A Family’s Heartbreak

A FAMILY’S HEARTBREAK

Kitty Neale

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2019

Copyright © Kitty Neale 2019

Cover design by Debbie Clement © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Cover photographs © Gordon Crabb (figure), Allan Cash Picture Library/Alamy Stock Photo (background)

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: 9780008270919

Ebook Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 9780008270926

Version: 2019-07-01

Dedication

For my dear friend, Elly Sayers.

This is dedicated to you and your lovely mum, Lynda Shaw, who is an avid reader of my books.

Elly – We’ve made such wonderful memories together and I’m looking forward to sharing many more special moments with you. You’re an incredible woman, Smelly, and I love you loads!

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

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

London, Balham, 1961

Jenny Lombard chewed nervously on her thumbnail as she listened to her parents arguing again. They were in the living room with the door ajar, while in the hall and out of sight, Jenny hovered close by. Her mother Lizzie had walked out on them, but still had a habit of dropping in now and then. When she did, all hell would inevitably break loose.

‘What ’ave I told you about coming round here if and when the mood takes you?’ her father yelled.

‘They’re my kids, Henry, and I’ve got every right to see ’em!’ her mother answered defiantly.

Jenny was a grown woman of twenty-two but as she looked through the crack of the door she felt like a child again. She could see her mother sitting on the sofa cradling Peter, aged six, the youngest of Jenny’s four siblings. He had untidy fair hair, and his blue eyes, wide with fear, made his complexion look paler than normal. Jenny wanted to run into the room to comfort him but, scared of her father, she remained rooted to the spot.

‘You’ve no rights! You lost them when you took off with your fancy man, and what’s happened to him, eh? I hear he’s dropped you like a ton of bricks ’cos he knows what an old tart you are.’

‘I ain’t listening to this, and neither should Peter,’ she spat, and, kissing her son quickly on his forehead, put him to one side before abruptly rising to her feet.

With no time to react, it was too late to run out of sight, and as the door flew open Jenny found herself face to face with her mother.

‘Earwigging again, Jenny? Well, I hope you heard every word that pig of a father of yours said to me. I’m sick to the back teeth of it, slagging me off when all I want to do is see you kids.’

Jenny’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, but no words came. She wanted to throw herself at her mother’s feet and beg her not to leave again. She knew the moment the front door closed behind her mum, she, or one of her siblings, would bear the brunt of their father’s anger.

‘Get out of my way, girl,’ her mother said, tutting as she brushed Jenny aside to head for the front door. ‘I’m wasting my breath here.’

Jenny heard her father’s heavy footsteps on the linoleum floor. He was coming her way! She pressed her bony back against the hallway wall and breathed in, trying to make herself as thin as possible. If she could have, she would have merged into it. She’d once stood in the way when her father was chasing her mother, only to be aggressively shoved to one side. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. Wishing she was invisible, Jenny trembled, but thankfully her father dashed past her.

Just as her mother opened the street door, he grabbed her by her long blonde hair and yanked her backwards. ‘Lizzie, get back in here, you bitch, and see to your child,’ her father ordered harshly.

It was only then that Jenny heard Peter wailing, and she rushed from the hallway to comfort her brother, leaving her parents fighting by the front door. Peter’s face was screwed up as tears streamed down his cheeks. ‘It’s all right, love, I’ve got you,’ Jenny said soothingly as she scooped him into her arms.

She could hear her parents still screeching obscenities at each other and had no doubt all the curtains in the street would be twitching, whilst some neighbours would be on their doorsteps. They were used to hearing them fighting – after all, it wasn’t an unusual occurrence – but they were a nosy lot on her street.

‘I want my mummy,’ Peter cried.

Jenny sat on the sofa and pulled the boy closer to her, burying his head in her chest. ‘I know you do, sweetheart,’ she said, but couldn’t find any words of condolence to offer. She wouldn’t lie to him and tell him Mummy would be back soon, as the chances were she wouldn’t. She couldn’t tell him everything was going to be all right. It never was, not after their mother had visited. All she could do was protect the child from their father’s fury, and offer herself up for a beating, a sacrifice for him to vent his frustrations on.

Henry slammed the front door with such force, it felt like the house shook. Lizzie had broken free from his grip and refused to come back in to see to Peter. He stormed into the lounge, furious with his estranged wife. He hated that two years ago she’d left him high and dry with five kids to look after. Worse still, the slag had showed him up in front of his mates by dumping him for another man. The humiliation of it! And yet Lizzie still had the audacity to return home on a whim and demand to see her children. Well, he wasn’t going to stand for it again. As far as Henry was concerned, if she wasn’t at home to look after her kids, then she could go take a running jump. Not that he would have taken her back. He loved Lizzie and probably always would, but she’d burned her bridges the moment she’d jumped into bed with Lesley Harrington. Of all the blokes she could have chosen, why Lesley bloody Harrington? He’d never get his head round that one. The man was a right ugly git, and a sly bugger.

