Kitty Neale - A Daughter’s Courage - A powerful, gritty new saga from the Sunday Times bestseller

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Copyright © Kitty Neale 2018

Cover photographs © Getty Images/ Alamy

Cover design © Debbie Clement 2018

Kitty Neale asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008191702

Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9780008191719

Version 2017-11-24

For my dad, the first man I ever truly respected.

You’ve always been there for me offering quiet strength, dependability and security.

Thank you for everything you have done for me, and for your continued support.

We rarely share soppy sentiments, but I know you love me very much and you’re proud of me. I love you dearly too, and am so proud to call you my dad xxx

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Keep Reading…

About the Author

By the Same Author:

About the Publisher

Battersea, London, 1956

Crimson nail polish was the only splash of colour in the dank kitchen as Dorothy Butler painted her nails in preparation for her date with Robbie Ferguson. It was mid-September and she was sitting at the battered kitchen table. While waiting for the varnish to dry, she watched as her mother, Alice, flicked soapy suds from her hands before wiping them down the front of her washed-out apron.

Now twenty-two years old, Dorothy had been a child when her father returned from fighting in France, a broken man, unable to resume his work as a groundsman in Battersea Park. Since then, with only a small army disability pension to live on, her mother had taken in washing, which helped to pay the rent and buy the coal needed to warm the house during the long winter months. It was all Alice could manage as her fear of going outside kept her a prisoner in her own home. However, constantly leaning over the sink and scrubbing clothes had damaged her back, and Dorothy saw her grimace as she stirred the three cups of tea she’d just made.

Dorothy winced at the sight of her mum’s hands. They looked blistered, red raw, and she wished she could do more to ease her burdens. Her own job as a baker’s assistant didn’t pay well and, though they had sufficient to eat, there was only just enough money left to pay the bills.

‘Dottie, be a love and take this cuppa through to your father, will you?’ Alice asked.

Dottie blew on her freshly polished nails, hoping they were dry, as she obligingly took the weak tea which had seen the leaves stewed three times. She carried it through to the sparsely furnished front room. She wasn’t surprised to find her father Bill in his usual place, sat on a faded brown wing-backed armchair, staring up at the bare light-bulb hanging from the ceiling rose. Dorothy knew that her mother didn’t believe in luxuries, neither could she afford them. If it wasn’t practical or didn’t serve a purpose, then it wasn’t needed, and lampshades came under the latter heading.

‘Here you are, Dad,’ Dorothy said gently as she knelt next to her father’s chair. ‘I’ve brought you a nice cuppa.’

She studied her father’s pale face. His skin was almost translucent and etched with lines. He had an especially deep furrow across his brow which Dorothy thought had been caused by a constant frown. He looked in a permanent state of anguish and rarely spoke or acknowledged anyone. She wondered if her father even knew who she was. It had broken Dorothy’s heart when she had first seen him in this state, but it was something she’d now become accustomed to.

Having got no response from her father, she returned to the kitchen, where her mother was putting some freshly washed clothes through the mangle. For the umpteenth time she tried again to challenge her.

‘Mum, why won’t you let Dr Stubbs get some treatment for Dad? He’s not getting any better and this has been going on for over eleven years now. It’s pretty obvious that he’s out of his mind.’

Alice wiped her forehead with the back of a ravaged hand as she turned to look at her daughter. Her greying hair was held in a loose bun with thin strands hanging scraggily down. Though only in her forties, the hard life she’d been forced to live had prematurely aged her, and she said wearily, ‘I’ve been through this with you before, Dottie. I won’t have your father put in one of them places ’cos you know what they do to them in there. They electrocute them! He just needs lots of love and patience from his family. You’ll see, one day we’ll have your dad back to how he was, but if he goes into that nuthouse, that’ll be the last we ever see of him.’

‘What if you’re wrong, Mum? What if he never gets better?’

‘He will, love. You know that Mrs Brigade, the woman from up Lavender Hill with the nine boys all with ginger hair, well, I saw her the other day in the haberdashery shop. She told me that three of her sons had come home from the war as very changed young men and it took years to get back to normal. The point is, they did eventually, and remember they’re a lot younger than your father, so of course they would get better quicker. But mark my words, gal, your father will be back to his silly old self soon enough.’

Dorothy wasn’t convinced and would rather have put her trust in modern medicine but she didn’t want to push her mother any further. ‘If you say so, Mum. I reckon it’s a bloody travesty though. The army should never have sent him home like that. They should have sent him to one of those centres first, you know, the ones where they have special head doctors to sort out soldiers with that combat stress thing.’