A Mother's Christmas Wish

by Glenda Young

Genres: Family Life; Historical Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

Following a scandalous affair, wayward Emma Devaney is sent in disgrace from her home in Ireland to Ryhope, where she will live with her widowed aunt, Bessie Brogan, and help run her pub. Bessie is kind but firm, and at first Emma rebels against her lack of freedom. Struggling to fit in, she turns to the wrong person for comfort, and becomes pregnant. Accepting she must embrace her new life for the sake of her baby, Emma pours her energy into making the pub thrive and helping heal the fractured relationship between Bessie and her daughters. She catches the attention of Robert, a gruff but sincere farmer, who means to win her heart. As December approaches, thankful for the home and acceptance she's found, Emma is determined to bring not just her family, but the whole Ryhope community, together to celebrate - and to make one very special mother's Christmas dreams come true.

Release date: August 18, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 336

Sample

Meanwhile, at the Forester’s Arms in Ryhope, there was a loud knock at the pub door.

‘I’m coming! I’m coming!’ Bessie yelled as she padded barefoot across the floor. She had to pick her way carefully to avoid shards of glass. There’d been another fight, with glasses and bottles smashed.

Pat’s death had knocked the stuffing out of Bessie, and running the pub in the efficient way she used to didn’t seem important any more. That was why she’d taken on local lad Jimmy Porter to help, and she was disappointed to see he hadn’t bothered cleaning up, again. It was the third time this week he’d left the place in a mess. And where was he anyway? He should’ve been at work already, as the drayman was due to call.

‘You can stop your knocking! If you knock any harder, you’ll chip the bloody paint off!’ Bessie yelled. She was dressed in her red dressing gown, which strained over her ample bosom and stout hips. She was a short woman, but a large one, round and dumpy, and when her long grey hair wasn’t clipped to her head for her night’s sleep, it was pinned up in a bun. Her face was stern, her eyes heavy, and she wore a scowl as she unlocked the door.

She’d expected to see the drayman with the delivery for the cellar, for no one else called so early. But when she flung the door open, there was no horse outside and no drayman either. Instead, there was a young woman with an eager face, shining eyes and soft, curled brown hair. Bessie’s heart dropped. Since Pat had died, Joy Sparrow, who worked in Ryhope’s post office with her husband Frank, had taken it upon herself to call on her each day to make sure she was keeping well. Far from being pleased that Joy was looking in on her and taking an interest, however, Bessie regarded the woman’s constant visits as a nuisance. She was still mourning the loss of her beloved husband, and what she wanted more than anything was to be left alone.

Joy was a naturally cheerful woman, and far too chirpy for Bessie’s liking in her current state of mind. ‘Sparrow by name, sparrow by nature,’ she often muttered to herself. She also blamed the woman, because she was the postmistress, for being the bearer of bad news each time she brought a letter to her door, though she grudgingly accepted that it was hardly Joy’s fault that stern reminders from the brewery and mounting bills from suppliers kept arriving.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said flatly, then she noticed the envelope in Joy’s hand. ‘What is it this time, a letter to tell me my rent’s going up? As if I’m not struggling enough to keep this place going.’ She held her hand out.

‘Morning, Bessie,’ Joy beamed. ‘There’s a touch of ice on the path, so be careful if you’re stepping out. How are you this morning?’

‘What’s it to you?’ Bessie growled.

Joy held her nerve. ‘Now I’m only being friendly, there’s no need for that.’

‘Give it here,’ Bessie demanded, reaching for the letter. ‘Whatever bad news is coming, let me have it.’

‘I don’t think it’s bad news this time,’ Joy said, tapping the white envelope against her free hand. ‘I think this might be a letter you’ll enjoy.’

Bessie narrowed her eyes. ‘How do you know whether I’ll enjoy it or not? Are you and Frank steaming letters open in the post office?’

‘You need to be careful about who you’re accusing of what,’ Joy said politely. ‘I thought I was doing you a favour bringing you this first thing, before Frank started his rounds. It’s just arrived this morning, from Ireland. Look, it’s got the Irish stamp on it. It’ll be from your sister, won’t it?’

‘Give it here,’ Bessie said. Joy handed the envelope over and Bessie inspected the handwriting. ‘Aye, it’s from Nuala.’

‘It might be a Christmas card,’ Joy suggested.