Henry paced the floor, pulling at his hair as tortured thoughts of his wife raced through his mind. Images of Lizzie cavorting with Lesley teased him, keeping him awake at night and interrupting his day. He couldn’t stand it – it was driving him to the brink of insanity, and whenever she came to the house, he’d feel his fury spill over.

Peter’s gasping, juddering sobs shook him free of his thoughts and he snapped his head around to look at the boy. Jenny was holding him close, but he noticed Peter’s eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and his nose was snotty. This was Lizzie’s fault, he thought, clenching his fists in anger. His wife’s visits always upset the whole household.

‘I want my mummy,’ Peter cried again.

Henry’s hackles rose further at the sound of his youngest son whingeing for his good-for-nothing mother. She didn’t do anything for the boy, so why on earth would he cry for her? She’d coldly walked out on her children, yet they all hankered after her. It riled Henry that they couldn’t see her for what she was, and in his temper he picked up an empty whiskey glass and launched it across the room. The glass shattered as it hit the wall above the sofa, showering Jenny and Peter with tiny fragments. Peter screamed, and Jenny flinched, inciting Henry even further. ‘Get that fucking kid out of my sight,’ he yelled, spittle flying as his mouth foamed like a rabid dog’s.

Jenny scrambled to her feet, the boy clutching her, and scuttled towards the door. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he demanded and reached out to grab his daughter’s arm.

Jenny didn’t fight back; she wasn’t like her mother. As he felt her body go limp, he released her, and as she crumpled to the floor she pushed Peter towards the door, hissing urgently, ‘Run, Peter, run.’

The boy didn’t need telling twice and scampered from the room as Jenny, still on her knees, turned submissively towards him, her eyes lowered. Henry leaned forward until his face was just inches from the top of his daughter’s head. His stomach churned as he looked at her fine ginger hair, and he wondered again where she’d inherited it from. He was dark, the same as his other daughters, Gloria and Pamela. His wife had blonde hair, which was so light it looked almost white. His sons, Peter and Timmy, took after their mother, blonde and blue-eyed. But this one, Jenny, his eldest, with her bright orange hair and freckles splattering her face, she didn’t look anything like a Lombard, and Henry wondered if he had a cuckoo in his nest.

Jenny kept her head down and avoided eye contact with her father. Experience had taught her that if she looked at him, he’d take it as defiance and beat her twice as badly. She held her breath in a futile bid to stop her body from shaking. He seemed to find her fear repulsive and would use it as another excuse to hit her harder. She felt she couldn’t win.

‘Look at me,’ her father sneered.

Jenny slowly lifted her head to find herself staring into her father’s dark eyes. Her heart sank. They were cold, hard, and his mouth was twisted in anger. When he was in this mood she knew that no amount of crying or pleading would touch him. It was as if he was a man possessed, and she silently cursed her mother for turning him demonic again.

‘I suppose you want your mother too?’

Her father’s voice was filled with hatred, and she tried not to recoil as his saliva splattered her face, smelling of stale alcohol. ‘No,’ Jenny answered in a whisper, almost paralysed with terror at what was coming.

‘You’re a liar – just like her!’

Jenny saw her father’s arm pull back, and his clenched fist coming towards her. She closed her eyes as he punched her on the side of her head. Pain seared through her skull, and the force of the blow knocked her sideways. Instinctively, she curled into a foetal position and waited for her father to put the boot in. Her head throbbed, and though her eyes were shut tightly, she knew the room was spinning.

‘Your mother’s a whore! Nothing but a dirty scumbag whore!’

She felt the kick between her shoulder blades. It hurt, but it could have been worse. At least he didn’t have his work boots on, but her relief was short-lived as the next couple of kicks jarred her body. She laid motionless and waited, praying he’d had his fill and would leave her alone. At least the kids are upstairs out of harm’s way, she thought through a haze of pain. Then, to her relief, she heard her father walking away. She kept her eyes closed, aware of sounds, and realised he must have put his boots on when she heard his heels coming down hard on the hallway floor, followed by the sound of the front door slamming shut.

Gloria, who was sixteen, had been huddled on the bed that she shared with thirteen-year-old Pamela. She hated top-and-tailing with her sister as Pamela would often wet the bed, especially after their dad had one of his rages. Gloria rolled her eyes, knowing she would wake up later tonight in the warmth of Pamela’s urine.

