A Daughter’s Courage: A powerful, gritty new saga from the Sunday Times bestseller. Kitty Neale
Читать онлайн.| Название | A Daughter’s Courage: A powerful, gritty new saga from the Sunday Times bestseller |
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| Автор произведения | Kitty Neale |
| Жанр | Историческая литература |
| Серия | |
| Издательство | Историческая литература |
| Год выпуска | 0 |
| isbn | 9780008191719 |
Battersea, London, 1956
Crimson nail polish was the only splash of colour in the dank kitchen as Dorothy Butler painted her nails in preparation for her date with Robbie Ferguson. It was mid-September and she was sitting at the battered kitchen table. While waiting for the varnish to dry, she watched as her mother, Alice, flicked soapy suds from her hands before wiping them down the front of her washed-out apron.
Now twenty-two years old, Dorothy had been a child when her father returned from fighting in France, a broken man, unable to resume his work as a groundsman in Battersea Park. Since then, with only a small army disability pension to live on, her mother had taken in washing, which helped to pay the rent and buy the coal needed to warm the house during the long winter months. It was all Alice could manage as her fear of going outside kept her a prisoner in her own home. However, constantly leaning over the sink and scrubbing clothes had damaged her back, and Dorothy saw her grimace as she stirred the three cups of tea she’d just made.
Dorothy winced at the sight of her mum’s hands. They looked blistered, red raw, and she wished she could do more to ease her burdens. Her own job as a baker’s assistant didn’t pay well and, though they had sufficient to eat, there was only just enough money left to pay the bills.
‘Dottie, be a love and take this cuppa through to your father, will you?’ Alice asked.
Dottie blew on her freshly polished nails, hoping they were dry, as she obligingly took the weak tea which had seen the leaves stewed three times. She carried it through to the sparsely furnished front room. She wasn’t surprised to find her father Bill in his usual place, sat on a faded brown wing-backed armchair, staring up at the bare light-bulb hanging from the ceiling rose. Dorothy knew that her mother didn’t believe in luxuries, neither could she afford them. If it wasn’t practical or didn’t serve a purpose, then it wasn’t needed, and lampshades came under the latter heading.
‘Here you are, Dad,’ Dorothy said gently as she knelt next to her father’s chair. ‘I’ve brought you a nice cuppa.’
She studied her father’s pale face. His skin was almost translucent and etched with lines.