Sins of the Father

KITTY NEALE

Sins of the Father

Copyright

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This ebook edition published by HarperCollins Publishers 2016

First published in paperback by HarperCollinsPublishers, 2008

Copyright © Kitty Neale 2008

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.

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: 9781847563491

Ebook Edition © May 2016 ISBN 9780007334940

Version: 2016-04-13

Dedication

For Ann Jones, a dear friend who speaks with the wisdom of angels. To me she is more than a friend. She is a kindred spirit, who, despite time and distance, is always in my heart. This one is for you, Ann, with all my love.

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

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Keep Reading …

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

Prologue

The woman stood outside the train station, a leaflet held out in appeal, whilst a high wind fought to snatch it from her hand.

‘Please,’ she begged, ‘have you seen this little girl?’

As had so many others, the man ignored her plea, brushing her aside as he hurried past. Rain began to fall, small spatters at first, but as heavy clouds gathered it became heavier, soon soaking both her hair and clothes.

It didn’t stop the woman. Nothing would. Clasping the rest of the leaflets close to her chest, she tottered forward, thrusting one towards a young woman emerging from the station wearing a straight red skirt and pointy-toed shoes.

‘Please, have you seen this little girl?’

The woman took it, her eyes showing sympathy as she said, ‘Sorry, no.’

‘Please, look again.’

The young lady lowered her eyes to the picture, but then, needing both hands to open her umbrella, she shook her head, the picture falling onto the wet pavement. She wrestled the wind to keep the umbrella over her head, her grip tight and knuckles white as she bustled away.

The woman watched her for a moment, but then her eyes came to rest on the leaflet lying wet and forlorn on the pavement. A gasp escaped her lips. The eyes of her child seemed to gaze back at her, rain spattering the picture as though tears on her cheeks. She shivered with fear, vowing silently, Oh God, I have to find you–I have to.

She straightened her shoulders, desperation and determination in her stance. Another train disgorged its passengers, and as they streamed from the station she saw a tide of faces. Hand held out, she once again proffered her leaflets.

It was dark before she gave up, uncaring that she was soaked to the skin and almost dead on her feet as she trudged home.

The house felt empty, desolate, as she walked inside, the plush décor meaning nothing to her now. She was alone. They had all gone, but it didn’t matter. The only one she cared about was her daughter.

With hair dripping onto thick, red carpet and wet tendrils clinging to her face, she wearily climbed the stairs to her bedroom, peeling off sopping clothes before throwing on a pink, quilted dressing gown. Tears now rolling down her cheeks, she flung herself onto the bed, clutching a pillow to her chest. It had been three months and she feared the police had given up, but she wouldn’t. She would die first and, if anything, death would be welcome.

It was her fault, she knew that. A sob escaped her lips. Money had become her god, but the means of procuring it had put her little girl in danger. Her stomach churned, as a wave of fear overwhelmed her. Something dreadful had happened to her child.

Why had she let money become an obsession? It had begun in childhood–and her iron will had grown from the desperation to lead a different life from the one her mother had suffered. But there was more to it than that. It was also men! Her need to make them pay–her need for revenge.

And they had paid, and she had made her fortune, but at what cost? Oh, my baby! My baby! The money was meaningless now. She’d burned it all, given up every last penny, but still they hadn’t found her daughter. What more do you want from me? her mind cried, eyes heavenward.

She sobbed, unable to stand the fears that plagued her. She forced her thoughts in another direction. To the past, and to where it had all begun.

Chapter One

Emma Chambers pulled the threadbare blanket up to her chin, only to have one of her three sisters tug it back. The attic room was freezing. In the far corner was another straw-filled mattress, this one crammed with her four brothers. One of them turned over, breaking wind loudly, whilst another, the eldest, snored sonorously.

The house stirred, awakened from its slumber. Faint sounds reached Emma’s ears: a door closing, a cough, and then the sound of creaking rungs as her father climbed the ladder. Through the piece of material slung across the attic to divide children from parents she heard her mother’s soft groan and sensed her dread.

At sixteen years old and living with little privacy, Emma had no illusions. Her father was drunk, his feet stumbling on the rungs, and that meant the scant money he may have earned as a builder’s labourer had already lined the local publican’s pocket. The King’s Arms stood on the corner of their street in Battersea, South London, acting as a magnet for her father. It was rare that he was able to pass it without going inside.

