 
Next Christmas Will Be Different

A Short Story

Pauline Barclay

www.paulinebarclay.co.uk

http://paulinembarclay.blogspot.com

Next Christmas Will Be Different

A Short Story

by

Pauline Barclay

Published by Pauline Barclay at Smashwords

Copyright © Pauline Barclay 2013

Cover design by Cathy Helms, Avalon Graphics

www.avalongraphics.org

Copyright © Pauline Barclay 2013

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

By the same author

Magnolia House

Satchfield Hall

Sometimes It Happens...

Storm Clouds Gathering

The characters in all these novels and their actions are imaginary.

Their names and experiences have no relation to those of actual people, living or dead, except by coincidence.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright owner. Nor can it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on a subsequent purchaser.

As always to my best friend and soul mate, my husband who has the patience to listen to all my ramblings! To you with love.

Next Christmas Will Be Different

The O'Reilly's Christmas was celebrated in the same way every year even though each of the O'Reilly offspring said it would be different next year. Yet despite their promises, nothing changed. All of Mary and Joe O'Reilly's children had long grown up and had families and homes of their own; and as Mary routinely said to her children throughout the year, 'Christmas should be spent at home with your family.' Her words were not meant to be taken literally. Home to Mary O'Reilly was in front of her fire.

The festive season at the O'Reilly's was more of a yearly reunion, one that gave the façade of a united family. Months would pass without the O'Reilly siblings meeting with one another. We are all too busy for such gatherings, they would moan whenever they managed to find a few minutes to phone their mam and ask how she was doing. Not that they listened long enough to hear her answer. But Mary was no fool; she knew all their traits, the good, the bad, and the ones about which she prayed regularly to the Almighty. As proud as she was of her large family she openly admitted that she did not understand most of what they did with their lives, but this never stopped her from worrying about them.

As the season of good will arrived and the snow lay heavy on the ground, the whistling wind keen enough to nip off your nose, Joe and Mary prepared their home for the return of their offspring. A six-foot Christmas tree dug up from a nearby wood stood in a tub of moist earth in the corner of the sitting room, next to the inglenook fireplace. The needle-shedding specimen, festooned with coloured lights and baubles, was almost buried under piles of gifts wrapped in brightly coloured paper. In the dog grate of the inglenook, a log fire blazed and long tongues of flames licked their way up the soot-blackened chimney. On the front door hung a wreath made from holly branches teeming with red berries and silver-sprayed acorns. A deep red ribbon tied in a large bow added the final touch to the decoration. The larder and refrigerator were full to bursting with all the food the family could possibly need and carols sang out constantly from the radio. Mary and Joe O'Reilly's home was ready for Christmas.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, the O'Reilly siblings began the annual chore of packing their cases and making the laborious journey home. As they were travelling down motorways and winding their way along country lanes, Mary was sitting vigilantly at the lounge window. Peering out at a frost-frozen world, watching snowflakes swirling in the biting wind, she waited anxiously for her family to return to the fold.

As each car rolled to a halt on the other side of the garden hedge, Mary slipped from her seat, combed her fingers through her wild, curly greying hair and called out, 'Another one's arrived safely, thank God.' With purposeful steps and a tissue gripped tightly in her hand, she hurried to greet them.

Throwing the heavy oak front door wide open with such force that the wreath swung like a pendulum and a cold gust of wind blew snowflakes into the hall, she swallowed the emotional lump in her throat and opened her arms in readiness to hug her family.

With every closing of the door the puddle of melted snow on the tiled hall floor grew wider, the house grew fuller and the noise level increased. The walls heaved at the seams with so many people, but Mary did not care, there were plenty of clean sheets and towels, and although not sufficient beds, there were enough sofas and put-you-ups to ensure everyone had a decent night's sleep.

Pushing the front door closed after the last of the arrivals, Mary breathed a sigh of relief in the knowledge that everyone had arrived safely. Only now could the O'Reilly's way of celebrating Christmas begin.

Typically, the men congregated together, tall glasses filled with beer clutched in their hands as they talked endlessly, raising their voices over the sound of the carols blaring from the radio. The children, fuelled by the excitement of so much activity and the sight of the presents piled beneath the tree, ran between the garden room, which served as a play area, and the rest of the rooms downstairs, their joyous shrieks adding to the cacophony. In the cavernous kitchen the women organised themselves, keeping a glass of Mary's strong spiced wine at their sides as they peeled and prepared a mountain of vegetables: potatoes, Brussels sprouts, parsnips and carrots fresh from the garden; home-grown peas from the freezer.

Intoxicated by the joy of having her family home Mary, in her festive apron and tinsel tiara, bustled around the house checking on the children; seeing that the men were keeping their glasses full and the fire stoked, while at the same time she was overseeing the preparation of the feast. It was her special time of the year and she loved every moment of the chaos.

Satisfied that her children and grandchildren were enjoying themselves, Mary turned her attention to the stove. Pushing a large tray that held a piece of ham, which by itself was almost the size of a pig, into the range oven to join the overstuffed turkey, she said a silent prayer that there was sufficient food to feed them all. Feeding the five thousand couldn't have been any more work, she mused, chuckling to herself.

Mary's gaze settled on her first-born daughter, Young Mary, who was perched on the edge of a stool next to one of her sisters-in-law, both sitting at the large table that graced the centre of the kitchen. Young Mary's soft features appeared strained as she peeled carrots and sipped her wine, and her mother wondered if all was well in her world. She made a mental note to ask as soon as they had a moment alone. Young Mary was the fourth in a line of seven children, a thinker and an observer, yet she played her cards closed to her chest. This characteristic of her daughter's personality had given Mary sleepless nights over the years. With her strawberry-blonde shoulder-length hair, emerald green eyes and a peppering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, her daughter looked more like a teenager than a twenty-seven year old mother of two. Where had the years gone? How could she not have noticed them melting away? Mary asked herself, remembering the joy of being told she had at last given birth to a girl, having been blessed with a succession of three boys.

A roar of raucous laughter followed by the bark of a loud voice interrupted Mary's thoughts, bringing her back to the moment with a wry smile. She would know that sound anywhere, it could only be her eldest son. Tom had a thundering and forceful way of speaking and had the windows been open, Mary was confident he would be heard at the end of the lane. A grin crept across her face at the idea of his bellows frightening the livestock in the fields. Sucking in her cheeks, it occurred to her that even a decent education and a good job had not reduced the volume of her son's voice. At thirty-one Tom was a strapping man. Watching as he swigged down his beer and thrust a handful of crisps into his mouth she tutted at his gluttonous appetite, noting that he had added on a few more pounds since last year, in particular around his middle. Now, as Tom's words filled the room, she wondered if her firstborn ever stopped talking or eating, even in his sleep.

From the corner of her eye she spied her husband leaning against the dresser, a pint of Guinness in one hand and a cigarette hanging from his lower lip. He looked miles away and she wondered what was going through his head. Ever the quiet one was her Joe. Next to him stood their son, Andrew, legs apart, feet placed at ten-to-two, a half-empty pint glass in his hand, his attention focused on his identical twin, Tom, the elder by a few minutes. Both were a head taller than Joe.

Taking in father and sons as they stood side by side, Mary asked herself how she and Joe had managed to bring such well-built lads into the world. She was five-foot-one and as lean as a broom handle. Her Joe would never be called tall. At five-foot-eight he was stocky, but there was not an ounce of fat on him. When younger, his hair had been copper, but age had flecked it with grey making it appear brassy. Years of working in the open had given him a ruddy complexion and a strong constitution. Her husband was a quiet man, a dreamer from time to time and as honest as the day was long. In build and personality a total opposite to their first three sons, but a man who had been her best friend since they had met over thirty-five years ago. Even after seven children, he still had enough passion in him to cuddle her at night.

Pushing her hand into her apron pocket, Mary pulled out a tissue and wiped at her face, a glow of happiness flushing her cheeks. Crumpling the damp tissue back into her pocket, she made her way back to the kitchen table where peeling and chopping were in full swing, 'What a family we are,' she said as four sets of smiling eyes turned to her.

Jane, Tom's wife, dropped a potato into a pan of smoking hot goose fat, already full to the brim, and shoving them into the oven, sang, 'Indeed, what a family we are, but it's a lovely family.' Her smile made her sapphire-blue eyes sparkle. 'And Christmas wouldn't be the same anywhere else, even if my lump of a husband is shouting the odds to everyone.'

Sliding over to her daughter-in-law, Mary gently patted her shoulder, but said nothing for fear that the emotion building in her throat would choke her. Determined to keep a tight rein on her feelings, she picked her way through a clutter of utensils that were stuffed in a large terracotta jar at the side of the table. Finding what she was searching for, she plucked out a little sharp knife and reaching across the table pulled forward what was left of a stalk of sprouts. Sitting down on a pine chair, she cut the little balls of vegetables from the stalk and then proceeded to trim and cross the ends.

'Mam, are you all right?' asked Bernadette, wife to her third son Joseph, clearly concerned.

'I'll be all right my love, once we're all sitting down eating this lot,' Mary replied, sweeping her hand in the air as if to take in the table contents. Squashing the prepared sprouts into a pan that had barely room for air, she added, 'I think there's enough food here to put Tesco's to shame.' On the verge of tears she laughed out loud to disguise her soft-heartedness. Having all her family under one roof always reminded her just how lucky she was and that in turn made her all emotional.

Standing up, she pushed back her chair, the legs scraping across the terracotta tiles momentarily drowning out the chatter of the menfolk. 'I think we're all about done here so let's get these pans on the stove.' Not waiting for a response, she gripped the handles of a large pan filled with carrots and peas. As she swung round, she felt a tug on her apron.

'Nana, can I come and help you please?'

Craning to see over the saucepan, Mary eyed her grandson, his chubby little hands reaching up to her, a big smile on his face.

She dropped the heavy pan down onto the top of the stove and twisting back to the table, pushed dishes and over-filled pans to one side to make a space then scooping Damien into her arms as if he weighed no more than a feather, she sat him on the edge. 'You can join us any time my precious,' she said, squeezing him gently to her chest. 'Let's see what you could do to help me.' Releasing her hug she glanced across the laden table and spotted, jammed between a bowl of potato peelings and the salt container, a jug into which two eggs had been broken. Reaching over her grandson's tousled curls, she gripped the handle, picked up a small fork and placed the two items into Damien's hands, saying softly, 'You can give these eggs a little beating for me.'

Clutching the utensil tightly he began to stir the eggs, splashing the contents all over himself and the table. Ignoring the mess and the soaking she was getting, Mary enquired, 'Are the others behaving themselves in the play area, sweetheart?'

Without lifting his eyes from the task, Damien answered, 'Uncle William is trying to read a story and Auntie Jan is keeping an eye on things.'

Chuckling softly, Mary whispered, 'That sounds like Auntie Jan.' Jan was Andrew's wife and both she and her son, were control freaks. It seemed to Mary that the little ones had drawn the short straw that afternoon.

Seeing little left of the eggs, she took the jug from her grandson. 'Perfect, Damien. I think that will do nicely,' she lied, dropping a kiss on the end of his nose. 'We'll make a cook of you yet.' Lifting him down from the table she took in the state of him and wiped at his face with the end of her apron. 'I think you've earned a treat for your help. Now what would you say to a little piece of chocolate?' she asked, pulling a foil-wrapped Father Christmas from her pocket.

Squealing with glee, Damien cried, 'Oh thank you Nana!' With the small treat clutched in his hands, he scurried off through the kitchen, pushed his way past the throng of men drinking beer and headed back to the garden room.

As Damien raced off, Mary burst into song, 'It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...' Skipping over to the stove she checked on the turkey and ham, both now browning nicely along with the roast potatoes and parsnips, the appetising smells escaping into the kitchen and filling the house. She began to lift pan lids and peer inside, nodding her head in satisfaction as each pan showed signs of coming to the boil. Dropping the lids back down with a clatter, her singing turned to a low hum and above it she caught the soft timbre of Joseph's dulcet tones. Though born only a year or so after the twins, you could not find a brother more opposite, she reflected. Her third boy was slight of build, pale of complexion and spent as much time thinking as breathing, a contradiction in every way to his older brothers. 'Why act hastily, when thinking might provide a speedier result,' Joseph often expounded. But when it came to the twins his utterances fell on deaf ears. Tom and Andrew had no time to think; actions counted louder than words and they made sure everyone knew about theirs.

Standing to the left of Joseph, leaning against the door jamb, was Patrick, her fourth son, who in nature was more like Young Mary. Happy to go along with the crowd, nothing over-excited him or plunged him into despair. Patrick and Young Mary were watchers of the world. 'Sitting on the fence,' Andrew would say when he could get neither one of them to agree with his ideas.

Noting William enter the kitchen and check his watch, Mary guessed that after less than twenty-four hours her youngest was already bored with the company of his older brothers. Just over twenty-one years ago William had rushed into the world a short eleven months after Claire had joined the O'Reilly clan. As babies they'd had more energy than the entire family put together. Mary shook her head as all the memories crowded in, enveloping her, her eyes misting as she gazed across at William. Here they all were; all seven of her children come home to her. How lucky was she? With hands balled in her apron pocket she soaked up the atmosphere of yet another wonderful Christmas and felt her heart would burst with love, so engrossed in memories that she did not see Claire move to her side.

'Here you are Mam, it looks to me like you need a drink,' Claire said, pushing a large glass of sherry into her hand and dropping a kiss on her cheek.

'That's lovely, thanks darling,' Mary responded. Clearing her throat she sniffed and taking hold of the glass in an effort to stop the tears that threatened to spill over, downed her sherry in one and told herself that now was not the time to get all weepy. Instead, she pulled herself up to her full five-foot-one and taking a deep breath that shuddered all the way down to her lungs, called out with gusto, 'I think it is time to be sorting out the tables.'

Several seconds elapsed before Mary's words filtered into the buzz of male conversation, followed by a flurry of activity as glasses were raised to open mouths and the contents swallowed hastily.

'Right,' Joe said as he slapped his empty glass down on the nearest counter top and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, 'time we did our bit now lads.' Striding over to his wife he kissed her on the lips. 'Well my love, you can leave this important task to us. We'll have the tables sorted before you can lift a pan lid.'

Mary scoffed loudly at Joe's words, 'It would be a first, so I'll not hold my breath,' she said, her eyes sparkling with the sherry she had just downed, a feeling of contentment adding to the glow coursing through her veins. Still grinning, she viewed the pandemonium for a moment then headed back to the stove, leaving the men to do their worst.

For as long as anyone in the family could remember the O'Reilly men had organised the tables and chairs in the dining area on this one day of the year and, like the Christmas before, it was necessary to bring in the patio table to provide enough eating places. As was typical of the twins, Tom and Andrew were vociferous about the best ways of placing the tables to make sure everyone had enough elbow room for tucking into their turkey. Speaking softly, William offered his assistance, but his words were lost in the arguments and opinions as Joseph entered the fray.

Mary looked on in astonishment. She shook her head at the pantomime taking place over sorting out a few tables and chairs. 'Are we all now ready to set these tables?' she asked. 'Surely, with all your fancy education it should be a piece of cake.' She clicked her tongue and at the same time scurried over to the dresser, pulled open the top left-hand drawer and took out a handful of tablecloths. Reaching over and nudging William, who was standing with his arms crossed, a bemused look on his face, she murmured, 'Son, make yourself useful and place these over the muddle your brothers are making.'

It took another hour-and-a-half before the O'Reilly family sat down at the mismatch of tables that were now littered with crackers and heavily laden with serving dishes and cutlery. It was a banquet in every meaning of the word. And as Mary O'Reilly thanked the Lord for what they were about to receive, her family tucked into the food she had so lovingly provided as if they were starving and for a few moments at least, aside from a few appreciative grunts and murmurs of pleasure, silence reigned supreme.

The following day, after church, the moment the children had eagerly awaited arrived. The O'Reilly family gathered round the tree and spent a few happy hours – or not so happy, according to their level of disappointment or delight as they exchanged and unwrapped gifts, many of which brought peals of laughter, particularly the over-large hand knitted jumper for Tom which, his sister Claire insisted, she had made extra big to allow for his ever expanding waistline. With the parcels opened and choruses of thank you and I love it, filling the air, it was time for another feast. And like the previous day, the table was filled to bursting. The clatter of cutlery dropping down on china and groans of over indulgence signalled that the O'Reilly family had enjoyed another hearty meal. Taking in the empty plates and dishes, Mary placed her hands on the table top and pushed herself to her feet, a broad smile filling her face. 'It seems you've eaten yourselves to a standstill, which is all well and good, but a walk and some fresh air is urgently needed,' she said in a voice that offered no argument. Shrieks of delight from the children drowned out groans from the men. Mary chuckled at the excitement of the youngsters and ignoring the protesting grunts she leaned over the table and gathered up several plates. Pushing her chair back with her bottom, she headed to the sink. Calling over her shoulder, 'Me and the girls will load the dishwasher and stack the rest of the dirty dishes on the draining board, you men can get the children wrapped up warm for going out.' Closing her ears to any dissent, Mary shooed everyone, except those helping, out of the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later, the children snuggled in warm coats, boots and mittens, wearing new hats and scarves rushed out of the door and into the snow covered garden. The adults, fastening their coats and dragging their heels followed. Reaching the lane, Mary took in the scene as her grandchildren, excited, ploughed through the snow, throwing snowballs and calling out to their uncles to help them build the biggest snowman ever. As daylight turned to dusk and the frozen snow crunched under foot, with red noses and sparkly eyes, the family, linking arms and holding hands meandered home in time for tea and a generous serving of Christmas cake.

After two days of festivities, it was time for the offspring of Mary and Joe O'Reilly to pack their bags and travel back to their homes. Everyone had caught up on the last twelve months and promised to contact each other during the year. As they always did, they promised to visit each other. And they all said that next year would be different because they would be the ones hosting the festivities. Even Mary agreed. 'I'd be glad not to be slaving over a hot stove while you lot drink yourself silly and try to catch up on all the gossip, instead of visiting each other during the year,' she said, trying not to choke. Her breath catching as a sob in her throat, she added, 'You can all wait on me for a change.' Watching them prepare to leave, Mary at last allowed the threatening tears to spill freely down her sad, tired face.

'Next Christmas will be different,' they chorused as they called goodbye. Yet, even though everyone firmly meant each word, they all knew, as they kissed, hugged, and dabbed at moist eyes, that next Christmas would not be different at all.

And, of course, Mary O'Reilly would not have it any other way.

The End

Dear Reader,

Thank you for downloading Next Christmas Will Be Different, I hope you enjoyed the first of my published short stories and I wish you and your family a truly wonderful Christmas and a happy New Year.

As a bonus, below are five chapters from each of my novels:

Storm Clouds Gathering

Satchfield Hall

Magnolia House

Sometimes It Happens...

I hope you will enjoy these tasters too.

Pauline

Storm Clouds Gathering

Storm clouds are gathering, silently and slowly, too far away to worry about. Or so it seems. But ignoring what is brewing will have dire consequences for the people caught up in the maelstrom.

Shirley Burton is too busy cheating on her husband, having a laugh and looking for fun to alleviate the boredom of her childless marriage. Kathleen Mitchell is too wrapped up in running around after her beautiful family to worry about her health. Anne Simpson has two things on her mind: her forthcoming marriage to Paul Betham, who seems to want to control her, and her career, which she does not want to give up.

Can Shirley really expect to deceive her husband and get away with it? Can Kathleen hold it all together, and is Anne able to have the best of everything?

Storm Clouds Gathering is a story of human emotion, passion and heart-rending grief. Set against the backdrop of the mid-sixties, these three families will be tested to the limit as betrayal, loss and love threaten to change their lives forever.

Available in Kindle and Paperback

Chapter ONE

Shirley Burton and Kathleen Mitchell crossed the cobbled stone yard with the rest of the shift workers. The bitter cold morning made their step hurried and their breath steam as they headed for the Mill, a three-storey building, its bricks blackened with soot, smoke belching out from the massive chimney on its left-hand end. Shivering, Kathleen glanced at the thin layer of ice floating on top of the millpond that ran the length of the yard. So far as she could see, Spring was not so much around the corner as out of sight.

'Morning ladies,' the Overlooker called, leaning on the jamb of the spinning shed door, a cigarette stuck to his lips, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his brown coat. Tall, dark and ruggedly handsome, Billy Smith at twenty-eight had still not succumbed to marriage. His reputation for enjoying the ladies was well known around the millworkers. Despite the dangling cigarette he managed a cheeky smile as he watched the women march towards the clocking-in shed, their chattering voices filling the yard and creating a merry atmosphere in the grey, frosty surroundings. Raising his head and pursing his lips Billy exhaled a mouthful of smoke letting it plume into the frigid air. Nipping the end of his cigarette he dropped the tab end into the breast pocket of his coat, frowning as he caught sight of the women's curlers. Thankfully, most were concealed by headscarves, but two always seemed to peep out at the front. Smirking, he called out, 'Must be Friday I see,' and gave a loud wolf-whistle, rubbing his nicotine-stained fingers together to remove bits of tobacco.

'Not much gets past you Billy boy, does it?' Shirley Burton called back and at the same time patted her headscarf where curlers were neatly rolled in her hair. 'If I'm lucky tonight, it just might be the last time you'll have a chance to squint at me dressed to kill,' she scoffed, then nudging, Kathleen, 'he's a cheeky bugger and a dirty one too.'

'Well you should know,' Kathleen remarked sourly. She knew Shirley and Billy had been having an affair for the last three months.

Shirley snorted and linking her arm with Kathleen's, walked into the small and draughty lean-to clocking-in shed.

Rigid with disapproval Kathleen reached for the "Out Rack", pulled out her card and dipped it into the heavy grey machine, listening for the deep clunking sound as it stamped the time. 'I take it you're coming with us tonight then?' She retrieved her card and stepped forward to push it into the "In Rack". Turning back she looked to see how many cards were left in the "Out Rack" and scanned the names, satisfied she did not have to clock-in one of her mates. 'So are you? You've not answered my question.'

Shirley sidled towards her. 'Give over Kath. You know the score, but I'll try and stop by before the game begins, you know me.'

'That's the point Shirley, I do know you and believe you me you are playing a very dangerous game.'

'Just cover for me and no one will be any the wiser. No one's going to get hurt.'

Kathleen shook her head, her tone registering her disapproval. 'Well don't come running to me when it all gets nasty and your Jimmy throws you out.'

'I'm just having a bit of fun, Kathleen.' Stepping back to the entrance, Shirley gave a little wave to Billy Smith, who was still propped against the door.

'What are you playing at?' Kathleen hissed, her voice thick with concern as they nudged their way through to the cloakroom. 'You know as well as I do there's no good in that Billy, he's only interested in one thing and he'll hurt you in the end.' Tucking a strand of loose hair under the hairnet hidden beneath her turban, Kathleen saw a sly smile cross Shirley's face and wondered what had happened to her friend that she was behaving like a common trollop. As fond of Shirley as she was – they went back a long way – this carry on with the Overlooker was ridiculous. Shirley and Jimmy had problems, but she had not expected her friend to turn to someone like the lecherous Billy Smith, who was neither married nor interested in anything more than getting his leg over, ruining other people's relationships in the process.

Shrugging out of her coat, Shirley answered, 'Having some fun Kathleen, and it's time you thought about it too. That Joe of yours is a good man, but when did he last take you out and make you feel special? Like most women of our age, I bet you'll not even be able to remember.'

Kathleen winced, but she had no intention of having a row with Shirley so did not retaliate. Instead she repeated, 'Like I said, he'll hurt you. And what about Jimmy? As for me, I've my Joe and my kids and I'm happy enough with my lot.'

'Billy Smith won't hurt me, it'll more likely be the other way round, but before I'm past me prime I'm going to have a bit of fun. Anyway, these days Jimmy's only interested in his tea being on the table when he gets home and a bit of how's yer father on a Saturday night. I don't care what anyone says, we're all too young to be sitting in front of the fire every night smoking a fag and wishing. I'm thirty-two not bloody sixty-two. I've done with years of wishing. Now I'm doing.'

Shaking her head, Kathleen knew better than to say any more. If Shirley wanted to play with fire by having a fling with Billy Smith then why should she care? She had enough of her own troubles. Leaving the cloakroom, she said 'Come on Shirley, the wool won't spin itself, unfortunately.'

Stepping through the heavy, green sliding door, the noise of the clattering machinery assailed their ears. The ever-present mist of fluff hung in the air and Kathleen sneezed as it tickled her nose, she could already feel the fine fibres lodging in her throat. Thank God she only worked the morning shift. Tightening the belt on her pinnie she pulled her sleeves down so her cardigan covered as much as possible of her arms. The fluff irritated her skin. Tapping Shirley on the shoulder, she mouthed, 'I'll see you later,' and not waiting for a response hurried along the walkway towards her two looms, one on top of the other.

Stepping up to them, Kathleen checked that all the woollen threads ran smoothly and there was no slack or breaks in the yarn. She looked after ninety bobbins, forty-five on each loom. It took not only concentration to make sure the lines ran smoothly, but deftness in her fingers if a line broke. When this happened she tried not to panic, stopping the spinning bobbin where the thread had broken and at the same time speedily tying a knot to rejoin the wool. She knew that when a break occurred time was of the essence to get the bobbin spinning again. The last thing she wanted was to get her loom in a tangle, because it meant the Overlooker having to sort it out. This wasn't too bad if it was the likes of Billy Smith. She didn't like him much, but he was fair at sorting out any mess that happened when she couldn't make a repair fast enough herself. One or two of the other Overlookers were less easy going than Billy and once too often she had felt the sting of their barbed tongues.

