Kitty Neale - Nobody’s Girl

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.

Avon

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in paperback by HarperCollins Publishers 2007

Copyright © Kitty Neale 2007

Cover design © Debbie Clement 2016

Cover photographs: Getty

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

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, 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 ebooks

HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847563484

Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2012 ISBN: 9780007278930

Version: 2016-09-12

For Rita McAneny.

We have worked together, laughed together, shared sadness and tears, my precious friend for over twenty years.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

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

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

The moon was in its first quarter as the man climbed out of his car. A high wind wailed through the skeletal branches of trees, the sound echoing that of the tiny bundle clutched in his arms. He ignored the cries, uncaring, feeling only disgust as he held the bundle away from his body.

His face was grim. He was going to make his daughter pay for almost ruining the family name, and her bastard would pay too. It would cost him dearly, yet worth it to watch her suffer, not once, but twice. My God, he had thought her perfect, his only child, but she had turned out to be a slut.

He reached the end of the lane, his eyes flicking from side to side as he turned onto a small, built-up road. He had chosen well. There were no houses, and with a wartime blackout in force, no streetlights pierced the dense blanket of darkness.

The building loomed, but still he was cautious, looking swiftly over his shoulder before roughly laying the bundle on its concrete steps. The wrapping fell to one side, the infant mewling, but the man was heedless of the cold night air.

At first he had wanted the bastard dead, but then decided it would be too easy for her, the slut’s suffering short. No, he’d bide his time, watch her grieve, and then one day, when the time was right, he’d tell her the truth. And when he did, he’d watch as she suffered all over again.

His smile thin, he swung on his heels now, swiftly walking away.

He was only just out of sight when a door swung open. A woman emerged, running swiftly down the steps and, taking up the baby, she carried it inside.

Battersea, South London, 1956

Dolly Dolby picked up a thick white plate from the stack and scowled. ‘Gertie, get in here!’

Up to the elbows in hot water, Gertrude Wilson sighed and, grabbing a tea towel, she hurriedly dried her hands before leaving the small, cramped washing-up area. She was used to Dolly’s moods and met her ferocious gaze with equilibrium.

‘What do you want now?’

Dolly stiffened with annoyance. She was a woman at odds with her name: there was nothing doll-like in her appearance. Tall, formidable, and big-boned, with a broad flat face above wide shoulders, her only saving grace was long, thick, chestnut-brown hair. However, the only person likely to see it was her husband when she let it down at night. In the kitchen she wore it pulled back tightly and covered with a thick hairnet.

Scowling again, she indicated the remnant of dried egg on the rim of the plate. ‘What do you call this?’

‘I do me best, but I ain’t feeling too good today.’

‘What, again? Mrs Neverwell, that’s you. If it ain’t your bleeding varicose veins, it’s your arthritis. Maybe I should think about replacing you with someone who can wash up properly.’

It was an empty threat, but one Dolly enjoyed. Gertie had been working in the café for over ten years, and in her own way Dolly was fond of the woman. There weren’t many who would put up with the conditions in the small washing-up room, which contained just two deep Belfast sinks with wooden draining boards. There was a tiny window looking out onto the yard, and now, in July, it was like working in a hothouse.

‘After all the years I’ve worked for you, you’re threatening to sack me over one dirty plate,’ Gertie whined, her small brown eyes filling with tears.

‘All right,’ Dolly placated, ‘don’t start with the waterworks. I’m just spouting wind and you know that. Just make sure that in future you wash up properly.’

‘Two full breakfasts with black pudding and fried bread,’ Rita Marriner shouted as she hurried into the kitchen, slapping an order slip onto the table.

Dolly glared at the young waitress. ‘Didn’t you hear the bell? Those two breakfasts have been standing there for nearly five minutes.’

Rita’s eyes blazed as she picked up the standard meal of sausages, bacon, fried eggs and beans. ‘No, I didn’t hear the bell. I’ve only got one pair of hands and it’s a bit much expecting me to cope with all the tables. It’s about time you found another waitress.’

‘Don’t give me any lip, young lady. You’re getting paid extra so you ain’t got much to complain about. Now get those breakfasts out of here and make sure you ask them if they want bread and butter with it.’

Clutching the two plates, Rita pushed the swing doors with her bottom, saying as she reversed out of the kitchen, ‘Why don’t you stick a bloody broom up me arse and I’ll sweep the floor at the same time!’