A Daughter's Heartbreak

by Kay Brellend

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

The beginning of a brand-new trilogy from bestselling author Kay Brelland, featuring the Silvertown Explosion, the rise of women's football, and East End suffragettes.

She is her family's only hope.

1916. East London. When sixteen-year-old Clover Cooper's mother, Iris, calls her home from work one day, the last thing Clover expects is to find that her mother has given birth to another baby. After all, Clover's unpleasant father, Sidney, has been in France for longer than nine months. Banned from questions, and bound to secrecy by her beloved mother, Clover leaves her infant brother at a nunnery for safekeeping, despite her heartbreak at parting with him.

But when Sidney unexpectedly returns from the Western Front, life at home suddenly feels more dangerous than a battlefield. Strained by keeping such a secret, Clover turns to her fiercely protective grandmother, Elsie, for advice. But Elsie has her own life-changing decision to make. Then tragedy strikes, and Clover will have to find a way to keep her family together and safeguard all that she holds dear.

Praise for Kay Brellend:

'Vividly rendered' Historical Novel Society

'A fantastic cast of characters' Goodreads

'Thoroughly absorbing' Goodreads

Release date: September 28, 2023

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

‘You better had go home, or you’ll be for it.’

‘I’ll be for it either way,’ Clover Cooper told her younger brother. ‘It’ll be the second time this week I’ve put me coat back on after I’ve only had it off half an hour. I’ll get the sack then we’ll be short on rent. Tell Mum I’ll be back to see her dinnertime.’

‘She says you have to go home right away, Clo.’ Johnny snatched a peek at the woman behind the shop counter trying to eavesdrop. ‘I ain’t going back there. I’m already late. Me pals went on without me.’ He felt irritated to have missed out on larking about. Being penned behind a desk until the midday bell let him out into the playground was a grim prospect for a ten year old who hated school.

‘For heaven’s sake …’ Clover muttered in exasperation. ‘What’s happened then since I left for work?’ She’d gone from the house in a rush as she’d nipped in to see her grandmother first. Thinking back, Clover wasn’t sure she’d got a reply after calling out a goodbye to her mum who’d still been in her bedroom. At seven in the morning her mother was usually busy with kettle and teapot. Clover hadn’t dwelled on it at the time when going out of the door, munching on her breakfast toast. Somebody else had been on her mind and she’d hoped he was thinking about her.

Romance was forgotten for now, though. Aware her brother was sidling towards the exit she grabbed his arm. ‘Are the girls playing up, or have you been up to mischief again?’ She knew her brother could be a tyke.

‘No, I ain’t,’ he huffily said. ‘And the kids seem no worse’n normal.’ He reported on their eighteen-month-old twin sisters. ‘Mum looks queer and she’s acting queer ’n’ all. Shouted at me through the bedroom door to come and get you.’

‘Queer?’

‘Not herself. I had to do me own breakfast,’ he indignantly announced.

‘She’s got a headache, d’you think?’

Johnny wrinkled his nose, searching for a better description of his mother’s demeanour. ‘Dunno really … but when I went to tell her I was off to school, her door was locked and I could hear her crying in there.’

‘Perhaps she’s been drinking.’ As soon as she’d said it, Clover realised it was too early in the day. Iris Cooper was an evening tippler who said a drink helped her sleep. It was rare for her to suffer for it in the morning. Not unheard of, though.

Johnny gave a sulky shrug and edged away again. He’d done his bit and wanted to get going in case his big sister suggested he play truant to nursemaid the rest of the family. He might not like lessons but being stuck at home with a grumpy mother and two demanding toddlers was worse than school in his book.

‘Go and fetch Nan. She’ll know what to do.’

‘Mum said I mustn’t. She only wants you.’

‘Miss Cooper! Serve, please. Customers are waiting.’

‘I’ll have to go,’ Clover whispered. ‘Tell Mum I’ll come back and see her on me break …’

‘No fear. I’ll miss the register and get the blackboard rubber in the neck.’ The bell on the shop door was set a-clatter as Johnny made his getaway.

Clover couldn’t concentrate on what she was doing with the dragon breathing down her neck; she measured two yards of calico four times to make sure she would cut it straight. Allowing an inch over what was paid for would land her in it. As would wrongly pricing it. Two lots of sixpence and three farthings had seemed simple to calculate yesterday and she felt annoyed with herself when the sum failed to come immediately.

‘One ’n’ one pence ha’penny please,’ she burst out and breathed a sigh of relief when neither Mrs Randall nor the customer objected to her mental arithmetic.