Trying not to dwell on the irritating side of her job, Kathleen focussed her attention on scanning the bobbins, thankful it was Friday.

Chapter TWO

Anne Simpson sat at her small kitchen table pushing breakfast cereal around her bowl and fretting. It seemed she had everything: her own bungalow – inherited from her nana – a perfect job as a teacher at Low Field Primary and, to top it all, she was engaged to Paul Betham, a handsome, clever schoolmaster. So why did she have this nagging, unsettling feeling that things were not right?

'Pull yourself together Anne, you're the luckiest woman in the world,' she said in a firm voice, but even as she chastised herself she didn't feel that lucky. Everything was supposed to be changing, the mid-sixties were a positive time for everyone, so they said, and yet she felt that her life was not reflecting this so-called new era. Why did she feel this way? She had a good career, a car and a home of her own. Even in these liberated times this was rare for an unmarried woman of only twenty-four. The problem, she supposed, was that her upbringing had made her fiercely protective of her independence and much as she loved him, Paul threatened that. Anne feared not being in control of her life if she married him.

Her independence had come at a high price. Before her first birthday both her parents had been killed in a road accident and her grandmother had taken on the responsibility of bringing her up. Nana was a proud woman, determined to make her own way and depend on nobody. Values she had passed on to her granddaughter. Yet, despite the tragedy that shadowed them, Anne's childhood years had been filled with happiness. To put food on the table and clothes on their backs Nana had worked all hours at the Mill. They had lived in Clayton Place, a brick-built, mid-terraced, soot-stained, two-up-two-down, with the toilet and a claw-footed bath squeezed into a tiny scullery at the back, which let out onto a small, flagstone yard. Off the scullery was the parlour, as Nana called it, situated at the front of the terrace, its front door opened straight onto the narrow cobbled street.

When Anne was nearing her tenth birthday, life suddenly changed. Nana stopped working at the Mill and they moved out of Clayton Place and into The Crescent at Wentworth. 'The insurance policy I've paid each week for years has finally matured,' Nana had said by way of explanation, and Anne had not thought to question it. Their new home was a world apart: a light, airy bungalow with two bedrooms, a separate bathroom and a spacious kitchen that had Formica-topped work surfaces, a lino-tiled floor and cupboards wall to floor. At the rear was a little garden laid to lawn and if that were not enough for Anne to feel she had moved to a palace, there was a small walled garden at the front, with pink and red rose bushes planted around a patch of lawn.

Years later when she inherited the bungalow, Anne discovered it had been left to Nana by a man to whom she had been briefly married before Anne was born. Not an insurance policy then! She'd had no idea her nana had remarried after she'd been widowed in the Great War. So far as Anne knew, Nana had always lived on her own. Clearly she had harboured secrets she had not been prepared to share in her lifetime.

Getting up from the table, Anne carried her breakfast dish to the sink and gazed out at the garden she loved. The Camellia she had planted two years ago was budding up and would soon burst into flower. So too the bulbs, springing up in the lovingly tended borders. Could she bear to leave all this behind when she and Paul were married? Would she have to? Her head spun with what to do.

A wedding date had not yet been set as Anne kept prevaricating whenever the subject was raised. Now Paul had said he wanted to get his promotion before they were married, which had given her some breathing space. She sighed. Of late it seemed that was not all he wanted. Recently he had said he wanted them to move away, which meant she would have to leave her post at Low Field School. 'I'll never get a promotion in the area,' he had reminded her when she had talked about how much she loved her work. 'Surely getting married is more important than anything else?' he had added, taking hold of her hand and gazing into her eyes in the way that made her shiver with the anticipation of his kiss. She loved him and of course she had agreed. At that moment she would have agreed to anything. But afterwards, warning bells had sounded in her head: what if he insisted she give up teaching altogether?

She knew that Paul was applying for posts, but he had said nothing about where they were. Any day now he would learn if he had been successful and then she would have to decide what she wanted. She wanted Paul, and she also wanted to remain at Low Field, but the question was, could she have both? It seemed unlikely and Anne was in a quandary.

Placing her breakfast dish in the bowl she ran the hot water, but before she could add the washing up liquid the telephone rang. Who could be ringing so early? Turning off the tap, she hurried through to the hall to answer the call. Trying to push her uneasy thoughts to the back of her mind, she picked up the telephone and announced, 'Wentworth 353.' Hearing Paul's voice, she smiled, 'Hello darling,' she said, a lot more cheerfully than she felt. 'You're the last person I expected to hear at this hour of the morning. Nothing wrong I hope?'

'I had to call you straight away, the postman's just been and you will never guess what?' he cried through the receiver.

Anne felt her heart miss a beat; it must be his promotion. To hide her worry, she jested, 'You've won the pools.'

'It's Friday darling, far too early, but as good as. I've got my promotion and I wanted you to be the first to know. It changes everything. I'm not going to bore you with the details right now, but I'll tell you tonight. We are going out to celebrate.'

'Oh no!' she cried. 'Sorry, I mean congratulations darling, but no, let's not go out. Let me cook a meal it will be much more fun hearing all about your news at home,' she lied, her voice rising. If she had to sit and listen to news that would change everything, then she would rather be at home where she could deal with it. 'Are you there Paul?' she asked as a silence hung between them.

'Well, if you're sure, that would be great and I'll bring a bottle of champagne, but for now I must dash, I'm going to be late. I promise you won't be disappointed. Love you.'

Anne felt a spasm of guilt. He had sounded so excited as he ended the call. Replacing the receiver, she stared at her reflection in the hall mirror. 'It's decision time,' she told herself in a voice barely above a whisper.

Going back into the kitchen she glanced in the sink and then up at the clock. She had run out of time and was going to be late for school. Leaving the washing up, she hurried back out to the hall, reached for her coat and slipped it over her shoulders. As she let herself out of the front door, a thought sprang into her mind: she might be late into school this morning, but after tonight, would she be leaving it forever?

Chapter THREE

With the morning shift behind her, Kathleen unlocked the back door into her kitchen. Dropping her small shopping bag onto the floor she shrugged off her coat and hung it over the hook behind the door. Rubbing her hands together to keep the circulation going, she stepped back outside into the chilly afternoon and stood on the crumbling strip of concrete that served as a path, raising her face to the watery sun. There was no heat in it. She stared down the length of the small garden and sighed. Their little patch of England's green and pleasant land resembled nothing so much as a wilderness. Taking in its sorry state, her eyes feasted on the floribunda rose that grew amongst the weeds and brambles. 'Lucky,' she said out loud to the frigid air. It was the name she had given to the bedraggled thorny bush that still managed to produce an abundance of fragrant red flowers from Spring until the first frost of Autumn. It thrived on neglect, she thought with affection. She took in a deep breath knowing there were never enough hours in a day to do everything, let alone worry about the garden.

Turning her attention back to the task in hand, Kathleen untied her headscarf and careful not to disturb the curlers she had put in early that morning ready for her night at the bingo, she removed it, stepped further into the garden and vigorously shook the scarf in an attempt to dislodge the fluff sticking to the fabric. A flurry of fine particles fluttered in the air before drifting on the breeze across the back garden. It never ceased to amaze her how much of the stuff stuck to her clothes. She knew she must breathe loads of the rubbish in each morning at the Mill. God only knew what it was doing to her insides. She supposed she should care, but in truth she didn't, she had long ago decided that poverty did more harm than any small amount of fluff could do. In her book, starving and freezing were far more miserable and dangerous.

Yawning, Kathleen thought of the chores that awaited her and her heart sank. A hot cuppa, that's what she needed. With that thought, as soon as her clothes were fluff free, she went back into the kitchen, slipped into a nylon overall and put the kettle on.

The afternoon slipped by: she cleaned the bathroom, tidied up the bedrooms, stripped all the beds and washed the sheets. Thankfully, despite the cold day the stiff breeze dried her lines of washing, which now lay folded in the laundry basket waiting to be ironed.

Now, popping the lid back on the jam jar, Kathleen looked up at the wall clock. She had spent weeks collecting the coupons from the Omo soap powder box to get that clock and was well pleased with it. Despite being a free gift, it kept good time. To her consternation she saw it was already four-thirty. She groaned. Where had the afternoon disappeared to? She hadn't sat down since she got home just after one-thirty.

Placing a slice of bread on top of the jam, she sliced the sandwich in half. As the knife cut through the white bread she heard peals of laughter floating through from the living room. Looking up, she smiled, relief lifting the strain from her face. For once the kiddies weren't arguing. Piling the sandwiches onto a tray she pushed it to the corner of the table and swung round to light her gas oven, leaving it on a low setting. With the chores done and the sandwiches made, she unbuttoned her overall and took it off, flinching as the static crackled. Dropping it over the back of the kitchen chair she smoothed down her top and skirt, then reaching over the table picked up the laden tray and headed to the living room.

'Here you are, these should keep you going until tea time,' she called, her gaze taking in the two boys sprawled out on the rug in front of the fire. Andrew from next door and her Kevin were playing garages with their cars, Kevin making sure his new Matchbox Mini stayed close by. Turning her attention to her daughter, Susan, Kathleen was relieved to see she was not sulking, but was sat giggling over a comic with Andrew's sister, Janet. The sandwiches would put a pout on Susan's face no doubt. 'Raspberry jam, not your favourite I know,' Kathleen said, placing the tray on the coffee table in front of the fire, 'but you'll be having chips later when your dad gets in.' When had everything changed? she asked herself. Her little girl used to be such a happy person, now it was all scowls and moans. At eleven, Kathleen put it down to hormones and winced at what lay ahead.

'Eat up and don't touch the fireguard and no fighting either, I'm off upstairs to have a wash and I'll be able to hear you.' Leaning over, she gave Susan a hug, 'Come on love, it's only jam.' Seeing a sparkle flicker in her daughter's eyes, she bent down and kissed the top of her golden-haired head. She loved her children and was in no rush for them to grow up, though Susan, it seemed, had other ideas.

Satisfied that all was well, Kathleen left the cosy warmth of the living room and walked across the chilly small space of the hall to the bottom of the stairs, rubbing her hands over her arms to dispel a sudden shiver. The smell of the new stair carpet still lingered reminding her as she headed upstairs just how much difference her wage was making to their lives. Hearing raised voices below, her musing was cut short. Head on one side she stopped to listen, smiling as her son's unmistakeable giggle floated up the stairs. A surge of happiness ran through her and with her children's happy voices in her ears, she hastened to the bathroom.

Pushing the door open, her thoughts drifted to what she needed to add to her shopping list for the morning. Maybe this Sunday they would have a roast chicken. She would add that to the list. Her mouth watered at the thought and at the same time her stomach grumbled, it was then she remembered she had not stopped for a bite to eat at dinner time. No wonder she felt tired and had the dull pain of a headache. She never stopped long enough to draw breath let along eat.

Shivering as she stood in front of the washbasin, it seemed to Kathleen that the house felt colder than a morgue today. The old sash windows let the strong draught blow through as if no panes of glass were there at all. With a snort she wondered if the Queen ever felt cold, she certainly wouldn't have to put up with poorly fitting windows. No doubt her children where snug as bugs in that big place in London. Another world, she thought, turning on the tap and waiting for the hot water to come through before she filled the basin for her strip wash. As the steam mingled with the cold air the wall mirror above the basin misted over. The few rows of white tiles around the bath turned wet and the steam rose to hover around the ceiling light. 'No wonder the place is always damp,' she grumbled, knowing if she opened the window it would make the bathroom even colder.

Flinging off her clothes she picked up the flannel from the side of the soap dish and dunked it into the water before lathering the soft cloth with soap. Watching as it creamed on the flannel, she wished she could have had a bath, but with all the washing she had done that afternoon, there would not be enough hot water to cover the bottom of the bath let alone fill it for a decent soak. Her new twin tub was a marvel, it made her wash days a doddle, but it took most of the hot water. A small price to pay, she accepted as she splashed the soapy flannel to her face and remembered how in the past she had battled with the old boiler and wringer on wash days.

Sneezing as soap slipped up her nose, Kathleen chuckled at the memory of Arthur Good, the scrap merchant. He had given her four blue-striped mugs in exchange for the outdated contraptions. She had stood with her arms folded and a happy smile on her face as Arthur had struggled to throw the old machines, one by one, onto his cart. Even his horse had whinnied loudly at the sudden jolt when the heavy wringer had dropped onto the cart's flat bed. What a moment that was, she recalled, thankful she had seen the last of the old appliances. Dipping the flannel back into the water, a warm feeling of satisfaction rose up inside her. They had enough money to live on now that Joe's wage wasn't having to stretch round everything. On Monday she had even had the coalman deliver two sacks of coal and only one of slack, so the sitting room was cosy and warm most afternoons and evenings. One day, if she dreamed hard enough and kept working, they might know real luxury and have central heating installed. She had heard the new flats at the other end of the Estate now had it. Pulling the plug on her water, she grabbed hold of the towel and rubbed gently at her face before laughing out loud, 'Central heating,' she said to her misted reflection in the mirror, 'imagine that!' Wiping the towel across the glass to see her happy face she laughed again, she was getting way ahead of herself. Still chuckling at her daydreams, she was satisfied that there would be enough hot water for the rest of the family to have a good wash before bed. It was only Friday and there was plenty of time between now and Sunday for the kids to have a bath. Kevin needed to wash his neck, not something he was fond of doing, she thought with affection, hearing more ripples of laughter drift up the stairs from the living room. 'Kathleen Mitchell,' she said out loud, 'it's a good life and you're a lucky lass even if you do have a head full of dreams.'

Still smiling, she wrapped the bath towel around herself, grabbed up her clothes, slipped her feet into fluffy slippers and padded from the steamy bathroom across the short landing to her bedroom. Passing the window she saw it was still light outside, though the sun had gone down. Winter seemed to last forever, she thought, trying not to break her cheerful mood as she took hold of the curtains and snapped them together, shutting out the cold evening.

Switching on the light she sat down on the stool in front of her dressing table and stared at what she saw. The happy face she had glimpsed through the mist of the bathroom mirror had gone. Under the harsh electric light what she saw was a pale, tired looking woman with dark circles round her eyes. She didn't want to look old at her age. She was only thirty-two, not exactly middle-aged. Maybe the holiday Joe had suggested at breakfast that morning would make a difference. She needed a break and so did he. Butlins would be out of the question, but a caravan by the seaside would be as much of a luxury as any fancy holiday camp.

The thought of a holiday made her feel less tired. Pinching her cheeks she watched the pink blush appear then began the task of removing her rollers. Beneath them her hair felt stiff and coarse. She had added plenty of setting lotion and now wondered what on earth they put in the stuff to make her hair feel like straw. At least there was no grey yet. Picking up her comb she reduced the tight curls to a soft bounce ready for her evening out. The bingo each Friday was her couple of hours to have a bit of a laugh and time for herself with her mates.

With her hair lacquered and her makeup fixed, she put on her straight, navy skirt and powder-blue knitted jumper then slipped her housecoat over the top. Fluff on her clothes was one thing, but fish and chip grease from Friday's tea was definitely not acceptable. Walking out of the bedroom and switching the light out, she heard the familiar sound of the back door shutting. Kathleen knew Joe was home with their fish and chip tea, she had a true gem there, a modern man. Asking herself again how she managed to be so lucky she hurried down the stairs. Just as she reached the bottom step, she heard the back door bang. 'Kids! Why do they have to slam doors?' she hissed, knowing it was Janet and Andrew heading back home.

Ignoring the sudden draught as the door slammed shut Kathleen went into the kitchen, her face lighting up at the sight of Joe. 'Hello love,' she greeted. 'You look frozen,' she added, seeing Joe's pinched face as he pushed a newspaper bundle into her hands.

'Best pop these in the oven to keep warm while I get my coat off,' he said. 'They're straight out of the pan, Charlie was busy frying a new batch as I walked in. I got us a piece of cod and the kids a fish cake with chips and a bag of scraps.' Reaching down he placed a kiss on Kathleen's cheek. 'Mmm you smell more appetising than these fish and chips,' he whispered, mischief dancing in his eyes.

'Is that so, Joe Mitchell, well I'm all ready to go out, so you'll have to make do with the fish and chips until later. When I get back, who knows?' She giggled, pecking him on the cheek.

Tease,' Joe flung back, this time dropping a kiss on Kathleen's lips.

'Get off, these need keeping warm before you get too carried away,' she said, pushing him back and thrusting the paper bundle into the hot oven, but she smiled into his eyes.

Pulling one of the kitchen chairs out, Joe sank down onto the hard seat and bent over to pull off his working boots. Craning his neck he looked up at Kathleen, 'Loves you, Mrs Mitchell.'

A smile filled Kathleen's face and at the same time a pulse twitched in her temple, knowing that Joe still loved and wanted her as often as possible, even after twelve years of marriage and two children, was more than she could have hoped, though she silently wondered what he saw in her these days with her mood swings. Along with her headaches they seemed to have worsened of late. She put the moods down to being too tired and the headaches to not eating properly. She swallowed, just hearing Joe's lovely words had her feeling all emotional, she needed to snap out of this. Mentally shaking herself and in an effort to keep her feelings under control, she retorted lightly, 'Well you can show me just how much later.'

'I'll take that as a promise shall I?' Joe winked before adding, 'I've had a lucky day and by the sounds of it, I just might end the day being even luckier.

Blinking to stop the threatening tears from spilling out, Kathleen kept the cheerfulness in her tone, 'So what have you done that adds up to a lucky day?' She watched her husband pull off his heavy boots.

Instead of replying, Joe stuffed his hand into his pocket and fished out a piece of paper. Smoothing it out he placed the blue note on the table and with a look of satisfaction declared, 'I had a little flutter on the gee-gees and won twelve pounds. So we're all having a bit of extra. This is for you.' He pushed a five pound note towards Kathleen, 'Go and spoil yourself at the bingo.'

Picking up the note, Kathleen examined it, 'You and those horses,' she said, a hint of disapproval in her tone as she reached across and pecked Joe on the cheek. 'Thanks love, but you know I don't like you betting.'

'It was only half-a-crown each way so enjoy it. It's my treat tonight. A lovely tea from the chippie, and me and the kids are sitting in with a few extra goodies and watching television together. I think No Hiding Place is on, not sure the kids will stay awake to watch it. So my love, stop fretting, we're doing all right these days.'

'Joe Mitchell, you and your silver tongue could charm the birds out of the trees.' Leaning over she dropped a kiss on Joe's lips, this time letting him slip his hand around her waist.

Chapter FOUR

'Please Miss...'

Anne looked up and saw Kevin Mitchell standing in front of her desk, a worried expression on his face as he pulled at his braces.

'Yes Kevin, what is it?' she said, aware of sounding impatient and silently castigating herself. Her personal problems should not be taken out on her class, but she could not stop herself from dwelling on her conversation with Paul that morning.

'Please Miss, Carol is asleep and I keep knocking her with my elbow,' he whispered leaning over the desk. 'I don't mean to, Miss.'

'I know Kevin, don't worry. Just go back and practice your writing,' she said, moderating her voice to a softer tone.

'But Miss, if Carol has to sleep in class can't she sit at the back of the classroom near the radiator? If she's there then I can't disturb her.'

'I will deal with Carol after class, in the meantime, you go back to your desk and try to be more careful,' she said, impatience once again creeping into her voice. Regretting her sharpness she smiled at his worried face. 'Off you go. Everything will be all right,' she added and watched as Kevin scampered back to the desk he shared with Carol. He slid onto his chair and picked up his pencil, the end going unerringly into his mouth. Anne frowned and shook her head at him. Pulling out the pencil he wiped it on his jumper and grinned up at her then bent to his writing. Where had Kevin got his cheeky manner from, Anne wondered. She could not help liking him, he was a happy boy and not unintelligent when he put his mind to his school work. With the right sort of teaching he would go far.

Letting her gaze settle on Carol, her heart squeezed. The little girl was fast asleep, her head cradled on her arms. Carol was eight years old and one of twelve. Her exhausted mother had seven children left at home: three boys and a girl younger than Carol, and two older boys. The other five had long since flown the nest. As the eldest remaining daughter, Carol's role at home was to help her mother look after the little ones. Knowing this, Anne encouraged the young girl to pay attention in class, she wanted to make sure Carol would be able to do more with her life than replicate the hardship suffered by her mother, but today she knew it would be a waste of time. Carol had looked dead beat from the moment she had arrived at school, fifteen minutes late. The authorities had made several visits to her home, but it appeared everything was acceptable and they were happy that Mr and Mrs Beaver were doing their best in straitened circumstances. The children were not being starved, abused or visibly neglected. Anne was not sure who she felt most sorry for, the parents or their offspring, because life certainly seemed hard for them all.

The classroom was not the cosiest of places at this time of year, with its stone-flagged floor, high-pitched ceiling and windows that were tall, large and draughty. The heating was on full blast, but it barely warmed the room. Even so, Anne knew Carol would be comfortable here until it was time to go home and help her mother and the child clearly needed to rest.

Low Field had been built in the late 1920s, originally to teach children from the old village, but during the 1940s when the Billing's View housing estate was built, the school had expanded to include children from the new estate. Nowadays most of the intake came from there. Anne was aware that none of the families was wealthy and that while the majority of children came from a good home, there were many who lived below the poverty line. It was the children that fell in to the latter category that created the biggest problems for her as their teacher. Shy and retiring and at times, like Carol, too tired to cope with the school day, these children demanded Anne's time to encourage them to learn and participate. Fortunately, they were small in number, but nonetheless challenging and it was her responsibility to help bring out the best that she could.

Anne sighed, her gaze still resting on Carol, taking in the folded arms clad in a much-darned, two-sizes-too-big cardigan. Today she knew there would be no point in sending the child home. Here she could sleep, feel warm and be free – at least for a while – of the domestic burden that should never be the lot of one so young. Looking across at her little pupil, her thoughts swung back to Paul and his early morning telephone call, how could she give up trying to help these little ones, but how could she bear never to see Paul again?

As the last bell of the day rang through the corridors of Low Field School, Anne, thankful that not only had the school day ended, but also the week, put down the book she was reading to her class. Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson was always a good way to end the day. Looking across at the children, she saw from their faces that they were lost in the story, doubtless imagining they too where pirates with treasure in their sacks and parrots sitting on their shoulders. 'That's it for today and this week, we'll catch up with more adventures with Jack Hawkins on Monday.'

'Aww Miss, can't we have more now?' asked Kevin his hand waving in the air.

'It's time to go home, Kevin and I'm sure you'll enjoy the story all the more for waiting until next week,' she said as she stood up. 'Now everyone, put your chairs on top of your desks then stand by your desks. In silence if you please!' She watched as her class, in hushed whispers, did as they were told.

'Hands clasped in front of you,' she said, waiting the few seconds until everyone had obeyed, then adding, 'Good afternoon class.'

'Good afternoon Miss,' chorused the children.

'Well done, now quietly and orderly off you go,' Anne ordered. She watched as her class filed out of the room then she stepped over to where Carol still sat, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and looking sheepishly around at the empty classroom. Anne smiled down at her. 'I think you've slept for all of us today, Carol, but never mind you can catch up with your work on Monday.'

With soulful eyes, Carol looked up at her and in an apologetic tone lisped, 'Sorry Miss.'

Taking hold of the little girl's hand, she squeezed it with affection, 'Come on dear, your big brother will be waiting for you.' With slow steps she led her little pupil out of the classroom and down the corridor to the cloaks area where Stuart Beaver, clutching his pump bag, stood waiting for his sister, his eyes red and puffy as though he had been crying.

'There you are Stuart,' Anne said.

'Hello Miss,' he responded in a subdued voice.

Anne handed Carol over to her older brother, but not without noticing how tired and upset he looked. I bet it has something to do with his teacher, thought Anne, her pulse rate increasing in a sudden rush of anger. She had clashed with Joan Millet on more occasions than she cared to count. Joan did not share her view that children from poor and tough homes needed extra support and understanding, and from the look on Stuart's face it was very likely he had been punished today. Joan's attitude was that all children, especially ones like the Beavers, needed a firm hand. In her book, life was about discipline: not about doing as you wanted, but doing as you were told. Anne was convinced that like his sister, Stuart had fallen asleep in class and Joan Millet had smacked him for it.

With that thought festering in her mind she left Carol in the care of her brother and strode down the corridor to the staff room. Joan Millet was inside drinking a glass of milk. In one sweep Anne took in the room and to her satisfaction saw they were alone. Closing the door behind her, she leaned on it, stared across at Joan and said, 'Have you no compassion for anyone?'

Grimacing at Anne's brittle tone, Joan Millet sniffed and returned her stare. 'Oh it's you. I've no idea what you are talking about.' A thin line of milk covered Joan's top lip making her appear vulnerable, but it didn't fool Anne. There were times when she thoroughly disliked this woman and this was one of them.

'I think you do. I've just seen a very red-eyed Stuart Beaver waiting to take his sister home.'

Joan scoffed, 'Those idle Beaver children see this as a place to rest, not learn. They need to be admonished.'

Anne felt a wave of anger that she had been right. 'You knew those Beaver children were tired,' she snapped, 'and you also know what kind of home they come from. I take it you punished Stuart for falling asleep in class?' She watched as Joan slowly ran her index finger across her upper lip to remove the milk, a sardonic smile twisting her lips making them fall somewhere between a smile and a sneer.

