Anne Bennett - Child on the Doorstep

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Copyright © Anne Bennett 2018

Cover photographs © Gordon Crabb (Girl); Tony Charnock/ Alamy Stock Photo (houses)

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018

Anne Bennett 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: 9780008162337

Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: 9780008162344

Version: 2018-01-05

In loving memory of Denis Bennett

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter sixteen

Chapter seventeen

Chapter eighteen

Chapter nineteen

Chapter twenty

Chapter twenty-one

Chapter twenty-two

Chapter twenty-three

Chapter twenty-four

Chapter twenty-five

Keep Reading …

About the Author

About the Publisher

Angela took her coat from the hook at the back of the door and stepped out into the early morning. The day was a chilly one – it was early yet but Angela was glad the bite of winter seemed to be gone at last, though it was only early March 1926. In the children’s verse March was supposed to begin like a lion and end like a lamb so she knew they weren’t quite out of the woods yet. But they were on the way to spring and that morning a hazy sun was trying to break through the clouds. Funny how it cheered a body to see the sun.

But then her good mood was dispelled a little when, despite the early hour, she saw Tressa Lawson on the road before her, carrying a cushion and an army-issue blanket. As the eldest in the family it was her job to lead her father, Pete, by the hand for he had been blinded by mustard gas in 1915. He wore his great coat against the chill of the day and immense pity for the man rose up in Angela.

‘Why does he go out so early?’ she’d asked Tressa one time.

‘He says he gets the best pitch then,’ Tressa had said. ‘He positions himself by the tram stop in Bristol Street.’

Angela had nodded; she knew he did, for she had seen him there herself and never passed without greeting him and dropping some money in the cap on the floor before him.

‘He says he gets the people waiting for the tram and those getting off, as well as those walking into the city centre by foot.’ Tressa had chewed on her bottom lip before going on, ‘Sometimes though, for all he sits for hours, often chilled to the bone, especially in the winter, despite his cushion and blanket, he has collected precious little. I hate the look on his face then. He hates the thought that Mammy has to take in extra washing from the big houses in Edgbaston, that he can’t provide adequately for his family. He often says he feels a failure.’

Angela’s intake of breath had been audible and she had hissed to Tressa, ‘Your father is no failure.’

‘I know that,’ Tressa had said, ‘but it’s what Daddy thinks.’

Angela remembered him marching away to war, so proud that he had the opportunity to serve his King and country. And when it was over, four gruelling years after it had begun, they called it the ‘Great War’. Personally Angela thought there was actually not anything great about that war at all. It was supposed to be the war to end all wars and all the men fighting in it had been promised a land ‘fit for heroes’, but in fact those who returned had nothing but the dole queue and poverty awaiting them.

Somehow, Angela could never see the decent and respectable Pete Lawson without feeling a pang to her heart. That bloody ‘Great War’ had also taken away Angela’s beloved husband and Connie’s father Barry, and at the time Angela had thought she would never get over the tremendous loss she’d felt.

The lovely letter of commendation that she had received from his commanding officer, who had said how brave and courageous a soldier he was, hadn’t helped the searing ache inside her. The letter had told her that Barry had eventually lost his life saving another. While her mind screamed ‘Why?’ she imagined in the heat of battle there was little time for logical thought and Barry would have acted instinctively. But that act was the culmination of this very brave soldier’s career; the officer had said he was recommending him for an award and in due course she received the Military Medal.

Angela still thought it cold comfort and if her husband had been a little less brave he might have been one of the ones who had marched home again. His mother, Mary McClusky, on the other hand, had been ‘over the moon’ that her Barry had received a medal for gallantry and Angela thought Connie might like it as she grew. It would show her what a fine father she’d had, for she was too young to remember him at all, and Angela had put the medal away carefully to show her when she was older.

In the end, despite commendations and medals, she had learnt to cope with her profound loss because she had Connie to rear and Barry’s mother Mary to care for too, for they lived together. Anyway, she was by no means the only widow and when the Armistice was signed and the men who had survived were demobbed, it was only too obvious how few men there were about.

As Angela made her way to the Swan public house where she cleaned, she reflected anew on all the changes brought about because so many men had not returned from the war. She could well remember what George Maitland, her old employer, had said on a similar subject.

He had no children and this was a great regret for him, but when the war began and the casualty figures began appearing in the paper, he had said to Angela one day when she was collecting her groceries, ‘You know I’ve never had chick nor child belonging to me and at times that has been a cross to bear, for I would have loved a family. But now I look at my customers and see the ones who have lost sons and wonder if it is worse for them who have given birth to a boy and reared him with such a powerful love that they would willingly give their life to save him. But they are unable to save him from war and when he dies for King and country, the loss must be an overwhelming one. I have had women in the shop crying broken-heartedly about their beloved sons who will never return and at times I am almost thankful I have no sons of my own to suffer the same fate.’