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Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020
Copyright © Cathy Sharp 2020
Cover photograph © Collaboration JS
Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Cathy Sharp asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008387617
Ebook Edition © April 2020 ISBN: 9780008387624
Version: 2020-04-01
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
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
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
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by Cathy Sharp
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
‘I’m ’ungry,’ the child whined, dabbing miserably at her dripping nose. ‘I want Ma! I want ter go ’ome!’ She coughed harshly and rubbed at her thin chest.
‘You know that ain’t goin’ ter ’appen fer a while,’ Charlie said eyeing his sister with a mixture of brotherly affection and concern. Maisie was sickly, though the doctors said she would grow out of it; all she needed was warmth and care, but at the moment he had neither to offer her. ‘Ma is in the ’ospital and she’s proper bad after what that devil did to her.’
Maisie looked at him, her eyes filling with tears. He saw the fear behind the tears and knew that she was remembering the night when Ronnie the Greek, their mother’s pimp, had thrown them out of the house in a temper. Charlie had gone back in to find food for them and a coat for her, because it was chilly and that horrible man had caught him and given him a beating. He’d told Charlie to clear off before he broke his bleedin’ neck, but when their mother had protested that her children were cold and hungry, he’d turned on her, hammering at her with his fists until she fell unconscious to the ground and then kicking her in the head. Charlie had gone for him then, kicking, punching and biting until Ronnie had knocked him down and stormed out of the house.
Charlie had tried to wake his mother but she wouldn’t open her eyes so he’d run to a neighbour for help and then the police had come and his mother had been taken to the hospital. Charlie and Maisie had hidden behind the scullery door and listened until Ma was taken away in an ambulance and then made their escape with what food they could find in the pantry. The police had asked the neighbours to bring them in as soon as they came home and so they’d stayed clear of the house, hiding in derelict buildings of which there were many in the back alleys near the docks.
Charlie knew that he couldn’t look after his sister properly yet. He needed to find work and in these hard times that was easier said than done. Scores of men were standing on the corner of Button Street and the roads nearby, eyes dull, shoulders slumped with the despair of knowing that another day was passing without hope of finding a decent job, many already on the streets because they could not feed their children or keep a roof over their heads. Competition for somewhere to rest was fierce and the children had been chased away from all the places where it was safe to sleep.
‘Clear orf! We don’t want kids ’ere!’ Charlie had been yelled at and cuffed more than once as he tried to find a spot out of the wind and rain.
‘Come on,’ he told Maisie and took her hand. ‘We’ll go to the police station and tell them we ain’t got anywhere to live.’
‘They’ll lock us up,’ Maisie said fearfully.
‘Nah, they’ll take us somewhere warm and safe and feed us.’
‘I’m frightened, Charlie.’ Maisie looked up at him and he took her small hand gently in his. ‘I wish Ma was ’ome.’
‘So do I, but she ain’t,’ he said. ‘I’m not afraid of anyone or anything, Maisie.’ It wasn’t quite true but Charlie knew he had to protect his sister because there was no one else that would bother about them. So, it was down to him. ‘We’ll do what they tell us until I can earn a bit of money and then we’ll run away. Don’t worry, Maisie. I’ll look after yer.’
Maisie looked up at him with the trusting eyes of a little kitten. He smiled because she was his sister and he loved her. Ma had done her best but she’d fallen foul of a brute. That brute was going to pay one day. Charlie wasn’t sure how but he would find a way …
‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘If we’re lucky they will feed us – and I’m ’ungry too!’
‘I am concerned,’ Lady Rosalie said to the woman sitting opposite her in the parlour of her London house. A modest Georgian terrace, she preferred it to the larger house in the country where she’d lived with Sir George until his death – and to the historic but draughty castle where, as the daughter of an earl, she’d grown up. ‘I’m sure you will agree that the Adoption of Children Act of 1926 was done with the best intent, but too many adoptions are being granted to those who are not suitable – and, in some cases, utterly wrong for parenthood.’
‘I quite agree with you, my lady,’ said Mary Thurston, Matron of the Lady Rosalie Infirmary – affectionately called ‘the Rosie’ by the residents of Button Street and the surrounding lanes in the grimy district of Whitechapel in London’s East End. It was Lady Rosalie who, as a prominent member of the welfare committee interested in providing safe homes for damaged children, had first badgered the council into setting up the infirmary. They had named it for her, though in her opening speech she had dedicated it to her late husband, whose death had inspired her to fight for the poor of the East End.
Lady Rosalie nodded. ‘It was thought that adoption or fostering could only benefit the children, but some unscrupulous persons are misusing it and a new law needs to be brought in to safeguard the children.’