'This is a school, Miss Simpson, in case you had forgotten. Not a nursery where we are expected to mollycoddle babies. Stuart Beaver is here to learn, not sleep. Beds are for sleeping, not desks. God knows what they teach you these days at... what is it called now? Ah yes, Teacher Training College.' Joan snarled the last three words as if she were blaspheming.

Anne recoiled at the contempt dripping like spittle from the senior teacher's tongue, but before she could speak, Joan continued. 'We are paid to teach these little urchins to have manners and if possible hammer some education into their skulls. Low Field has more than its share of children from hopeless homes. Most of their parents – and I use the word parents loosely because many have just the one, the other having walked away long ago – are out working, leaving their wanted or unwanted offspring in the care of the education system. What money they have is more often than not poured down their throats as they lean on a beer-soaked bar in a smoky public house or frittered away in the bingo hall.'

Pausing for breath, Joan, the sneer still on her lips, added, 'I can see you don't agree. Of course, not all are like the Beavers, but I went into this profession with my eyes wide open. It is time you opened yours instead of your mouth. If you have any chance of surviving in this game you will take my advice and do what is needed. Because I for one feel it is my duty to make sure children like the Beavers leave this school with more than the ability to read and write their own name, along with an understanding of authority.'

Speechless, Anne watched as Joan, slapping her empty milk glass down on the table, marched in silence across the room, collected her coat and bag from the coat stand and throwing her coat over her shoulders, strode over to where Anne stood with her back still pressed to the door.

'Miss Simpson, if you are to contribute fully to this school you need to work with all of us, not against us. No one said it would be easy.' A thin smile crossed Joan's face and placing her hand on Anne's shoulder she added in a soft, low voice, 'You lack experience, my dear. Harden your heart. Failure to do so will make you a weak and ineffective teacher. I think I've made myself clear. Don't let this upset you and do have a nice weekend.' She did not wait for a response, but gently pushed Anne away from the door before opening it and leaving the room, her heels clicking smartly down the corridor.

Mortified, Anne was unsure if she was grateful that no one else had tried to enter the staff room to witness Joan's outburst, because she had no idea just how much the others agreed with Miss Millet's approach. One thing she did know was that whatever they thought, her own way of teaching these children was not going to change. Old-fashioned, draconian methods were not for her and if crossing swords with Joan Millet meant there would eventually be changes, then so much the better. Anne was determined to stand her ground. She owed it to children like the Beavers.

Chapter FIVE

Linking arms, Kathleen and Shirley stepped out of the snug of the King's Head. Shirley kept up the appearance of having had a good laugh. The extra vodkas she had downed in the pub had helped and as angry as she had felt, she had tried not to let it spoil the evening. After all, it wasn't often she saw her friend let her hair down these days. 'Come on Kath, let's get ourselves down the road or we'll miss the bus,' Shirley said, gripping her friend's arm and giving it a friendly squeeze.

'What a turn up that was,' giggled Kathleen, clutching her handbag under one arm whilst hanging onto Shirley with the other. 'I'd forgotten you knew so many dirty jokes,' she smirked, looking up at her friend, 'though I'm not too sure Eileen and Joan appreciated them at first, but they soon lightened up after they'd had a couple more vodkas. Never knew they could drink so much, they were three sheets to the wind when we left them.'

'Hardly surprising with you treating us all to doubles like that,' Shirley grinned. 'Fancy you winning a hundred-and-fifty quid, Kath! How bloody lucky is that? I can tell you, I'd not only be three sheets to the wind, I'd be laughing all the way home if I had dosh like that in my purse.' She patted her friend's arm with affection. They were both a bit tiddly, but it wasn't every night you won that sort of money and although she hadn't won a penny herself, Kathleen had been very generous and bought them all drinks. Thankfully, the vodka had helped to lift her mood, for until Kathleen had shouted out "House!" loud enough to compete with the Mill whistle, Shirley's night had been a disaster.

She was supposed to have met up with Billy Smith. They normally arranged to meet around eight, after she'd had a drink with Kathleen and the girls in the pub next door to the bingo hall, but the cheeky sod hadn't turned up and had left her standing out in the cold on the corner of the street like some cheap tart. She'd had to step from one foot to the other to keep her circulation going – not easy in stilettos – as she had watched busloads of passengers pass her by, the upper deck windows steamed up with their warmth against the cold night air. Dozens of cars had flashed by. Until tonight, she had not realised how many there were on the road these days. When she had not been gawping down the road for Billy's car, she had been checking the hands of her watch and all the time seething. She still could not believe he had not turned up, tonight of all nights when she had wanted to talk to him about something more important than the colour of her knickers!

In the three months they had been having their little affair, he had never been late, let alone not shown up. At first she had thought her watch must be wrong, but knew it wasn't because she had asked a passing couple the time. Getting colder and crosser by the minute, she had tried to think of a reason for him letting her down, arguing with herself that something must have happened, though going through the permutations of what that might be had given her no comfort. She had hung around until eight-thirty and then given up, forced in the end to accept that Billy Smith had stood her up. Whatever his reason, she told herself, it had better be good because if not she would have his guts for garters.

As late as it was, she had decided not to go back home. After all, it was Friday night and she was supposed to be out with Kathleen having a good time at the bingo, at least that is what her Jimmy thought. And so, since Billy had stood her up, that is what she did, and a few lines of bingo had turned out to be a bit of a giggle. Giggle or no, she would certainly be having the last laugh when she eventually got hold of Billy boy, she thought, as she and Kathleen made their way a little unsteadily to the bus stop.

Pushing her disappointment aside, Shirley looked at her friend and smiled. Kath was definitely a bit squiffy. 'Looks like you and your Joe are both in the big time now,' she said, remembering Kath mentioning Joe's little flutter on the horses.

'And not before time, we could do with a bit of luck. It's been a long time coming.' Kathleen crooned, her voice light and happy. 'I'm going to rig our two out tomorrow. Kevin needs new trousers, his arse is hanging out of his school ones, and he needs shoes. And for our Susan it looks like I might have to buy her a bra, her little chest is already sprouting. I was going to hang on until the end of the month when I'd saved a few pounds, but no need to keep waiting now.' She hiccupped then giggled, 'I think I've overdone the Babycham.' Hiccupping again, she tripped over an uneven flagstone, grabbing onto Shirley as they continued their walk along the poorly lit street.

'More likely the vodka.' Shirley laughed in response to her friend's happy tone. 'You deserve some luck, Kath. Bloody hell, we all work like navvies so it's time one of us had some good fortune.'

She wasn't jealous of Kathleen's win, Shirley reflected, but she was envious of her family, her happy life with two lovely kiddies and her Joe, who was without a doubt cut from a different cloth than the rest of the men around these parts. Not only a good husband, but a proud father too. If any man loved his kids, then Joe Mitchell did. Never ashamed to show his feelings in public and always eager to show off his family from the photograph he carried in his wallet. A stark contrast to her own married life where there were no kiddies and her husband had grown more distant as the years slipped by. These days, to her sadness, Jimmy spent more time down the pub than at home. She wished it could have been different. They had both found their childlessness a strain. It was not for the want of trying. And goodness, how they had tried! For Jimmy, children was what marriage was all about and when none had come along it had all but broken their relationship. Her husband was full of being the big man at times, but it was clear that in the reproduction department he was not the man he thought he was. Sometimes Shirley wished they hadn't sought medical help. It had taken all her powers of persuasion to get Jimmy to the doctor's, but it had only made things worse, not just disappointing for them both, but devastating for him. It would have been better if it had been her fault, but evidently the measles he'd had as a child had left him light on the procreation front.

"Light" didn't mean impossible, the doctor had said, and at first the shock had not caused too much of a problem in the bedroom, but as time went on and Jimmy's workmates and drinking pals seemed constantly to be raising their glasses to wetting their babies' heads, it had rubbed salt into the wound. Gradually he had turned away from her and their marriage, taking comfort in work and pints of bitter instead. It was his fault he had reminded her on more occasions than she cared to count and always after one pint to many. So it was that one day, while he was propping up the bar in The Albion, she had found herself having a laugh with Billy Smith. She knew it wasn't the way to deal with the problem, but for now that's how she was dealing with it. If only she and Jimmy had a marriage like Kath and Joe, a couple that pulled together instead of constantly pulling apart.

Shirley's thoughts turned back to Billy and she smiled. She knew the affair would end in tears, but for now she enjoyed the attention. He and her husband were complete opposites. For a start, Billy was tall, lean as a bamboo pole, with jet black hair and eyes that were dark as treacle, whereas Jimmy was fair, blue-eyed, five-foot-ten and on the stocky side. Billy didn't give a damn about anything or anyone he just wanted a laugh and a good time, preferably with a woman. Jimmy had once been good for a laugh too, he had also been caring and loving, but these days he could barely produce a smile. What a mess she had for a life at the moment and worse, she could see no way out of it. Billy Smith was nothing to her, not really, other than reminding her she was still a woman, a youngish woman at that. Thirty-two was not old these days, well not in her book. If she was honest she was fond of Billy, he excited her, but it was Jimmy she loved, if only he still wanted her.

'You've gone quiet,' slurred Kathleen as the bus stop came into view, 'hope it's not because you're thinking of that waste of space, Billy Smith. I'm not a fool you know Shirley, with or without a skinful of Babycham, I know he was supposed to meet you tonight.'

Nodding her head as though in reply Shirley looked down the road. It was now empty of cars. A handful of women stood waiting at the bus stop. Maybe she should talk more to Kathleen about what was really happening in her marriage, but reasoned that her friend had enough to cope with. She looked constantly tired and it was still a tough life – even if she did have one of the best marriages in town. Glancing sideways at Kathleen, Shirley frowned. She had not failed to notice that lately her friend seemed to have lost some of her sparkle and she wondered why. 'Yes he was,' she answered at length, 'but you already know he didn't turn up, Kath, so let's not spoil a good night out raking over my sordid life.'

Spotting the bus coming down the street, Shirley pulled on Kathleen's arm, 'Come on, there's the bus, we're going to have to leg it.' Propelling her friend towards the bus stop, their stiletto heels clicking rapidly on the pavement, they only just made it in time.

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Satchfield Hall

When the news reached Henry Bryant-Smythe about his daughter's indiscretion, he not only dealt with it, but stamped on it with such a resounding thud, that the consequences ricocheted through the years and well into the future. Henry Bryant-Smythe cared nothing for the consequences of his actions and even less for the feelings of those involved, with the exception of his own, and these he cosseted.

Celia's Bryant-Smythe's disgrace set in motion events that would affect the lives of many people, taking decades to unravel. Lives would be lost and destroyed and it would take until the death of the one man who had callously started it all, Henry Bryant-Smythe, until it was finally over.

Satchfield Hall is not about gentleness, tranquillity and privilege; it is about, power, love, lives and in the end revenge.

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Prologue

Celia stood alone in the shadows of the sweeping boughs of a willow tree. From her vantage point, she could clearly see the four people huddled together by the open grave, their heads bowed as they carried out the solemn ritual of bidding their last goodbyes. Despite it being no more than twenty yards from where she watched, the gathered mourners could not see her. She need take only a few steps forward to be visible to them, but Celia had no desire whatsoever to be seen.

Unlike the small party, she was not dressed in sombre clothing, nor was she weeping. For her, it was not a day to mourn; she had done that years earlier. Wept at the loss of the man she once believed had cared for her. He had, but not in the way she had hoped. Like everything in Henry Bryant-Smythe's life, he had viewed her as an asset, an investment, and when she had deprived him of what he believed was his insurance with a healthy dividend, he had made her pay. The price had been high; very high.

Celia shuddered. Her reason for standing silently in the cover of the willow was to witness the end of his life on this earth. She had waited for more years than she could count to see this day. She had heard it said that only the good die young: well here was evidence indeed that the evil stay on this earth for a very long time. He had celebrated his thirtieth birthday not long before she was born and she was a grandmother twice over now. You did not need to be a mathematician to work out that he had lived for many more years than his allotted three score years and ten, she mused, her lips curving in a wry smile that as quickly disappeared.

'Justice!' Celia hissed, almost screaming out the word, until she remembered where she was. But there was no justice, she thought with bitterness. Nothing could bring back what he had stolen from her. Even when he knew he was dying he had not uttered her name, nor repented. In the end nothing had changed. Instead, in a voice thick with loathing, he had told her his reasons for what he had done, confirming for Celia that he had no regrets for the pain and suffering he had caused. She recalled he had smiled at her, a sardonic smile that changed his face from haughty to malicious. Even his eyes had sparkled with malevolence, boring into her like laser beams.

'I just want you to know,' he had snapped, his voice like the crack of a whip that had cut just as deep, 'that because of your behaviour, I lost everything. You, with no sense of morality or filial duty, despite your lavish upbringing, were the catalyst for all that happened. You should be begging my forgiveness.' Celia remembered that in the corners of his mouth spittle had foamed as his anger mounted, his lips tightening with his deep resentment. 'But don't ever bother to ask for it,' he had added, 'because I will never give it. Now get out of my sight.'

Despite her mature years, his presence and tone had sent a shiver of fear down her spine and she had felt like a child again. Now, standing in the shadows of the willow tree, even though she knew his life was over, Celia could still feel his presence. To her horror, she realised that despite all that had happened, even in death her father still had the ability to chill her blood. Even knowing he was gone, she could not remove the hatred she had in her heart for him. It had been there for so long it was like another organ. It was part of her. It had shaped her life and the lives of all of those around her.

Her father: Henry Bryant-Smythe, the Squire of Satchfield Hall, powerful and evil, had destroyed so many and so much and had ultimately destroyed himself. Only now, as the words he had spoken echoed through the passage of time, did Celia feel a kind of pity: pity that defied all logic; the fear, the pain and suffering. She knew the words he had snapped at her as he lay dying meant that to himself, he had rewritten the past and in his own deluded mind had seen himself as the victim.

Her mother, who had suffered at his hands, had gone to an early grave. Had she only had the fortitude to stand up to the man who had taken her as his bride when she was barely sixteen, then maybe all their lives might have been different and so much pain avoided. But somehow Celia did not think so: despite Muriel Bryant-Smythe's great beauty, she had been powerless against the depredation of her iniquitous husband.

Now, wondering idly who the mourners were and having witnessed all that was necessary, Celia made to leave. Silently thanking God that it was over, she turned her back on the scene being enacted in the graveyard, but as she stepped away from her hiding place she felt a hand touch her arm. It took all of her will power not to cry out. Heart thumping, she swung round, joy and relief flooding her veins as she saw who it was.

'Jack! You startled me,' she gasped, smiling up at him and asking in a loud whisper, 'What are you doing here?'

'It looks to me, much the same as you, making sure he really has gone.'

Celia nodded, 'I'm so pleased to see you,' she said, linking her arm with his and wondering why she should be so startled when she'd had a feeling Jack would turn up today.

Arm in arm they walked through the concealed exit of the memorial gardens, the same one she had entered by earlier. Neither of them looked back. No doubt, thought Celia, her father was spinning somewhere between Hell and Heaven. She knew Heaven would have difficulty in taking him; there had never been an ounce of good in him. Even Hell might sniff at accepting him! Wherever he was, he would not be pleased with what in the end had been achieved. He had believed he was all powerful and had used his power to destroy and crush. It had taken the Second World War and a country desperate to rebuild and recover from its wounds, before the power he wielded was weakened and eventually removed. Yet despite being stripped of what he valued most: status, power, reputation and above all wealth, he continued to haunt those he had sought to destroy.

As Celia and Jack walked the few steps that took them to her car, she smiled, thinking that at last the chapter was closed. Her step was lighter: she was a woman who had come through it all; she had succeeded in the end, and looking up at the tall, handsome man at her side, Celia knew that despite everything, she had been blessed.

Her driver, Tony, was waiting for them in the lane. As they appeared through the thick hedge that concealed the little gate into the cemetery, he smiled and opened the rear passenger door. 'Are you ok?' he asked.

Unperturbed by his familiarity, Celia returned his smile, for whilst she was his employer and had been for more years than she cared to remember, he was also her friend. 'Thank you, Tony. Never better,' Celia stepped into the rear of the car and made herself comfortable.

Tony shook Jack's hand, 'Delighted to see you, Jack, and no doubt Celia is too. Today is a big day for her.'

Jack nodded, 'For us both,' he murmured, patting Tony's shoulder before climbing into in the car.

Once Celia's seat belt was locked into its snap, she rested her head on the headrest and closing her eyes, breathed a sigh of relief. At the same time, a tear trickled down her cheek. Even though it was over, the images sprang to life in her mind: the voices and even the smell of fear were about to consume her again. Feeling the tight squeeze of Jack's hand she pushed the memories away and

looked up into his handsome face. No matter how many times she gazed at him, it would never be enough. She counted her blessings every single day. He was the image of his father; thank God there was not a trace of his grandfather in him.

As if reading her mind, Jack squeezed her hand again and smiled down at her.

'No regrets?' she asked him.

'Millions, but none anyone can change.'

Celia knew what he was referring to and he was right. If they were to list their regrets then the list would be long enough to strangle them both. She smiled at him and then laughed out loud, the memories, which only moments ago had been about to consume her, evaporating in the warmth of his smile.

'Everything ok in the back,' called Tony, looking in the rear view mirror at the sound of Celia's laughter.

She smiled at the face reflected in the mirror, 'Nothing could be more ok, Tony. I've waited a long time for this day and I intend to savour it, even if it means spontaneously breaking into maniacal laughter for no apparent reason!'

He chuckled, 'I'm glad to hear it. In your shoes I'd feel exactly the same. And if you don't mind me saying so, you deserve to laugh after all you've been through because of him.'

Approaching the T-junction at the brow of the hill, Tony slowed the car at the give-way sign before turning off to the left. As he skilfully manoeuvred the big car into the lane, Celia remembered that the road sign had not been there all those years ago when she had been driven away from Satchfield Hall. Once again, despite her exuberance, the memory slipped unbidden into her mind. She saw herself as a young woman – not much more than a girl - hunched in the back of the car and felt again the despair and misery of that day.

'Stop it,' she told herself, 'it's over!' But her mind continued to replay those dreadful scenes and tears again welled in her eyes. She had never stopped wondering how one person could create so much pain and suffering in so many people's lives. She should be feeling some inner peace now, after all, in the end she'd had the last word, but she did not hear that. Instead, all she could hear was her father's voice as it thundered through Satchfield Hall all those years before.

PART ONE

1942 - 1951

Chapter ONE

What Henry Bryant-Smythe heard about his daughter sent him into a wild rage that no amount of appeasing by his wife would calm. Even as he fumed at what he saw as a dreadful scandal, he had taken steps to put a halt to it before it could do any further damage to his family's name. At the same time, he had conveniently sorted out an indiscretion of his own, but that was not something anyone else needed to know about. Thinking on his feet, he had swiftly dealt with it, using money and fear, his two principal weapons, to put right the bloody mess his daughter had laid at his door. As for the young whippersnapper who'd had the audacity to mess with his property: he had been dealt with just as swiftly and was now well out of sight. All in all, a satisfactory outcome.

Henry Bryant-Smythe had little time for feelings. As far as he was concerned, emotions were for the stupid and useless and the world would be a better place if there were more people in it like him. As for sentiment and feelings: where had they ever got anybody? Over the years he had asked himself this question many times, especially when confronted with a situation that needed crushing speedily. Sentiment, he reminded himself again, was strictly for the weak and worthless. He was neither of these and God forbid anyone should dare to forget it.

With one half of the problem dealt with, he had now to finish off the other half \- as if he had not got enough on his plate at the moment. Not wasting any time he had managed to get everything arranged, but it had cost him dear; far more than he had expected. 'This bloody war has made everyone greedy,' he thought, his expression bleak and forbidding as he went in search of his wife.

He did not have far to look, he knew where she would be, no doubt sitting in the drawing room patting her foolish tears and wringing her hands. She had begged him to understand how everything might be resolved more kindly, but he had not listened, he had far too much to lose. The only way to make sure everything went as he wanted was to stamp on any situation that threatened him; which is what he had done.

Now, as he pushed open the heavy double doors and stepped into the drawing room, he heard his wife's sniffle long before he clapped eyes on her. The disdain he felt for her was like bile in his throat. As he strode over to where she was sitting, she looked up at him. She had been weeping, her eyes ugly with puffiness. Seeing this added further to his resentment. He gave her no opportunity to speak: he was here to do the talking. In a low voice, verging on a whisper that not only belied his stature but his rage, he addressed her.

'So here you are, sitting and snivelling when our life is in turmoil and worse, our reputation is on the brink of being shot to pieces thanks to that disgusting daughter of yours: a disgrace at best, a whore at worst!'

He had purposely referred to the girl as your daughter. Henry had no time for the child, never had, not from the moment she had dropped red-faced into the world squawking her lungs out. Every now and then he had made the effort, primarily because he could see she was turning into a pretty young woman and with his business deals not always going to plan, he had begun to see her as an asset. There was no doubt in his mind that she would command a decent enough price to the right gentleman: ideally titled, but that was not obligatory provided he had enough capital assets. Now, however, her purity had been sullied and no gentleman worth his salt would look at her as a wife and mother to his heirs. The opportunity Henry had banked on as an investment in the bag had been stripped from him. Instead, her actions threatened to bring him into disrepute. He would not tolerate the disgrace at any price, which had left him with little choice but to act. And act he had. He had cut his losses and washed his hands of her as soon as had learned what she had been up to.

Looking down at his wife, his contempt oozing out of every pore, he added, 'There is no place for her here. I want her out and far enough away from me so I never have to see her face again. Is that understood?'

Muriel, tears spilling from her red-rimmed eyes, looked up at him, protesting, 'She's a child, Henry, where on earth can she go?'

'That should have been her question before she behaved like a common whore. As I said, I want you to get her out of here. Do you not think I have enough to occupy my mind without having to sort out this bloody mess?'

He did not add that the mess occupying his mind was a financial one and questions were being asked of his true worth. The last thing he needed was gossip about his family's morals, though he knew few would ever dare to question him directly. The girl's shameful, loose behaviour with that halfwit, David Gillespie, had cost him, potentially, not only a fortune but the enhancement of his family's status through her marriage into the gentry. On the other hand, albeit unwittingly, it sorted out a little peccadillo of his own - not that she or anyone else was aware of that. He firmly believed that what was not known about could not harm anyone - most importantly, no harm would come to him. By nature a ruthless man, Henry Bryant-Smythe had always believed he was untouchable: too important and far too powerful to be undermined. Despite this, he knew that tittle-tattle must be stamped on before it had even begun. He was damned if he was going to feed the lesser underlings with gossip fodder they could regurgitate to suit.

In a voice that brooked no nonsense, he said, 'While you've sat here pretending nothing is happening, I've sorted the whole sorry business out. All the arrangements have been made and she must be gone before dark. And, remember, as far as I am concerned she can never come back. Ever! I've washed my hands of her. From now on I do not have a daughter and if you know what's good for you, neither do you.'

Even as he spoke those words, Henry wondered if he was missing a trick. Was there a remote possibility that one day he might be forced to eat his words? Was it possible his daughter might yet command a price at some time in the future? Surely not! Dismissing the thought he looked down at his wife and sneered. Dwarfed by the large, leather wing chair in which she cowered, she looked even smaller and more frail than usual. He no longer saw her beauty; her weakness repelled him. Bending down he pushed his saturnine face close to hers, gratified when she flinched away from him.

'We will never speak of this again. Let me put it another way: should her name ever be mentioned in this house, I will send you to join her and, like her, if you dare to disobey me I will have you thrown out onto the streets. Is that clear?'

Although he kept his voice low, it made the crystal lamp on the side table resonate with its power. He could see that his wife was holding back more tears, but he did not care. She had not the faintest idea just how much more she would be weeping had he not sorted everything out. Nor was he about to tell her. He did not wait for a response, verbal or emotional, but turned on his heel and marched out of the drawing room, shutting the door firmly behind him as he left.

Watching the door close, not only onto the room in which she was sitting, but also on her role as a mother, Muriel Bryant-Smythe shook with shock and fear. How could he do this to her and to their only daughter? Disturbingly, she knew exactly what her husband was like. Over the years she had made it her business to find out what lay behind his cold exterior. She knew he had been brought up with little or no love, his parents believing that children should be seen and not heard. They had stood by those pearls of wisdom, employing a gaggle of women to take care of their offspring. Some of these women had been unkind at best and abusive at worst. The result: Henry, the youngest of five, had grown up a cold, calculating and cruel man. He had patience, but as with all of his traits he used it to get exactly what he wanted - and he always succeeded. This patience, so unexpected in a man of such ruthlessness, often lulled people into a false sense of security and only when he had snared his catch did he show his true colours. He had made fortunes from such tactics; he had also lost fortunes, although, as Muriel knew to her cost, this was forbidden territory and never to be spoken about.

So far, not once had he lost his reputation and he most certainly was not about to let an offspring of his tarnish it now. There were times when Muriel thought he would one day overstep the mark and do that all by himself, leaving total destruction in his wake. She trembled at the thought. But for now, her husband, Henry Bryant-Smythe, the Squire of Satchfield Hall, believed he was untouchable and for the time being she conceded that he was.

Muriel knew he would keep to his word and that her interference at this stage could make matters even worse for her daughter – if that was possible. With these thoughts she recalled what she had recently learnt about David Gillespie. It seemed the poor boy had been sent off to the war in what was being talked about as 'rude haste'. It was far too much of a coincidence, given the condition of their daughter. The unexpectedness of David's departure had left no doubt in Muriel's mind that her husband had somehow engineered it. The news served only to fuel her fear and an ice cold shiver slithered down her spine. She had always suspected her husband was evil, but until now she had not realised just how evil.