There was more noise now, impatient curses as he finally made it through the small, square opening, his footfalls clumping across the wooden planks. Then came the sound of his boots hitting the floor as he flung them off, followed by the swish of clothing. Emma tensed, fearing for her mother, and shortly afterwards the nightly argument began.

‘Come on, woman!’

‘No, Tom.’

The sound of a slap, a sob, and then his harsh voice: ‘You’re my wife.’

‘The baby’s nearly due. Can’t you leave me in peace?’

‘Leave it out, you’ve weeks to go yet. Now come on, Myra, lift your nightdress.’

‘I don’t feel well. Can’t you do without for one night?’

‘No, I bloody well can’t.’

It started then, the grunts, the groans. Emma wanted to scream, to run round to her parents’ side of the attic and drag her father away from her mother. He was an animal, a pig, but she knew from past experience that it would only make things worse. Better to do nothing, to just pray that it would be over quickly and that her mother would be all right.

Emma held her hands over her ears, hating the sounds, and as one of her sisters turned over, she found herself without coverings again. Her stomach rumbled with hunger. There had been only cabbage soup for dinner, and so it wasn’t surprising when one of her brothers loudly broke wind again.

Food had preoccupied Emma’s thoughts more than anything during the past week, but the thought of her dad’s pay packet today had cheered her up. Now, though, there’d be no bread to supplement their meagre diet, and though she tried to still it, hate surged through her–hate for what her father had become.

Emma fidgeted again, trying to find comfort on the lumpy old mattress whilst wondering what had happened to the father she had known before the war. Yes, he’d been taciturn, but he’d also been loving, with an innate kindness. She could remember sitting on his knee, his affectionate cuddles, but the man who’d returned after the war, though looking the same, was a stranger–one who was short-tempered, hard and embittered.

A chink of moonlight spilled through a small hole in the roof, one that let in rain, and Emma frowned. They hadn’t always lived here. Before the war their home had been several streets away, in a comfortable if not large house, where at least her parents had a separate bedroom. The front door had opened straight on to the pavement and she had fond memories of playing with her friends, chalking numbers on the paving slabs for games of hopscotch.

The war had changed everything. At first they’d been fine, children untouched by the distant fighting, but gradually the air raids had started to hit London, increasing in frequency until it seemed that bombs fell night and day. Many of Emma’s friends had been evacuated to the countryside but a few remained, her special friend next door, Lorraine, among them.

One morning they returned from the bomb shelter to find her friend’s house flattened, and theirs so badly damaged that it was too dangerous to go inside. All that remained of the wrecked house was the staircase, leaning from the adjoining wall, the steps now leading up to open sky. They had stood, mouths agape, too shocked at first even to cry.

It was the last time Emma saw her friend, the family going to live with Lorraine’s grandparents in another borough. Unlike us, Emma thought. Her mother’s parents had died, and her father’s now lived in a tiny one-bedroom flat, a reserved old couple that they rarely saw. There were aunts, but they had moved away from London at the start of the war. Emma recalled her mother’s distress because they had no one to take them in. With so much property destroyed, accommodation had been hard to find, but then they’d been offered this attic flat, and, with no other option, her mother had taken it.

Still uncomfortable, Emma shifted on the mattress. Some people had profited by the war, their landlord amongst them. He’d been clever, buying up property when it was cheap, willing to take the risk that the building would remain standing. This house, and others in the street, had originally been divided into two flats, but the landlord had converted the attics to shoehorn in as many families as he could, raking in extra rent.

She knew her mother had expected to live here only as a stopgap and planned to move as soon as something better became available, but then the war ended, her father’s army pay ending with it when he was demobbed. If he’d returned the same man, they would have been all right, but now he drank heavily, lost job after job, and here they remained, the rent sometimes unpaid and on catch-up, her mother’s dream of a nicer home unfulfilled.

Emma’s stomach growled with hunger again. Huh, they’d been better off when her father was away. At least his army pay had been regular, but now…

There was a loud groan, a familiar one. Sighing with relief, Emma knew that her father had finished. She yanked on the blanket again, snuggled closer to her sister for warmth and, knowing that her mother was now safe, she finally fell asleep.

Emma found herself the first awake. As quietly as possible, she crawled from the mattress, but as soon as she left the warmth of her sisters’ bodies her teeth began to chatter. God, it was freezing! She moved to the ladder, climbed down to the room below and, after lighting a candle, she cupped the flame as she hurried downstairs to the middle landing. There was only one toilet, shared by all three tenants in the tall, dilapidated house. Alice Moon and her husband lived on this floor, but there was no sound from their rooms. Pleased to find the smelly toilet free, Emma was soon hurrying back to the top-floor flat.