Mr Randall was the boss; his wife was usually to be found taking it easy out the back, reading journals or knitting garments to display in the drapery window. But every so often Bruce Randall went to the wholesaler’s to put in an order, leaving his wife in charge.

‘What was that all about, Miss Cooper?’

‘Mum needs me to pop home for a short while, Mrs Randall.’ Clover had expected to be interrogated the moment the customer had gone. ‘My brother says she’s unwell.’

‘Oh, I see … overdone it again, has she …’

‘I’d like to go now it’s quiet.’ Mrs Randall’s heavy hint that her mother was hungover annoyed Clover. Iris Cooper bought gin and that didn’t go unnoticed when everybody used the same shops. Some neighbours understood why Sidney Cooper’s wife would need a drink, married to him. Silvertown wasn’t renowned for housing paragons of virtue, yet Clover knew her father was worse than most of the men. A woman like Martha Randall wasn’t sympathetic to those less fortunate. Her mild-mannered husband had probably never raised his fist to his wife or child. This wasn’t her first snide comment about Clover’s mum, and when it came to family, Clover was loyal. ‘Dock me pay, if you like,’ she announced, tilting her chin. ‘I’ll miss a dinner break later as well. But I’m going now cos me mum needs me.’

Martha planted her hand on the polished wooden counter, barring Clover’s way. ‘This is the second time this week you’ve sneaked off.’

‘The little ’uns needed some medicine. They’ve had bronchitis. Mum didn’t want to take them out in the cold to get it herself. Anyway I was only gone half an hour.’ Clover was disappointed that Mr Randall had blabbed on her. He’d not seemed put out at the time and had handed her a florin advance on her wages to get the jollop.

Iris Cooper was too proud to approach neighbours to ask for tick on her behalf. Neither did she allow her own mother to lend a hand, yet Elsie Hall lived just round the corner. There had always been a rift and that puzzled and saddened Clover. She and Johnny liked their nan and often visited her. Their mother rarely did, so once a week Clover took her little sisters round in the pram to see their grandmother. She was a blunt and forthright woman, but then so was Iris. Something had gone on to sour the relationship between mother and daughter, years ago. Neither spoke about it, so Clover had drawn her own conclusion that it was to do with her dad. Sidney Cooper needled most folk and it was unlikely his mother-in-law was an exception.

‘Would you let me pass, please?’ Clover gave up waiting for Mrs Randall to stop imprisoning her. For a moment she thought she might get her face smacked so furiously red had the woman turned. That was it … she’d get the sack now for insolence.

‘You’ll go back home on your break and not before.’

‘I have to go now.’ Clover pushed past, already removing the scissors dangling at her waist on a sturdy piece of string. Her mother wouldn’t summon her for a trivial reason and instinct was urging her to hurry up.

‘You rude girl. You can look for another job. My husband will tell you the same so don’t go crying to him.’ Martha marched off to tidy wool skeins crammed in cubbyholes on the wall.

Clover hastened towards the back room to retrieve her coat then headed for the door, aware of Mrs Randall’s mutterings.

Outside, the High Street was crowded with people and distant calls of the merchants hawking their wares on the market could be heard. A group of local women were by the shop having a chinwag; and she gave them a polite nod and set off. She spotted Henrietta Randall coming towards her on the other side of the road. They were friends despite Henrietta, or Nettie, as she was called, having been instructed to avoid her socially. Nettie had told her mother she wasn’t a kid anymore and she’d pick her own friends, thank you very much. She’d settled on her own job too, and was studying to be a secretary rather than be pinned beneath her mother’s thumb in the family business.

‘Got a day off college this morning, Nettie?’ asked Clover, having jogged over the road for a quick word in passing.

‘No such luck. I had to come back for my Pitman textbook. I’d forgotten there’s a shorthand typing test this afternoon.’ She had slowed down and caught Clover’s arm as she tried to speed past up the road. ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’

‘Mum sent Johnny to get me. Think I’ve upset your mother, taking time off again, but I have to go. Must be something urgent.’

‘Oh, sorry … quick, off you go then.’ Nettie gave her arm a little push. ‘Best of luck. And don’t worry about Mum, I’ll speak to her.’

Clover thought her friend’s reaction a bit odd. ‘Have you heard something on the grapevine?’

‘Not about your family. A girl at college got called home this morning. Her dad bought it at Ypres.’ Nettie shook her head. ‘The poor girl was sobbing her heart out and all the others were saying they were worried about their fathers. Apart from me, of course, and our teacher. My dad’s not up to it with his dicky chest, and the teacher’s dad’s too old to go to war. Anyway, the bad news girl was in a dreadful state. I’m sure it’s nothing as drastic for you …’ she called out as Clover broke into a run without saying goodbye.