She sobbed at the hopelessness of the situation, knowing she must obey him to stop any more pain. Sniffing into her handkerchief, she vowed that one day she would find a way to make sure he paid for all of this. One day, Henry Bryant-Smythe would get exactly what he deserved; she would make sure of it.

Chapter TWO

Alone in the drawing room, her head aching and her heart breaking, Muriel knew there was nothing she could do to stop the inevitable and that to procrastinate would simply wreak further anguish and suffering for both her daughter and herself. Dabbing at her tear-streaked face, she got slowly out of the chair and made her way to the door, her mind filled with the image of her husband storming through it and shutting it firmly behind him moments before. For a heartbeat she hesitated, then grasping the handle, she turned it and pushed open the door.

To her dismay, Lilly Jenkins, the housekeeper, was in the hall talking to the girl who had been employed as a maid just two weeks earlier. It surprised Muriel that young women could be still found who wanted to work in the household when now, with the war raging, there were so many other employment opportunities open to them. She was, however, relieved that they did, for much as she disliked the housekeeper, Mrs Jenkins could not do everything: Satchfield Hall was a large house and to keep it running smoothly required more than one domestic.

Left to herself, Muriel would have dismissed the spiteful woman years ago, but when she had tentatively suggested doing so, Henry had humiliated her by refusing to countenance it, using the excuse that good housekeepers were hard to come by and Lilly Jenkins was worth her weight in gold and irreplaceable. 'The discussion is closed,' he had snapped, as he always did whenever she broached a subject he did not want to talk about. And as usual, she was too afraid of him to argue. Muriel was fairly sure that Lilly Jenkins provided him with a lot more services than mere housekeeping, but she preferred not to imagine what form these might take and rather than probe, she tolerated the situation. It was, after all, the least of her problems and if it kept Henry from her bed, so much the better.

As Muriel entered the hall, the new maid glanced in her direction then quickly lowered her eyes, a faint flush staining her cheeks.

'Morning Marm,' Lilly Jenkins drawled. 'Is there anything that I can be doing for you?'

The housekeeper's scornful expression made Muriel uncomfortably aware that the marks of her distress must be plain to see. Not that it mattered; at this moment nothing mattered beyond her anguish for her daughter. Forcing a look that still conveyed she was mistress of this house and not a broken woman far too old for her years, she stared Mrs Jenkins down and was gratified when the housekeeper dropped her gaze. Doubtless the woman had heard the gossip and would know not just that she had been weeping, but why. Much worse than this was Muriel's sudden conviction that Lilly Jenkins had in some way been involved in whatever arrangements Henry had made to deal so speedily with the sorry situation.

Muriel hated the very thought that her staff were used in this way, it made them believe they were above what they really were. Not that Lilly Jenkins needed encouragement on that score. What was now happening in her household gave the sly housekeeper far too much assumed power. Muriel noted the furtive look in Lilly Jenkins' eyes; the expression she always wore whenever she felt she knew something about her employers that they would prefer she did not, in particular something as juicily scandalous as this. Muriel knew her daughter's unhappy plight would make her a social outcast no matter what her class, but even more so for people of the Bryant-Smythes' standing in society. She was under no illusion that what Mrs Jenkins knew would keep the housekeeper supplied with gossip and hearsay for years to come. Muriel loathed the farce of it all. Had she not been so afraid of her husband, she would have never allowed this woman into her home, but it was all too late. No matter what she thought, nothing would change. Not yet at least. For now she had a task to do, one that was already breaking her heart. What hurt her the most was that she knew she had no choice.

'No thank you, Mrs Jenkins,' she said, 'I can manage. Maybe you could deal with the fire in the drawing room? It appears to be low.' Wincing at what she must now do about her daughter, to Muriel's surprise her voice did not betray her inner turmoil. Nor did it reveal her disgust at the sly, knowing look she received from the housekeeper \- though for a moment it was a struggle. Had she not been so well bred, brought up to behave at all times with decorum, she would happily have smacked the woman squarely in the face. Instead, much against her basic instinct, Muriel held herself back and behaved like the lady she was.

Almost as if she knew what it cost, Lilly Jenkins gave a sneering smile, 'If you say so, Marm, but you know where I am should you change your mind.'

'Indeed I do.' Muriel replied and to her amazement, saw Lilly Jenkins raise her left eyebrow in a look of amused disdain. It was yet another sign the housekeeper knew far too much about what was going on. Not waiting for the rude woman to utter another word, Muriel turned and with all the dignity she could muster, headed towards the wide curving staircase that would take her to her daughter.

Half way up she heard Lilly Jenkins bark a curt instruction, 'Stop gawping, girl. Best you get that fire stoked up before it goes out.'

Glancing back, Muriel saw the housekeeper push the young maid towards the drawing room door then turn, not troubling to hide her sly smile as she looked up the stairs.

Chapter THREE

Celia lay on her bed, curled in the foetal position as if to protect herself from what she feared was about to happen. She knew her father had been more than busy, he had been manic. Now, word had reached her ears that he had arranged for her to be taken away. Whispers had resounded off the walls of the cold and draughty Hall as speculation mounted as to what would happen to the young Miss: 'Not so young, I hear,' snatched Mrs Jenkins, to anyone who happened to mention The Situation within earshot. 'No better than one of the common girls from the village and her with all her privileges, not that it's done her much good.' Seeing that Celia had overheard, she had smirked, her sneering expression spiked with malice.

Not only were the staff gossiping, but as if that were not bad enough, her father's rage had not taken its usual form. Normally, when Henry Smythe-Bryant raised his voice it was louder than a summer heat storm and the household would take cover, the very fabric of the building and the air in Satchfield Hall vibrating with fear. But The Situation did not have him bellowing, nor did he even raise his voice, and for Celia that was all the more frightening. She barely dared to imagine what he was plotting.

Terrified, she screwed her eyes tight shut, as tight as was physically possible so that she could see nothing at all, not even the little speckles that floated around behind her eyes when they were closed. With her fingers plugged deep into her ears drowning out the sounds around her, in a silent prayer she begged she could be made invisible. Celia had known her father would be angry, but she had not expected that his intervention would give her no chance to explain. Not one. He had not once spoken to her since he had learnt about her condition. It was as if she did not exist, and at this moment she wished that were indeed the case. She took a deep breath that shuddered its way down into her lungs. What she would not give to evaporate off the face of the Earth right now.

Celia had convinced herself that she and David Gillespie would be married and all would be fine, but that was ten days ago. Now, as she lay on her bed alone and frightened, she had no idea what would become of her. Since speaking with her mother her life had been plunged into silence. No one else had said a word to her, apart from some of the staff and even their tone was subdued. Mama had visited her many times, but each time she entered the room she looked increasingly strained. As distraught as Celia was, seeing her mother's obvious distress broke her heart. She knew it was all her fault. She saw the sadness in her mother's eyes and heard the anxiety in her voice, which was not the strongest at the best of times, but it now held such a mixture of pain and shame that she sounded barely normal. Despite this, Mama always held her close and continued to reassure her.

'Celia, whatever happens, you must never forget that I love you and I will always be there for you.'

This in itself disturbed Celia because her mother continued to use the phrase, there for you, not here for you. She knew by now that her father was involved and this should have concerned her. It did, to a degree, but it was overshadowed by her anxiety about David. There had been no word from him. Nothing. Not a visit, not even a hastily scribbled note. Celia could not understand it. Had he learned of her plight and abandoned her, like everyone else seemed to have done? 'No, no, please no!' But crying out in denial at this dreadful possibility only added further to her fear. Surely, she argued to herself as she sat in the solitude of her room, her father would want David to marry her? Then she counter-argued that there would be no need to want, because they would be married. They simply had to be. After all, the Gillespies were not only good friends, but her father's business colleagues. Had he himself not introduced David to her in the first place?

That day would be forever etched in her memory. Her father quite often brought colleagues to Satchfield Hall. On this occasion, returning home from one of his business trips in town, he had been accompanied by David Gillespie and his father, Robert. Normally, when Henry Bryant-Smythe brought business colleagues back with him, Muriel would scurry out of the drawing room taking Celia with her, but for some reason, on that day her father had insisted they both stay. 'This is my daughter,' he had said, introducing Celia in his customary dry, flat tone.

She had seen David before, of course, when he had visited Satchfield Hall, but until that moment they had not been formally introduced. She had never imagined that someone so handsome and full of purpose would ever want to pay her any attention. The way he had looked at her had made Celia's pulses race and when he held her hand, the smile on his lips mirrored in the soft blue of his eyes, it had taken her breath away. How was it possible that a man could make her feel so weak? She knew it was dangerous: she felt the danger ripple through every fibre of her body and she wanted more. She had fallen in love with David Gillespie that very moment. She had believed he felt the same way.

The first time they had met alone, he had held her and kissed her so gently she had almost fainted. Not long after that beautiful, spellbinding kiss they had become lovers. It was something she could never have imagined she was capable of doing before marriage and she had tried to resist, but he had told her that nothing was guaranteed anymore. The war was changing everything. 'We could all be killed and then we would have missed out on something so very beautiful,' he had whispered. She had believed him; she had wanted to believe him, her resistance crumbling beneath his touch.

But then, had not he told her how much he loved her each time he had gently and carefully stripped off her under garments? 'I love you and I hope you love me and when this terrible war is over we will sit and plan our lives so that we can be together forever.' He had kissed her senseless. How could she have resisted? She knew he loved her and that as soon as the world stopped fighting they would be married.

Celia had often overheard the servants teasing each other about their boyfriends. She knew that 'nice girls' never allowed physical intimacy before marriage, no matter how tempted they might be. At the time she had thought they were either mad or lying, but belatedly she had seen the wisdom of their words. Before David, she had been completely ignorant of that side of love; she'd had not the faintest idea how babies were made. On the rare occasions that her natural curiosity had led her to ask questions, the answers she got had horrified her. She could not bring herself to believe that people acted in the same way as farm animals. Later, when her periods started, she had asked her mother, but she had responded with a shocked and embarrassed, 'We don't talk about that, Celia!'

How differently she saw things now! Everything David had done to her she loved. Except for this. Weeping, Celia placed her hand on her belly. She could feel the slight swelling. She had missed four periods. She had thought nothing about missing the first one; these things happened. They had certainly happened to her before. But in those days, she had not been making love with David Gillespie. Even after she had missed two periods, she had still allowed him do all those things to her.

Then the nausea had started. She remembered the first time she had vomited: they had made love that afternoon. David had to come to the house as normal to see her father and after the meeting he had offered to take her for a spin in his car. He had told her he had managed to get hold of some petrol and wanted to use it to take her out. The fresh air and being with David had made everything seem so normal and they had made love on the back seat. That evening she was sick, so very sick. She had put it down to going out in the car, which she was not used to. With petrol rationing, her father most certainly did not allow her to travel in his car unless it was somewhere he felt she needed to go, and even then she had to persuade him of its necessity. Hence, an outing in an automobile was very rare.

The next morning she was sick again and had been every morning since. Even with her limited knowledge, it dawned on Celia what was happening to her body and why, but she had not been afraid. Not until now.

She had planned to tell David the next time they met, but she had not seen him for several days. A shock of panic ran through her veins at the unexpected absence of her lover. Why now, of all times, was David being so elusive? She had screamed this to herself each day when he did not come to see her. It was a question that resounded round and round inside her head, but with no answer.

In the end, ten days ago, she had told her mother. It was almost impossible to hide her sickness and Celia was fairly sure her mother must have guessed. 'I think I'm going to have a baby, Mama, but you don't need to worry.' She had gushed out the words with a mixture of fear and happiness. 'You don't need to worry about anything, because David and I love each other so much. We will be married just as soon as I tell him. I know it will be a wonderful surprise to him.' But as Celia's torrent of words cascaded out of her mouth and flew across the small space that divided then, she saw the colour drain from her mother's face.

Like arrows being fired from several bows simultaneously the words had pierced Muriel's brain, sinking deep into her soul to wreak havoc. Speechless with shock, she gazed at her daughter and saw just how beautiful she was and also how very young, and worse, just how frightfully naïve. As Muriel saw all of this and her worst fear was realised, her heart lurched. She had tried to ignore the sour odour of vomit in her daughter's room over the past week. Even the windows open and the dowsing of toilet water had not masked what she had secretly feared, praying it could not be true and if she ignored it, it would go away.

Taking hold of Celia's hand, Muriel wanted to scream at her, 'Why?' Why had she felt she could act in such a way without a care? It was not just the immorality of behaving like a loose woman, although that was bad enough, God knows, but had she not for one moment considered the shame she would bring to her family and household? But even as these words sprang to her lips, Muriel knew there was no sense in railing at the girl, it would change nothing. The damage was done. What she had to do now was to think speedily on how to protect her daughter, because she would need to do this more than anything else. Shuddering at the spectre of her husband looming over her, Muriel did her best to ignore the icy shiver that inched its way down her spine.

Trying to hold back her tears of disappointment and fear, she steadied her voice and asked, 'How many periods have you missed?' As she asked this question she begged to hear it would be no more than two, so that the pregnancy could be terminated. Nobody would need to know and all her fears would be sorted; Celia's life would not be shattered, her reputation ruined beyond repair. Her daughter was seemingly completely unaware of the pain and devastation that would follow her answer, which if it was as Muriel feared, would set in motion events that would affect so many lives and take several decades, if not a lifetime, to heal. Her own included. It did not bear thinking about.

As she waited for what seemed like an eternity for her daughter to reply, she prayed with fervour to any God who would listen that what she was about to be told was not true, for somehow Muriel sensed that it was much more than two.

Her prayers went unheard. Her poor, naïve daughter, clearly believing she was about to become Mrs David Gillespie, unashamedly replied, 'Four, Mama.'

Muriel let go of her daughter's hand, not that she wanted to distance herself, but so that she could place her own hands down onto the bed for support. 'Dear God,' she silently prayed, 'what did I not see? What was happening that I ignored and most importantly, how am I going to protect her? Because, God, if you are listening, she will need protecting.'

Staring at her daughter, Muriel forced herself to recognise the change in her. She had seen it ever since Celia had started walking out with David Gillespie, but had chosen to ignore it, arguing that it was only natural. Celia was happy; there was no harm in that. Trusting her daughter to behave like the young lady she had been brought up to be, Muriel had persuaded herself that Celia would never allow herself to be compromised. Yes, she had noticed the girl had put on the tiniest amount of weight, but had put that down to her natural growth and increased maturity. It was normal for seventeen-year-old girls wasn't it? And so Muriel had squashed any misgivings she might have had, because anything else was unthinkable.

How could this have happened? Her mind raced wildly through the last weeks and months looking for tiny details that might have given her a clue. She saw nothing, nothing at all. They were a wealthy respected family with the highest of reputations. That is what she firmly believed and her belief made the situation even more improbable. That the son of a family friend, a young man she had trusted to escort her daughter to functions and bring her home safe, had taken evil advantage of Celia's naivety and seduced her was unforgiveable. She laid the blame squarely at David Gillespie's door unable to believe that Celia could have known what was happening until it was too late.

Looking at her beautiful daughter, the word 'four' echoing in her brain, Muriel's heart began to break into tiny little pieces knowing it would be almost impossible to save Celia from the results of her unbridled passion for this despicable man. By behaving so loosely, her little girl had ruined her life. The world might be in a state of flux, but in the eyes of the society in which they lived Celia's situation was a far greater sin than anything to do with battles and war. People just about managed to cope with men not returning from the fighting, but for a girl to have a child out of wedlock was unthinkable. As at no other time in her life, Muriel knew that, as Celia's mother, she needed to form a plan that would avert a crisis. And quickly.

She tried to keep her voice calm and almost succeeded. 'Have you any idea what will happen when your father finds out?'

With eyes as wide as saucers, Celia had jumped off the side of the bed and looked down at her. 'You don't understand, Mama. David and I will marry. Please, just let me talk to David and then father will be as happy as we both are.'

Heartbroken, Muriel knew that even as she turned her mind to dealing with her worst nightmare, in all probability others were already determining her daughter's fate. The looks she had been getting from the loathsome Lilly Jenkins lately had not escaped her. It was unlikely that Celia's morning sickness had gone unnoticed by the staff. How long before it was brought to the attention of her father? Much as she dreaded shattering her daughter's romantic fantasy, Muriel knew she had no choice but to tell her what would really happen.

Holding back the tears that threatened to engulf her, she took hold of her daughter's hand and pulled her back to sit on the bed. 'Celia, nothing will allow your father to let you marry in your condition. Had you been only a month or two on, your pregnancy might have been easy to conceal. At least we could have said that the baby came early. But nothing will hide this from anyone. You know that I am afraid of your father, and with good reason. Celia, I beg you to do what I say. Because once he knows, there will be nothing anyone can do to save you.'

Celia looked at her as if she were a stranger, her mouth opening in a silent cry of protest. Before she was able to voice it, Muriel continued, 'The only thing I can do is arrange to have you sent away and then we can sort things out without him ever finding out.' Gazing into Celia's shocked eyes, Muriel could see her daughter thought she was insane.

'It has nothing to do with father,' Celia burst out. 'David and I love each other, we will marry. Why are you looking at me like that, Mama? You look so frightened! I thought you would be pleased. I am going to spend the rest of my life with the man I love and we are going to have a baby! Your first grandchild. Surely you can find it in your heart to be happy for me?'

With a heart that felt as heavy as lead, Muriel shook her head, 'David Gillespie, will not be marrying you, Celia, he ...'

Before she could continue, Celia screamed back. 'Mama, it's the 1940s; we are liberated these days don't you see?' Her voice sinking to a whisper, she added, 'You must see; we will marry. David and I have many times talked about marriage once the war is over.' She looked down, rested her hand on her stomach, her lips curving in a soft smile, 'It will just be a little sooner than we'd planned, that's all.'

It was all just too much and Muriel with contempt thick in her voice, retorted, 'Liberation from what, girl, common decency?'

Celia looked up in horror. 'Then tell me, Mama, why did he say all those things to me when we were ...?'

'Please,' Muriel shrieked, 'spare me the details of your behaviour! Is it not enough that I have to know that you, a Bryant-Smythe, are in such a condition that our name will be dragged through the mud and beyond? Since you were born I have loved you, nurtured you, hugged you and kept you safe, Celia, but I cannot save you from this. What have I done to deserve that you should bring us all to ruin?'

'Mama, please stop worrying. It will be all right. Let me speak to David, I know he will sort this out. And please, rest assured, we will be married. People will soon forget that our baby came early. It won't matter ...'

Muriel held her hand up to stop her daughter's pleading. 'Dear God, child, listen to yourself! How can you be so ignorant as to believe that?'

Seeing the expression of shocked disbelief on Celia's face was too much: the tears Muriel had fought to keep in check spilled down her cheeks. She knew she must do something straight away to try to limit the damage, but the weight seemed almost impossible for her to carry. Even so, she must do whatever she could to help her daughter escape Henry's wrath. 'God help us,' she prayed, shuddering to think how her husband would react; in the extremity of rage he was not beyond physical violence. With these thoughts crowding her head, she got up and walked to the door.

'Celia, I will do whatever I can to get you away, but you must keep to your room until I have everything sorted out. You have disappointed me beyond words, but I am still your mother and despite all of this, I do love you.'

With this said, Muriel left the room, quietly closing the door on her daughter's anguished storm of weeping.

Chapter FOUR

Dragging her steps, Muriel walked slowly along the landing to Celia's bedroom, knowing she was about to break her daughter's heart. Several days had passed since that dreadful, bleak, black day when Celia had confided in her. Since then, her worst nightmare had come true; it seemed that Henry had already been told of Celia's condition – doubtless by the housekeeper - and had taken matters into his own hands, leaving her powerless to proceed with her plan of concealment. And now her daughter was to be banished from her home forever.

Pushing open the bedroom door, Muriel saw that Celia lay curled like a child on her bed, but hearing the door squeak on its hinges she unfurled herself and turned towards the sound. Her eyes were puffy, her face pale, she had clearly been weeping.

Muriel ached for her daughter, aware that she must have been hoping and praying to hear from her lover, unable to understand why there had been no word from him. There would be no more talk of marriage or anything at all to do with David Gillespie, for he too had been forcibly banished and to a wilderness far more dangerous than the one her daughter must now face. As hard as it was, Muriel knew it was best to let Celia believe David had abandoned her.

With Henry's cruel words still ringing in her ears, she stifled a sob. She had failed to protect her child as a mother should. In some ways it was as though history was repeating itself, for she too had been thrown to the lion's den all those years ago when she married Henry Bryant-Smythe. Her parents, completely taken in by his lies and charm had all but pushed her into his arms and she, a young girl on the verge of womanhood, had been powerless to resist. If only she had refused him their daughter would not have been born and would not now be facing a cruel and lonely future. Muriel felt as if her life had turned into a nightmare, one she had believed could happen only in novels, such as those by the gifted Brontë sisters. Not in real life; not here in her own home and most importantly, not to her poor, beautiful daughter.

Celia had sat up and was gazing at her as she walked across the room. 'Mama, please tell me you have heard from David?' she begged, gasping in fear as she saw her mother had been weeping and what that implied. 'Please, please tell me that you have!'

Hearing the despair in her daughter's voice, Muriel wanted to close her eyes, ears and mind to everything that was happening. The speed with which the events of the last week had taken place had frightened her beyond words. Yet she knew she must rise above her fear and from somewhere deep inside herself find the strength to do what she had to do. She looked down at Celia's taut, white face and for a moment said nothing.

'Mama, what is it? You're frightening me.'

How Muriel wished with all her heart that she could reassure her, tell her that she had explained things to Papa and spoken with David Gillespie. If only it were true. Instead, she must break the distressing news to her daughter that there was no chance of her marrying, hastily or otherwise, and that it was highly likely she would never see David again. Not only that, but her father no longer acknowledged her as his daughter and wanted her gone from Satchfield Hall forever.

With a heavy sigh, she said, 'I am so sorry, Celia, I wish I could share your naïve optimism that you and David Gillespie will be married, but I am afraid it is not to be. I know for a fact that he has gone to join the army and that even as we speak he is with his regiment on his way overseas. I am afraid you must accept that his feelings for you were not as you imagined.'

'No! No! This cannot be happening,' screamed Celia hysterically. 'It's not true! It cannot be true. He told me he loved me, over and over. He said we would be together. He never once mentioned becoming a soldier and going off to war, in fact he said it was not necessary, that his work gave him special dispensation from call up.' With tears streaming down her face, her fingers plucking at the bed cover, Celia's voice sank to a whisper. 'He wouldn't have gone without saying goodbye. Mama, please, Mama, tell me it's not true.'

'I'm afraid it is. I'm sorry. You have to understand that men will say anything to get what they want, Celia. Had you only resisted his advances instead of allowing him to ...'

Rigid with shock, her tear-streaked face ashen, Celia clapped her hands over her ears and shook her head from side to side, a long drawn out moan escaping from her lips.

Muriel could take no more. Witnessing her daughter's misery left her feeling weak and totally drained, but she knew she had to keep her mind alert and focused. For all their sakes, she must get Celia off the bed and out of Satchfield Hall. She had spent these last few days trying to steer Henry into being lenient and though she had not won what she wanted, she had at least managed to ensure her daughter would be looked after, albeit at a distance, but a safe one nonetheless, and thankfully, Celia's whereabouts would be known to her. It could have been a lot worse had Henry had his way.

To achieve this small victory, Muriel had used all her knowledge of her husband, persuading him that his reputation would suffer were it to be known he had refused to provide for his daughter. And it soon would be, because the servants would tittle-tattle if he simply turned Celia penniless out onto the street. How would that look to his business associates? They would think he was not only heartless, but worse, financially compromised. It was the right – indeed, the only – argument that would sway him, as Muriel well knew, but she also knew that unless Celia left within the hour, he would as likely change his mind.

At the sudden knock on the bedroom door they both flinched. A look crossed the distance between them and spoke volumes: volumes of fear. Muriel turned to the sound as the door opened. Seeing it was the new maid, Lizzie Rainbow, Muriel sighed with relief.

'Do come in, Lizzie, I've been expecting you,' said Muriel in a voice that sounded more in control than she felt. The girl stepped into the room, her head bowed. Keeping her gaze on the floor, she shuffled further into the room closing the door behind her.

'Celia, get up off the bed,' said Muriel as she beckoned the maid over, 'I've asked Lizzie to help you pack.'

Shocked to her core, Celia jumped off of the bed, her mind still grappling with and failing to grasp the earth-shattering news about David. 'Pack! Why? Where am I going?'

With a small shake of her head and a look that said, 'Not in front of the servants,' her mother did not enlighten her. Dumbfounded, she watched Lizzie follow her mother into her dressing area then, in a tone that froze her heart, heard her say softly, 'Please, Celia, just let Lizzie pack your things into your trunk.'

The unexpected gentleness in her voice brought fresh tears to Celia's eyes as she stared at her mother, who looked ill and exhausted and had clearly been crying. In that moment Celia realised that Mama was on her side and had tried to help, but had failed. She has never been able to stand up to my father, thought Celia, certain that he was behind this. Was it surprising her mother's efforts had been in vain? She has argued and lost, and that means so have I.

