Lost & Found. Kitty Neale

Chapter Thirty-Nine

       Chapter Forty

       Chapter Forty-One

       Chapter Forty-Two

       Chapter Forty-Three

       Chapter Forty-Four

       Chapter Forty-Five

       Chapter Forty-Six

       Chapter Forty-Seven

       Chapter Forty-Eight

       Chapter Forty-Nine

       Keep Reading …

       Acknowledgements

       About the Author

       By the same author

       About the Publisher

       Chapter One

      PART ONE

      Battersea, South London, February 1954

      ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

      ‘School.’

      ‘Not today you ain’t,’ Lily Jackson told her daughter. ‘Take the pram out and go over to Chelsea again. I need some decent stuff for a change and the pickings are richer there.’

      ‘But I had two days off last week, and Dad said …’

      ‘Sod what your dad said. He hardly stumped up a penny on Friday. If we want to eat, finding me some decent stuff to flog is more important than flaming school. Anyway, as you leave in just over a month, you might as well get used to doing a bit of graft for a change.’

      Mavis felt the injustice of her mother’s words. For as long as she could remember, after school and every weekend, her task had been to take the pram out, begging for cast-offs. She hated it, almost as much as she hated her name. It had been her great grandmother’s, but even that was better than her nickname. She knew her ears stuck out, that she wasn’t clever, and every time the locals called her Dumbo, Mavis burned with shame. Oh, she’d be glad to leave school, dreamed of getting a job, of earning her own money. ‘I … I won’t mind going out to work.’

      ‘Huh! Nobody in their right mind would employ a useless lump like you.’

      ‘But … but …’

      ‘But nothing. Now don’t just stand there. Get a move on.’

      ‘Can … can I take some grub with me?’

      ‘Yeah, I suppose so, but there’s only bread and dripping.’

      Mavis hurried to cut two thick chunks of bread, spread them with dripping and, after filling an old lemonade bottle with water from the tap, she opened the back door to put them into the large Silver Cross pram. It was a cold, damp, February morning with a chill wind that penetrated her scant clothes. She hurried inside again to throw on her coat before wrapping a long, hand-knitted woollen scarf around her neck. ‘I’m off, Mum.’

      ‘It’s about time too. Be careful with any glass or china, and don’t show your face again until that pram’s full.’

      With a small nod, Mavis walked outside to the yard again and, gripping the pram handle, she wheeled it out into the back alley. It was a long walk to Chelsea, but Mavis kept her head down as she hurried along to Battersea Church Road. She was fearful of bumping into anyone she knew, especially Tommy Wilson and Larry Barnet, two boys of her own age who lived at the opposite end of the street. Tears stung her eyes. If her mother had suggested taking tomorrow off it wouldn’t have been so bad, but now she’d miss one of the only lessons she looked forward to. Her art teacher, Miss Harwood, praised her work, saying she had talent and encouraged her to think seriously about going on to art college when she left school. Of course, it was a silly dream, Mavis knew that. Her mother would have her doing something to earn money and would never allow it. To her, art was a waste of time and she’d never shown interest in any work that Mavis had taken home.

      Until now, Mavis thought, shivering with anticipation. The end-of-term painting was nearly complete and when her mother saw it, instead of shame, Mavis hoped she would at last see pride on her face. It was good—in fact, according to Miss Harwood, very good—and Mavis couldn’t wait for her mother to see it.

      Lily was glad to see the back of her daughter. Mavis had been a lovely baby and a pretty toddler, with dark curly hair and big blue eyes like her father. Her only flaw had been her large ears, but another one emerged soon after she started school. When other kids began to learn how to read and write, Mavis was left behind, and her clumsiness became more apparent. Simple things like catching a ball were beyond her and the only thing she was good at was drawing. What good was that when it came to earning a living?

      Lily had long since accepted the truth. Her daughter might be pretty, but she was a bit simple, daft; almost as bad as her father. Ron had been an orphan, a Barnardo boy, but at least he could read. At that thought Lily scowled. Yes, Ron could read the racing form and write out a betting slip. Over the years they’d had row after row about his gambling, but nothing stopped him. In fact, it just got worse, until almost every week his wage packet ended up down the greyhound track. When he wasn’t at the dogs, Ron was in the pub, blowing the last of his wages.

      Lily shook her head in disgust. As always, the burden of looking after Mavis fell to her. She had to feed their daughter, clothe her, and as Ron was hardly in he took little interest in Mavis. When he had rolled home on Friday night, she had waited until he was asleep to search his pockets, hoping against hope that he hadn’t blown the lot. All she’d found was a crumpled ten-bob note along with a few coppers and, knowing her stock was low, she’d felt like braining him. She was sick of flogging other people’s junk to make a few bob, the old clothes being the worst. She had to wash and iron the stuff, tarting it up as best she could to sell down at the local market. Most weeks it made her enough to scrape by, but when it didn’t, Lily thanked her lucky stars for her old mum. It wasn’t right that she had to go to her for the occasional hand-out, but with Ron losing more than he ever won, sometimes she had no choice.

      Lily took a last gulp of tea then stoically rose to her feet. What was the matter with her? She didn’t have time to sit here. She had the last pile of junk to sort out, though it wasn’t up to much and hardly worth the bother. She just hoped that Mavis could cadge some decent stuff this time—and that she didn’t break it before fetching it home.

      Ron stared at the foreman, his fists clenched in anger.

      ‘Did you hear what I said, Jackson?’

      ‘Yeah, I heard you.’

      ‘Right then. Get a move on.’

      ‘It ain’t my job to dig out footings. I’m a hod carrier, not a labourer,’ Ron snapped.

      ‘Your brickie hasn’t turned up, and I’m not