Bessie scowled. ‘Are you still here?’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ll go. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.’

Bessie shoved the letter into her dressing-gown pocket. ‘I’m doing fine. Not that it’s any of your business.’

Joy tried to peer around her into the depths of the building. She wanted to find out if the gossip she’d heard about the pub’s decline was true, but it was too dark to see. She nodded towards the rough wooden planks nailed across one of the windows. ‘See you still haven’t fixed the smashed window.’

‘I’ll get around to it.’

‘Was it caused by another fight? Do you want me to send Frank down to look at it? I’m sure he’d be happy to help.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Bessie said.

Joy looked at the older woman’s sad, lined face, then gave a resigned sigh. ‘Well, enjoy your letter, Bessie.’

Bessie closed the door in her face without a word, and bolted it while Joy was still standing outside.

‘I hope your sister writes with good news,’ Joy shouted through the letter box.

She waited a few seconds in case Bessie replied, but when there was only silence, she headed back to the post office.

Bessie padded back through the pub, heading to the kitchen. On the way, she stopped and looked at the state of the bar, littered with cigarettes, beer bottles and more broken glass. Her eye was drawn to empty bottles and the till drawer gaping open. She shook her head and closed her eyes.

‘Oh Pat, what am I to do without you?’ she whispered into the stale air.

In the back room of the pub, she sank into a chair by the window and turned the envelope in her hands. It was much thicker than Nuala’s usual letters, which ran to two or three pages, filled with news of life in Loughshinny. This envelope, she guessed, must contain at least double the number of pages. She wondered what had happened and hoped it wasn’t bad news.

She opened the envelope, leaned back in her chair and pulled out the sheets. The letter was dated three weeks ago.

My dear sister,

I beg you to sit down before you read on, because I write with some dreadful news that will fair knock the wind from your sails. Something terrible has happened. Something so shameful and bad that I can barely write the words.

Typical Nuala, Bessie thought. She’d be getting her knickers in a twist over nothing again. What was it this time? Tom Riley the baker had shaved his moustache off? O’Brien’s shop had started charging an extra penny for a jar of pickle? She read on impatiently.

And yet I must tell you everything, because I am sending Emma to you, and you deserve to know why.

Bessie’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and she straightened in her chair.

I trust you’ll set her to work in your pub. What a cosy, welcoming place you make it sound when you write about it in your letters. I can almost see the welcome light from the coal fire flickering on the kindly faces of friendly coal miners and ale drinkers. I picture you behind the bar keeping order while serving drinks with a smile. It must be a little gold mine. You’ve fallen on your feet, my sister. May your wealth and prosperity continue now you run your inn on your own, just as you and Pat did together for years.

‘Wealth and prosperity my backside!’ Bessie hissed before returning her attention to the letter.

I know you must miss Pat terribly and there’ll be a hole in your heart for as long as you live. I realise it’s no consolation, of course, but I hope that Emma might bring you companionship. She’s not a bad girl, Bessie, she just makes bad choices. Please love her and keep a roof over her head, feed her and make her promise to write to me once in a while.

But it wasn’t until the final page that Nuala revealed exactly what Emma had done.

It began in the summer, when a new priest, Father Douglas, arrived. He was a young man, the youngest priest we’ve had in the parish, and a handsome man too. The young girls were all a-flutter about his good looks – it was very unseemly, but you know how young girls can be. I sometimes remember how we used to swoon over Bobby the grocer’s boy. But that was many years ago, please excuse me for the digression.

Father Douglas took up residence in the church house and Emma worked as his cleaner. She was good at her job, everyone said so, and as her mother I was ever so proud. But then news reached me about the two of them. They’d been seen, Bessie, caught in the all-together in the priest’s good front room.

Bessie was so shocked that she laid the letter down in her lap for a few seconds before she dared pick it up to read on.

I can barely bring my pen to the page to write the next words, but I must. My only daughter – all seventeen years of her, not yet a woman but no longer a girl – my daughter seduced the priest. There you go, I’ve said it. It’s an unforgivable sin, I’m sure you’ll agree. It was the housekeeper who found them, Margaret O’Shea (you might remember her brother Martin has the limp).