Frozen with shock, Celia watched in silence as Lizzie scurried around, pulling clothes from the closet and the heavy chest of drawers. She could not believe this was happening to her. She wanted to scream and shout, but then, hadn't she been doing that for days, and where had it got her? She shivered and rubbed her arms, becoming aware that the room was icy cold. Just as her mind registered that fact she saw that her mother was also shivering, but from the look on her face it was as much from fear as the freezing temperature. It was the same expression she always wore when Papa was angry about something.

Wondering what lay in store for her, Celia began to tremble. Whatever fate awaited her, it could only have been arranged by her father. He had not even troubled to speak to her and she knew he must be in a towering rage. With this knowledge, her body took on a numbness that rendered her almost immobile. 'What is going on, Mama? Tell me, please,' she begged, but again to no avail.

Several moments passed, and apart from the swishing of fabric as it was being pulled from coat hangers, the only other noise in the room was the wind snapping the drapes at the open window. The longer the silence lasted, the more fearful Celia became. She had hoped that the hours and days she had spent alone since talking to her mother had meant that something was being arranged with the Gillespies. She had dared to hope Mama was wrong and that Papa, although enraged to learn the truth, would support their marriage. But as the days crawled by with no message from David, she had become increasingly confused and frightened by his silence, tiny doubts creeping into her mind as she heard again the contempt in her mother's tone. Had David, having had his way with her, shunned her because of her 'loose behaviour'?

Despite her fears, Celia had begun to hope that at the very least something had been organised to sort things out for her, but now, looking around her room, she knew that nothing could ever be sorted out. Everything she had feared had come to pass: David Gillespie had, it seemed, deserted her; he had not loved her after all, but had only wanted to make love to her and because she had let him, now she was to be taken away from her home. It was all too late to beg and plead. Lizzie, rushing around in her room packing things into the big travelling trunk, was a clear indication that the die had already been cast. Looking at her mother's taut, careworn face, Celia wanted to tell her how sorry she was for causing so much pain, but she could not speak, because she could not get out of her head that David had left her. She became aware that Lizzie was staring at her and saying something, but the words seemed to come from a great distance and she could not make them out.

Terrified of The Situation and afraid that Miss Celia, who looked so lost and forlorn, was about to collapse, Lizzie tried again. 'Is there anything else I should pack before I close your trunk, Miss Celia?'

Lizzie knew the goings on were nothing to do with her; after all, she was just a lowly maid in this big, cold house. Even so, she felt very sorry for Miss Celia. She had thought the family, them being so rich and powerful, would have looked after their only daughter in this situation rather than make such a fuss. It wasn't like this sort of thing didn't happen all the time. She knew it only too well: it had happened to her own sister.

Just thinking about Patsy made Lizzie want to cry. Mum and Dad had gone off at the deep end and blamed the Yanks, but Lizzie knew it was no Yank that got her sister pregnant, it was Jimmy Berry. Now, neither Patsy nor Jimmy was alive and her parents blamed themselves for what had happened. The only thing in Lizzie's mind they should blame themselves for was being so worried about what people would say they'd sent Patsy away to have her baby. 'Out of sight out of mind,' Mum had said, but tongues had wagged just the same, like they always do. Now many wished they had kept their mouths shut, because Jimmy was lying in a grave a long way from home - killed in action somewhere in France was all they'd heard – and her sister had died giving birth to a little boy. Even that poor little mite had not survived. Patsy had been sent away and like poor Jimmy Berry she would never come home.

The family's pain and sadness had driven Lizzie to leave home. She had come to work here at Satchfield Hall to get away from it all, but it had turned into another nightmare: one that frightened the living daylights out of her and stopped her from sleeping. And as if that wasn't enough, here she was caught up in the same kind of mess her own family had so recently gone through. She knew from below stairs gossip that the Squire, having told Lilly Jenkins to sort out a woman to look after Miss Celia, had washed his hands of her. It had taken Lizzie only days to discover that the housekeeper ruled the household with a rod of iron. She was a cruel and spiteful woman at the best of times. Things did not look good at all for poor Miss Celia. Why didn't her family realise their beautiful daughter was here and alive, and that she needed them? It wasn't like they couldn't afford to look after her and her baby. How could people be so stupid?

As she took in the sad scene around her, it was clear to Lizzie than both Miss Celia and the Mistress were scared stiff. The icy atmosphere in the room positively crackled with their fear. She knew that, like her, they were terrified of Henry Bryant-Smythe and that because of this, neither would be able to stand up to him and stop this terrible thing from happening. Miss Celia was being sent away to have her baby, lost and alone, just like Patsy. It didn't seem to Lizzie that the war was changing anything very much, other than to create even more misery.

She looked across at the trunk now filled with Miss Celia's clothes, hesitated, then seeing the Mistress shake her head and walk quietly from the room, pushed the lid down.

Celia, had moved over to the open window and despite the icy wind blowing through it she continued to stand there, ignoring the Arctic blast. She needed to look outside; needed to see her home. She had been born at Satchfield Hall and loved the very fabric of the place. It was the only home she had ever known. Celia heard her mother walk out of the room, but still she stood staring out of the window.

Her bedroom was one of five, situated at the front of the house on the first floor overlooking the long, wide gravel drive. It had once been flanked by beautiful green lawns; lawns that at times looked like strips of velvet with their perfectly mown stripes. In earlier days, the gardener had, from time to time, changed the stripes to squares, creating a velvety, green chequerboard effect. The borders had once been filled with colourful bedding plants, but all that had changed. Celia could see only rows and rows of vegetables: potatoes, leeks, cabbages and carrots, but no flowers and no grass. The beautiful lawns had long since disappeared, dug over to form part of the kitchen garden in accordance with the War Office's exhortation to 'Dig for Victory'.

The war had changed so much, thought Celia, her hand moving automatically to caress her slightly swollen belly. She could not tear herself away from the window. She wanted to, but she knew as sure as day followed night, that she would never again stand in her room, let alone look out of this window. Whatever was to become of her she had no idea, but for this moment she just wanted to look at her beloved home before it was taken away from her.

The sound of the lid as it closed down heavily on the trunk made Celia turn around.

'Everything's in there Miss,' Lizzie said, as she stood at the side of the packed trunk, her chapped red hands folded over her white apron. She hesitated, looking as though she wanted to say something more, a shy, sympathetic smile lighting up her face. For a moment Celia froze, expecting to hear a word or two of comfort, but with a small shrug of her shoulders, Lizzie, who clearly knew her place, bowed her head and said nothing. It dawned on Celia that she and the new maid were about the same age, they might have been friends, yet the gulf of privilege that separated them was enormous. It seemed of a sudden so incongruous that Celia almost said so and at any other time she might have done, but at this moment she was too distraught to give it more than a passing thought.

With her trunk packed and Lizzie standing at its side, Celia realised that nothing she could say or do would stop her father from doing whatever he had planned for her. Her mother had told her nothing, but it was obvious she was being sent away so that nobody could witness her fall from grace. Tears of shame and humiliation mixed with hurt flooded out of her. No longer caring that the new maid stood watching her, Celia sank to the floor and wept, she felt so alone and so very afraid.

Lizzie rushed over and kneeling on the floor, put her arms around Celia's shaking shoulders. 'Don't upset yourself, Miss. I'm sure it's going to be all right. The Squire and your mother ain't going to let nothing 'appen to you.'

For a moment, Celia forgot it was one of the household staff who was holding her and saying words to comfort her. She was so terrified of what lay ahead of her that she clung to the young maid and sobbed, 'Thank you, but I am so afraid of what will become of me.'

'There's no need to be afraid, Miss Celia. Come on now; let's get you up off the floor.'

Just as Lizzie had helped her to her feet, a sudden knock on the door startled both of them. Mrs Jenkins walked in without waiting to be told and took in the scene immediately. Looking down her nose at Celia, she addressed the maid, 'Lizzie, I hope you've finished packing Miss Celia's trunk, because there's plenty more work for you downstairs. So best you be getting on with it. Now get a move on.'

With a quick, apologetic glance at Celia, Lizzie gave her a tiny smile before scurrying out of the room. Waiting until she had gone, Lilly Jenkins turned to Celia and in a voice that was far too brusque, as if The Situation had reversed their roles and Celia was now her underling, said, 'Best we get you on your way too, Miss.'

Before Celia could react, to her relief her mother reappeared at the bedroom door. 'Thank you Mrs Jenkins,' she said icily. 'Kindly arrange for my daughter's trunk to be taken downstairs. I will deal with Miss Celia. Leave us now, if you please.'

In a daze, Celia registered the look of venom that passed between the two women before the housekeeper turned on her heel and strode from the room. To her amazement, she heard her normally timorous mother murmur, 'One day I will make that wretched woman regret she was ever born! Now come along, Celia,' she said more loudly, gently taking hold of her arm. 'Your car is waiting. It is time for you to go.'

Chapter FIVE

Henry Bryant-Smythe stood, legs apart, hands on hips, surveying the scene in the great hall. The heavy front door was wide open allowing a blast of winter wind free reign to rush in and freeze the place, but he cared not one iota. The fact that the biting cold air snapped around everyone's face and ankles only added pleasure to his perverse mind. Apart from this minor detail, he was far too preoccupied barking orders to his driver, who was busy loading the car with Celia's trunk, to worry about such trivia.

The sounds of sniffling and the constant blowing of noses, which he knew full well were coming from his wife and bedevilled daughter, began to irritate him. Though he tried to ignore it, his patience had long since been stretched to breaking point and he turned and snarled. 'For God's sake, stop that infernal noise.'

At the same time as he barked at his wife and daughter, he spied the housekeeper, Lilly Jenkins, eavesdropping from the room next to the drawing room, where the door was ajar. This added further annoyance to his demonic temper and swinging round to leave her in no doubt as to whom he was referring, he bellowed, 'I suggest you get out here and help instead of poking your nose through gaps in doors and watching on when you should be working!'

Taking a deep breath he told himself that it was high time everyone realised that he was the master of this house and nobody should ever forget it. The scene now being acted out in front of him was proof that he stood no nonsense from anyone at all.

Clearly shocked at being caught out, the housekeeper scurried over to stand close to him.

'Don't just stand there woman, go and do something useful,' he hissed, gratified to see her flinch and scuttle away to stand hesitantly at the bottom of the stairs, one hand resting on the banister, the other raised to her mouth.

Turning towards his snivelling wife, he pointed at Lizzie, who was carrying one of Celia's suitcases out to the car. 'That young thing there, the one who wanders around the place frightened of her own shadow, I want her out of here. I suggest she goes too.' Not taking his gaze from Muriel's face, he added in a voice thick with contempt, 'And as for the other one ...' his eyes shifted momentarily to look straight at Celia and as quickly slid away, 'I never want to set eyes on her ever again.' That said, he looked again at the maid, who was standing rigid with fear at being addressed by the Master, her mouth hanging open. 'Yes, you, get in the car!' he snapped, his temper bubbling at boiling point.

His wife stared at him as at a stranger. Her look of terror gave him a small pang of satisfaction. It occurred to him for the first time that their loathing was mutual; he cared not a jot. She was powerless to interfere with the arrangements he had made to sort out the sorry mess his daughter had landed him in and she knew it. It came as a surprise when she actually managed to speak.

'Her name is Lizzie Rainbow and she belongs here at Satchfield Hall.'

With a look that could freeze a hot summer's day, Henry raised an eyebrow, 'I don't give a damn what her name is, she is going and that's all there is to it. And from now on, as far as I am concerned, she ...' for the first time since they had arrived in the great hall, he met Celia's gaze, part of his mind noting that she looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights, 'does not exist.' Seeing his daughter wince as if he had struck her, he again regarded his wife, allowing her to read in his eyes the hatred he felt for her. 'You,' he snapped, the word erupting like the crack of a whip. 'You,' he repeated, 'will make sure she is taken care of, whatever that entails, but rest assured, she is no daughter of mine.'

At this point he turned to the housekeeper and shouted as if she was at the other side of the Hall instead of still lingering just a few feet away. 'Earn your keep, woman, and help Miss Celia into the car. And don't forget to check that no bags have been left behind.' He added this because as useful as Lilly Jenkins was - and she was very useful – from time to time he needed to remind her exactly what her position was: he told her what to do, much as she liked to imagine it was the other way around.

Jumping almost to attention, Mrs Jenkins rushed over to Celia and grasped her elbow. 'Come now, Miss Celia, Mr Brand will be driving you. It doesn't do to keep him waiting. Believe you me, it's for the best.'

Celia looked at her, a cold, steely look, before she spoke, 'Is that so?'

Mildly amused by this interchange, not that he would ever allow it to show, Henry watched as his daughter shoved Lilly Jenkins out of the way and ran to her mother, who was visibly broken.

Henry tapped his toe in annoyance as the two women sobbed and hugged, 'That's enough, Muriel,' he shouted, 'let the girl go. I want her out of here and out of my sight right now.' Turning on his heel, he strode back into the hall, confident that not one of them would ever dare to disobey him.

Her eyes blurred with tears, Muriel held her daughter as they walked to the car that waited to take her away. 'Celia, you must go, but as soon as I can I will come to see you. Trust me, it is for the best and you will be safe. I will not abandon you. I promise, but please do as you are told and get in the car before your father goes back on his word and turns you out into the street.'

Moments later, the large car, loaded with all Celia's belongings and a very frightened Lizzie, whisked away her daughter from Satchfield Hall. Shivering, Muriel stood and watched until the car was a black speck in the distance then turning she went sadly back into the house.

Available in Kindle & Paperback

Magnolia House

When Jane Leonard gave half of her house to her only son, little did she realise that within twelve months, she would be forced to sell the home she had lived in for nearly five decades.

The choice for this action was not hers, but the events that led up to her handing over fifty percent of Magnolia House paled by comparison to what happened after the ink had dried on the documents that named the new owners.

As Magnolia House is put on the market for sale, love and betrayal, hopes and dreams and ultimately family loyalty will affect the lives of all of those who become involved.

Available in Kindle & Paperback

Chapter ONE

Carrying a handful of white envelopes, Jean entered the office and in silence surveyed its four occupants, her features stamped with the disagreeable knowledge that at this moment, her job was just about as unpleasant as it could get.

The office was not particularly large; nor could it be described as small, but it was well lit and modern and the four people who shared the space had little to complain about. But complain they did: if it was not the weather it was someone or something equally innocuous. Today they were not moaning, in fact nobody spoke at all. They had far too much to think and worry about. The rumours racing around Johnson's, the company for which they worked, had reached their ears in the last two days, since which time they had exhausted all the possibilities about whether these were fact or fiction. Jean's appearance in their office that morning, proof that the rumours were indeed fact, had stilled the customary buzz of conversation.

Watching Jean walk towards her, Sally Bingley, her mouth suddenly dry, stood up behind her desk and stretched out her hand. She was not sure quite why she did that, perhaps it was the sudden feeling that this was a pivotal moment in her life: a certainty that one way or another, the envelope coming her way was about to change things forever. She was the first to get her letter, probably because her desk was nearest the door. Plucking one from the pile, Jean handed it to her without a word, acknowledging with a nod Sally's muttered 'Thank you' - an automatic response, not words of gratitude.

The other three who shared the office also received an envelope from Jean. They each took one as it was handed to them, but unlike Sally, nobody spoke. They all knew their letters would confirm that everything was about to change - and not necessarily for the better.

As Jean walked out of the office in pursuit of her next victims, Sally opened her envelope. She pulled out the sheaf of paper, read it, folded it, placed it back in the envelope then looked around at her colleagues. The effect on each person was different: Kelly was smiling; Dave's brow was furrowed with worry; Mike shrugged his shoulders as he pushed the unevenly folded letter, minus the envelope, into his jacket pocket. Sally bit her lip; it was hard for them all, but especially Mike: she knew his wife, Fay, was pregnant with their first baby. Barely aware of the tears trickling down her face, Sally registered their reactions. In just a few weeks' time, not only would they all be out of work, but the entire company would no longer exist.

Of them all, only Kelly looked happy to receive the news, her eyes sparkling with excitement, as though thinking it was going to help make her dreams come true.

Chapter TWO

With a bundle of estate agents' leaflets in her hand, Sally struggled with her handbag as she tried to wrestle out her mobile phone. The ringing noise was now deafening. It was only when all the papers she was clutching fell to the floor that the phone deigned to release itself from the pocket in her handbag. Flustered, she grabbed it and answered relieved the caller had not given up.

'Yes? Oh, Mrs Leonard, sorry ... Yes, of course I am ... No, I am definitely coming this morning ... Right, yes, thank you.'

Snapping shut her mobile phone Sally looked down at the sea of papers scattered all over her Wilton carpet and wondered why she had made such an effort to answer the call. With a heavy sigh she bent to retrieve them. She had five houses to see, starting with Magnolia House, and the property details had managed to fly everywhere. The order she had so carefully placed them in was now nothing more than a muddle of crumpled documents.

Gathering up the papers she shuffled them back into some semblance of order with Magnolia House on the top. Not the best start to her first day of viewing, she mused as she took a deep breath. Even the call seemed like a bad omen. Although her appointment with Mrs Leonard, the owner of Magnolia House, was not until later that morning, the woman had phoned to check she intended turning up. She had then added that if Sally was genuinely interested, she would make sure she was early. It seemed an odd thing to say, almost as if Mrs Leonard had assumed that without even viewing the place, she was having doubts about its suitability.

Quickly dismissing these thoughts as ridiculous, Sally sent a brief text to Steve to say she was leaving early. Then, her bag dangling off her left shoulder, with keys in hand and papers now firmly back under her control, she pulled the front door closed behind her and walked the few steps to her car parked in the driveway. 'How strange life is,' she murmured, checking her watch. 'This time three months ago I still had a job and was leaving for work!'

Much of that dreadful day was a blur, though she clearly remembered the startling moment when she opened her letter and the enormous shock of being told, at some point later in the day, that she was redundant: the Company was closing; end of story.

In all the years she had worked there, Sally had never thought seriously about leaving. Every now and then she would half-heartedly tell herself to look around, but she had never done a thing about it. After all, the work was satisfying enough and the money acceptable; even the holiday entitlement was not bad, so why rock the boat? On the day the letters were handed out, she reflected, her boat had not only been rocked it had been overturned!

Only later, when her senses returned, did she realise that the lifebuoy thrown her way was more than a saviour: the cheque they had given her was for a sizeable amount, far more than she had anticipated. Twenty years of loyal service had paid off, evidently. What she and Steve could do with that money she could only dare to dream.

Then, just four weeks after losing her job, Steve's was also in jeopardy. Just as she was coming to terms with her own situation, he had arrived home from work, poured himself a stiff drink and announced that his company was being transferred to - of all places - India! He could go and join the new office or take his redundancy. He had one week to decide.

After a few sleepless nights, he took the cheque.

Now, with more money in the bank than they could have imagined but no income, things had to change and this time it was down to them to make the changes. Hence this day of viewing houses that a month ago they could not possibly have afforded. Sitting in the driver's seat almost immobilised by her seat belt, Sally leaned forward and again checked the address on the estate agent's brochure. Satisfied that she knew the best route, she turned the key in the ignition, put her car into reverse and grinning to herself, backed out of the drive. The future was going to be different and she was excited.

With her attention on her driving, she still could not stop thinking about what she was about to see and more importantly where it all could lead. Steve had said he would try to meet her at Magnolia House, but as he was going for his first interview since being made redundant, she accepted it was very likely she would be viewing the property on her own. Slowing down at a set of traffic lights Sally waited for the green light then proceeded across the junction. Pressing down on the accelerator, she smiled with pleasure: it seemed that life too was giving them both a few green lights.

Entering the village, the first thing Sally saw was the village pub conveniently situated next to the church. The pub advertised traditional ales; quality wine and food to complement the bar. She smiled. If her dream of running a Bed and Breakfast was going to happen then this was a good sign.

Passing a row of terraced cottages, she saw the Magnolia tree full of blossom on the south side of the house she was about to view. She also noted that Steve's car was not there. She had not really expected to see it, but was disappointed all the same.

Pulling over to park in front of the house, Sally killed the engine before reaching over to the back seat and plucking the details of Magnolia House off the top of the pile. Armed with the information she stepped out of the car, locked her door and walked the few steps to stand in front of the entrance gate.

Looking at the photograph on the estate agent's brochure she could see it had been taken on a similarly sunny day. The photographer had not tried any fancy angles in an attempt to distort reality, which was a good sign though she was surprised there were no internal shots of the house. Never mind, she told herself, she was about to see the real thing. With that thought, she looked up at the house on the other side of the gate and smiled: despite her earlier reservations she liked what she could see so far. She took a few steps to the left of the gate and peeked over the low hedge. Next to the Magnolia tree was a large area that could be used for parking. Sally laughed to herself, already she was thinking of their Bed and Breakfast plan. It added further to her excitement to see that the gardens looked tidy, as did the exterior of the old, rambling house. So far so good, she thought as she headed back to the entrance.

Just before she pushed the wooden gate open to walk up the path to the front door, she checked her watch and turned to look up and down the road for the agent. She had expected him to be here by now, but there was no sign of him. Taking in the peacefulness, Sally noted only one or two cars were parked at the kerbside and apart from herself there was just one other person in the street and that was a postman. Checking her watch for the umpteenth time, she decided there was nothing for it: she had better view the house on her own.

She was standing on the top step in front of the carved wooden front door, her arm outstretched, her index finger poised to press the large round button fitted into the stonework of the wall, the word 'PRESS' written in blue, when the door suddenly flew open and a voice snapped, 'Are you the agent I'm about to spend a fortune with or the one having a nosey?'

The shock of the woman's rudeness stopped Sally in her tracks. 'Er, Mrs Leonard?'

'Who else did you think it might be?' The woman, who Sally guessed was nearer seventy than sixty, stood with her arms folded over a blue nylon overall, looking like she had just stepped out of a remake of a 1960's home grown movie. Her head was covered with a headscarf and three large rollers protruded from the front. Looking down, Sally saw that Mrs Leonard's feet were slipped into fluffy pink mules with a small heel. The only thing missing was a cigarette dangling from her lips, Sally thought, as the cartoon character from the sixties sprang to mind. Holding back the urge to giggle, she looked at Mrs Leonard and in a surprisingly calm voice replied, 'I'm Sally Bingley. I've come to view the house. I thought the agent would be here by now.'

With her hands shifting to her hips, making the nylon overall bristle with static, the owner of Magnolia House looked down her nose at Sally. 'You can stand there all day, but if you do, you'll see nothing,' and stepping back she beckoned Sally to enter.

Just before she took the final step into the house, Sally looked behind her in the hope that either Steve or the agent might have arrived. From where she was standing neither was to be seen, and so she crossed the threshold on her own and walked into the jaws of Magnolia House.

The house was described on the brochure as 'spacious, set in a picturesque village, but in need of a little updating'. Their budget was not huge. To buy a B&B that was already well established they would need not only to sell their semi, but also to spend most of their redundancy money and even then they would be stretched. The solution, Steve had suggested, was to find a place that needed some work doing: it would be cheaper; their money would go much further and, of course, with a bit of TLC they could make it their own.

Sally had agreed. The thought of not having to spend all their savings or dip too heavily into their redundancy money was appealing and although she did have reservations about Steve's DIY skills - several instances of past calamities sprang to mind! - she put these thoughts out of her head. There would most likely be plenty of time and opportunity for these pushed aside anxieties to come back and haunt her. On paper, Magnolia House had looked and sounded perfect and now here she was, standing on the other side of the door.

No sooner had Sally stepped inside the house, than Mrs Leonard shut the door with a resounding bang. The unexpected noise made Sally jump. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw a wicked glint in the woman's eyes, but Mrs Leonard said nothing. Instead she stomped down the hallway to the door at the end, her fluffy mules click-clacking on the linoleum floor. The noise made Sally look at the flooring: she had not seen linoleum on a floor since visiting her grandma's twenty years ago and her grandma was ninety then! The pungent smell of wax polish hung in the air and tickled at her nostrils. Brushing a finger across her nose to prevent a sneezing attack, Sally noticed a vase of artificial flowers standing on a dark wood table. They were faded, their false fragrance long since evaporated. A prickle of apprehension raced down her spine.

Standing in front of the closed door at the end of the hall, her hand poised on the knob, Mrs Leonard turned to check that Sally was still following and seeing she was close behind, pushed the door open and stood to one side. 'After you; it's you that's come to look. Best part of the house if you ask me. Mind, nowadays, cooking is not what it was. Bags and trays is all people buy to shove in one of them micometers.'

'Microwave,' Sally bravely corrected as she stepped past Mrs Leonard, who placed her hands into the large pockets at the front of her overall and ignored the response.

With just two steps into the room, Sally stopped dead on the stone flags as she took in the large, spotlessly clean kitchen. She had stepped into a time warp. She had seen nothing like this since her grandma was alive. No wonder there were no shots of the interior in the brochure: the description 'a little updating' must be the understatement of our times, she realised, her mouth open on a gasp as she looked around.

Hanging at the sparkling windows was a pair of cotton gingham curtains. Underneath the window sill was a huge porcelain sink. From the wall two large taps stuck out, almost as if they had come through the wall by mistake and now could not get back out. A yellow rubber nozzle was pushed on the end of each tap to ensure the water ran into the sink; not straight ahead as the taps appeared to have been designed. One of them dripped splashing into the sink. A fluorescent tube was attached to the ceiling and appeared to be the main source of light once the sun had moved round from the window. The electric cooker, like everything else, was spotlessly clean, but old. Looking around Sally thought that even Noah would struggle with these ancient fittings. It was like being in a museum.

