Josephine Cox 3-Book Collection 2: The Loner, Born Bad, Three Letters. Josephine Cox

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

PART FOUR

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

PART FIVE

Chapter Twenty

       Chapter Twenty-One

       Chapter Twenty-Two

       Chapter Twenty-Three

       Chapter Twenty-Four

PART ONE

      Blackburn, 1955

The Road to Ruin

Chapter One

      SHE MADE A ghostly figure as she silently wended her way through the dark, shadowy streets.

      Late again, she thought. But there was little regret as she recalled the fun-filled evening, with good company and a man’s arms about her. Why should she feel guilty? What was so wrong about her having a good time? She was still relatively young and vibrant. The men liked her and she liked them, and there was more to life than sitting at home and being a good little wife. Life was too short for that.

      As she turned into Derwent Street, she thought of young Davie. Only then did she feel ashamed. She hoped he wasn’t waiting up. She didn’t want to see the sadness in his eyes when he saw her arrive home at this late hour, giddy with booze and caring for nothing or no one, except him, her darling son.

      ‘You’re a bad woman, Rita Adams,’ she told herself. ‘You should have been home hours ago.’ She gave a small, nervous laugh. ‘There’ll be sparks flying, you’ll see.’

      Her unsteady footsteps echoed eerily against the pavement as she continued her way past the row of terraced houses. At this hour, most people were in bed and only one house was lit up. This was her home. This was where her family would be waiting and watching. She thought of her child again, and the guilt was cutting, ‘Davie’s a good boy. He doesn’t deserve a mother like you.’ There were times when she hated herself.

      Shivering in the cold night air, she clutched the lapels of her coat and drew it tighter about her. ‘Remember now,’ she muttered, ‘you’ve spent the evening with your old friend, Edna.’ Such lies, she thought. Such badness. She reached her gaze towards the twitching curtains and saw the shadowy figure of a man. ‘He’s waiting for you,’ she whispered nervously. ‘Best not let him guess what you’ve been up to.’ She giggled. ‘Best have your story good and ready.’

      Each time she had a different excuse, and each time she became a better liar. Tormented, she thought of her long-suffering husband, and her ageing father whose house they lived in. But it was her son she mostly feared for: Davie was a fine and loving boy who did not deserve a mother like her. These three wonderful people were her family and she loved them with a passion, and God help them, they loved her too; more than she deserved.

      After an evening of laughter and drink she remembered how it had been, in the back alley, the thrill of being in the arms of a stranger. She didn’t know his name, nor did she want to. They simply met, talked and laughed, shared a moment of frantic excitement, and then he went on his way.

      No money ever changed hands on such occasions. It was the excitement, that was all she craved. Brief and sordid, the encounters meant nothing to her. She adored her husband; she cherished her family. But sometimes, for some mysterious reason that she didn’t understand but was powerless to resist, Rita Adams followed the urge to abandon her responsibilities and lash out at life.

      If she lost control, it wasn’t her fault she told herself – it was not her fault. Life was wonderful, and then it became too mundane, and then she began to wander. But it was wicked. She was wicked; a loose and shameful woman. And afterwards, she was always sorry. But ‘sorry’ was never enough. She knew that.

      Having searched for a plausible excuse for coming home so late, Rita had hit on the idea of Edna Sedgwick. She had been meaning to go and see the old dear for some long time now, and what was more, Don knew that. He was aware that her old friend had been poorly. She’d tell him that she’d rushed round there when she heard that Edna had worsened … and had spent more time with her than she should have.

      Plain and outspoken, with a mop of bleached hair, Edna had been a good neighbour, and when she moved away, the whole family had missed her. It was the most natural thing in the world for Rita to go and see the sick woman.

      Surely her Donny wouldn’t argue with that?

      Rita felt a pang of guilt at using Edna as an alibi to lie her way through this night – not only because she had promised not to lose touch, but somehow, two long years had passed since Edna and Fred had left the street, and Rita had never found the time to pay her old friends a visit.

      Her part-time job at Michelle’s Hair Salon, doing all the perms and the rest of it, kept her occupied. It was murder on the feet though, she thought, fishing for a cigarette in her handbag. Somehow, she managed to strike a match and light it. Taking a deep drag, then stumbling on, she said loudly, ‘I will come and see you soon, Edna mate, I really will. I’ll be on your doorstep tomorrow, an’ that’s a promise.’ A hollow promise, she knew.

      In that moment, between three and four a.m., she felt as though she was the only person in the whole world. But then suddenly, it was as if this world was awakening; house lights were going on as people got ready for early shifts, and dogs were let out to relieve themselves against the lamp-posts. Best get home, Rita thought, quickening her steps. Falling this way and that, she found it highly amusing. ‘Yer drunken beggar, our Reet,’ she giggled. ‘Stand up straight, will yer.’

      Squaring her shoulders, she pushed on, one hand steadying herself against the walls of the houses and the other keeping her coat tight about her.

      In the distance, she could hear the faint clatter of horses’ hooves against the cobbles. That would be Tom Makepeace, on his way to the Co-op Dairy depot to deliver his milk churns from the farm and to collect the crates of bottles for his round. Tom knew all and sundry hereabouts, and everyone liked the man, Rita included. Her son and Tom’s daughter Judy were the best of pals.

      The clattering grew louder until he was right there beside her. ‘Good God, Rita love, what are you doing, wandering the streets at this time o’ the morning?’ he asked, reining the big horse to a halt. With a gruff manner and his homely face worn by the elements, Tom was in his mid-forties and as decent