Home is Where the Heart Is

Born in Lancashire, FREDA LIGHTFOOT has been a teacher and a bookseller, and in a mad moment even tried her hand at the ‘good life’. A prolific and much-loved saga writer, Freda’s work is inspired by memories of her Lancashire childhood and her passion for history. For more information about Freda, visit her website: www.fredalightfoot.co.uk

Historical Sagas

LAKELAND LILY

THE BOBBIN GIRLS

THE FAVOURITE CHILD

KITTY LITTLE

FOR ALL OUR

TOMORROWS

GRACIE’S SIN

DAISY’S SECRET

RUBY MCBRIDE

DANCING ON

DEANSGATE

WATCH FOR THE

TALLEYMAN

POLLY’S PRIDE

POLLY’S WAR

HOUSE OF ANGELS

ANGELS AT WAR

THE PROMISE

MY LADY DECEIVER

The Luckpenny Series

LUCKYPENNY LAND

WISHING WATER

LARKRIGG FELL

Poorhouse Lane Series

THE GIRL FROM

POORHOUSE LANE

THE WOMAN FROM

HEARTBREAK HOUSE

Champion Street Market Series

PUTTING ON THE STYLE

FOOLS FALL IN LOVE

THAT’LL BE THE DAY

CANDY KISSES

WHO’S SORRY NOW

LONELY TEARDROPS

Women’s Contemporary Fiction

TRAPPED

Historical Romances

MADEIRAN LEGACY

WHISPERING SHADOWS

RHAPSODY CREEK

PROUD ALLIANCE

OUTRAGEOUS

FORTUNE

Biographical Historical

HOSTAGE QUEEN

RELUCTANT QUEEN

THE QUEEN AND THE

COURTESAN

THE DUCHESS OF

DRURY LANE

LADY OF PASSION

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Also by Freda Lightfoot

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

Endpage

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

1945

Cathie gave a squeal of joy as she read the letter that had arrived that morning. ‘Alex is coming home!’ she cried. She’d waited so long for this news she couldn’t quite believe it. It must be nearly two years since she’d last seen her fiancé and now the war was over he’d be home for good, at last. She quickly scanned the letter again to make sure she’d read it correctly. ‘He says he hopes to be home by Christmas.’

There was no one to hear her exciting news except for the baby, bouncing up and down on her chubby little legs in her cot, holding fast to the rail and giving a happy gurgle as if to echo Cathie’s delight.

Gathering the child in her arms, Cathie screwed up her nose and chuckled. ‘I think you need changing, sweetie.’ But even as she smiled into the baby’s soft blue eyes, her own filled with tears. ‘Oh, I do wish your mummy was here, and your daddy, of course. It’s so desperately sad that you’ll never get to know or love them. I shall tell you all about them as you grow, of course. Particularly Sally, my dear sister, who loved you so much, and was very much a part of my life.’

At least a baby did not experience the pain of grief that she had suffered, Cathie thought, as she laid the infant on a towel-covered table to strip off the wet nappy and set about cleaning her plump little bottom.

What a dreadful war it had been. First her sister had lost her beloved husband, who’d gone down with his ship in August 1944 when it had been sunk by a U-boat. Tony had never even learned his wife was pregnant, let alone seen his child. As if that wasn’t bad enough, her mind flew back to that dreadful day, barely a month after the birth of her beautiful daughter, when Sal had gone with her friend Rose to the Gaumont Cinema on Oxford Road to see Judy Garland in Meet Me in St Louis. Cathie might well have accompanied them, but somebody needed to stay home and look after the baby. She’d happily volunteered for the task as she hoped the film might lift her sister’s depression. Still enveloped in grief, Sal had been in desperate need of an afternoon out.

Cathie had been happily sitting feeding little Heather with her bottle when the door had burst open. She’d glanced up with a smile, fully expecting to see her sister now that dusk was falling. Instead, she saw their mother standing rigid, her face as white as a ghost.

‘She’s gone.’

Cathie recalled how something inside her had jolted as she’d stared in shock at Rona. ‘Who has?’

‘Our Sal.’

Her memory became a blur after that, as a cold numbness came over her. Cathie had felt strangely detached. Everything went silent, even the sound of children playing in the street, and the odd passing car or motorcycle. It was as if she was standing outside of herself, watching as she gently set down the baby’s bottle and patted little Heather’s back to settle her tummy while the horror of what Rona was saying slowly penetrated.

It seemed that on their way home the driver had lost control on the icy roads and the bus had tipped into an old bomb crater, killing many on board, including her beloved sister.

Now the pain of her loss resonated afresh as, staring out of the window, Cathie watched two young women walking arm-in-arm past the bomb-damaged houses opposite, laughing and chattering. The pair reminded her so much of how she and Sal used to step out together, whether as young girls trotting off to school, or grown women going shopping or to a dance together. So many treasured memories.