'Might look a bit older than what you've no doubt been used to, but it all works perfectly,' said Mrs Leonard, as if reading her thoughts. 'I've been cooking on that stove more years than you could count. Seven years old, when I was put to helping: stood at a sink just like that one dawn till dusk. The summer times were a killer, long days you see.'

Sally turned and looked at Mrs Leonard, who was now standing at her side. Not sure what kind of response would be appropriate, she just nodded her head and forced a smile. 'It says here,' she looked down at the estate agent's sheet, 'that there is a utility room.'

Laughing, 'And what might that be then?'

Looking back at her details, Sally nervously read the description out loud.

'No wonder they wants to charge so much, writing fancy words to things like that. Scullery is what I call it and scullery is what it's been all my life. Anyway, follow me.' With her fluffy mules clipping on the stone flags, Mrs Leonard marched into a small porch then out through a door leading into a paved yard. On the opposite side was a large, redbrick building. She clip-clopped over to the door and with more force than was necessary, pushed it open, calling over her shoulder, 'I thinks this is what you're looking to see; the utility room.' She laughed again.

Sally stepped gingerly into the room. It was large, very large. Rows of shelves, a water tap, an antique mangle and standing next to it a large tank on legs with a small tap close to its base.

'Boiler,' snapped Mrs Leonard as if knowing what Sally was thinking. 'For washing clothes. Mind, from time to time, I send the linen to the laundry. No doubt you've got an automatic? Causes me problems them machines, can't get the proper soap powder as I'm used to. It's all for the new fangled machines these days. Mind, a decent bar of Sunlight soap was all we used to scrub it all clean in the past.' With a sly look at Sally that said she was enjoying herself today, Mrs Leonard added, 'And just for your information, that's the toilet through the door at the end.'

Jaw-dropped by this point, Sally once again checked her details. 'But there is a bathroom and separate toilet inside the house?'

Without answering, Mrs Leonard walked out of the utility room and clopped back across the courtyard, through the small porch and into the kitchen. With a knowing smile she again dug her hands into her overall pockets, making the entire garment bristle; then she looked over at Sally who had kept pace with her.

'Got two we have. One just off here,' she nodded to a door at the far side of the kitchen, 'and another up the stairs. Best you look at them then us can get on with the rest of the place.'

It took the best part of half an hour, and in every room it was the same story: spotlessly clean and stuffed with 'character features', not least the decor. Sally could not take it all in and continued to nod her head and mumble with astonishment and disbelief. Just as they were walking down the stairs, having viewed the entire house, the doorbell rang. Being ahead of Sally, Mrs Leonard clacked her heels on the thin stair runner as she made her way to answer the door. Opening it with the same energy she had earlier closed it, she confronted the caller. 'I think you're a bit late. I've done it meself, so don't expect to be paid.'

The estate agent, Danny Bond, stood on the doorstep. He was not invited in.

'Mrs Leonard, I apologise for the delay, but there was an accident on the road and I simply couldn't get through. I did try on several occasions to call you, but your phone was engaged.'

'No doubt an excuse to wriggle out of being here, just like the last time,' Mrs Leonard muttered.

Looking past her to where Sally, trying hard not to giggle, was standing in the hall, Danny Bond added, 'Ah, Mrs Bingley? I also called your mobile to explain, but again no reply.'

Sally clapped her hand to her pocket then realised she must have left her phone in her bag, which was in the car, 'Don't worry, Mr Bond, Mrs Leonard has shown me round.'

Mrs Leonard grunted, 'So I have and as I said, don't expect to get a penny from me. You should be paying me for doing your job.' She turned to Sally, 'Now, if you've seen enough I'll let you both be on your way.'

Walking past the owner of Magnolia House and out through the open front door, Sally proceeded to thank her, but no sooner had she started to say the words than the door banged shut, leaving her and Danny Bond standing on the steps.

On the other side of the door, Jane Leonard smiled. This one had been the best so far. The look on Sally Bingley's face when she had shown her the kitchen and scullery was priceless! 'No doubt I'll never hear from her again, so why not have some fun,' she said to herself, clipping along the hall to the telephone and replacing the receiver. 'If the agent can't turn up on time, then that's his problem.' Her smiled widened and a wicked glint flickered in her eyes. She took off her overall and removed the scarf with its curlers. 'Priceless,' she said again and burst into laughter.

'So what did you think of it, Mrs Bingley?' asked Danny Bond as he escorted Sally to her car.

'I loved it. Mrs Leonard is totally weird and I think your 'little bit of updating' is criminally misleading,' she said, her attractive smile taking the sting out of the words, 'but at the right price I think we could do so much with it. Of course, my husband needs to see it too, but I think it will be perfect.'

Danny nodded with a mixture of relief and surprise: he had never thought he would hear such words about Magnolia House. Trying to find a buyer was proving difficult, not because of the house, but because of the owner.

He felt a tad guilty for lying to Mrs Leonard about the accident, but he simply could not go through another viewing with that dreadful woman. What worried him now was the thought that if Sally Bingley and her husband liked the house enough to make an offer, he had no idea if and how the sale would go through. This was not a straightforward sale, but of course he did not mention any of these worries to Sally Bingley, instead he added, 'Let's hope your husband is as keen when he sees it. Call me and we can arrange another viewing.'

Striding back to his car, he looked back and saw that Mrs Bingley was still standing there, her hand on top of her open car door, gazing at the house as though she could not tear herself away. He had seen that look before: she wanted to buy it!

Chapter THREE

Sitting back down on the side of the bed, looking across at her husband, Fay Bailey could not imagine how he was managing to sleep when she had been up and down all night pacing the floor. It seemed so unfair. When the pain seemed at its least she would try lying back down on the bed, but no sooner had she done so, than the discomfort became too much and up she would get again, and throughout all of this, not a peep from Rip Van Winkle! But now she needed him awake and out of bed.

With the finesse of a beached whale she awkwardly leaned over and poked him in the back; not a nice way to wake someone up, but that is all she could manage right now.

With a sleepy groan he turned over, but he was not awake.

This time, Fay yelled, 'Mike, wake up, just wake up!'

If she was not in so much pain, she would laugh: how difficult can it be to get someone lying next to you to open their eyes? Take a deep breath, she told herself. Then, with a sense of irony, she thought, 'I would not be sitting here about to give birth to our first baby if he had slept as soundly nine months ago!' But just as this thought raced through her mind, another contraction ripped through her and she cried out.

'Fay?' Mike opened his eyes at last. 'What's wrong? I thought I was dreaming,' he said in a voice full of sleep. 'What are you doing perched on the edge of the bed?'

Fay managed a smile, 'I thought I'd start that yoga practice I've always promised myself I would do,' she quipped, grimacing and drawing in a deep, desperate breath.

Mike leapt out of bed, 'It's the baby! It's not coming? It can't be, it's too early. Oh my God, it is!'

With his internal panic button firmly pressed, Mike grabbed yesterday's boxer shorts and stepped into them failing to notice they were inside out. He pulled on his jeans, wrestled with a polo shirt and was dressed in less than ten seconds. Looking totally dishevelled and clutching the car keys, he cried, 'Right. Ready, let's go ... er ...' halfway to the door he paused and came back to stand in front of Fay, his hand outstretched, perspiration beading on his forehead, 'Oh my God! The baby's coming; what do I need to take?'

Grabbing hold of his hand, Fay hauled herself off the side of the bed, her toes sinking into the carpet, not that she could see them: it had been some time since she was last able to look down at her feet. Looking at Mike's anxious face, she managed to giggle. 'Don't worry, I'll give birth to the baby, you won't need to.'

'You can laugh,' he wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve, 'but it's me who's got to get you to the hospital. Just tell me what we need to take.'

Despite her discomfort, Fay's sense of humour had not yet deserted her. 'Well, as the bag is in the car, I guess it means it's just me and the moving bump you need to take.'

Helping her to the door, he chuckled. 'Thank goodness one of us knows what's what. I could so easily have gone without you.'

Looking at each other, they laughed, though for Fay is was through another wave of pain. 'Come on,' she urged, 'or we'll never get there in time and then what will you do!'

Just over one hour after arriving at the hospital, the nurse exclaimed, 'It's a little girl,' as she wrapped the wrinkled bundle into a blanket. 'Congratulations, she's beautiful,' she cooed, handing the crying parcel to Fay. Mike, sitting at the side of the bed watched in awe as his new baby daughter was handed over to her mother. Reaching over, he gently pulled down the soft blanket to look at the little scrap who was making so much noise.

'Amazing, how did we manage to make this?'

Exhausted, but smiling, Fay glanced at Mike's face, a picture of marvel before answering, 'Thank goodness you've forgotten. I won't have to go through this again.'

He laughed then bent over and kissed her. As he did so the baby stopped crying. Surprised, Mike joked, 'Thank goodness there's a button. I must have pressed it by accident.'

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the baby started crying again. Looking at Mike, Fay gave a tired smile, 'Must be heat sensitive, lean over and give me another kiss. I need one.'

He did, then added: 'Loves you millions.'

'Loves you too.'

Both gazed down at the precious little bundle that bawled its brand new lungs out. Looking over at the nurse with a plea for help, Fay cried, 'I think she's hungry.'

Sometime later, Fay looked down at her nuzzling baby and with a gentle fingertip wiped away a smear of milk from the puckered lips. Overwhelmed by an emotional mixture of love and exhaustion, her eyelids drooping, she smiled sleepily at Mike and yawned. 'Now she's finished; I'm going to sleep for a fortnight!'

'I doubt that, dear,' the nurse laughed, 'most likely you won't be getting any sleep for a fortnight or longer.' She eased the now quiet bundle out of Fay's arms and placed it in the cot beside the bed. 'These little darlings love to keep their mummies and daddies awake, and daddies have to take their turn with nappy changing,' she added pointedly.

With an exaggerated look of horror, Mike groaned and stood up, 'In that case, I'm going home to grab some sleep whilst I still have the chance.' With pride stamped all over his face, he looked down at his daughter then bent to kiss Fay. He really did not want to leave them, but he needed to make some calls and Fay looked painfully tired. He squeezed her hand and said, 'I'll see you later on. Get some sleep if you can.'

Letting himself into their flat in the grey light of dawn and bursting with pride, Mike phoned both sets of new grandparents and a couple of close friends to tell them the good news, apologising for waking them up so early. Then he fell into bed. He would call the office first thing and explain he was going to be late in.

Four hours later, eyes gummed up and short on sleep, he checked his mobile phone for messages and saw that Jenny, the office administrator, had called at nine-thirty. He played back her message: 'Mike, as we can't get hold of you at home or on your mobile, we guess you're at the hospital? Hope all goes well and call when you can.'

Wondering what was so urgent, he got out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. For the last four months he had worked as a negotiator for a local estate agent: in reality this meant he sold property. As it turned out, it was a stroke of luck that he had landed another job so soon after being made redundant. He had been working out at the gym when he had got talking with Danny Bond, one of the regulars. They had taken to having a drink together if they both finished at the same time and Danny happened to mention that one of the negotiators had left him in the lurch, so he was frantically busy at work until they found a replacement. Mike had pricked up his ears: he knew he had to have a job, the redundancy money was not that great and Fay was five months pregnant; the last thing she needed was to worry. He had told Danny the score and a week later had started at the estate agents.

In the last few months he had settled into his role and quite enjoyed the work. The basic money was not much to write home about, but the bonuses made up for this. He still had the redundancy cheque in the bank and now the baby had arrived, they could look for a house. They had thought about moving sooner, but Fay had insisted they wait until the baby was here. As it turned out, it was a good thing. They now had more money to put down as a deposit, which meant they could look at something bigger. The one-bedroom flat had been perfect for just the two of them, but with the little one now arrived, they needed to find a place more suitable for a family. As it was, they could hardly move in the place for all the baby's things, and that was before she was born. He shuddered at how much space a baby needed and, worse, he knew there were many more things he would need to buy. He ticked them off in his head as he stood in front of the washbasin, his thoughts leaping ahead: a girl! In no time he would be shelling out for party dresses! Funny how one thing led to another. Less than a year ago he was working in his old job, Fay was not pregnant and they were happy in their flat. Just where would they be in another year's time? No point in thinking too far ahead, he told himself, the time passed quickly enough as it was.

Mike looked into the bathroom mirror that hung above the vanity unit and did not like what he saw: eyes red-rimmed, a face full of stubble, hair uncombed and a body in dire need of a shower. Yawning, he turned away and stepped into the shower cubicle. As the hot water cascaded onto his shoulders he felt an unexpected surge of happiness like nothing he had experienced before. 'Wow! I'm a dad!' he exclaimed. Nothing had prepared him for this sudden feeling of euphoria. 'I'm going to be the best dad ever,' he promised himself, reaching for the towel.

Padding back to the bedroom he opened his phone and punched the speed dial for the office. It rang twice before hearing Jenny's cheerful greeting, 'Hi Mike...' but he did not give her a chance to say any more.

Jenny listened patiently as he gushed out his good news, waiting until he stopped for breath. 'Congratulations. That's fantastic!'

He heard her calling out to the others in the office and grinned as she said, 'Everyone's sending their best wishes.'

'Thanks. I'll pop in later. I've a few things to sort out, but in case I don't see him, would you tell Danny I won't be in tomorrow as I'll be bringing Fay and our daughter home from hospital?'

'Will do and be sure to bring a photograph, I can't wait to see the baby. Give my love to Fay.'

With his call finished, Mike put his phone down on the table and realised just how different it was working for a small, privately owned company instead of a big corporate. Danny Bond's father, who owned Bond & Sons, was a man who knew what he wanted and nearly always got it, but he never forgot how to treat people. From the moment Mike had joined the family firm, he had been treated well. 'Sometimes you have to give more than you want to,' Daniel Bond Senior had told him, welcoming him on board, 'and there will be times when we demand that you go the extra mile. But we never forget that we need to look after you too. Our business can only ever be as good as its people. Joining us means you are part of the team, the family if you like, and it's down to all of us to ensure we are a success.' This speech had motivated Mike like nothing ever had in his old job.

Now fresh, clean and dressed, he made a mental list of the things he needed to buy before his special girls came home: flowers, balloons and champagne. Grinning to himself, he hunted for his car keys, found them, checked his appearance in the hall mirror and satisfied with what he now saw, let himself out of the flat. Never had he enjoyed going to the shops more!

Chapter FOUR

Driving back to the office after the viewing, Danny Bond still found it hard to believe Sally Bingley's reaction to Magnolia House. He knew it was a long way off being sold, but to hear her say she loved the place was music to his ears even if in the end she did not buy it, though he would be disappointed –and that was putting it mildly - he'd had more than enough of Jane Leonard, wretched woman!

Of the previous five appointments he had taken to Magnolia House, not one had said anything about the property. The few words, if any had been spoken at all, were simply to comment on how strange the owner was: so far, everyone had been put off by her behaviour. Danny knew he stood a better chance of a sale if Jane Leonard absented herself from the viewings. Equally, he knew she was determined that Magnolia House would never be sold. The whole business had been a nightmare for the agency: everyone in the office knew it was not the house that was the problem, but selling it was far more complicated than just finding a buyer. In estate agents' speak it was 'a rare opportunity to acquire a magnificent character property set in an idyllic village ...' Properties like Magnolia House, as Danny knew only too well, normally sold very quickly. There never seemed to be a shortage of people wanting a project.

What daunted the initial flurry of prospective buyers when Magnolia House first went on the market was not the need to renovate but the vendor's attitude towards the viewers. She had told one couple, who had ventured to ask about a peculiar smell, that it was down to the body; the one that had been buried under the floor and dug up ten years later. To Danny's certain knowledge there was no truth in this and he suspected Mrs Leonard had deliberately placed a joint of meat gone bad under a floorboard, but naturally it had put the couple off. With every viewing, numerous other stories, equally gruesome, had tripped off her sour tongue. Thinking it remarkable that she had the energy to be so hostile, some weeks ago, Danny had made it his business to find out why she had put the house on the market in the first place if she had no intention of selling. He sought out people in the village who had lived there for a long time and by dint of carefully casual questioning, usually over a pint in the local pub, he had gradually pieced together Jane Leonard's story. What he had uncovered was a tragic tale of shocking betrayal.

Jane Leonard had moved into Magnolia House nearly half a century ago, a blushing bride in her early twenties, after her marriage to John Leonard, who had inherited the house from his paternal grandmother. Just over a year later she had given birth to their son, Ben, followed fourteen months later by a little girl, Jessie; both children conceived and born in Magnolia House.

According to one old man, who went by the unlikely name of Billy Blood and at one time had looked after the garden, it had been a happy home with plenty of love and laughter, for although the Leonards were not a wealthy family, they were hard working and had seemed content. Then, when their two children were barely into their teens, tragedy had struck. It all started with the deaths of her husband and daughter in a freak accident.

'That would've been, let's see now ...,' shifting back his cap the old boy scratched his head, 'thirty year or more ago now. They was doing work on the main sewer in the road outside the house and a heavy goods vehicle lost control, crashed through the barrier and mowed John and Jessie Leonard down; killed them outright it did. Broke Mrs Leonard's heart. After the accident she had to be strong for the sake of her son, didn't she?' The old gardener looked up, his rheumy eyes moist as he told the tale. 'John Leonard's ancestors built that house and it'd passed down in the family for generations. After he'd gone, it was like the bricks and mortar held her together, you know? She once told me she could feel her husband was still there and so long as she and Ben stayed in Magnolia House, they'd survive.'

'Well anyways, young Ben grew into the image of his father: a clever lad he were, good with words and that, and when he went off to university his mum was fit to burst with pride.'

'What happened to him?' Danny had asked.

'After he got his degree he went into a business venture that took him off to Spain. Old Mrs Leonard had missed her boy during his years at university, though he came home often, but once he'd gone to live in Spain she hardly ever saw him. She'd fallen on hard times I reckon. I didn't do the garden no more after that, aside from cutting the grass for her, mind I still just about manage that even now.' Billy held out his pint mug for a refill, 'And I don't charge her for that; just being neighbourly like. You want to talk to Miss Wainwright, she and Mrs Leonard were friends like.'

'Yes, Mr Bond, it was a painful time for her,' Miss Wainwright, the retired postmistress, who still lived in the village and knew everyone's business, took up the story a few days later, inviting Danny in for a cup of tea. He had called on the pretext of finding out a bit of local history and gradually worked the conversation round to Magnolia House.

'Jane knew she had to adjust to her son being a grown man living his own life. She told me Magnolia House was far too big for just the two of them, and now she was all alone she rattled around in the empty rooms. She loved her garden, though. She always said it was the only place she could go and find true peace. The house held her memories, the links to happier times, you see. She used to call it her Pandora's Box. She knew the old house was in a desperate need to be modernised and updated and more importantly, it needed to be brought alive. It had spent too

many years in silence, she used to say. The sound of laughter, running feet and friendly voices no longer echoed through its rooms, but even in the times of the most deafening silence, Jane told me she could not begin to think of parting with Magnolia House; it was all she had left.'

Pouring Danny another cup of tea and offering him a freshly made slice of chocolate cake, the elderly lady, clearly relishing the chance to gossip, continued talking and Danny, growing increasingly sorry for Jane Leonard as the story unfolded, sat back in his chair to listen. It seemed that out of the blue Ben had phoned to say his business in Spain was not doing well and he had decided to return to work in the UK and if she would have him, come home to Magnolia House. By then he had a wife, a baby and a ten-year-old stepson. Needless to say, Jane Leonard had welcomed them with open arms.

'Having Ben back and with a family was not something she had dared to hope for, she thought the house would be a home again,' the old lady dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, the scent of lavender water filling the air. 'Thank goodness there's a God somewhere, she said to me the day she got the call. She told me she'd given up on religion, and it's true we never saw her at church any more, not after the untimely deaths of her Jessie and John – she did love them so, Mr Bond - but secretly she always hoped there was something out there that meant it hadn't all been for nothing. So when Ben decided to come home, Jane was filled with happiness. She knew things would change, of course, but nothing could have prepared her for what actually happened. But I am getting ahead of myself.

'From the moment Ben and his wife, Maddie, their nine-month old son, Billy and ten-year old Leo arrived at Magnolia House, everything went well. Jane instantly fell in love with Billy, her first grandchild and naturally she saw him as beautiful: his daddy in miniature. Even at his young age she could see a resemblance to his late granddad, which made her heart skip with pure happiness. Maddie's son, Leo, quickly accepted her too and was a breath of fresh air as he raced around the house enjoying the space to play in.

'She wasn't too keen on her daughter-in-law at first, but that didn't matter to Jane for the girl seemed a perfect match for Ben, and his happiness was all that mattered. I think they did become friends after a while, but she hadn't seen then that Maddie had a mean streak in her that defied anything Jane could begin to comprehend. All she knew was that after all those years of being on her own, life was good again; both she and Magnolia House had come back to life as it were. Problem was, though, Mr Bond, Ben was concerned about the state of the place; it was too cold and damp; he wanted his family to enjoy modern benefits. Magnolia House was old-fashioned and worse, there was no central heating. Well, as you can imagine, after the climate of southern Spain, he and his family were permanently cold; something had to be done immediately. He told his mother that if they were to stay, then things would have to be improved as soon as possible and Jane was so happy to have her little family back she'd have done anything to ensure they stayed. If it meant adding central heating and making other improvements then a way would be found to do it, but Jane had little money so in the end said they should talk to the bank and see what could be done. Another piece of cake, Mr Bond?'

'Thank you, it's delicious. You were saying ...?'

'Yes, well the bank manager was only too pleased to give Jane a mortgage, Ben being the guarantor you see, and soon the renovations were put in hand. At around the same time, Jane told me in confidence that as well as that, she had decided to gift half of Magnolia House to Ben and his family, convinced it would keep them here. To be frank, Mr Bond, though it wasn't my place to say, I thought she was being a bit impulsive. After all, the house meant everything to her and Ben would inherit it eventually anyway, but she wanted then to feel they had a home they could call their own, not have to wait for her to die. So she went ahead and got all the papers drawn up and in no time, it was done.'

'I am guessing it was a mistake?' Danny asked, licking crumbs of chocolate cake off his fingers.

'Yes, as it turned out, but Jane couldn't have known then just how cruel life would be and worse, just how mercilessly people can behave.'

Intrigued, Danny asked, 'So what happened?'

'Well, it all started just like any other day, probably better than others in the fact that the weather was mild and the sun was shining as I remember ...'

Danny nodded, hiding a sigh. Surreptitiously checking his watch resigned himself to what promised to be a long and drawn out story. The old girl was very obviously enjoying herself; he doubted she had a captive audience very often these days.

'Ben left early for work that morning because he had an important meeting, but he never got to it. In fact he never made it into the office. He drove his usual route to work and parked his car in the company car park and ten minutes later he was found slumped over his steering wheel. He was only forty-three, Mr Bond, and he'd had a fatal heart attack. Simply dreadful, it was. It broke Jane's heart, of course: shredded it into pieces smaller than confetti.'

Miss Wainwright paused and sniffed and once again Danny was enveloped in a waft of lavender. 'If she'd thought Ben's death would bring her and Maddie closer, she could not have been more wrong. Oh, Maddie grieved bitterly, but she didn't turn to Jane for comfort, nor give any back. In fact, it seemed to Jane that underneath her grief Maddie was silently scheming. Her daughter-in-law had no intentions of living in the old-fashioned draughty place, as she called it, not now Ben was no longer there. So either her mother-in-law gave her half the full market value in cash right away, or Magnolia House would have to be sold. No amount of talking, pleading or begging for time would change her mind.

'Jane was my friend, Mr Bond, but I always try to see things from the other person's point of view and life had dealt young Maddie a bitter blow. She'd been left with two children to bring up on her own and no money to do it with. Her mother-in-law had no income beyond her state pension and without Ben's contribution she could not pay the mortgage they'd raised for the renovations, so Ben's life insurance was used to pay it off, which meant Maddie was left with very little to live on. No sooner had they laid Ben to rest, than she brazenly announced she wanted her share of the house, but what real choice did she have? She just wanted to take her poor fatherless boys home to Spain, make them safe and secure and learn to cope without her husband.

'Jane saw her actions as a betrayal of trust, but one way or another Maddie needed the money for her children's future and if selling Magnolia House was the only way, then it would have to be sold. Well, that's how she saw it and I can't say as I blame her, but you can imagine what it did to Jane. If the sale of Magnolia House could have brought Ben back, she would have sold it a thousand times over, but as it was he was gone, her grandchildren were being taken away and her beloved house as well. Jane had lost everything, so you can perhaps understand, Mr Bond, why she has been behaving as she has.'

Yes, thought Danny, he certainly could. With no money in the bank to pay off Maddie and everything in her life lost or taken away, it must have been torture for Jane Leonard to watch the For Sale sign going up in her beloved garden; seeing his assistants traipsing round her home flashing their red laser beams and talking into their tiny microphones as they measured up and recorded details of each room. He could well imagine that she had wanted to bar them from entry, scream at them to go away, but most of all to turn the clock back. He could just see her there in her curlers and fluffy mules, standing alone, with her heart broken and everything she held dear being taken away, knowing she could do none of those things. He could quite see that the decision to sell had not been hers. It seemed to have been taken out of her hands and as far as she was concerned, it would be over her dead body that her beloved house and home would ever be sold.

'Did Maddie leave with the children straight away?' he asked, wishing he had been more sympathetic.