Why didn’t I think of that? The phrase circled Clover’s head as she dashed along. She had jumped to the conclusion the drama at home concerned her mum, not her dad. The postman might have brought a notification from the war office. Her father hadn’t written in months, so she had no idea if he’d been in the thick of it over there; but it wasn’t unusual not to hear from him. He wasn’t a letter writer. Neither was their mother. Clover and Johnny wrote to their rifleman father and asked him how he was. Unless he wanted some treats sent over to France they rarely got much response. Their mother would penny-pinch to afford the biscuits and cigarettes he wanted, despite being grateful the war had put distance between them. If Sidney Cooper was gone for good, his wife might feel differently though.

By the time Clover turned into her street, she’d convinced herself she’d never see her father again and her chest was tight and her face wet with tears. Her mother wouldn’t have told Johnny about this. Or anybody else. Her eldest daughter was the person Iris Cooper turned to in a crisis, and she’d been doing so since before the girl left school. At sixteen years old Clover often felt burdened … unable to properly cope with it.

The terraced house in which they lived had long ago lost its front door and been subdivided. Her fingers were shaking so much she had trouble turning the key in the lock of their lodgings. The Cooper family rented the ground-floor accommodation and upstairs was vacant because the roof leaked. The landlord said he’d fix it but he never did; he resorted to emptying buckets.

‘Mum!’ She dodged furniture to speed through the empty room into the rear lobby and burst into the bedroom her mother shared with the twins.

Iris Cooper was lying in bed, her complexion comparable in colour to the pillow supporting her head. The toddlers were topped and tailed in the pram and their mother had some fingers clamped to the handle, jigging it in an attempt to keep them quiet.

With the curtains still closed the room was shadowy and Clover took hold of the edge of one to yank it back.

‘Leave that; don’t want no prying eyes on me.’ Iris was conscious the communal privy at the rear of the yard overlooked this room. ‘You must take care of your sisters for me, Clover, I don’t feel up to it today,’ she croaked.

‘Oh, what’s happened, Mum?’ Clover dropped to her knees by the bed. ‘Did a letter come about Dad?’

Iris struggled up onto her elbows. Her hair, usually neatly wound into a bun, hung in long auburn tangles about her shoulders. ‘A letter? Postman’s not been, ’s’far as I know. Why d’you ask about your father?’ She clamped some fingers on her daughter’s wrist. ‘Is he coming home? What’ve you heard?’

‘Oh, thank heavens …’ Clover let out a pent-up breath. ‘I bumped into Nettie Randall and she told me her friend’s had bad news from France. I thought you’d got a letter too, about Dad, and that’s why you’d sent for me …’ She broke off, staring at her mother’s gripping hand that showed blood beneath the fingernails. A sharp peer at her mother’s hollow-cheeked, pallid face followed. ‘What’s wrong, Mum?’ She pressed on the mattress to assist her to her feet. The covers had been disturbed and she’d glimpsed a stain on the bottom sheet and on the hem of her mother’s chemise. Apart from that scrap of cotton, Iris had nothing else on.

‘Just a monthly. Worse than normal, that’s all it is.’ Iris sounded evasive. ‘Take the girls out of the room.’ Her hand dropped away from the pram handle. ‘You’ll have to look after them for me until I’ve sorted myself out. Go on … hurry up and see to them.’ Iris moved to get out of bed and exposed a heap of linen on her other side. She flopped back down with a moan of pain and her hands began to knead her abdomen.

Her mother hadn’t seemed to be intentionally hiding the bundle of towels yet Clover instinctively knew she’d not been meant to see it. She moved round the bed and cautiously picked it up. Having felt something solid within, she peeled back layers of cotton.

‘Put that down, I’ll deal with it.’ Iris had opened her eyes to see her daughter gawping at the premature baby. ‘Was a boy; came too early.’

Even before she’d fully digested her mother’s meaning Clover’s eyes began smarting with tears.

‘If you’d done as you were told you’d not have seen would you?’ Iris sounded gruff and frustrated. ‘I said put it down. Nothing can be done for the mite. Take care of Rosie and Annie for me. I’ll be all right soon.’

Clover almost dropped the doll-like child as shock receded and she realised this was real. She altered her grip, cradling him against her body and touched his fluff of fair hair with a trembling finger. He felt warm, not cold as expected; a sob expanded her chest and her tears dribbled from her chin onto his still cheek. She felt unbearably sad but hastily put down her dead brother on hearing her mother groan. ‘There aren’t more babies to come out, are there?’ she fearfully asked. Two had been produced last time. Clover remembered that day when the noise from this bedroom seemed to go on and on and she’d been constantly on the move fetching hot water and rags at the midwife’s bidding.