The sad irony was that they’d come close to death many times during this last six years with constant air raids on the nearby railway, warehouses, wharfs and canals, and once when their own house had been bombed. A terrifying incident that Cathie still fiercely blocked from her mind.

The effects of war could be devastating and so long lasting.

Cathie stopped this train of thought in mid-track. To lose her beloved sister was bad enough, but for it to happen just as the war was coming to an end was even more heartbreaking. Sal’s death had left a huge hole in her life that nothing and no one could ever fill. It felt as if a part of her too had died as well as their family having been decimated.

Blinking back tears as she smoothed talcum powder over the baby’s soft skin and began to pin on a fresh nappy, Cathie’s heart was swamped with love and pity for her niece. With scarcely any family left, what kind of future could this little one be facing?

Not that they’d had much of a family to begin with, their father having left home while both girls were very young. And their mother, Rona, was not an easy woman. Cathie felt she’d endured a dreadful childhood: a selfish mother with a string of lovers and an absentee father whom she hadn’t seen in years. Sal had been the one person to give her the love she’d so badly needed. Cathie certainly had no wish for little Heather to suffer a similar fate. And who else was there to care for the poor child but herself? A responsibility she’d accepted without question.

Were it not for having to care for the baby, she might never have found the will to carry on, or even get up in a morning. She’d needed to locate a nursery, of course, to look after the child during the day, as Cathie couldn’t afford to give up her job at the tyre factory down by the docks. She’d also queued at the Citizens Advice Bureau for hours, to ask them if she was entitled to extra clothing coupons for the baby. They’d agreed that she was, and had told her to ask for form CRSC/1. All such a fuss, but money was tight and Cathie had very little in the way of savings in the post office.

There was a tidy sum stashed away in an account left by dear Sally and her husband, but that was for their precious daughter when she grew up, not to be wasted on trivial bits and bobs now.

Breathing in the sweet scent of her as she cuddled the baby in her arms and kissed her soft cheek, Cathie murmured, ‘You were so loved by your mummy, and if Sal were still with us, she’d be celebrating Alex’s return along with me, despite having lost your lovely father. I promise that you will never feel unwanted, sweetie, even if there are only a few of us left. The war is over and it’s time for a fresh start.’

But how would her fiancé react to taking on someone else’s child? Did she even know Alex well enough to be certain? Of course he would, as he was such a kind, sweet man. As Cathie warmed some milk for the baby’s morning porridge, she kept glancing across at his letter, her heart radiating with hope and pride. She’d loved Alex Ryman from the moment she’d met him over three years ago, back in 1942.

One Saturday, as Sal’s husband Tony had been home on leave, they’d treated themselves to a night at the Palais. It wasn’t cheap, being ninepence a ticket, but it proved to be worth the expense when this gorgeous man had approached her to ask for a dance.

‘I couldn’t take my eyes off you. You are so lovely with your long curly red hair, that smattering of freckles on your cute little nose, and the sweetest smile,’ he’d said.

Cathie remembered how she’d flushed with pleasure at the compliment, never for a moment having thought of herself in such terms. ‘Not strictly red, more a strawberry blonde,’ she corrected him, with a smile more shy than sweet, or so she thought.

‘Still beautiful, however you describe it, as are your hazel eyes. I’m not the greatest dancer in the world, but please would you do me the honour?’

‘I’d be delighted,’ and, taking his hand, she’d allowed him to lead her out on to the dance floor. She felt entranced by the fact that this tall handsome man, with his crop of short brown hair, chestnut brown eyes and square jutting chin, could be at all interested in her. His quiet conservative manner, and the respect he showed her, also proved him to be the perfect gentleman.

They danced almost every dance, the feel of his arms wrapped about her slender body, as if she were too precious to let go, filling her with joy. Was this how it felt to fall in love? Something she’d never experienced before. By the end of the evening, Cathie happily accepted an offer of a date, all too aware of a dazed longing in her eyes as she cast him a shy sideways glance from beneath her lashes. Could this be the man of her dreams? It most certainly felt like love at first sight for both of them.

After he returned to base, they’d exchanged letters almost daily. At that time he was stationed at Squires Gate, Blackpool, which before the war had been a holiday camp but was now used for army training. Barely able to put him from her mind, she’d gone out with him at every opportunity. Most wonderful of all, when he was granted a week’s leave before being sent overseas early in 1943 following weeks of training in Silloth, he’d presented her with a ring.

‘I wish I could afford to buy you something more splendid, but the thought of not seeing you again is devastating. I need to be sure that you’ll be here, waiting for me, when I return.’

‘Oh, I most certainly will,’ she’d assured him with love and pity in her heart, utterly thrilled and excited by his proposal.