Of course, Father Douglas has been moved on, replaced by an old goat of a man that no one can bear to listen to as he drones on so in Mass, but the scandal will follow Emma for ever. If she stays here, her life won’t be worth living – you know how people can talk. I have no one but you, Bessie, to send her away to, although I will miss her with all of my heart. I trust that you will find room in your soul to care for her and keep her safe. I’ve booked her passage on the Dublin boat for 17 December. All being well with the sea journey and trains, she’ll be with you late on the eighteenth.

Bessie sat up straighter. The eighteenth . . . but that was today! She forced her attention back to the letter.

Before I go, I send my wishes to you for a happy Christmas. I will take a drop of whiskey on Nollaig na mBan and raise a toast to the Women’s Christmas, to the memory of our darling mother, to you and your daughters and to Emma.

Your loving sister,

Nuala

PS Please do all you can to keep Emma out of trouble when she arrives. I know it won’t be easy, but if anyone can show her the right path to follow, it’s you.

Bessie folded the letter, placed it back in the envelope and slid it into her dressing-gown pocket. She thought about Nuala’s news. It was shocking, she’d give it that. But there was something prudish about the way her prim and proper sister had written it that she found unintentionally funny. She felt a smile make its way to her lips; it was the first time she’d smiled in weeks.

She knew only too well what kind of life Nuala lived on the rural family farm. She couldn’t blame her niece for looking for a bit of excitement. But still, the priest of all people! She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her laughter, then looked out of the window at the leaden sky. Of course she’d take her sister’s child in; there was no question about it. Looking after each other was what family was about. But if Emma was to move into the Forester’s Arms, it meant Jimmy Porter would need to move out, for there was only the one spare room.

She walked to the bottom of the stairs and stood with her hands on her hips. ‘Jimmy! Get yourself down here now!’ she yelled. Then she returned to her favourite chair by the hearth and waited.

Jimmy was Bessie’s lodger. She’d invited him to live in after finding him snoring on the pub floor one morning where he’d fallen drunk the night before. He wasn’t the brightest lad, but he’d begged her for a job when she needed help most, and she’d taken him on. He worked behind the bar at night, his payment being a roof over his head and food from Bessie’s table. And unlike Joy Sparrow, he didn’t keep asking her how she was.

Bessie was a woman who kept her feelings to herself. Jimmy seemed to know the right time to put the kettle on, the exact moment to offer her a fresh cup of tea, when to light the coal fires and when to chase the rats from the yard. But he also liked to drink. Each evening when Bessie headed up to bed, she left Jimmy in charge of the bar. But since he had worked for her, there’d been fighting, in the pub, windows smashed, glasses broken, and men staggering out into the night covered in blood. Decent people had begun to take their custom elsewhere. Bessie’s precious pub, which she and Pat had worked so hard to turn into the gold mine that Nuala still thought it was, was going to rack and ruin, and she hadn’t the heart or the energy to do anything about it. Bills went unpaid, sales were down, and the brewery had even threatened to take her tenancy away. And now this – her niece was on her way from Ireland . . . today! It was the last thing she needed.

She heard a noise from upstairs: Jimmy was stirring. Pulling her dressing gown across her chest, she waited. She heard coughing from his room, swearing, then his heavy footsteps coming downstairs. He walked into the kitchen.

‘Morning, Bessie.’

‘Sit down, lad. I need to speak to you.’

He ran a hand through his messy brown hair. He had a round, chubby face and was a good-looking lad, although a bit rough around the edges. He was dressed in black trousers, waistcoat and a grubby grey shirt. His clothes were crumpled and dirty, and Bessie guessed he’d slept in them again. He pulled a chair from the kitchen table and sat down.

‘There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just come right out with it. I’ve had news from my sister in Ireland. She’s sending my niece Emma to come and live with me here.’ Bessie waited for this to sink in, but when there was no reaction from Jimmy, she continued. ‘It means you need to move out.’

‘Ah, Bessie,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Where am I to go? And how long have I got to find somewhere?’

‘She’s coming today,’ Bessie said.

‘Today?’ Jimmy cried. ‘You can’t put me out today. I’ve got to find somewhere else to live. You can’t just throw me out. I’m your employee!’

‘Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Jimmy Porter. Employee or not, this is my pub and my home. I only took you in because I felt sorry for you. My sister’s letter was sent over three weeks ago, but it’s only just arrived. I daresay she thought I might receive it before now. It’s come as a shock to me too. My niece was on the boat from Ireland yesterday, so all being well, she’ll be turning up tonight.’