‘Don’t think so. Some mess is still in there … taking it’s time coming out,’ Iris explained between pants. ‘Put the kettle on and bring me some hot water and a flannel. I want to wash. Go on! Do as you’re told, Clover. You’ve got to help me until I’m back on me feet.’

‘Why didn’t you say you were expecting a baby?’ Clover turned away, trying to control her emotions. She’d not anticipated any of this. Previous calamities had been half expected. Her father’s violence and drunkenness, her brother’s misbehaviour leading to her mother’s fight with a neighbour up the road. Clover had received fair warning of being dragged into all of that before the worst of the trouble erupted.

Not an inkling of this tragedy though had she foreseen. She wanted to pick up her tiny brother and love him, but what good would that do? Nothing to be done about the mite, she’d been told. She felt furious with her mum and with herself. Her nan was wise; she would know how to cope with this. She’d not stand in a daze, feeling useless and jittery as Clover was. Her anger was overcome by anxiety as Iris jerked up her chin with a grimace of pain stretching her mouth.

‘Don’t worry, Mum. You’ll be all right.’ Back to the bedside Clover sped and sank down to grip her mother’s hand. ‘Nan’ll be able to help you better than me. I’ll get her.’

‘You won’t!’ Iris wriggled her fingers free and reared up again. ‘Don’t mention this to her or anybody, you hear?’ she panted. ‘Just me and you know what happened this morning and that’s how it’s gonna stay.’

‘Mrs Waverley came and helped when you had the twins,’ Clover argued. ‘I’ll fetch her instead then.’

Rosie and Annie had been born when her dad was at war, not that he would have been much help if he’d been around. He spent most of his time in the pub with his pals. ‘You’re not listening to me.’ Iris thumped a weary fist on the mattress. ‘Don’t need nobody. We’ll deal with this by ourselves.’ Iris nodded at the gin bottle on the floor by the bed. ‘Hand me that. It helps with the pain.’

Quickly, Clover did as she was told and watched her mother swig from the bottle. ‘I’ll write and tell Dad then; he might get leave and come home till you’re feeling better.’

‘You don’t write and tell your father anything.’ Iris shouted to be heard over the toddlers. Their mother’s stressful voice had started them grizzling.

‘But …’ Clover began.

‘But … nothing.’ Iris kept firm hold of the gin as she levered herself up, grimacing with the effort, and propped her shoulders against the iron bedhead. Her anguished frown softened as she gazed at her daughter. At sixteen, Clover was a lovely-looking girl. Her thick auburn hair and green eyes reminded Iris of herself at that age. She was thirty-two now and the rigours and disappointments of a bad marriage had aged her beyond her years. She still received compliments though.

The boys sniffed around Clover. But her girl wasn’t stupid or naive. She was smarter than her mother had been at that age. Clover had liked school. She’d learned her sums and had an enquiring mind. A child to be proud of … who would cotton on quickly to why this morning’s drama needed to be kept from Sidney Cooper, and everybody else. Iris would rather have that conversation here and now than suffer her eldest child’s damning looks in the days to come.

‘I know it won’t be long before you work it out for yourself, so I’ll come straight out with it.’ She paused to find the courage to admit to something shameful. ‘The baby wasn’t your father’s child, Clover.’ Iris took another swig, handed Clover the gin, then sagged back onto the pillows as a contraction undulated her distended belly, making her wince.

‘What? But …’ Clover put the bottle on the floorboards.

‘Never mind.’ Iris stared at the ceiling. ‘There’s nothing else you need to know,’ she added firmly. ‘But you understand, don’t you, why this has to be kept secret.’ She swung her head to gaze at her daughter’s shocked expression. Then she closed her eyes. ‘Your father hasn’t been back home in nearly a year. They can all count round here.’ She paused as though she might say more about it but changed the subject. ‘The girls have had some bread and jam so no need to feed them. Sit them on the potty then get them dressed and take them out for a good while so I can have some peace and quiet.’ She rested a hand over her eyes as though to shut out the morning light striping between the curtains.

‘I told Mrs Randall I’d only be half an hour,’ Clover blurted, unable to pick a question to spit out from the countless number cramming her head. Was her mother going off with another man? Was she leaving her father? Was she leaving all of them?’

‘You won’t be going back to Randall’s today,’ said Iris. ‘And don’t worry about that old cow. I’ll sort her out.’

