Josephine Cox - Lonely Girl

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2015

Copyright © Josephine Cox 2015

Cover layout design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2015

Cover photographs © Mark Owen/Trevillion Images (girl); Stephanie Frey/Trevillion Images (dog);

Brendon Burton/Arcangel Images (landscape); Lisa Takahashi/EyeEm/Getty Images (birds,sky);

Shutterstock.com(border)

Josephine Cox 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 9780007476732

Ebook Edition © October 2015 ISBN: 9780007476749

Version: 2017-05-22

For my Ken – as always

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One: Dark Memories

Prologue

Part Two: Badness Will Out

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Part Three: Realisation

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Part Four: The Aftermath

Chapter Twelve

Part Five: Revelations

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

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About the Author

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CROUCHING LOW BENEATH the bedroom window, young Rosie peered through the murky darkness of a cold November evening.

Anxiously training her gaze along the pathway that ran by the big barn, she wondered if her mother might show at any moment. Rosie would not mind if her mother stayed away for ever, but she knew her father would be sad because he loved her, even though they were always arguing.

So, for his sake, Rosie hoped her mother might somehow manage to find her way home from the village pub where she worked as a barmaid. Often her shift would slip into her social life. She liked a drink and a laugh. She also liked the admiration of men, who were drawn to her dark looks and enticing smile.

Whenever her mother was late coming home, Rosie had good cause to fear the worst. Keeping her vigil at the window, she wondered what kind of mood her mother would be in if she did come home. Would she be in one of her dark rages? Would she be feeling spiteful and ready to fight with Rosie’s father? Or would she be laughing and playful, or impossible to talk with and so drunk she could hardly stand?

Rosie could never decide which was worse, because whichever way it was, it always ended badly.

Neither Rosie nor her father ever knew what to expect when Molly Tanner returned from a night out. She never spoke about exactly where she had been, or who she had been with, and if John Tanner dared to pursue the truth, a fierce row would inevitably ensue, and Rosie would run upstairs in fear, to hide under her bedclothes.

Looking back, Rosie realised that nothing much had changed over the years except that they all had grown older and a little wiser. Her mother was forever complaining that she was ‘coming up to her dreaded fifties’. She was still proud of her sultry looks, and rumour had it that she was still cheating on her loving and hard-working husband. Her dislike for her only child had reached the point where she could hardly bear to be near her.

Molly Tanner had never possessed the strong maternal instinct that bonds a mother with her child. She had neither the instinct nor the wish to be a mother, and made that clear to all who would listen. Consequently, she played precious little part in Rosie’s life.

After a while, young Rosie had stopped caring. Her daddy had been, and still was, her whole life. If she was ever worried or hurting, it was her father’s help she sought; she had learned long ago that there was no point in seeking comfort or advice from her disinterested mother. The little girl had grown and flourished without her help.

Growing irritable, Rosie brought her thoughts back to the present, while she continued watching out of the window.

‘Don’t get upset because your mother never loved you,’ she told herself. ‘You’re not a baby any more. You’re turned fifteen and very soon, you’ll be leaving school.’

Rosie was greatly excited at the prospect of leaving school. At long last she would be able to get a job, although she was adamant on one point. When I do start earning a wage, I’ll give it to Daddy … not to her , because she’ll only spend it down the pub, or on fancy clothes and make-up to impress the men she flirts with, Rosie resolved.

Glancing at the bedside clock, she realised that she had been keeping her vigil for her wayward mother for over an hour.

I expect Daddy’s worried sick, but what does she care, so long as she’s having a good time? she thought.

She clambered up and closed the curtains. Then she crossed the floor to switch on the light, and for a while continued to pace back and forth, occasionally peering through the gap between the curtains and growing increasingly agitated.

The minutes ticked by and, with still no sign of her mother, Rosie went to sit at the dressing table. Absent-mindedly studying her reflection in the mirror, she was greatly relieved that she had not inherited her mother’s striking looks – or her bad temper either.

Although her own hair was waist-length like her mother’s, that was where the resemblance ended because Rosie’s hair was the same light chestnut colour as her father’s, while Molly’s was dark and fell in luscious waves. Rosie’s strong blue eyes were also inherited from her father’s side of the family, although her father’s eyes were tinged with a hint of green, which deepened when he was angry, which was not very often.

Anxiously, Rosie studied herself in the mirror, thinking of her mother and the unkind things she would say.

Molly often complained that she found it hard to believe that she had such a plain-looking daughter. ‘You remind me of my sister, Kathleen,’ she would tease spitefully. ‘She was always the plain, shy girl at school. At playtime, she would stand in the corner while everyone else was having fun. When we were younger, the boys always came after me. They never went for her. Hmm! She would probably have been left on the shelf if it hadn’t been for your Uncle Paddy. Like her, he’s a plain-looking sort with not much about him. They’re two of a kind,’ she’d smirk. ‘I always knew they would get together, but only after lover-boy had enjoyed playing the field.’