She kneeled in front of the hearth, lighting what little kindling they had, soon holding out her hands greedily to the tongues of flame that licked merrily up the chimney. For a moment she was mesmerised by the sight, but then, with an impatient shake of her head, she covered the flames with a few lumps of wood that Dick, her eldest brother, had procured from somewhere. There were nuggets of coke left, again obtained by Dick and, fearing they were stolen, Emma hastily shovelled them on top of the smouldering wood as if this small act could protect her brother. She frowned, knowing that though she shouldn’t encourage him, unless Dick was again lucky in his gatherings there was little chance of getting more fuel.

What sort of man had their father become? What sort of man let his wife and children go hungry and cold whilst he poured ale down his throat?

When the fire was a manageable glow, Emma hung the kettle over it to boil, her mouth drooping despondently. Her mother loved a cup of tea, saying there was nothing like it to perk her up, but there was none left. As though it were her own, Emma felt her mum’s disappointment.

Stretching her arm up to the rafters, Emma took down a bundle of dried nettles and, as the kettle boiled, she made the infusion, just in time to see her mother’s swollen legs coming down the ladder.

Myra smiled as Emma gave her the tin mug, her hands wrapping round it in pleasure. ‘You’re a good girl.’

As her mother lowered herself onto a stool, her stomach looked huge and cumbersome. Yet the rest of her was thin, too thin, her arms and legs like sticks. She was only in her mid-thirties, yet she appeared old and worn beyond her years.

In the flickering candlelight, Emma saw her grimace of pain. ‘Are you all right, Mum?’

‘Stop fretting, I’m fine,’ she said, taking a sip of the nettle tea.

‘Do you think there’s any money left?’

‘I looked in his pockets before coming down and found none.’

‘How could he?’

‘That’s enough! It isn’t your place to question what your father does. You know as well as I do that he hasn’t been the same since coming home from the war. He had a terrible time and it changed him.’

‘Mum, you can’t keep using that as an excuse! It’s been three years and he rarely has nightmares now. If you ask me, he should count himself lucky. At least he’s in one piece, which is more than you can say for Mr Munnings next door.’

‘Enough, Emma! I know you’ll soon be seventeen, but you’re getting too big for your boots lately and talking about things you don’t understand.’

Emma hung her head, her face hidden by her long, wavy blonde hair as she mumbled, ‘If he’s blown his money on booze again, what are we supposed to do for food? The rent is overdue too, and I can’t see the landlord being fobbed off anymore.’

‘You always worry too much. We’ve managed before and we’ll manage again. We’ve still got some potatoes, and perhaps Dick will earn a few bob on the market today.’

‘Without flour there’ll be no bread.’

‘Then we’ll do without. Now come on, buck up. And talking of potatoes, you can peel some spuds and I’ll fry them for breakfast.’

Emma did as she was told, finding as she dug in the nearly empty sack that most were sprouting roots and had turned spongy with age. She sorted out the best of them and, with her hands in the sink turning blue in the ice-cold water, she surreptitiously watched her mother.

There was another small grimace of pain that she tried to hide, but Emma saw it and suspected the baby was coming. This would be her mother’s ninth child, and it had been a difficult pregnancy, one that seemed to drain her of energy.

The racket overhead started then, the sound of her siblings waking, squabbling, and then her father’s voice rang out.

‘Shut that fucking noise!’

There was instant quiet for a moment, but then one by one they came down the ladder. First to emerge was Dick, the eldest boy at fourteen years old. In his arms and clinging to his neck like a little monkey, he held the youngest boy, Archie, who at two hero-worshipped his big brother. Next came thirteen-year-old Luke, the quietest of them, a thoughtful, introverted boy, always the odd one out. He was handsome, almost beautiful, and his pale, blue eyes seemed to hold a strange, deep knowledge. There had been odd occasions when Luke had unnerved them, once predicting that their mother was carrying a boy, and as though he had the ability to see into the future, he had told them in advance when their father was arriving home from the war. Emma loved Luke dearly and he was her favourite brother.

He was followed down the ladder by eleven-year-old Susan, and then there was a lull.

‘Where are the others?’ Myra asked.