‘I fear that to be the case – a sad fact of life, my lady,’ Matron replied.
It was now 1936 and the Act that had, in 1926, been intended to help orphaned children was, in many cases, being sadly misused. People applied for the care of orphans only to abuse them, or for the small allowance given, very little of which was then spent on the children it was meant for.
‘My dear Mary,’ Lady Rosalie said, ‘I’ve told you before, no titles are necessary between us. You are not just Matron to me but a friend I know I can trust – and we are in perfect agreement on what needs to be done.’ She smiled at her friend of many years.
‘If only you had a free hand, Rosalie …’ Matron said. ‘We could do so much more.’
‘I raise funds for the infirmary and because of that my voice is listened to in committee,’ Lady Rosalie replied. ‘Unfortunately, I have only so much time and influence – and there is so much more I want to do.’ Her main work was in the provision of reliable foster parents and this took much time and research.
‘Are you speaking with regard to those refugee children you mentioned earlier?’
‘Yes – I’ve learned of a group of orphaned children who are coming in from Spain, escaping from the terrible violence there, and I would appreciate any help you can give me with placing them.’
Mary Thurston had been the senior nurse in the expensive private hospital where Lady Rosalie’s husband had died of a crippling illness some eight years earlier. It was during one of their long vigils by his bedside that the two women had bonded. Sister Thurston had confided that she wanted to devote her life to the poor of the East End, who could not always afford medical care, and the grieving widow had campaigned tirelessly to set up the Rosie in memory of her husband. She had one son, now fourteen and at boarding school. During the holidays she devoted her time to his happiness, thoroughly spoiling him, but she had longed for a large family and, to compensate for her lack, she had become active in several charitable institutions and sat on the boards of various committees, the most important set up to monitor foster carers.
‘I know you have been lobbying your friends in Parliament again,’ Mary replied, nodding her approval. ‘What chance is there of an amendment to this act, which would prevent those wicked advertisements in the papers?’
Lady Rosalie tutted, because it was scandalous that some people thought it perfectly acceptable to advertise babies – effectively for sale – through the medium of a newspaper, when fostering had never been intended to be used in that way.
‘Very little at the moment! I do not know who is worse – those who sell their own children, those who take the children of the poor and send them off to Australia or give them to unsuitable foster parents, who do it only for what they are paid – or those who have the power to change things and do nothing.’
Mary shook her head. ‘I thought, if we could use a part of the children’s ward at the infirmary to look after orphans on a temporary basis, particularly if they are sickly, as so many are, you might arrange something more permanent for them?’
‘Now that is a very good idea,’ Lady Rosalie said. ‘I do not have the power to act alone, naturally, but my recommendations go a long way …’
Mary Thurston, Matron to her staff and the patients, smiled. Very few would go against Lady Rosalie, a dynamic personality who was far too young to be a retiring widow. Married to a man ten years her senior when she was eighteen, she was now just thirty-five.
‘Then I shall implement the idea at once,’ Mary said. ‘We’ll use the small ward as a temporary refuge for orphans who are brought in sick, but we cannot keep them for longer than they need to be perfectly well to go to new homes.’
‘Good, we are agreed,’ Lady Rosalie said. She stood up as Mary prepared to leave and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘I bless the day that you came into my life, Mary. You helped me through a time when I felt I had nothing to live for – and now I have so much …’
CHAPTER 1
‘Eh, but you’re a lovely girl,’ Woody Jacobs said, causing Nurse Sarah to turn and look at him as he lay propped up against the pillows of his narrow cot in the infirmary ward for men. At past seventy years, his chest was weak and he’d been with them on and off through most of the winter. ‘You’ll make someone a fine wife, nurse.’
Sarah walked over to him, smiled and adjusted his pillows, then, as he began wheezing, she offered him a glass of water, holding it patiently as he sipped and pulled a face at the taste of lukewarm water.
‘I’d rather have a mug of beer.’
‘I expect you would.’ Sarah laughed. ‘But I’m afraid the infirmary’s funds don’t run to that sort of treat, Mr Jacobs.’
‘Pity, that,’ he said, a twinkle in his eye. ‘Tell me, why hasn’t some fine young man snapped you up yet?’
‘I have someone special,’ Sarah told him. She liked talking to Mr Jacobs and never minded his questions, though Sister Norton would have called some of them impertinent. ‘We’re saving for a home of our own and a proper wedding.’
‘Ah, so that’s it.’ Woody nodded his understanding. ‘I thought it was strange you not havin’ a ring on your finger – a lovely girl like you.’