Peter had thrown himself at Pamela when he’d come running upstairs, while Timmy, at nine the older of the two boys, ran to Gloria. When the front door slammed she peeled Timmy from her and put a finger to her lips to shush them. Then they all tiptoed to the top of the stairs.

Gloria whispered to the others to stay where they were as she began to creep downstairs. If he was still in the house, the last thing she wanted was to attract her father’s attention, and she stepped over the fourth stair down, knowing it creaked. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder to see her brothers and sister waiting nervously at the top for her to give them the all-clear.

Almost halfway down, Gloria could see over the banisters and into the open living room door. She gasped, though she wasn’t shocked to see Jenny looking dazed and picking herself up from the floor. Once again, her sister had taken a hiding from their dad. Thankfully, there was no sign of him now and though Gloria detested seeing her sister being hurt, she was relieved it wasn’t her.

‘He’s gone,’ Gloria called back to her siblings as she ran down the rest of the stairs and into the lounge. ‘Oh, Jenny, are you OK?’ she asked, concerned, as she scanned her sister for cuts and bruises.

‘Yes, I think so,’ Jenny answered, though she appeared wobbly on her feet.

‘I hate him!’ Gloria spat as she helped Jenny towards the sofa. Then she noticed the small slivers of broken glass and instead led her sister to the table and four chairs in the bay window. ‘It ain’t fair that he always takes it out on us.’

‘I know, love, but try and be a little charitable. He’s doing his best,’ Jenny said and winced as she rubbed the side of her head.

‘Charitable! He’s just knocked you about again and you’re suggesting I should be charitable! You’re too blinkin’ nice, you are. Ain’t you angry about it?’ Gloria asked, shocked at Jenny’s response. She’d never understand her elder sister. Jenny was so quiet, and whenever she did say anything, it was never horrid. In fact, she couldn’t remember a time when Jenny had lost her rag, or even raised her voice.

‘Yes, Gloria, of course I’m angry, but I’ve got to control it. If I don’t I’ll be as bad as him. Where’s Timmy and Peter? Are you all right, boys?’

Timmy spoke first. He was a confident lad, the joker of the family, and though it was probably a brave front, he never seemed to be too badly affected by his father’s violent outbursts, except at night when the bad dreams would come. ‘Yeah, I’m all right, Sis. Did our dad whack you again?’

Gloria answered for Jenny. ‘Yes, he did, the ’orrible so and so. Pam, go and make Jenny a cup of tea. You two, your sister needs a bit of peace and quiet so get back up to your room, there’s good boys.’

‘Come on, Peter, I’ve got a new spider and I’ve made him a house. I’ll show you,’ Timmy said, before running from the room with his younger brother closely following.

Gloria pulled out a chair from the teak table and sat opposite Jenny. ‘I think we should have a word with Mum, you know, tell her not to keep coming round here like she does. If she wants to see us, we can go to her.’

Jenny drew in a long breath before she spoke. ‘The trouble is, you know what Mum’s like. If you tell her not to do something, she’ll be all the more determined to do it. And as for us going to see her, it’s a nice idea, Gloria, but she’s always on the move. I don’t know where she is from one month to the next, or what sort of bloke she might be living with.’

‘Well, the next time she shows her face, I’m going to say something to her. It ain’t right that one of us, mainly you, gets it in the neck every flippin’ time she comes around. I dread it. Don’t get me wrong, she’s our mum and I love her, but I’d rather not see her again than go through this each time.’

Pamela came into the room carrying a tray of tea. Both sisters looked at her as the china cups rattled in the saucers. Though she’d tried to hide it, they could see she’d been crying again.

‘Don’t upset yourself,’ Jenny said softly, ‘Mum ain’t likely to show her face again for a few weeks and Dad will have calmed down by the time he gets home.’

‘More like had a bloody skinful,’ Gloria said as she shook her head.

Pamela placed the tray on the table and jumped when she heard a car door slam. ‘I’ll get the broom,’ she said quietly, looking at the glass covering the sofa.

Gloria watched her sister scuttle off. Pamela was so thin and lived on her jangled nerves. Maybe she should be nicer to her and stop having a go about her bedwetting. It might make a difference, she thought. When Pamela returned, Gloria said, ‘I was just saying to Jenny that it would be better if Mum didn’t come here to see us.’

Pamela nodded, but didn’t seem to be really listening. She was peering out of the window, obviously looking for their father, and by the way she was poised Gloria thought she was ready to sprint back upstairs if she saw him.