‘Still asleep,’ said nine-year-old Bella, the last to appear, clutching her peg doll and pretty as a picture with blonde hair and wide blue eyes.

Ann, at six years, along with three-year-old James, had arrived after their father had been given leave during the war. They were always the last up every morning, but they’d show their faces as soon as the smell of food wafted into the attic.

All the children made for the fire, pushing and shoving each other to get close, whilst Myra smiled serenely at her brood. She had a look about her; one that Emma was familiar with, a look that always preceded labour.

‘Come on, Em, get a move on with those potatoes,’ her mother said.

‘They’re ready.’ After carefully slicing them, Emma got between her siblings to place the frying pan on the fire, adding, ‘Get dressed, you lot, or you’ll get no breakfast.’

There was grumbling, but all except Dick did her bidding. As the eldest boy, Dick thought himself too old to be given orders, but now, seeing how pale his mother looked, he lifted up Archie, saying with a frown, ‘I’ll see to this one.’

‘You’re a good boy,’ Myra said, but then with a small cry she bent forward, arms clutched around her stomach.

‘Mum! Mum! What’s wrong?’ Dick cried.

‘I…I think the baby’s coming,’ she gasped, but then, after taking a few deep breaths, she managed to straighten, her eyes encompassing them all. ‘It’ll be a while yet so there’s no need to look so worried. In the meantime, Emma, you’d best get the kids fed. And you, Dick, be prepared to take them out for a while later, and…’ Her voice died as she bent forward again, this time unable to suppress a scream.

Emma’s face blanched. She’d seen her mother in labour before, and had even watched some of her siblings being born, but this time she knew it was different. ‘Mum, what is it? What’s the matter?’

‘I dunno.’ Despite the freezing room, perspiration beaded Myra’s brow. ‘Oh, God!’ she suddenly cried. ‘Quick, Emma, run downstairs and fetch Alice!’

Emma fled the room, almost falling down the stairs in her haste. She hammered on Alice Moon’s door. Come on! Come on, her mind screamed as she hopped about in anxiety, relieved when at last the woman appeared.

‘Please, come quick, it’s my mum.’

‘Stone the crows,’ Alice said, her voice thick with sleep, ‘what’s all the fuss about?’

‘Mum’s in labour, but something’s wrong. She’s screaming, Alice!’

At last the urgency in Emma’s voice registered and Alice’s sleepy eyes cleared. Shoving Emma aside, she rushed upstairs, oblivious to the fact that she was still in her long flannel nightgown.

Alice Moon took over. She urged the children out, sending them down to her flat with Dick in charge, and unceremoniously got Tom Chambers up to help his wife back to their attic bed.

For three hours Emma crouched beside the mattress, her hand numb with pain from her mother’s fierce grip, and her legs cramped whilst Alice tried to help with the birth.

‘Myra, I’m sorry, love, but I’ve got to have another go at turning it.’

There was no reply, just a groan, and Emma’s heart thudded with fear. The last time Alice had tried this, her mother’s screams had been horrendous. Please, she willed, please let it work this time.

Alice bent to her task, her face grave, and then the screams rose again, echoing in the rafters.

‘No! No! Don’t,’ Myra cried.

Alice shook her head in despair. ‘Tom!’ she yelled.

His head appeared at the top of the ladder. ‘What do you want now?’

Alice stood up and, though she spoke quietly, Emma heard every word. ‘She’s bad, Tom, real bad. You’d better get the doctor.’

‘Leave it out, woman! She’ll be all right. You’ve birthed the last three kids and there’s never been a problem.’

‘For God’s sake, man, will you listen to me! It’s a breech birth and I can’t turn the baby. She needs help, she needs the doctor.’

‘He won’t come without his fee.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Tom, wake up! You don’t have to pay the doctor now, not since this National Health Service was introduced. Now get a move on or you could lose your wife. I don’t care how you do it–bloody drag him here if you have to–but get him.’

Emma didn’t hear her father’s reply. Her eyes were wide with horror. Blood was pumping from her mother’s womb, soaking the mattress. ‘Alice! Alice!’

The woman turned at her cry. ‘Christ, she’s haemorrhaging. Quick, Tom, before it’s too late!’

But it was too late. By the time a disgruntled doctor climbed the ladder, Myra Chambers and her baby were dead. Emma was still sitting by her mother, refusing to accept that she was gone, and only when her father touched her shoulder did she react.