Kitty Neale 3 Book Bundle. Kitty Neale

       Chapter Forty-Six

       Chapter Forty-Seven

       Chapter Forty-Eight

      In loving memory of George Frank Warren 1925-2012.

      A family man, a kind caring man – and a true gentleman who is sorely missed by all those who love him.

       Acknowledgements

      My thanks as always to my family and friends for their continued support. I would also like to thank some of the kind and helpful people I meet along the way, for instance Advantage, an online company who supply printer cartridges and who went out of their way to come to my rescue when I had problems with my printer.

       Chapter One

       Battersea, South London, 1956

      Lark Rise was cloaked in fog on a cold Sunday in late February, and when someone rang the doorbell, Celia Frost huffed with impatience. Though Celia always ensured that she looked immaculate, she nevertheless patted her light brown, permed hair and then whipped off her apron. A quick glance showed her living room looked immaculate too, her plush, blue sofa and matching fireside chairs standing alongside a mahogany sideboard polished so highly that the surface reflected her cut glass rose-bowl.

      When she opened the door, Celia wasn’t pleased to see Amy Miller and from her superior height of five foot six she looked down at Amy haughtily. ‘Yes, what do you want?’

      ‘Hello, Mrs Frost,’ Amy said. ‘I’ve just popped up to see how Tommy is.’

      ‘How many times have I to tell you that my son’s name is Thomas and I’d thank you not to shorten it.’

      ‘Sorry.’

      ‘Thomas had an unsettled night and he’s still in bed.’

      ‘Can I see him, if only for a minute?’ Amy appealed.

      ‘Certainly not! This is a respectable house and I do not allow young women into my son’s bedroom. Also, as I doubt Thomas will be fit to see anyone for several days yet there’s no point in calling again. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy preparing our Sunday lunch,’ and with that clipped comment, Celia firmly closed the door.

      ‘Who was that?’ George Frost asked as he folded his Sunday newspaper.

      ‘Amy,’ she told her husband, who was six foot tall, his good looks in Celia’s opinion only marred by dark, unruly, bushy hair and eyebrows. She was forever telling him to get his hair cut, and when short it looked a lot tidier.

      ‘Why didn’t you invite Amy in?’ George asked.

      ‘I should think that’s obvious,’ Celia answered. ‘Thomas is in bed and in no fit state for visitors.’

      ‘Amy’s a pretty little thing and seeing her might have cheered the lad up a bit.’

      ‘She’s as common as muck and totally unsuitable for Thomas.’

      ‘Don’t talk rubbish, woman,’ George snapped. ‘Amy’s a nice girl and her parents are no different to us.’

      ‘Of course they are,’ Celia protested. ‘You have your own business whereas Amy’s father works in a factory. As for her mother, well, she’s just a cleaner.’

      ‘My own business, don’t make me laugh,’ George said derisively. ‘All I’ve got is a small unit and one van.’

      ‘If you’d accepted my help, you could have expanded, but nevertheless you still work for yourself. We also have a nicer house than the pokey one the Millers live in at the bottom of the hill. Ours is an end of terrace too.’

      ‘That doesn’t make us any better than them.’

      ‘Of course it does. We are members of the Conservative Club and enjoy a social standing far superior to that of the Millers. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got lunch to prepare,’ Celia snapped, in no mood to argue. She’d been up half the night with Thomas and was tired. Not only that, she didn’t care what George said, she wanted better than the likes of Amy Miller for her son.

      From childhood Thomas had been sickly with a weak chest, prone to bronchitis and attacks of asthma. It was just as well Thomas worked for his father, a self-employed glazier, as with the amount of time Thomas had to have off she doubted he’d find any other employment.

      Sighing, Celia placed the joint of lamb in the oven, her thoughts still on her son. Thomas had always been intelligent, yet hampered by frequent absences from school her dreams of him going on to further education and finding a white collar job had turned to ashes.

      ‘I’m off to the pub for a couple of pints,’ George said when Celia returned to the living room.

      ‘You can hardly see a hand in front of your face out there,’ she warned.

      ‘I could find my way to the Park Tavern blindfolded.’

      Celia wasn’t amused and complained, ‘It’s like a ritual with you. Every Sunday at noon you go off to the pub while I’m left to cook our Sunday roast.’

      ‘If you feel like that, there’s nothing to stop you coming with me.’

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said indignantly. ‘I can’t leave Thomas and you know I wouldn’t be seen dead in a public house.’

      ‘It wouldn’t hurt you to loosen your corsets a bit now and then, Celia, and your apron strings while you’re at it. Thomas isn’t a child, he’s a grown man and you should stop mollycoddling him.’

      Celia’s lips tightened with annoyance. ‘Thomas might be twenty-one years old, but when ill he needs constant care, nursing. I’d hardly call that mollycoddling.’

      ‘You’re the same when he’s up and about, fussing over him all the time,’ George snapped and before Celia had a chance of rebuttal, he stomped out.

      Celia heard the front door slam and was left fuming. She had married George when she was eighteen and her elder son, Jeremy, was born before she was nineteen. Thomas came along four years later, both boys before the outbreak of the Second World War.

      George had been conscripted into the army, and by the time he came home at the end of the war, he was a stranger to his sons. Jeremy had been sixteen then; almost the man of the house and he’d resented being usurped. He and his father had locked horns, and within two years Jeremy had left home.

      Celia had no idea where Jeremy got his adventurous streak from, but he’d gone off with a friend saying they were going to travel, to see a bit of the world and it was rare that she heard from him. His last letter had arrived from Greece a year ago, and though she’d replied with all their news, he hadn’t responded.

      Now it seemed that George was ready to lock horns with their younger son, but Celia wasn’t going to stand for that. She still had Thomas, and there was no way she’d allow George to drive him away too.

      Phyllis Miller thought her seventeen-year-old daughter, Amy, looked upset when she arrived home. Amy had gone to find out how Tommy, her boyfriend was, but she was soon back.

      There was no hall in their home, with the front door leading straight into the living room, and a blast of cold air came in with Amy which made the flames in the hearth flicker. It wasn’t a large room, crammed with an old horsehair sofa and two mismatched fireside