‘They wouldn’t let me nurse you if I was married,’ Sarah told him, though she wasn’t sure that was strictly true. It was a regulation that nurses must not be married in hospitals run by the council or the state, but the infirmary relaxed these rules, because as Matron and Lady Rosalie agreed, the best nurses were often those that had married and returned to their work later in life. Woody was here, not because he was chronically sick, but because he had no home and, living on the streets in the winter, he contracted lots of colds and coughs making his chest painful for him. Matron said that he would always be admitted to the men’s ward, providing that there was a bed for him, and he treated it as a home from home. In the summer they wouldn’t see him, but in the winter he turned up regularly, coughing and wheezing.
‘Nurse Cartwright!’ Sister Norton’s tone was sharp. She did not approve of the way the old man came and went as often as he pleased. Had she been in charge he would not have been admitted, unless he really needed to be in the ward for the chronically sick. ‘I have a job for you if you’ve finished chatting.’
The sarcasm in the ward sister’s tone made Sarah flinch but she didn’t allow her expression to change as she said, ‘Yes, Sister, what can I do for you?’
‘The police have brought in two children,’ Sister Norton said. ‘There is only Nurse Anne on duty in the children’s ward this evening and I want them checked over. Go along and see if they need isolation or simply a good wash.’
‘Yes, Sister Norton.’
Sarah caught Woody’s wink and had to smother a laugh. She left him propped up against his pillows with his eyes shut. Sister Norton might intimidate her nurses and the cleaners if she caught them doing something wrong, but Woody took her scolding in his stride. Not for the first time, Sarah wondered what had led the old man to a life on the streets. Had he ever had a family? And if so, what had happened to them?
Walking briskly to the children’s ward, Sarah noticed that the smell of disinfectant was still strong. The walls were painted with a dark cream gloss, because that was easier to clean, and once a month the cleaners had to scrub them with a fluid that was so overpowering that it took Sarah’s breath. However, it helped to keep down the infection rate – or that was what Matron believed.
Matron was in charge of the day-to-day running of the infirmary. Sister Ruth Linton was her assistant on the critical ward and Nurse Anne was a probationer who had not yet taken her final exams. She spent much of her time looking after the children, some of whom were actually ill, while others were simply orphans brought in by the police if they were unwell, because there was no room for them anywhere else. The orphanages in London were always filled to capacity.
Hearing indignant squeals coming from the large washroom next to the children’s ward, Sarah went in and smiled as she saw the young probationer, her sleeves rolled up to the elbows, valiantly trying to cope with two very dirty and clearly rebellious children.
‘Hello,’ she said, ‘may I be of help?’
‘Oh yes, please!’ Nurse Anne looked relieved. ‘This is Charlie and his sister Maisie Howes. Their mother is in hospital and Constable Steve Jones brought them to us to look after until a place can be found at an orphanage—’
‘Ain’t goin’ to no orphanage,’ Charlie burst out, looking belligerent. ‘And I ain’t gettin’ in that there thing, neither.’
‘I ain’t neither,’ Maisie said copying her brother, her bottom lip pulled down, tears hovering on her lashes.
‘Don’t you want a nice ham sandwich and a bun with a cup of orange squash?’ Sarah asked and saw Charlie’s eyes light up at the mention of food.
‘I am ’ungry,’ Maisie said and the tears spilled over. ‘Ain’t ’ad nuthin’ for three days.’
‘You ’ad a bun day afore yesterday,’ Charlie said and glared at Sarah. ‘Why can’t we have the food now? The cops said yer would feed us.’
‘And so we will,’ Sarah promised with a smile. ‘But we need you to be clean so we can pop you into bed and then give you your supper.’
‘I have a strip wash regular once a week. Ma puts washing soda in the bowl and sponges us both down.’
‘I’m sure she does,’ Sarah said, and moved her hand back and forth in the bath, making it splash a bit. ‘But the water is lovely and warm and you could have a bit of fun …’ She splashed a few drops of water at him and he recoiled and then moved closer. He leaned over and put his hand in the water, splashing her back. Sarah nodded. ‘Why don’t you both get in?’ She pointed at the two baths side by side.
‘I ain’t gettin’ naked in front of you!’
‘Keep your pants on then,’ Sarah said and he hesitated.
‘Ain’t got nuthin’ under me trousers …’
‘Oh, I see …’ Sarah looked round for inspiration and then handed him a small towel. ‘Hold this over your front, Charlie. I promise not to look.’
Still suspicious, he stripped off his things. Sarah and Nurse Anne turned their backs while he got into the water. Maisie stripped off her dress and a pair of tatty knickers before jumping into the adjoining bath. The pair of them indulged in a lot of splashing around, giggling as the water wetted the floor. It was clearly a new experience and one they enjoyed once they let go of their inhibitions. Neither of them objected when Sarah took a sponge and rubbed soap on it before scrubbing their backs.