Jimmy ran a hand across his stubbled chin. ‘Tonight? I see. Well, I’ve got a few hours to ask around for another room, I suppose.’ He bit his lip. ‘Do I still have a job?’

‘You can stay for one week to show Emma the ropes, but I can’t afford to keep two of you on. You know how bad things are here; there’s no money coming in any more. Can’t you ask your mam if you can move back home?’

Jimmy shrugged. ‘Dad won’t be happy. I’ll have to keep out of his way if I’m not to suffer his fists when he’s drunk.’

They sat in silence for a few moments until Bessie straightened in her seat. ‘There’s broken glass all over the pub floor again.’

Jimmy hung his head and gazed at his feet. ‘I’ll clear up before I go.’

‘And you’ll leave last night’s takings too,’ Bessie said firmly.

‘It was a quiet night, we didn’t take much.’

‘Quiet night, my eye!’ Bessie said. ‘I didn’t get any sleep until after three this morning, what with all the noise drifting upstairs. You had a packed bar last night and stayed open well after hours. If the brewery finds out what’s going on, I’m for it, Jimmy. It’s not much of a pub, I know, it’s a shadow of its former self, but I’m not ready to give up on it yet.’

‘It was just some of the lads having a drink and a sing-song, that’s all.’

‘You’ll give me every penny you took. I see the till’s empty, so I know you’ve got the money somewhere.’

Jimmy glanced at her. ‘How old is she, this niece of yours?’

‘Seventeen,’ Bessie replied.

He gave a long, low whistle through his teeth. ‘An Irish girl in Ryhope? Wait till I tell the lads about this. They’ll all want to come in and see her.’

‘Aye, well you can tell them to keep their hands off. She’s family, and a respectable lass.’

But even as the words left her lips, Bessie crossed her fingers against the little white lie.

Bessie worked hard that day, removing all trace of Jimmy Porter from the spare room and making it as clean as she could for Emma. When it was done, she walked down the colliery bank to the store to buy the makings of a ham and egg pie. She was excited to meet her niece and hear all the news from Loughshinny. For the first time since Pat died, she had something to look forward to, and the thought of another woman living with her in the pub put a spring in her step.

As Bessie prepared for Emma’s arrival, Emma was on her final train journey, making her way to Ryhope East. After a whole day’s train travel and the crossing by sea, she was exhausted, hungry and thirsty. As the train rattled along the north-east coast, a birdlike woman in a brown hat and green scarf moved to sit opposite her and began to stare at her, making Emma feel uncomfortable. The woman touched her own left eye.

‘You’ve got a right shiner there, lass.’

Emma’s hand flew to her face. The whole side of it was sore from where she’d been punched in Liverpool, but with everything else to think about, she hadn’t given a thought to how she must look. ‘I got involved in a bit of bother,’ she said warily.

The woman eyed her up and down, all the way from her thick brown hair, which was loose and unkempt around her face and shoulders, to her black boots poking out from under her skirt. ‘Is that a man’s coat you’re wearing?’ she asked rudely.

Defensively Emma crossed her arms. ‘What of it?’

The woman narrowed her eyes. ‘What’s that accent you’ve got?’

She was far too inquisitive for Emma’s liking. A dark thought crossed her mind. Surely she hadn’t travelled all the way from Loughshinny to get away from prying questions and gossiping old women only to find the same kind of small-minded people in England?

‘What accent?’ she bristled.

‘The accent that’s coming out of your mouth.’

Emma tilted her chin. ‘I’m Irish,’ she said proudly.

‘Oh, she’s Oirish!’ the woman mocked.

Emma turned away and stared out of the window. She could see a tall, thin chimney reaching up to a slate-grey sky. Patches of ice sparkled on pavements.

‘So you’re ignoring me now, when all I’m doing is trying to make polite conversation?’ the woman went on.

‘Yes, I’m ignoring you,’ Emma said firmly. ‘So why don’t you stick that . . .’ she touched her nose, ‘into someone else’s business and leave me alone?’

The woman’s mouth fell open. ‘Well I never! How rude you are, young lady. I’ve a good mind to report you.’

‘Go on then, do it,’ Emma said.

