
Trudy, her beloved daughter, was beside her, sitting on the floor playing with the button bag, sorting the pretty colours and designs, or pretending they were cakes in a baker’s shop; happily chattering away to herself in her make believe world.
‘Can I go and play with Gabby?’ the little girl asked, pushing the buttons into a heap.
Gabriella was the youngest of the Bertalone girls. The Bertalone’s were an Italian family who ran the ice cream parlour and Trudy idolised Gabby because of her dark Latin beauty and the fact that, at eight, she could do clever things like roller skate and ride her bicycle standing up. Trudy would dearly have loved to have a go on the roller skates but wasn’t allowed because she was still too young. Gabby and her sisters would try to squeeze her into their doll’s pram instead, saying she was only a baby. Trudy hated being called a baby but she adored Gabby.
Dena smiled, content to see her daughter so well and happy, privately wishing she could stay a baby forever. She felt so grateful that she even had her, could so easily have lost her if Miss Rogers, the social worker, hadn’t helped her to find accommodation and a job. Caring for a child alone hadn’t been easy and the stigma of illegitimacy still hung over Trudy, but she was bouncing with health, full of mischief and would be three years old in September. How time did fly.
‘In a little while, darling. Mummy just has to finish this skirt then we’ll go and have an ice cream. How about that?’
Trudy let out an excited cry. ‘Ooh, yes, please!’ and went back to playing with her buttons, turning them into soldiers this time and making them march in line.
She was such a joy, Dena thought, as she manoeuvred the fabric skilfully beneath the flying needle. Not a scrap of trouble, and so bright and bubbly with her soft brown curls, amber eyes and cheeky little smile. How fortunate she was to have such a beautiful child.
She really should be the happiest woman on earth. She and Carl so desperately in love, he as eager to marry her as he had been a year ago when he’d first asked her. Now the trial was over and the right verdict given, so far as Dena was concerned. Everything about her life should feel quite perfect.
But somehow that burst of optimism outside the court, that moment of pure happiness, had quite dissipated. Where was he? Where was Carl?
She unclipped the foot of the machine, turned the fabric and clipped it down again, anxiety darkening her brown eyes, clouding the bright flecks in them to a dull gold as she treadled and stitched.
Why hadn’t he come to see her?
Winnie, her dearest friend, had allowed her to continue to live in her old house, charging Dena only a nominal rent when she’d moved in with Barry Holmes after their wedding a few months back. At first Dena had found the prospect of having the house to herself exciting. She’d looked forward to cosy evenings spent by the fire with Carl, with Winnie nearby should she ever need help in caring for Trudy. Barry too was always willing to babysit. But nothing had turned out quite as she’d hoped.
Perhaps it was because the house had felt empty without her friend’s reassuring presence. Both she and Trudy had missed the older woman’s lively chatter. Nobody knew more about the goings-on of Champion Street Market than Winnie Holmes. But besides that things hadn’t been quite as they should be between herself and Carl. The strain of the trial had undoubtedly taken its toll on their relationship.
Dena broke off the sewing cotton and shook out yet another completed skirt. ‘There you are, Joan, that just about completes the Harvey’s order, I think.’
Joan Chapman, who had been with Dena almost from when the business first started, smiled and ordered her to take a break. ‘You look proper worn out, love. Go and get yourself a bite of lunch, and that child her ice cream, while you’ve got chance. I’ll pack up this order and get it dispatched.’
‘Bless you, Joan, what would I do without you?’
‘I hope you won’t ever think of trying,’ the older woman responded, her plain homely face wreathed in smiles.
Dena glanced down again at her daughter’s bright, expectant face. Ironically she was Kenny’s child, but an absolute sweetie despite that disadvantage, and the centre of Dena’s universe. Having been seduced by Kenny before ever she realised he’d killed Pete, even now that she knew the truth, how could she wish her own darling child unborn?
‘Right, ice cream it is then.’
‘Goody, goody,’ Trudy yelled, and flung herself excitedly into her mother’s arms.
Once outside in the fresh air, the smell of Betty Hemley’s carnations competing with the fish market and Jimmy Ramsay’s herb and garlic sausages made Dena feel nauseous. She knew that she hadn’t really wanted a lunch break, didn’t feel hungry. Not even the delicious aroma of Big Molly’s famous meat and potato pies could tempt her to eat.
She bought Trudy an ice cream cornet from the Bertalones’ stall, but felt far too tense and unhappy for food herself. Although maybe a cup of tea would help to take away this sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, which still hadn’t gone despite the trial being over.
It was with a feeling of guilty relief that Dena saw Belle wasn’t at work this morning which fortunately postponed the moment she would have to face her. No doubt she was still haranguing the solicitor for not getting her beloved Kenny off.
Dena sipped gratefully on the hot tea. The noises of the market, of the stallholders calling out their wares, children crying, music playing, all seemed strangely muted, adding to her sense of unreality. Garishly coloured strings of beads dazzled her; a row of false legs clad in fishnet stockings might normally have brought a smile to her face but her mind failed to see the humour in them this morning. Even her response to her daughter’s happy chatter was no more than automatic.
If only Carl had come and joined them at the celebrations, when she’d been feeling so buoyant and full of hope, she’d have felt as if the problems they’d been experiencing could finally be resolved. So many times she’d postponed their wedding, insisting they should wait until after the trial. Surely it would all be different now that they were free at last to make proper plans?
But if that were so, then why did she feel so flat, so deeply depressed, as if nothing had changed?
Trudy tapped her on the arm, attempting to gain her attention. ‘Mummy, can we go to the park?’
‘I’m not sure I have the energy.’
‘Aw, but we always go to the park in the afternoon. Can I play with Gabby then?’
‘She’s at school.’
‘I want to go to school. Why can’t I go to school?’
‘Because you aren’t old enough?’
‘Why aren’t I?’
Questions, questions, questions. She never seemed to stop. The child’s bright mind was brimful of curiosity. How wonderful to be so young and excited about the world, instead of feeling this awful sense of dread for no reason whatsoever.
The tea didn’t seem to be having any calming effect at all. But then she’d never really thought that it would since her sickness was caused entirely by worry, not some debilitating illness.
Dena remembered Carl’s last words to her before the start of the trial. ‘When it’s over, I’ll ask you one last time.’ And wasn’t that what she wanted: to marry the man she loved? But for all the love in his eyes, those words had sounded more like a threat than a promise. He was telling her the time had come for her to make up her mind, once and for all. And in her heart of hearts, Dena knew what her answer must be.