Charlie winced a bit and she saw there were several yellowish bruises on his back and arms that were obviously still tender.
‘What happened to your back, Charlie?’
‘It were just a fight at school,’ he said but she sensed he was lying.
‘It was the bloke Ma brought ’ome,’ Maisie said and tears trickled down her cheeks. ‘He beat Charlie ’cos he went in the house to get some food for me when he’d thrown us out – and Charlie cheeked him when he asked what he was doin’ – and he beat Ma bad ’cos she stuck up fer us. That’s why she’s in the ’ospital!’
‘Shut up, Maisie,’ Charlie warned. ‘We don’t snitch!’
‘If that man hurt your mum he deserves to be snitched on,’ Sarah said. ‘Sometimes it’s best to tell the truth – as long as he isn’t around to hit you again.’
‘I ain’t scared of ’im,’ Charlie said. ‘I ain’t scared of nuthin’.’
‘Good,’ she told them. ‘You can finish washing yourselves and afterwards I’ll give your heads a good wash with this stuff, too.’
‘It smells awful,’ Charlie said sniffing the bottle.
‘That’s what the nits think – and it makes them hop off,’ Sarah said.
He grinned.
‘You ain’t bad,’ he told her. ‘You wash Maisie’s hair. She’s got ’em the worst and I can do me own.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you can,’ Sarah agreed and nodded at Nurse Anne as she brought a pile of clean clothes for the children. ‘How old are you, Charlie?’
‘Fourteen,’ he declared truculently. ‘I ought ter be at work …’
‘Not quite yet,’ Sarah said. She didn’t think he could be much more than twelve but didn’t contradict him. The police report would hopefully be more accurate and she would read it after she had brought these two their supper. ‘Well, you both seem healthy to me, apart from those bruises – just in need of a wash and some food. We might ask Dr Kent to take a look at you when he visits, but there’s no need to put you in the isolation ward.’
‘Ma looked after us good – leastwise, until she got in with that bloke.’ Charlie rubbed at his eyes. ‘I don’t know what he done to her – but she weren’t the same. I think he gives her somefin’ – funny stuff what changed ’er. Her eyes go all strange after he’s been. He’s a bad ’un, miss.’
‘Do you know his name?’
Maisie opened her mouth and shut it as her brother gave her a glare.
‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Ma was goin’ ter tell us but he told ’er ter shut up and ’it her.’
‘Charlie didn’t half kick his ankles and when he grabbed ’im he bit his hand,’ Maisie said, clearly in awe of her brother’s courage. ‘He give Charlie a proper pastin’ and threw us out – and we hadn’t had nuffin’ ter eat all day, ’cos we was waitin’ for Ma to come ’ome. We sneaked in again, though.’
Sarah nodded. The man who had bullied these children had also used force to subdue their mother, but besides that he might have given her drugs of some kind. Evil substances that changed personalities and made addicts do things they would not normally do. Sarah’s boyfriend Jim had told her about the prostitutes he saw when he was working at the pub.
‘They come in and they don’t know where they are or what they’re doin’,’ he’d said once. ‘The pimps give them these foul drugs and then set them to work and after a while they’re so mad for the heroin or whatever it is that they do whatever their pimp tells them to …’
Hearing the children’s story made her angry. These children had suffered because of what had happened to their mother and Sarah would have liked to punish the man who had used the unfortunate woman, but she knew there was nothing she could do. Charlie and Maisie were not the only children to tell similar tales, but the police never seemed to do much about it. They removed the children from their homes, but the men in the shadows got away with their crimes over and over again.
‘Thank you so much,’ Nurse Anne said when both children were wrapped in warm towels. ‘I don’t think I could have managed without you.’
Sarah nodded. The young probationer loved children and enjoyed looking after them, but children like Charlie and Maisie needed a firm hand when they first came in.
‘Well, if you can pop them into pyjamas and get them to bed, I’ll bring their supper. I might even find a little jelly and ice cream as well as that sandwich and bun.’
Sister Ruth Linton was in the kitchen making a pot of tea and setting a tray with cups and saucers.
‘Ah, Nurse Cartwright,’ she said and smiled. ‘Have you got those little tearaways settled then?’
‘Yes, we managed it between us,’ Sarah said diplomatically. ‘They just needed a little persuasion.’
‘Bribery, I presume,’ the senior nurse said with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘I find it is often the best way with these children. Nurse Anne will learn in time.’
Sarah liked Sister Linton. She had a sense of humour and seemed more approachable than Matron, who could be a little stern.