Sadly, she hadn’t seen him since, or received quite as many letters as she would have liked, but then he’d been stationed in Egypt, and goodness knows where else. Now he was coming home at last, and she could hardly wait to become his wife.

Cathie’s new-found happiness was very slightly curtailed as she considered what his reaction might be to the fact that this little one now occupied a large place in her heart too. She certainly had every intention of keeping her, not least because she understood how it felt to be deprived of parental love. And she owed it to her sister. For little Heather’s sake, and to celebrate Alex’s homecoming, Cathie fully intended to push these concerns from her mind and make this the best Christmas ever.

‘It may only be October but Christmas will be here before you know it, which means I must start shopping and preparing right away, as rationing makes everything so difficult,’ she told her giggling niece, as she popped her safely back in her cot.

Oh, she really couldn’t wait to welcome Alex home, and to be in his arms again. He too had no doubt lost friends and loved ones, maybe suffered injuries in battles and campaigns he’d been involved in. So surely he would appreciate how necessary it was to move on and live with the consequences of whatever this dreadful war had thrown at them. Cathie was quite certain he would come to love her little niece as much as she did.

‘Never in a million years,’ said her mother later that day when Cathie showed Rona the letter and spoke of her intention to ask Alex to agree they adopt little Heather. ‘No man is willing to take on another chap’s child. Why would he agree to do such a thing?’

‘Because Alex is a lovely kind man. Why would he not?’ As so often when dealing with her mother, Cathie felt instantly irritated by Rona’s sarcasm and negative attitude. She had always been a dogmatic, stubborn person, obsessed with her own needs and busy social life, with little thought or care for those she was supposed to love. Even her show of grief had been entirely self-centred, worrying more about how she would cope without Sal’s help in the house, rather than any genuine sense of loss.

‘Who’ll do the washing and ironing now?’ she’d moaned. ‘Who will clean the house, mop the floors, make the beds, and keep the fire going? You’re not half as good at housework as our Sal was.’

‘Who cares about such things?’ Cathie had sobbed in her distress. ‘It’s losing my lovely sister that hurts, like a knife in my heart, not the loss of the work she used to do around the house.’ Sal had been like a mother to her, as well as an elder sister, something Rona never could be.

‘Well, someone has to do it, and I’m certainly not up to all that hard work any more,’ had been her mother’s sharp response, and still was to this day as she made herself comfy now in her chair by the fire. She began filing her already perfect nails as she patiently waited for Cathie to tell her when tea was ready. She was an attractive woman, despite being well into her forties, with her smoothly styled blonde hair and blue eyes, lovely oval face completely wrinkle-free, pencilled brows and red lipstick. She would even rub some of the lipstick on to her powdered cheeks. Not for a moment did it enter her lazy head that perhaps she should help, if only to lay the table, let alone peel the potatoes.

‘You could brew the tea,’ Cathie politely suggested, striving to keep her temper.

‘You’re the one standing by the stove, so why don’t you do it? And you’re the one with energy, being young, so be quick about it as I’m meeting Tommy at seven o’clock at the Pack Horse.’

Cathie stifled a weary sigh, all too aware it was a complete waste of time and energy to argue with Rona. She had no real objection to dealing with household chores, but a little assistance now and then would help. Unfortunately, nothing would persuade Rona to take the slightest risk of breaking a nail, or spoiling whatever pretty dress she happened to be wearing. Nor had she ever lifted a finger to help care for little Heather, or shown the slightest interest in the child, despite being her only grandchild.

It was Cathie who fed the baby, changed and washed her nappies, and got up with her in the night when she was hungry or teething. Fortunately, she was a good baby, but the work was exhausting nonetheless. It was Cathie who wheeled the pram to the nursery on her way to the factory each morning, and collected the baby on the way home at the end of her long working day. If Rona was on the early shift at the local cotton mill, it never brought forth an offer to pick up her grandchild, or to make a contribution towards the cost of her care.

As for offering to babysit, that hadn’t happened in the entire seven months since Sal’s death. Not that this troubled Cathie one bit, as she’d been far too sunk in grief to be interested in going anywhere. But things would need to change in the future, and she had every faith that Alex would support her, as well as provide her with the love she’d always longed for.

‘You haven’t even agreed to meet him yet, so how can you possibly judge?’ Cathie said, returning to their original difference of opinion as she placed two plates of corned beef hash on the table.

‘Men are men and not interested in babies. You are such an innocent. It’s long past time you grew up and entered the real world.’

‘I think the war ensured I did that, Mam,’ Cathie sharply responded. ‘I’m twenty-two, if you recall, no longer a child.’

‘So you are, and with a face on you like a line of wet washing. Stop sulking, girl.’

‘Actually, I’m feeling much better, really quite happy now that Alex is on his way home.’

‘Aye, well don’t be too naïve, or expect too much from that fella of yours. He’ll have his own plans for the future, whether you like it or not.’

