Kitty Neale - A Sister’s Sorrow

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www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2019

Copyright © Kitty Neale 2019

Cover design © Debbie Clement 2019

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 ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, 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: 9780008270889

Ebook Edition © February 2019 ISBN: 9780008270896

Version: 2018-10-24

For my husband

Sweet love of mine and best friend too,

I’m blown away by all you do.

My life is enriched because of you.

One love, one life, a love so true.

Now we’re here, we made it through,

Many would have faltered, but no, not you.

We’re strong, we’re great and we’re together,

Eternally, I’ll be yours forever.

Before this ends, there’s just one more thing …

Because of who you are, I’m so proud to wear

your ring 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

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Battersea, London, 1948

Sarah Jepson’s legs jigged under her desk as she anxiously waited for the school bell to ring for home time. Her mother Annie had woken up with labour pains that morning, and Sarah was desperately worried about her.

Earlier, when Sarah had shown concern, her mum had told her to bugger off and go to school. She’d called her useless and said she’d be no bloody help. Comments like that weren’t unusual and hadn’t surprised Sarah. She was used to her mother’s contemptuous remarks, and though they hurt, she tried her best to ignore them.

At last, the bell trilled, and Sarah hurriedly placed her books in her desk before dashing out of the classroom and then through the school gates. Dirty rainwater splashed the backs of her skinny legs as she ran through the narrow streets of run-down terraced houses. I wish I could fly, she thought, sprinting as fast as she could, as her thin coat billowed out behind her. It was at least two sizes too small, so she couldn’t button it up. It did little to keep out the chill of the cold October wind, or protect her from the hammering rain. Sarah didn’t care about the stormy weather, she just wanted to get back home and silently prayed that everything would be all right this time.

She finally arrived at the staircase of the tenement block, then paused as she caught her breath. Her heart was pounding in her chest and her long, dark hair hung like wet rat’s tails. She rapidly tapped her forefinger and thumb together, something she unconsciously did when she was nervous. Apprehensively, she grabbed the handrail and stood still, her emerald-green eyes staring up the uninviting stairwell as she urged her legs to keep going. She’d come this far, but the reality of what she might find at home had stopped her in her tracks. Please don’t let it be like last time, she thought, remembering the dead baby her mother had birthed three years earlier. Mrs Brown, a neighbour upstairs, had taken the baby away, but Sarah could still picture his wrinkled little face, and shivered at the memory of his limp, scrawny body.

Sarah recalled Mrs Brown having a go at her mum, telling her she’d brought it on herself and should have stayed away from the gin. She’d told her scornfully that she didn’t deserve to be a mother and had murdered her own child. Sarah didn’t understand how her mother could have killed the baby, as she’d witnessed his lifeless body being born. As she’d listened to Mrs Brown, Sarah had seen her mother glaring at the woman. She had seen that vicious look in her mum’s eyes before, one that she’d now become accustomed to receiving. It was in sharp contrast to the look of pity in Mrs Brown’s eyes as she had carried away the dead baby and said a solemn farewell to Sarah. She wasn’t sure what she disliked most: the hateful stare from her mother or the look of pity from their neighbour.

A distant scream echoed through the tenement, piercing Sarah’s thoughts. She knew immediately that it was her mother, and flew into action. She took the stairs two at a time, then she heard her cry out again, which drove Sarah even faster up the three flights. Please live, her mind raced, please let the baby be alive.

The front door was wide open. Sarah ran in then pushed it closed behind her. The room was dark, but she could see her mother lying on her filthy mattress on the floor, panting hard. As Sarah got closer, she noticed beads of sweat running down her mum’s face even though the room was cold.

‘Get this bloody thing out of me!’ her mother screamed, and gripped the holey blanket that was covering her legs.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ Sarah cried in a blind panic. Though she’d seen her mum give birth before, she’d only been ten years old at the time, and had been overwhelmed with horror through most of it. Now thirteen, she was still unsure.

She knew it would be useless to appeal to any of the neighbours for help. Mrs Brown had passed away and none of the other women in the block would have anything to do with her mum.

‘Shall I get the doctor?’ she said desperately.

‘Don’t be so stupid. I don’t need a doctor, I just need some gin. Pass me that bottle,’ her mother demanded, indicating to a bottle of alcohol in the tiny kitchenette.

‘But … but that ain’t no good for the baby,’ Sarah pleaded, though she was loath to disobey her mother’s orders.

‘Don’t you backchat me, just get it. I need it for the pain,’ her mother ground out through gritted teeth.