Gloria turned to Jenny. ‘Do you know where Mum is now?’

‘No, but she’s not with what’s-his-face. I heard Dad say that he’d dropped her like a ton of bricks. I’ll pop in to see Gran later, see if she knows anything.’

Gloria tutted. ‘Knowing Mum, she’s probably got some other bloke on the go and is shacking up with him.’

Jenny’s lips tightened, but she didn’t answer. Gloria knew her sister didn’t like it when she was derogatory about their mother, but for once she didn’t chastise her.

‘Can I come to see Gran with you?’ Pamela asked Jenny in an unsteady voice.

‘Yes, all right, love,’ Jenny told her.

Gloria was barely listening as her thoughts turned to her dad. She wished him dead and imagined sticking the bread knife in his chest whilst he slept. He’d turned Pamela into a bag of nerves, Peter was always crying, Timmy had nightmares and Jenny was covered in bruises. She couldn’t blame her mother for their father’s vehement mood swings. He’d always been like it for as far back as she could remember, only it was her mum that used to get slapped about, not them. Maybe if he’d been a better husband, she wouldn’t have walked out on them. Gloria wished she could do the same, just walk away and leave the bloody lot of them to it.

Chapter 2

Lizzie Lombard strode purposefully down Boundaries Road, thankful to put some distance between her and the three-bedroomed council house Henry lived in. It was her house too, her children lived there, and as far as she was concerned Henry had no bloody right to throw her out of it. But she was no match for his ferocious temper and knew that when Henry was in one of ‘those moods’, it was best to stay out of his way.

A car honked its horn as it passed her, which instantly put a smile back on Lizzie’s face. She enjoyed the attention she commanded from men, and though she’d recently celebrated her forty-second birthday, she prided herself on her looks. She wasn’t one of those old fuddy-duddy middle-aged women who dressed identically to their mothers. She liked the latest fashions and thought the new hemline, an inch above the knee, showed her shapely legs at their best. She’d heard women call her mutton dressed as lamb, but she put it down to their jealousy.

As she headed towards Balham High Road, her wavy blonde hair bounced up and down in time with her confident stride and sashaying slender hips. Earlier that morning, she’d put some lemon juice in her hair, and now, as the April sun shone on it, she hoped it would soon be a shade lighter. Roy liked her hair. He had complimented her on it many times. He said it was the blondest he’d ever seen and that it framed her heart-shaped face perfectly. She’d been seeing Roy Gumble for two weeks now, though she hadn’t admitted to him that he was sixteen years her junior. In fact, he was only four years older than her Jenny.

Lizzie passed under the railway bridge into Chestnut Grove and stopped at the sweetshop to buy Roy’s favourite, Barratt’s Sherbet Fountain. It amused her that he liked the childish sweet, and that he liked to share it with her. She took pleasure in seductively teasing him. He would react to anything suggestive and watch with desire as she’d suck the sherbet from the liquorice stick. They’d met in the ABC Café where she’d been sipping a glass of Coca-Cola. She’d spotted Roy watching her from a table opposite, and as she had lifted her lips from the glass, she’d lasciviously licked them. Roy’s jaw had dropped, and a few cheeky grins later he’d joined her. Soon afterwards he asked her out.

It was past noon, and the High Road was busy with shoppers milling around, though she guessed Roy would probably be just about waking up. They’d had a late night, and she smiled at the memory of their lovemaking when they’d returned home. Despite that, Lizzie had woken early, and if Roy questioned where she’d been it would be an easy lie to tell him she’d been up the market.

‘It’s me,’ Lizzie called as she let herself into Roy’s flat above the ironmonger’s. All the curtains were drawn, blocking out the bright sunshine and leaving the place in darkness.

‘Come and give me a cuddle,’ Roy shouted from the bedroom.

Lizzie smiled wryly. She knew what he wanted. His appetite for her was insatiable, and she couldn’t wait to climb between the sheets and feel his smooth, muscular body. He was like a finely tuned sports car, unlike the old jalopy she’d left a couple of years ago. Huh, she thought, Henry couldn’t even raise a smile, let alone anything else.

Gloria had moaned about it but stayed home to look after Peter and Timmy whilst Jenny and Pamela headed off to see Edith, their elderly gran. Jenny had left specific instructions with Gloria. She’d said that if their dad came home and he wasn’t drunk, she was to take the boys to Tooting Bec swings and not come home until teatime. The boys liked it there as they could wave to the trains as they passed. Gloria had agreed it was probably best to stay out of his way, though she’d said it was unlikely he’d come home sober. They all preferred it when their dad was drunk. He’d usually pass out.