‘I’m sure he will, but I’m entitled to my wishes too.’

‘Ooh, what an independent little madam you’ve turned into.’

‘That could be the result of the war too,’ Cathie said, thinking that she really hadn’t been given much choice in the matter with a young baby to care for, a useless mother and a living to earn.

After lifting Heather into her high chair and tucking a bib about the baby’s neck, she began to feed her the soft hash from her own little dish and let her mind drift away from her mother’s nagging. Despite her ignorance so far as baby care was concerned, the nine-month-old was doing well. She’d sat up at six months, and was now showing every sign of wanting to walk. Precious little Heather had been successfully weaned and was doing well with her eating, though she did have a tendency to fling her dish on to the floor if she didn’t care for whatever was on offer, or grew bored with the process. Today, she seemed to approve of the mush she was eating, which was a great relief. Feeding spoonfuls to the baby as she ate her own food, Cathie focused her thoughts upon her happy news.

The biggest worry she and Alex faced was where they would live when they did marry. The idea of moving in with her mother as newly-weds was too dreadful to contemplate, even supposing Rona would agree to such an idea. Cathie had already made a few enquiries about finding a house to rent, so far with no luck. So many homes had been destroyed by the bombing that they were in very short supply. ‘Homes for Heroes’ they’d been promised by the government, but there was little sign of any so far, apart from a few prefabs. She could but hope something would turn up soon.

Everything would work out just fine, she was sure of it. Father Christmas was about to deliver the best present possible by sending Alex home to her. Now she would give her fiancé the best present she had to offer, her love forever, and a beautiful ready-made family to start their wonderful life together.

CHAPTER TWO

The next day being a Saturday, Cathie set off early to Campfield Market, intent upon making a start on her preparations for Christmas. Most of their food was purchased from the local Co-op where she could benefit from an annual dividend and other special offers. At Christmas they would allow customers a little extra sugar, butter and a tin of condensed milk. But she still loved to visit the market for bargains.

Cathie had carefully written out a list, which included little gifts to put in crackers and some sticky strips to make paper chains. She already had a box of Christmas tree baubles and ornaments that she and Sal had collected over the years, many of them home-made. Later, Cathie meant to buy a small tree, which she would decorate. Right now she must find the right ingredients to start cooking. Dried fruit for mincemeat and a Christmas cake, dried egg, prunes or dried apricots, spices and vanilla essence to make everything taste good, and ground rice for some mock marzipan. Hopefully there’d be an end to rationing soon, but while it continued, this would not be an easy task; so the sooner she started searching, the better.

The food shops and stalls were mainly in the top section between Tonman Street and Liverpool Road, and that was where she headed first. A brisk wind made her tighten the scarf about her neck, sending scraps of grubby paper bags and rotting cabbage leaves flying everywhere. But the baby was tucked up safe and warm in her pram with the hood up and the apron clipped in place over the blankets.

Cathie decided she would try ordering a goose from one of the butchers, although sometimes it was better to come to the market late, just before it closed as prices were cheaper then. The problem with that was there might not be anything left, and Cathie really had no wish to make do with another mock goose comprised mainly of lentils and onions. If this was to be the best Christmas ever, to celebrate Alex’s homecoming, genuine poultry was essential.

Cathie loved exploring the market, with its huge iron girders arching across the roof beneath a range of dusty windows, the supporting pillars beautifully decorated with red roses in patriotic honour of Lancashire. She would lovingly stroke a hand over one as she passed by, as if to bring herself luck, something she still felt in need of despite the war being over. Outdoor stalls jostled for space from here on Tonman Street right across to Deansgate, many of them piled high with second-hand goods, as anything new and cheap was quite rare with rationing still in place.

As always the market was heaving with people: harassed mothers scolding their children for wandering off, old men in flat caps and mufflers huddled together by the hot baked potato cart, no doubt busily putting the world to rights. Perhaps discussing how the General Election in July had brought a Labour landslide with Clement Attlee now Prime Minister in place of Churchill. The terrible bombs that had been dropped since on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the fact Britain was pretty well stony broke.

Nevertheless, morale remained high, despite the threat of austerity and restrictions growing ever tighter as young men returned from the war. It was true that ex-servicemen were not always in one piece, or a happy state of mind, often damaged either physically or mentally. But families were delighted to see their loved ones safely home.

Cathie could barely wait to see Alex again.

She studied various grocery, vegetable and biscuit stalls, happily pausing to watch a man in a bowler hat cleverly juggling pots, pans and plates, appearing to let one fall then easily catching it in order to gain people’s attention. ‘I’m not asking five shillings. I’m not asking one shilling. I’m not even asking sixpence. A threepenny bit and this beautiful plate is yours,’ he shouted to the large crowd gathered about his stall.