'Yes, as soon as the funeral was over, Maddie, with Billy and Leo, moved out of Magnolia House and went back to Spain. She is a determined young woman, Mr Bond. She has employed a lawyer to sort out the business side of things and will let nothing stop her from taking what she believes is rightfully hers and Billy's.' The old lady shrugged, 'I just wish she could have dealt more gently with Jane. The last time I saw her she looked as if she'd aged twenty years in as many weeks. It is all so sad.'

'It is indeed,' Danny said. 'Thank you for telling me – and for the delicious cake,' he smiled.

Driving away, he had reflected that as sad as it was, his father's firm had sole agency and the pressure was on them to get a result. As terrible as the situation was for Jane Leonard, he knew the house would eventually have to be sold: understanding her dilemma did not make things any easier.

Nor, several days after this conversation with Miss Wainwright, did it prevent him from feeling guilty about missing his appointment to show Sally Bingley round Magnolia House this morning. When he got back to the office, Jenny was on the phone so he walked through to the little kitchen at the back of the office and made them both a cup of tea. He wondered if he would hear again from Mrs Bingley, he felt certain he would, but if not, he would call her in a couple of days. Carrying two large mugs of milky tea, he walked back into the front office and placed one on Jenny's desk just as she came off the phone.

'That was Mike,' she said. 'He's the proud father of a daughter. It seems mother and baby are doing well and he's coming in later, but won't be in tomorrow - though that's maybe just as well,' she laughed, 'I'm not sure we'll get much out of him other than baby talk.'

Like himself, Danny knew that Jenny liked Mike. He had seemed at home the moment he had walked into the office and he had a nice way with people. He never seemed to make assumptions, took everyone as he saw them and with his sense of humour he made people feel at ease. It was the main reason Danny had offered him a job. There's was a small family business and it was critical that everyone fitted in.

'That's good news,' he said. Vividly he remembered seeing his own sons born; it was an experience he would never forget. He had been and still was so proud of his sons; he could guess just how Mike was feeling now. Danny's mind drifted back to Mrs Leonard and he winced. He could not even begin to imagine what she must be going through: the death of both her children, the estrangement with her grandchildren and now the loss of her home.

Breaking into his thoughts, Jenny asked: 'So how did the viewing go, or should I not ask?'

'Very well I think. Though I admit I wasn't there for the viewing.'

'Oh?'

'Traffic,' he explained ignoring Jenny's uplifted eyebrow. 'Anyway, it seems Mrs Bingley loved the place and wants her husband to check it out too. Mrs Leonard was her usual self, but it didn't seem to daunt Mrs Bingley one jot.'

'Poor Mrs Leonard,' Jenny said quietly. 'I feel so sorry for her after what you told me. Tragic really.'

'Mmm.' With his mug of tea in his hand, Danny perched on the corner of Jenny's desk, 'I guess we're sending flowers to Mike, Fay and baby? What have they called her?'

Looking blank Jenny answered, 'Mike didn't say, no doubt he'll tell us when he gets in. And yes, to your other question, I'll order flowers to be delivered tomorrow. Mike said mother and baby will be home by then.'

He stopped and took a mouthful of tea thinking that if an offer was put in on Magnolia House then a long and difficult road lay ahead for everyone involved. He was genuinely sorry for Jane Leonard's circumstances, but a little sweetening could do no harm. 'Would you add another small bouquet to that order too? Send them to Mrs Leonard with a note to apologise for me not being able to be there today for the viewing.' He smiled, 'I know she's difficult, but I can't imagine how she must feel. She's not only about to lose her home, but she's lost all of her family. Hearing Mike's news reminds you of what it's about sometimes ...'

'Yes, of course, that's a nice idea.' Looking thoughtful, Jenny picked up the phone and was about to order the flowers when Mike walked in beaming like a Cheshire cat.

Chapter FIVE

After leaving Magnolia house, Sally viewed another four properties. On paper they had all seemed like possibilities, but each one was a surprise. She had not yet come to terms with the unique language of estate agents, though after five viewings she was learning fast!

As it turned out, she viewed all the properties without Steve. He had rung her on her mobile just after she had left Magnolia House to say he could not make it; he was sorry, but when she heard his news, she would understand. Of course she had wanted to know what it was, but all he would say was that it was good and he would tell her later. He had sounded very upbeat and although Sally was a little disappointed that he was not going with her to view the properties, it seemed things were looking good. After all the anxiety of the last few months, she dared to hope that everything was beginning to work out for them.

By late afternoon she had seen all the houses on her list. They were a mixed bag and it was hard trying to remember everything and not get them muddled up. Each one had something going for it and offered different features, which made comparisons difficult. The good thing was that subject to the usual planning – and she had already done some homework on this – each one was a possibility for a Bed and Breakfast venture. The second property, though, had stuck out more than the others. She giggled recalling this one, her imagination doing somersaults: it had seemed a long way beyond Steve's questionable DIY skills to put it right – or anyone else's come to that. 'Updating' didn't come close!

Driving home she felt that the last few hours had been nothing short of a whirlwind. Now, with her head spinning like a top, she just wanted to tell Steve all she had seen. And of course hear about his news, though she guessed what it was. Despite his encouragement with the idea of a B&B, Sally knew deep down that Steve needed to work, so it would be good if he could be gainfully employed again. At the same time she could not deny that for her it would be a disappointment.

As she pulled into the drive, a wave of happiness washed over her as she saw that Steve was home. Thoughtfully, he had parked his car close to the garage door so she could squeeze her little automatic in behind. She could not believe just how exhausting house hunting could be. With a tired sigh she slotted her key into the front door, but her fatigue melted away when she entered the house and Steve, armed with two glasses of wine, greeted her with a beaming smile.

Not waiting for her to speak, he announced, 'I've got the job and I can start straight away if I want to. Can you believe that?' There was a timbre in his voice Sally had not realised had been missing and the look on his face spoke volumes. It hit her like a blow just how important it was for Steve to have a proper job again.

'Oh, that's wonderful!' she cried, hoping her deflation did not show. She knew she was being selfish, but she had so much wanted them to think seriously about running a small Bed and Breakfast business together. Today she had seen so much and considered so many exciting possibilities that she had begun to imagine it was not just an empty dream, but if Steve now had a job she knew it was never going to happen.

Standing in their hallway, still with her jacket on and her keys clutched in her hand, but not wanting to spoil the moment, Sally took the glass of wine he handed her and smiled up at him as they toasted his success.

Ever thoughtful, Steve took back her glass, gently removed her keys and put both down on the hall table then helped her off with her jacket. For a moment he stood looking into her eyes. He was not blind to the consequences of his job success. He knew if he was working full time they would not be running a B&B together. He also knew Sally's smile was genuine, but it did not quite reach her eyes and because he loved her so much it saddened him to see this. He had loved her when they first met and now, after all these years of being married to her, he loved her even more. He gathered her in his arms and hugged her.

'Don't worry, Honey Bunny, I may be going out to work, but you're the one who's going to be finding a house for the B&B. If that is what you would love to do, then that's exactly what we are going to do.'

Enjoying the feel of his strong arms around her, Sally's eyes stung with tears: the emotion of the day had caught up with her. Wanting to hide her feelings from Steve, she let him hug her for a few moments longer. The last thing she wanted was to spoil his happiness and the thrill of his unexpected success. Releasing herself from his hold at last, she looked up at him, her eyes still a little cloudy, but her voice surprisingly normal.

'I thought you'd not be interested if you got a full time job? It would leave you little or no time for running a business, Steve.' She shrugged, 'But I'm really glad for you and it doesn't matter a bit.'

'Liar!' Taking hold of Sally's hand he smiled, 'Look, I know I said I wouldn't worry with the redundancy cheques in the bank, but you know me – I need to be working. Let's just say it's a man thing. The fact I have a job makes this idea of yours even more interesting, though. A regular income will be good security for us while you manage the B&B and get it up and running.'

This time it was her turn to hug and kiss him. How lucky she was to have this wonderful man, he was her soul mate and more. 'Thank you,' she whispered.

'Now,' he said, 'with that settled I'm going make our supper and you are going to sit down with your feet up and drink the wine that I will continue to keep pouring for you.' In a mock commanding tone he added, 'It is, of course, conditional: I want to hear all about the house hunting and what you have in mind for us to buy.'

Steve's insistence that he would get the supper brought Sally back to reality. Her husband's cooking skills were on a par with his DIY skills: disastrous! Though, she mused, even a crispy, slightly burnt omelette would be better than nothing. She knew she was just too exhausted to cook anything. So, with her head fuzzy with wine and trying her best to ignore the thought of the culinary delight Steve was about to destroy, she let him lead her to the sofa.

Within minutes she could smell the hot pan on the hob. 'Oh dear,' she cried, 'and there's me thinking we could run a B&B!' With her appetite rapidly diminishing, her tired feet up on the sofa and a glass of wine in her hand, Sally considered what Steve had said. The more she thought about it the more she realised she was happy with the idea of Steve going out to work after all, leaving her to run whatever B&B business they ended up with. It seemed like the ideal solution for them both.

The omelette, despite its well charred appearance and rubbery texture, was not too bad to swallow if helped down with a heavy splash of wine. In between mouthfuls, Sally told Steve all about Mrs Leonard and Magnolia House, 'A very strange woman in a headscarf with hair curlers and wearing, would you believe, pink fluffy mules!'

Raising an amused eyebrow, Steve listened with interest to her description of the property and quickly picked up on Sally's enthusiasm regarding Magnolia House. 'Already I can tell how much you like the house of Mrs Headscarf and Curlers.'

Sally laughed out loud. 'I don't know what to make of her, Steve, she is without a doubt strange and I can't help thinking something is not quite right. It seemed like it was a game to her and I got the feeling she wanted to frighten me away, though from what, I haven't a clue. You know, the agent tried to ring her, but he said he couldn't get through. She never said anything, but I noticed the phone was off the hook when she showed me round. She was so rude and I swear she was enjoying it. She kept giving me sly glances thinking I didn't notice, but I did. Even so, I really liked the house. It had an odd feeling to it, I know you will laugh, but it seemed kind of lost and lonely.' She noted Steve's look of amusement and smiled, 'OK, I know it all sounds silly, but I'd really like you to see it. Hopefully, Mrs Leonard might not be quite so rude if you are with me.'

Looking over his wine glass at Sally, he laughed: 'I hope she is, because that's the only reason I'm going to have a look. I've not had many sly looks coming my way of late. We'd best not call her Mrs Headscarf and Curlers, though; it might make her spiteful as well as rude!'

Laughing and delighted that Steve had agreed to go back with her to Magnolia House, Sally picked up the agent's details of the second property she had viewed, looked at her husband and grinned. 'This one,' she tapped the paper, 'opens up a whole new meaning to the words "in need of modernisation!"'

Intrigued he reached over and took the details from her. The agent's description only just managed to verge on reality: A delightful cottage of quaint charm and enormous potential in need of modernisation ... 'Total renovation, more like,' said Sally, still shocked by what she had seen. 'Honestly, Steve, Bracken Down Cottage would be better named, "Broken Down Cottage"!'

'But it says here it's got double glazing,' Steve pointed out.

In fairness, she thought, that at least was true. Secondary double glazing had been added to several of the windows, and this was all the more amazing because the building was classified as condemned! In other words, in its present state it was unfit for human habitation - hardly surprisingly: the windows were rotten; there was no bathroom or toilet, though she recalled there was an outside privy – all it needed was cut up sheets of newspaper hanging on a string! In the kitchen - a loose term for a room with a sink - the solitary cold water tap, heavily stained green and rising from a pipe running the length of the outside wall, dripped over the large brown sink. With no evidence of hot water, Sally had asked if there was indeed such a luxury and was not surprised when the agent said no.

The owner, he said, had been born in Bracken Down Cottage and lived there until his death. He had, it seemed, thought nothing of the condition. The agent had laughed, 'In his view it was clean enough, so what was the bother? And thinking about it, he'd made it to ninety-eight, so perhaps he was right!'

Relaying the details to Steve and at the same time replaying the images back in her mind's eye, Sally could see that the potential was enormous. The price was not too bad either, but the money needed to make it what they had in mind would take everything they had. Thinking about it, she wondered if they really could take on something of that magnitude – of course, they would need expert help. Steve liked a challenge, but to say he was less than handy was something of an understatement! All too vividly she remembered his escapade two Christmases ago and giggled. It had seemed such an innocent request at the time when she had asked him to fetch the tree down from storage in their single, cluttered garage. Nothing could have prepared her for the havoc and devastation wrought within two minutes by her obliging husband.

With the Christmas tree in sight lying across the rafters over her car, he had reached up and tried to grab it, but it was just a gnat's whisker away from him getting a hold. Poking it with a long stick did not dislodge it enough to be able to pull it down and the last thing he wanted was to bring everything else tumbling down on top of Sally's car. He would have to move the car. This he was reluctant to do as it would mean having to move his own car further down the drive. Short on patience that morning, Steve had come up with a plan. He just needed to nudge Sally's car backwards a tad and the tree would be in his grasp, well almost. And so, opening the driver's door, he placed one foot in the car and with the other firmly on the concrete floor, he pushed. The car did not move. He pushed a little more forcefully, but the car still did not budge. Undaunted, he realised that automatics simply would not move unless the engine was running. Without further ado, he took the keys from his pocket and slipped them into the ignition.

The car started first turn. Now, with his left hand on the drive lever, he moved it out of park and into reverse, applying just a little pressure on the accelerator pedal to roll the car gently back, but his tap on the accelerator was a little too heavy and the car shot backwards. The momentum pushed Steve forward and with his hand still on the drive lever, he inadvertently knocked the car into drive. The car shot forward and hit the wall. And if that was not enough, the impact from the reverse thrust had hit the garage door, which now fell off with a shriek and a clatter to land smack on his car in the drive.

Shaken and shocked, Steve had stumbled away from the car and walked back into the house, minus the tree and leaving behind two wrecked cars and an open air garage!

Sally could laugh about it now, but with the memory of the Christmas tree saga still replaying in her mind, she looked intently at the picture of Bracken Down Cottage and despite its low price, knew it would be best if they gave this one a wide berth; a very wide berth.

'I don't think it's worth going back for a second viewing of this one,' she said, nonchalantly placing the details to one side. 'It really is too far gone for us.'

Steve looked at her, his eyes narrowed, 'I know what you're thinking, you're remembering the havoc I caused, aren't you?'

Just as she was about to deny it, he added, 'That time when you were out shopping and I put a nail through one of the heating pipes underneath the floorboards upstairs.'

My God! Sally thought with horror, she had forgotten that one.

'I ached for days afterwards,' Steve grimaced, 'I had to sit there for two hours until you came home, because I couldn't take my finger off the hole without the water gushing everywhere and I couldn't turn the water off because I couldn't take my finger out of the hole. What a mess that was. And even worse, I'd turned the heating off when I was doing the banging which didn't help because it was minus five outside. God was I cold.'

Unable any longer to keep a straight face, Sally burst into laughter, 'I'd forgotten that one.'

Steve laughed too, 'Don't worry, I'm not going to get involved in anything more than a bit of decorating and maybe hanging the odd kitchen cupboard. We'll just make sure we buy something we can afford to pay others to do. With me working again, it will be so much easier.'

'Not to mention a lot cheaper,' murmured Sally.

They spent some time looking through the details of the other three properties, Sally describing what she had seen, but without much enthusiasm. Her mind was set on Magnolia House; her heart already lost.

Available in Kindle & Paperback

Sometimes It Happens...

Winning the lottery was just the beginning for Doreen Wilkinson, nothing prepared Doreen and her seventeen year old daughter for their holiday at the luxury Villas Bonitas and nothing prepared Villas Bonitas for the Wilkinsons.

Sometimes It Happens...as a cast of characters, all have secrets and as Doreen and her daughter mingle with the rich, they find that deception, love, lies and laughter turns their holiday into one they will never forget.

Chapter ONE

Nothing in her wildest dreams had prepared Doreen Wilkinson for something like this. But then, nothing had prepared her for winning the lottery either.

Several million. Several million. Eleven million, three hundred and fifty four thousand, two hundred and ten pounds and nineteen pence to be precise.

She had giggled at the nineteen pence. "Break the bleedin' bank that will!"

The media had made the comment a headline, "19p to break the bleedin' bank!" splashed all over the Sun and Daily Mirror accompanied by her smiling face and a fountain spray of champagne. She had thought it a waste shaking that great big bottle and letting it fizz everywhere, but the reporters had told her to do it.

Giggling at the memory, dressed in her silk pyjamas, Doreen stepped out on to the terrace. The warm morning air that caressed her face was in stark contrast to the chilled champagne she was sipping. She giggled again at drinking champagne before the sun had got out of bed. Padding to the end of the terrace, her bare feet absorbing the heat from the ceramic tiles, she looked out in awe over the Villas Bonitas complex of luxury villas. Apart from in films she had never seen exotic plants and trees, meandering tiled pathways and white walled, red roofed villas with sprawling private terraces. But then, she told herself, she had never won the lottery or been abroad before either. In fact she had never had a proper holiday full stop.

As the sun began to rise the solar lights that lit the gardens during the hours of darkness began to fade. Doreen watched, mesmerized, as the colours of the neatly maintained gardens surrounding each individual terrace gradually turned from sombre shades to vibrant greens, reds, pinks and yellows, and the shadows darkening the walls of each villa changed to a dazzling white. In the distance she could just make out the silhouette of the volcanic mountains as the rising sun cast its morning rays against their dark, jagged shapes.

Drinking the last drops of her champagne Doreen sighed with contentment. She had not known such beauty existed. Even the air had a sweet fragrance to it. She closed her eyes and inhaled the heady perfume, a high pitched shriek pierced the stillness, startled, she opened her eyes to see a yellow parrot dart past, almost within touching distance, its wings fanning her face. No sooner had the parrot disappeared into the tall palm trees, another, more muted sound rippled through the sultry, morning, air.

She frowned as she heard it again; looked left and right to locate where it was coming from. Giggled. She had half an idea what was going on and was surprised that such naughty cries could be heard in such a posh place. Grinning she went to sip her champagne, tipping the glass to her lips, realised it was empty. Pulling a face, she ambled back across the terrace and stepping through the wide open patio doors, giggled. "Someone's enjoying a good time."

Blinking rapidly, her eyes struggling to focus after the brightness of the terrace, squinting, Doreen looked around the lounge. "Blimey," she cried seeing glasses and a couple of empty bottles on one of the low coffee tables. A makeup bag, its contents scattered on the dining table and an open magazine lay on the floor near one of the sofas.

"God, what am I like?" she muttered as she reached for a packet of cigarettes and a lighter.

Taking a drag from her newly lit cigarette, Doreen looked at her watch. It was still early, she thought as she paused outside her daughter Trisha's door. Should she peep in? Her only daughter had gone out clubbing the night before, no doubt got home in the early hours. Her hand half way to the door handle, she wondered had she heard Trisha come in? She tried to think, but could not remember hearing any sounds; but then, she had been dead to the world, her first decent night's sleep in weeks.

"Youngsters," she giggled, "on the go all day, party all night. Don't know where they get their energy from."

Shaking her head, still giggling, she wandered to her bathroom. What she would give to be seventeen again!

Chapter TWO

Hands placed firmly on hips, a look on her face that would sour cream and a glare that was as piercing as a laser beam, Frau Hecks stared across the hibiscus gardens. Her steel like gaze travelled slowly across the scented shrubbery and stopped at the pool house. A yellow parrot screeched as it perched in one of the palm trees, its feathers ruffled. With distaste twitching on her lips, Frau Hecks listened to the muted noises coming from the small, highly ornate building that housed the equipment and machinery for maintaining the swimming pool and Jacuzzi.

Her nose wrinkled in disgust and with a resounding tutt tutt of disapproval she turned abruptly and strode back across the tiled terrace and disappeared into the sanctuary of her villa. It was too early to complain to Carmen, the manager, so settling at her desk she reached for her diary. Gripping a pen tightly she scrawled words that described the sounds she had heard. It had not been the first time things had happened and her written account of complaints was not a short one.

In the pool house, oblivious of anyone being around at six thirty in the morning the heavy breathing and panting reached a wild crescendo, then slowed and quietened.

"You are some babe," Ben sighed out of breath as he slowly rolled off Trisha and sprawled next to her, sweat trickling down his back and thighs. He twisted slightly and gazed at Trisha's incredible body, his heart rate continuing to race madly. Sliding his hand over her small, perfectly rounded breast, he bent down and kissed her hard nipple.

"Mmmm, you are just so wild and scarily sexy."

Trisha moaned as Ben's touch rippled through her trembling body. With gentle fingers she put her hand down and laced them round his soft manhood. Her smile, wickedly seductive, she whispered. "Let's do it all again, hmm?"

"Again?" Ben laughed. "You'll have to give me a minute or two, you greedy minx!"

With their lovemaking over and his need sated, Ben eased himself away from her, his left hand surreptitiously groping for his boxer shorts. In the aftermath of enjoyment he realised the stupidity of his actions. Not that making love to the sexy Trisha Wilkinson was a mistake, but the reckless stupidity of where they were. He should never have brought her here, but after leaving the nightclub, with the stars twinkling above and a pale, sickle moon hanging like a suggestive smile in the sky they had both known what they had wanted. And going home alone at dawn was not it. Intoxicated with the heat of the night and the desire for each other, he had thought only of finding a suitable place for them to end the exciting hours they had spent together dancing: The icing on the cake of an incredible evening.

The pool house at Villas Bonitas was ideal. It was attractive and secluded and had what they needed; a large, comfortable, leather sofa and cool air conditioning.

To this quiet, almost secretive, place he had brought Trisha, but now he was realising just how risky his idea had been. He must get them both out and away before the maintenance man, his grandfather, arrived. Granddad would have a fit. Maybe even lose his job. A rise of panic creeping in, Ben looked at his watch and frowned. He was going to be in serious trouble if they did not leave immediately.

Well tanned and well toned, at twenty one, Ben's good looks attracted girls like bees to a honey pot. He flashed Trisha a sexy smile; she was amazingly beautiful, her jet black hair, now ruffled, shone like ebony as it touched the curve of her shoulders. Her skin was pale as milk, and, like her lips, was smooth. He wanted to touch her softness again, but knew they had to get out of here.

He reached down for his clothing, but giggling, Trisha pulled him back, hooking her arm around his waist and smoothing her foot along his thigh.

"You simply cannot leave," she purred. "You are so mine for the entire week. I'm on holiday."

Breathing heavily with rising alarm, not the intense excitement of an hour earlier, Ben guessed that if they did not leave straight away, making love with Trisha would become nothing more than a distant memory and a painful one at that. He winced at the thought of what his granddad would do if ever the old man found out. Reluctant, Ben stood and began hurriedly dressing. Had the time of day been different then this was the last thing he would be doing; putting his clothes on!

Trisha, slim, pretty and fun with a hint of danger, added an extra spice of excitement about her. It was the danger that had brought them here in the first place. That and lust. He gathered up her clothes; bra, pants and dress, more like a handkerchief than a dress it was so scanty, and threw them to her. Trying to keep the urgency out of his voice, he forced a cheerful grin. "Please babe, get dressed. We shouldn't be in here. I promise we are going to have so much more fun later. Fun that'll make this holiday one you will never forget." Leaning towards her he kissed her, adding, "It is not a promise, it is a threat."

Trisha giggled as she stepped into her panties. "I so love threats."

Ben felt another tingle of desire squirm through his stomach and into his groin and despite the urgency, the taste of Trisha remained frighteningly tantalising. Again, he placed his lips on her mouth and after a long and passionate kiss, pulled away. "Babe, surely that tells you I want to see you again and again and again?"

He strode towards the opaque glazed door, gingerly opened it a crack and, to his horror, saw Frau Hecks staring straight at the pool house. He froze. Had the old battle axe seen him? To his relief, she turned and marched back into her villa. He swore under his breath, added, achtung, mein Führer.

What was she doing on the prowl so early? Did the old bat never sleep? Trouble would follow very quickly if Frau Hecks had any suspicion of his early morning entertainment. Turning to Trisha, he said in a voice that offered no argument, "I am leaving and you must too." Added, in a softer, seductive tone, "I'll see you tonight; I promise you I will be at your villa." He grinned, stepped through the door, paused and tossed over his shoulder, "Naked in your bed."

Disappointed that their night had come to such an abrupt end, Trisha managed the pretence of a little giggle then shrugged. Resigned, she watched Ben disappear. Hoping she would see him again, she smiled and adjusting her short dress, picked up her tiny handbag from the floor and strolled to the door. With her hand poised on the handle, she looked around at the little room and giggled then slowly, very slowly, opened the door. Stepping out into the warm, morning air, she could see and hear no one. Ben had gone, the sun was rising, birds were singing. She tossed her head, her black hair shimmering in the strengthening morning sunlight and clutching her handbag to her petit breasts, sashayed jauntily towards villa number four.

With every detail written down, Frau Hecks returned to the terrace, but paused within the open patio doorway, her eyes shrinking to slits and a hiss of outrage leaving her pursed lips. She recognised the boy ducking away through the hibiscus garden and a short moment later saw that little tramp from number four ambling along the tiled pathway, swaying her hips, tossing her hair and smiling.

Chapter THREE

Bob Preston sauntered through the security gates into the beautiful grounds of Villas Bonitas. He stopped, looked around, his gaze taking in the opulence. He sighed, he could never afford to live in such luxury, but had the next best thing; he worked here and most of the time he loved his job.