‘Oh … no … just my luck,’ Clover groaned beneath her breath as she bumped the pram down the front step and took a quick look about. A hawker had turned up and was selling second-hand clothes from a barrow stationed in the middle of the lane. Neighbours were milling about the cart, bartering for better prices, and calling their ‘mornings’ to one another. There was nothing for it but to keep going now she’d been spotted. Turning tail would arouse suspicion and she didn’t want that.

She returned greetings while briskly pushing the pram along the pavement. Appearing purposeful might make them leave her alone, she hoped. Everybody round here used her shop to buy their sewing things. If ambushed she’d be asked why she wasn’t behind the counter at this time of the morning. People could sniff out gossip and a change of routine would provide the scent. Chins would never stop wagging if it came to light why Iris Cooper’s eldest girl had missed work to look after the twins. Her mother had a chill … that was the safest thing to say if trapped into conversation; she speeded up nonetheless.

Mrs Waverley was holding up a dress by the shoulders, to inspect it, but she dropped it to the barrow and waved. Clover put her head down and straightened the pram blanket while crossing the road, feigning ignorance of the woman approaching her. Once she’d turned the corner, she slowed her pace but her heart continued racing.

She trudged on with no destination in mind, gazing at the bonneted heads of the twins. She stroked the cheek of the tot closest to her. They were almost too big to fit in the pram together and sat facing one another with a cover draped over their tangled legs. Rosie took up most room; she was a larger, happier child than Annie, who’d entered the world three hours after her sister. She was still cutting the teeth her twin had got a month ago, and was struggling to catch up Rosie in other ways, too. Clover came to a halt to search for the dummy, lost in the blankets. She gave it to Annie, and a comforting peck on her hot cheek before setting off again, vigorously rocking the pram. It was a game Annie liked and she stopped whimpering and clapped her hands.

Clover wanted to take a breather. Her legs had plenty of life left in them, but to quieten the chaos in her head she’d need to sit still to concentrate. She halted by a low brick wall and perched on it. The girls were playing pat-a-cake. Clover had taught them that as soon as they were both able to sit up. She softly sang the song to them while staring back the way she’d come.

She didn’t like the idea of nobody being with her mum. Iris might attempt to get out of bed, and faint, crashing into something and hurting herself. Clover had followed orders rather than upset her mother by being disobedient. The coward in her would sooner stay away and avoid seeing the blood again. She longed to find things had returned to normal when she got back, with her mum her usual clean and tidy self, pegging out washing while moaning about the neighbour’s cat digging up the garden. She knew she was wishing in vain, and anxiety curdled her stomach.

She closed her eyes to calm herself but her infant brother’s white face floated behind her eyelids so she stared at the weeds sprouting from the pavement instead.

That tiny baby wasn’t her father’s child.

Her mother didn’t have a boyfriend … did she? Well, of course, she must have, Clover ridiculed herself. It was a long time since she’d believed in tales of gooseberry bushes. How had her mother found the time to meet a man, though? She was at home most of the time; she took in washing to earn a wage even though Clover’s grandmother had offered to help with childminding so her daughter could get a better paid job. Iris was always run off her feet, but particular about her appearance. She set high standards for her children, too. Johnny’s hands and neck were given the once-over before he was allowed out. The twins were dressed in pretty clothes that Iris would knit in the evenings; today she’d been in no mood to bother about being particular. Neither had Clover; she’d grabbed the first things that had come to hand to put the girls in before leaving the house although they were usually in matching outfits.

Clover had noticed some silvery strands lightening her mother’s auburn hair, and a few lines around her eyes and mouth. For all that, Iris Cooper was the most attractive woman in their street, in Clover’s opinion. So who was the man that also thought her beautiful?

They rarely had social calls. The tallyman who collected insurance and Christmas club money, and the rent collector turned up on the dot every week. She’d never seen those men enter their lodging. Her mother wouldn’t risk messing around with a fellow known to all the neighbours. The coal merchant needed to come inside to do his job though. He marched straight through the parlour with a sack on his shoulder and out into the backyard to shoot the coal into the bunker. The day he was due her mother would spread old newspaper on the floor to prevent his oily boots dirtying the boards. Iris Cooper bought stock in the summer before the colder weather put up prices. He’d delivered in June but had said he’d be back because he owed them another sack and some kindling. Perhaps he had been back while she’d been at work and Johnny had been at school …

Clover thought about him some more. He was a handsome, fair-haired man beneath the soot. She had spotted him in the local park, looking spruce. He’d been with this wife and family and she’d been with her friends. He had recognised her and given her a wink. He was about her mother’s age, Clover guessed. Perhaps Iris also found him charming. Her father wasn’t charming; he was a bully who drank too much. Clover wished he was different, and that her parents were happy together, but she k. . .