Whistling a tuneless sound he studied what he regarded as his domain and noted that the palm trees would not say no to another trim. The hibiscus also needed dead heading. The climate made it almost a daily task. He grimaced. He had more than enough to do today without having to worry about dead heading blooms, but they all expected not only perfection, but miracles. He chuckled to himself; so many of the owners regularly exclaimed in astonishment. "Oh God! What do you mean you can't do that?"

He would like the odd miracle to show these idle rich what real life was all about. Shrugging, he ignored the beckoning work and walked briskly towards the centre of his operations, the pool room.

Gazing down the wide, tiled pathway flanked by vibrant red hibiscus and fragrant pale yellow oleander, he spotted Frau Hecks standing at the edge of her terrace glaring at him. He stopped, pretended to examine a broken oleander branch as warning bells started to ring loudly in his head. Frau Hecks did not normally stand at the edge of her terrace, arms folded, unless she was waiting for someone. He sighed apprehensively, fished out a small pair of secateurs from his pocket and snipped off the remains of the broken branch. Putting off the inevitable, he snipped at another small branch. Past experience had taught him that Frau Hecks was not merely admiring the view of his beautifully maintained gardens, but waiting for him, to complain. She seemed to have got worse of late, Nag nag, complain complain.

Taking a deep breath, he knew he had no chance of a detour and his choice of avoiding the battle axe was limited. Inspecting the oleander bush for any further broken branches, he carefully considered. Rubbing his chin, pretending his attention was on the flowering shrub, he pondered two possibilities, find out what she wanted or quicken his step, walk straight past and ignore her. If he was steadfast and intent on an assumed urgent mission, he might just get away with it?

Slipping the secateurs back inside his pocket he convinced himself that maybe, after all, she was admiring the view. An unlikely conclusion, but thrusting his hands into his jacket pockets and averting his gaze from the annoying Frau, he strode onwards. Whistling in an octave higher, he added a longer and quicker stride to his step and headed straight for the safety of his pool house. His home from home, where he kept all his tools and maintenance equipment, where he ate his lunch and enjoyed the occasional quiet doze: His personal sanctuary. If only he could get to it without interruption...

That annoying, tuneless whistle, Frau Hecks could not believe something so irritating could actually come from a human. Annoyance growing, she waited at the edge of her terrace intent on accosting the wretched man heading in her direction. It was bad enough that he should shatter the early morning peace with his infuriating whistling, but she considered he was personally responsible for what she had heard. It was not acceptable, she would not have it and in no uncertain terms she was determined to tell Bob Preston so.

He had seen her. Fiddling with that oleander was a ruse. "Dummkopf," she hissed and folding her arms scrutinised him with her keen, piercing eyes as he came nearer; pulling her shoulders back she moved her hands to her hips and waited for the perfect moment as he approached. He was walking quicker, striding out. With a sardonic smile twisting her mouth, she was ready to pounce.

To her horror he walked straight past! Did not even acknowledge her. Walked? Pah, scuttled more like!

Bob reached the pool house, curled his fingers round the door handle, relief flooding through him. He started to open the door. Two or three more steps and he would be safe inside.

"Bob, Bob. I talk with you. Now!"

With his hand frozen on the door handle, Bob silently counted to ten then slowly turned, startled he almost fell backwards. Frau Hecks stood right behind him.

"Good grief Flawline, you nearly gave me an 'eart attack!"

Hands on hips, her face set for battle, Frau Hecks snapped, "Pah! You have no idea."

Confused, shaking his head at such an early morning outburst, Bob spread his hands in bewilderment. "Blimey Flawline, it's not even eight o'clock yet. What can be so important that you need to frighten me half to death? You know today's a busy one for me, what with all the comings and goings." He was blustering attempting not to betray his anxiety. Wiping his hand across his soaking brow, it was going to be a hot day and with Frau Hecks breathing fire, he was already in a sweat.

A round face, with rosy chubby cheeks, a dimpled chin, Frau Hecks was naturally pretty, but time had cast shadows that darkened her blue eyes to suspicious pools and her once full lips to a thin line that sneered and curled in anger. "You think I am amused with what you say? You think everything a joke? I telling you, I live in this beautiful place and all the time put up with terrible people who come for holiday and spoil themselves and my home. And today it is, again, your fault that things happen."

A mixed expression of confusion and concern, Bob stared straight at the angry Frau Hecks as she trembled with rage. Having no idea what the old bat was fuming about, he looked down at the spotlessly clean tiled pathway then with an exaggerated movement of his head, gazed across at the lush gardens. Seeing nothing untoward, returned his attention back to Frau Hecks.

Wiping his hand over his face, baffled, he sighed. "You've lost me."

Annoyance on the verge of boiling over, her blue eyes flashing with anger,

her accent thickening with impatience, Frau Hecks snapped. "You are stupid man. No wonder he is stupid also." Removing one hand from her hips she pointed a long, straight finger at the door of the pool house. "Zat door, you not see it is the door?"

Bob swivelled round, stared solemnly at the door, what on earth was she on about? One of them had lost the plot and from where he was standing it was not him.

"Yes, Flawline," he said in response, trying not to sound sarcastic. "I can see the door. It looks fine to me and I can assure you, all is well behind it too."

"You talk nonsense. I tell you things happen there. Filthy things because you not lock zat door."

Ah! Was that it! Relief flooded through him and he smiled. "Why didn't yer say we've 'ad burglars?" Thinking the old lady had definitely lost her marbles, his reassuring smile broadened. "Don't worry Flawline, there's nothing to pinch."

Annoyed that he was a bigger idiot than she had thought, Frau Hecks leant towards Bob, her face almost touching his and spat one word. "Sex!"

Shocked Bob barked back. "What!"

"Sex! Zat is what happening in there." Frau Hecks glared at him and at the same time stabbed a finger towards the offending door. "This is high class place, I will not put up with it. I get you the sack."

Totally perplexed, determined to get to the bottom of whatever was causing the old basket to have another of her wobblies, asked. "What's the burglars got to do with sex?"

"Pah! You hear that noise? I tell you that noise is my patience it go snap! They are not the burglars, they are disgusting noise and sex."

Bob rubbed his clean shaven chin, with a mixture of concern and amusement, but could not resist a grin. "Cor blimey Flawline, how come I miss out on all the fun, eh?"

Her upper lip creased into a snarl, Frau Hecks turned abruptly and pointing in the direction of villa number four, hissed in a lowered voice. "You are a stupid man, it is the fräulein that tart who came yesterday to number vier. She been in there with that disgraceful grandson of yours doing ... filthy stuff, because you do not lock zat door. I see them leave and I hear too. You no care, but you will. You will!"

Not waiting for a reaction or response, Frau Hecks marched away, straight backed and dignified, to her villa.

Chapter FOUR

Despite the sun brightening in the deepening blue sky, despite the rapidly increasing heat, despite the beauty of the day, Doreen did not feel bright or warm or beautiful. She felt as if a shadow was engulfing her, devouring her whole; she felt cold, sad, lonely and frightened.

Cigarette in one hand, champagne glass in the other, she stood unseen inside the open patio doors of her beautiful holiday villa, her robe pulled loosely over a sparkling purple bikini.

She wanted to believe that she had not overheard what that foreign woman next door had been shouting at the gardener. She wanted to believe none of it. In less than twenty four hours, spiteful, foul, words were being said. She thought she had left all that behind, all the bitching and snarling, nasty people looking for trouble.

She was shaking. Tears stung the back of her eyes. The champagne glass in her hand slipped from her fingers, dropped to the marble floor and shattered.

Unaware of the broken glass, she stood at the open door staring blindly out, a feeling of nausea and panic coursing through her. She wanted to be sick, wanted to cry, to scream, shout, she wanted to run and run and run. Instead, she stood there as if immobilised, a trickle of blood oozing from beneath her foot, forming a puddle on the expensive marble floor. She stood there, staring out at the past. A past that she had thought, naively, she had left behind: The malicious gossips, the arguments, the fights, her own screaming and shouting, the futility of trying to stand up for herself and her girl.

Taking a drag from her cigarette Doreen blew a stream of smoke above her head, watched as it curled and twisted in the warm air. She had stood there minding her own business, enjoying the clean, fresh smell of the morning air; had watched with amused interest as the foreign woman, whatever her name, had accosted the gardener. She had almost laughed out loud as he had scuttled past, head up, determinedly looking in the opposite direction, pretending for all the world that he could not see the woman planted on the edge of the terrace like a terrier marking a rat hole.

Bob, she thought his name was Bob, had seemed a decent bloke yesterday when she had briefly met him. A Londoner, like herself, although he sounded more posh not as common as her East End rabbiting. He was more south London, she guessed, or west: Where the classy folk came from. Her nails pressed into the palms of her hands. Nothing had changed. Even the rich and the posh liked to bitch. She turned her head at the muted sound of her daughter coughing. She was back then. But when had she come in? Before midnight? Before dawn? Or had she sauntered quietly in fifteen minutes ago, whilst she had been in the shower?

A tear welled in the corners of Doreen's eyes. She shut them, tight. For all the hardship and poverty of living as a single mother on a Council estate in the East End of London, for all the slagging and bitching and whinging and moaning, at least she had belonged there. A half strangled sob shuddered its way through her body as the past teased and tormented her behind her closed eyelids. What was she doing here among these la-di-da nobs? Who was she kidding? Did several million pounds make her talk proper, give her the charm and manners she was expected to have? If she kept her eyes closed could she hide away from the world she had always dreamt about being part of: A world which she had suddenly been catapulted into? A world of riches and privileges and appeared to have more bitches than Battersea Dogs' Home!

Even as she contemplated these foolish thoughts, a voice inside her head began to mutter and nervously giggle. A voice she knew only too well: her own, inner, voice. The same voice that had kept her afloat and fighting throughout the years, the one that had kept her head above water and the degradation of the poverty she had assumed she was destined to stay in. Born into poverty, grew up in poverty, bore a child in poverty and lived in poverty: The sort of poverty where benefits were swallowed up within a day just to feed the gas meter. And now that same voice yelled at her. "Keep your eyes tightly shut Doreen old girl and you can stay locked in the past forever or open them and face the world; your new world, the world you deserve. It's your choice girl!"

Snapping her eyes open she pulled herself together. What was she doing standing here moping like a wet washday? Living in the past was not an option. She had been one of the rare lucky ones. She had not only got out, but had been plucked out at a breath taking speed. The days of fumbling down the back of the settee for a few lost pennies to buy a loaf of bread were gone, buried forever. She could buy as much bread as she wanted now, a whole bakery and a whole shop full of sofas! She sucked at the last of her cigarette and tossed the stub out onto the terrace. Let the cow next door complain about that! She took off her robe and swirled it like a toreador's cape.

"Olez!" she laughed then winced as she looked down and saw the blood on the floor. "Oh bleeding hell!" she muttered then giggled. "Bleeding indeed!"

The misery of the past was back where it belonged, behind her. She stepped out onto the terrace where a little pool of blood would not matter and felt in her pocket for her fags and lighter. Placing a cigarette between her lips, lit up and took a long, strong pull. Tilting her head backwards she exhaled the smoke and watched it plume above her head into the clear, blue, sky. Had it ever been this clear and blue in London? Her elbow resting on her arm she smoked the cigarette down to its stub. Walking to the patio table ground the cigarette out into the ashtray. The old Doreen would have ignored the gossip and, if necessary, deal with it later. But she was no longer the old Doreen. She was the new, vulnerable, Doreen nervous and out of her depth.

She asked herself: how would someone of her new wealthy status behave? With confidence? Course they would! Not with a fishwife shouting match, entertaining the neighbourhood over the backyard fence, while the laundry that looked as grey as it had before going through the washing machine, flapped in the smog laden breeze.

She sniffed, "'Bleeding hell," then giggled as she cast her gaze towards the end of her terrace. The foreign woman had gone. So had the old gardener, but she could hear a chatter of voices. She braced herself to stand her ground. Two girls were in the distance each pushing a trolley along the pathway, the wheels gently rumbling; a noise as familiar to Doreen as a clock ticking. Was that another person walking behind the two cleaning maids? Doreen could not quite see.

Giggling again, what was the matter with her? She waved cheerfully at the girls, then realised they were too far away to have seen her. Trisha, she told herself, was in bed; sound asleep after her night out at the disco. This silliness had been nothing except overhearing a few angry words, her own nightmares and fear putting cockeyed ideas into her head, adding two and two and coming up with seven hundred and sixty three! So the German neighbour had been complaining about whoever had been having a bit of hows yer father in that pretty little building on the other side of the shrubbery? Jealous, probably, because no one was interested in tickling her fancy! Doreen giggled. A Doreen giggle that instantly turned into a full blown laugh. The nosey busybody had pointed vaguely in this direction. "Cor blimey," Doreen said out loud, looking over her shoulder at the three villas beyond her private terrace, "What made me think she was pointing at me?"

Turning her back on the sound of the clacking wheels coming nearer and the clacking tongue of a lonely old biddy she limped back into her villa in search of cotton wool and antiseptic. She giggled again. She had a new life to get on with and she must give it a try after she had swept up the glass and got the blood off the posh marble floor.

Chapter FIVE

Wearing a dark pencil skirt and white, short sleeved blouse, tailored exquisitely to fit her tall, slim physique, designed to portray her status at Villas Bonitas, Carman Santana walked closely behind the two cleaning maids. Her mind occupied with the busy schedule of the day. Several owners and guests were arriving and the demands on her and her staff were high. Though what sat in the forefront of her mind were the arrivals of yesterday, Mrs Wilkinson and her daughter.

As usual, Carman had welcomed and greeted the new guests, but nothing had prepared her for meeting Doreen Wilkinson. Petite and beautiful with soft blue eyes that flashed a mixture of mischievousness and sadness, blonde hair, exquisitely cut that bobbed above her shoulders and a tailored dress in shocking pink. Every inch of the woman an attractive lady that oozed wealth, but what Carmen had heard when those glossy pink lips parted was in stark contrast to the image of riches and beauty. A voice that momentarily took Carmen's breath away, reminding her of one or two of the characters in the old sixties comedy films; a plethora of Cor blimeys had been interspersed with several nervous giggles. The colour of the dress, Carmen realised afterwards, should have been a signal. But despite the shock, Carmen was aware that everything she had been told about the two new guests was confidential. Her instructions were crystal clear; Doreen Wilkinson must not learn that her fabulous holiday had been carefully and deliberately organised. Carmen had far too much on her mind for this to cause a problem. Though one thing did bother her and that was what she had seen earlier as she had walked through the entrance gates; Bob's grandson rushing past her mumbling a nervous good morning shortly followed by Trisha Wilkinson sashaying towards her villa. Despite her unease she knew that young man's 'Casanova' reputation all too well and decided to ignore the incident for now. The pair of them were of age and having a discreet liaison was not illegal, though it did lower the tone of Villas Bonitas.

She winced; a slight throb was starting to pound in her left temple. She glanced at her watch time for once was not racing at an alarming speed. Raising her hand to gently massage the area of pain in an attempt to ease the threatening headache, she heard her name spoken. Dropping her hand down to her side looked over at the two maids, a frown creasing her forehead. Had she been so distracted? They were already outside Villa number four.

"Carmen, I'll start here with number four so I can introduce myself." Tracey announced as she pushed her laden trolley along the villa's private walkway.

Ignoring the throbbing pain, Carmen nodded at the young woman. "Perfect. I need to make sure everything is comfortable for Mrs Wilkinson. We shall go in together."

She instructed the other maid, Cissie to prepare villa five. Guests were arriving later that morning. Unusual, she thought because the Judge's villa was only ever used by the Judge and his family. Shrugging the thought away Carmen added, "Please call me if you need any assistance," her mind already distracted as she walked towards villa four a few yards behind Tracey.

The knocking at the door caused Doreen to swear under her breath. She dabbed more antiseptic on her foot and hastily tied a bandage round it. The knocking came again. "I'm coming as fast as I bleeding can," she muttered.

Leaving the first aid box open on the kitchen table, its contents scattered as she started hobbling towards the entrance area, her robe opened to reveal her bikini clad trim figure. She stopped, startled as the front door swung open.

"What the...?" she started to call as she watched two women enter her villa.

Carmen entering the villa hastily explained, "Good morning Mrs Wilkinson, I'm so sorry if we have startled you, but as you didn't answer the door I assumed you were not in."

Doreen recognised her from the day before: The manageress who had greeted them on their arrival. What was her name? She noted the other person wore a maid's uniform, and beyond the open front door Doreen could see the cleaning trolley laden with bottles, brushes, polishes, dusters, buckets, mops: The Full Monty. She grinned as she took it all in, she knew all about that!

The spacious villa was expensively furnished in soft tones. Doreen in her sparkling purple bikini was the brightest object in the villa. Crossing her arms, almost pushing her small rounded breast out of the tiny top, in a nervous and defensive tone she cried. "Cor blimey we've only been here a day, the place isn't filthy or nothing."

Carmen half grinned at the woman's eagerness for the swimming pool. The bikini was a bit skimpy and very sparkly. She coughed lightly to ensure her voice remained polite and steady before saying in a friendly tone. "A daily cleaning service is fully inclusive Mrs Wilkinson. Bathroom, kitchen and of course clean towels and linen." Smiling added, "Please let me introduce you to Tracey. She is the maid who will be looking after you throughout your stay her at Villas Bonitas." Turning, Carmen nodded at Tracey who stood behind her, before adding. "Tracey is here to ensure that everything remains perfect for your stay."

Stepping forward, Tracey extended her hand. "Hello Mrs Wilkinson."

Hearing the friendly tone, Doreen relaxed slightly, but remained wary. Unfolding her arms self consciously she gathered her robe discretely around her body and politely offered her hand in response to the young maid. Relief spread through her, calming her startled unease as she realised the two women were not, as she had feared, here to harass her about that nasty piece of gossip she had overheard earlier. She giggled nervously; her resolve to not care about what others said or did had rapidly evaporated at the sight of these two women marching into her villa uninvited. Her New Year resolutions had never lasted long: Seemed that her new life resolutions were no different.

Sounding more confident than she felt, Doreen cried. "Nice to meet you. Now I think about it, something was said about cleaning and all. Silly me, you must think I know nothing." Bleeding hell what did she sound like? she asked herself, embarrassed. Trying to hold a confident smile, knowing full well she had no idea how to live or behave in this style of luxury and worse she suspected these two women knew it too. God, she cried silently as she cast a quick glance around the room. Blimey it looked like a tip with empty bottles and make up scattered on the table, then spying her packet of cigarettes on the top of the lightwood coffee table, swooped over and pulled the packet towards her. Removing a long Dunhill, scrabbled in her robe pocket and pulled out her lighter and lit up.

Blowing a plume of smoke into the air, from the corner of her eye, noticed a half empty bottle of gin sitting on the breakfast bar and secretly wished she could have a nip of that instead of a fag. Mind, she thought that mixed with the champagne and all the fags she had smoked might not give the best impression. Tempted as she was to giggle, she drew on her cigarette instead.

Turning her attention back to Carmen who had wandered into the lounge area and appeared to be inspecting, "I was going to tidy up, but had a bit of an accident with me foot." She raised her leg up to produce the evidence.

"Mrs Wilkinson, I'm only here to check everything is perfect for you, now can I do anything to help with your foot?"

"Thanks, a bit of glass, nothing to worry about." She giggled. What must these two be thinking? The place in a two and eight and my foot in a bandage. She was supposed to be all refined and classy now she had money, not hobbling around and trembling with nerves. God, she had always dreamed of staying in such a fabulous place, but in reality it was turning out to be nothing like her dreams, nothing like the glossy magazines and TV soaps. Life for the rich, from where she had stood, permanently in the smelly stuff, had always seemed to be perfect. But so far with all her money, she was not composed and in control. Out of bleeding control more like.

Standing in silence, Carmen could almost feel the anguish that was rippling through Doreen Wilkinson. She had barely been in the villa for more than a couple of minutes yet she could see the woman was struggling, clearly out of her depth with her new life. Sympathy surged through her, stepping forward and in a tone, she hoped conveyed friendliness, broke the silence. "It is my job and my great pleasure, to ensure we make this holiday a memorable one for you. If there is anything you need, anything you are unsure of please, ask me." Before she could offer more encouragement, Tracey interrupted.

"Excuse me, is it ok for me to go in and change the beds?"

Doreen ran one hand through her immaculate hair, her cigarette pivoting on her bottom lip. Were these two setting a trap to catch her out about the gossip she had heard? What was she to do? Trisha was in bed and as if on cue a low cough was heard coming from the bedroom. She inhaled another lungful of much needed nicotine then stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. Sighed with relief at her daughter's coughing sound, then sharper than intended, said, "You can do mine, but me girl is still abed. Typical of her age, been out clubbing so best if you leave it 'till later." Rolling her eyes continued. "Time means nothing at that age, midnight, midday, they don't know if the stars or the sun is shining. Teenagers, what do you do with them eh?"

Unaware of the worries swirling around in Doreen's head, Tracey, turning towards the front door, called with bland ease. "No problem. Many of the guests never emerge until well after noon. After all, you are on holiday. I can always come back later to finish off." Smiling she went to her trolley to fetch a bundle of clean linen.

Her arms laden with fresh laundry, Tracey walked down the hall towards the bedrooms.

Watching the maid head towards her room, Doreen had another fleeting attack of nerves, stepped forward as if to run after the girl, stopped, blimey, what if me knicks are on the floor? Oh God, the gin glass is still on the cabinet bedside me bed. Gordon Bennett, the ashtray is full! Bleeding hell what will the girl be thinking? This is ridiculous! Snap out of it Doreen, she castigated herself. The maid is only doing her job and ever likely me drawers are stuffed in the linen basket.

Noting Doreen's worried face and the temperature rising in the room, Carmen strode over to the air conditioning control panel. Adjusting the settings, turned to Doreen, she could see the lottery winner was uncomfortable with their presence. The temperature reset, she strolled back to where Doreen stood,

"It seems rather warm in here, so I've adjusted the settings," she pointed to the small control unit. "Would you like me to show you how to adjust it if it gets too cool in here?" She smiled as she spoke and hoped her tone conveyed a friendly voice. It was clear Doreen Wilkinson needed to feel less intimidated.

Doreen did not miss the affable tone and gesture, smiled back. "Thanks I'm not used to central heating let alone central chilling," she giggled. She could sense Carmen was trying to find a way to talk to her.

Reaching over, Carmen lightly placed her hand on Doreen's shoulder, "I'm here to make sure your stay is as perfect as we can make it. Tracey's job is to look after the villa for you and your job, Mrs Wilkinson, is to enjoy yourself."

Meeting Carmen's eyes, Doreen giggled, it might be a trap, she was not sure, but she liked this Carmen. Maybe she was genuine, time would tell. "Seems we've all got our work cut out then. You know we've never been in such a lovely place. I'm already loving every minute, you girls have done a great job with making it look so smart." She knew only too well how much effort was needed to keep a place looking this good. She giggled excitedly at the thought of not having to clean it herself. Staring at Carmen's manicured hand still resting on her shoulder added. "With those nice hands of yours, I doubt you've had to dip them in bleach and buckets of stuff."

Doreen looked at her own hands, not as soft looking at Carmen's, but not red and raw anymore. "To think you work in such a lovely place. When I was a cleaner, the holes I had to do were stinky and filthy. Even the people treated you like you were the muck you had to clean up. You're lucky. God very lucky!"

She stopped talking, her cheeks burning red. Cor blimey, what had made her say all that? She blushed crimson with embarrassment. Too late now, it was out. She had told this perfectly dressed and styled woman, a total stranger, that she was not rich in the proper sense and that she had been a cleaner and not even a high class cleaner like that Tracey girl changing the sheets. What on earth had made her say it?

Grabbing at her cigarette packet, she took one out, placed it between her lips and lit it. Blowing the smoke into the room she knew why, because despite all her anxieties, all the baggage and crap she carried about in her head, all the fear that pounded in her about the world she had entered, this pretty woman with her educated but pleasant accent was making her feel surprisingly comfortable and happy.

"I will do whatever I can to ensure you enjoy your time here." Carmen said her voice kindly and friendly.

Puffing on her cigarette, Doreen suddenly thought that if there were more people like Carmen around then maybe she would eventually fit in. With the smoke wafting around her, said. "I can see yer understand me. Funny, we've had to come all this way to meet someone nice like you. Fickle finger of fate, me old Nan would say. God rest her soul."

Resisting the urge to waft the smoke away from her face, Carmen reached her own surprising conclusion; she liked Doreen Wilkinson. She had been unprepared for the bluntness, the shyness, the nervousness and she knew it would be tough for someone from her walk of life to hold her own here at Villas Bonitas. More than a few eyebrows would be raised and some of the owners would not take easily to this new multimillionaire who was a little rough around edges. Looking across at the pretty woman, a very rich pretty woman, who smoked like a chimney, Carmen could not begin to imagine the world Doreen had left behind.

Available in Kindle & PaperbacK

Acknowledgements

A big thank you to my wonderful editor, Jo Field who makes everything I write shine.

To Cathy Helms at Avalon Graphics whose wonderful skill has produced another stunning book cover. I love it!

A special thank you to Madalyn Morgan, author of Foxden Acres

To everyone at Famous Five Plus, thank you for all your support.

www.famousfiveplus.com

A grateful thanks to you the reader for downloading Next Christmas Will Be Different, I hope you enjoyed this short story.

Last but not least, a big hug to my fabulous husband for being the best.

Please connect with me online at...

www.paulinebarclay.co.uk

http://paulinembarclay.blogspot.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/paulinembarclay