The train began to slow, and the woman drew her handbag to her chest. ‘This is my stop. I’d like to say it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, but I hope I never set eyes on you again.’

Just then, Emma spotted the sign on the platform outside. ‘Ryhope East?’ she cried. ‘It’s my stop too!’

She heaved the heavy wicker basket from the floor, lifted her suitcase and pushed her way off the train. The woman who’d been sitting opposite her scurried away along the platform, leaving Emma alone. A large sign caught her eye, advertising a public house called the Railway Inn. She lifted her chin, gripped her suitcase firmly, swung the heavy basket and walked towards the pub.

Molly Teasdale, landlady at the Railway Inn, wasn’t happy to see a girl with a black eye walking into her pub. Molly was a small woman with a round face and neatly pinned-up brown hair. She ruled her pub with a rod of iron, could be fierce when needed and did her best to keep undesirables, drunks and prostitutes out. She was concerned that the new arrival looked like all of those rolled into one.

‘Close the door behind you, keep the cold out,’ she called.

Emma set her suitcase and basket on the floor and went back to shut the door. Inside the pub, she was relieved to feel the warmth from a roaring coal fire. Standing at the long bar were four men dressed in black jackets and caps, cradling pints. All eyes turned towards her. One man was about to take a drink but stopped dead with his glass in mid-air when he saw her. Conversations taking place as she walked in halted as people stared. She felt her heart race, then she began to feel angry. Why on earth was everyone looking at her? For the first time since she’d left Nuala and Loughshinny, the spirit of adventure deserted her and she became a little afraid. But she was blowed if she was going to show it. Hadn’t she just travelled all the way across the Irish Sea on her own? She put her hands on her hips and glared back at them.

‘What’re you all looking at?’ she cried. ‘Never seen an Irish girl before?’

The men at the bar glanced at one another.

‘Irish?’ they whispered.

A hefty man whose jacket didn’t reach across his fat stomach stepped forward. ‘Oh, we’ve seen Irish girls before, haven’t we, lads?’

His companions laughed and agreed they had.

‘But we’ve never seen anyone like you.’ He walked towards Emma and looked her up and down, just like the odd little woman on the train had done. ‘A lass fighting? You’ve got a black eye for your trouble,’ he said.

Emma glared at him. ‘Fighting? So what if I have?’

‘Leave her alone, Jack.’

A stern voice behind Emma caused her to spin round, and she came face to face with a man her own age, a little taller than herself. He wore the same flat cap as the other men in the pub, the same type of old, worn jacket and a white shirt buttoned up to his chin. He had his hands in his trouser pockets and a cheeky grin on his face, and his eyes sparkled as they caught the light from the fire.

‘I don’t need defending,’ Emma told him.

‘I never said you did. Looks to me as if you’re someone who can take care of herself. Now, what’s a lass like you doing here?’

It felt to Emma as if the whole pub was waiting to hear her reply. Had she landed in a village where folk were as gossipy as those she’d left behind? She cocked her head to one side. ‘What business is it of yours?’

Behind her, she heard the crowd at the bar burst into laughter, enjoying the spectacle in which she’d become the unwilling star attraction.

‘I’m just being friendly,’ the man said. He whipped his cap off to reveal a crop of auburn hair and shot his hand out. ‘I’m Teddy Benson, but my friends call me Ginger.’

Emma took his hand and shook it heartily, keeping her gaze fixed on his pale face. It was the first pleasant, friendly face she’d seen since leaving Loughshinny. Not only that, but Ginger was the first person her own age who’d spoken to her since her friends back home had shunned her. The first person her own age who’d even smiled at her. No one in the pub knew what she’d done, what shame she’d left behind in Ireland. This was her chance to make a new start, right now. She felt her shoulders relax.

‘Emma Devaney,’ she said, aware that Ginger was still holding her hand.

Ginger called over to the woman behind the bar. ‘Two pints of stout, Molly, for me and my new friend.’ He turned back to Emma. ‘You do drink, don’t you?’

Emma hadn’t touched a drop since the day all those years ago when she and Mary had played truant and got so drunk on Murphy’s whiskey that she swore she’d never drink again. But she was on an adventure now; this was her new life and she could celebrate any way she chose. Besides, her aunt wouldn’t mind waiting another half-hour for her, would she?

‘I’ll take a drink with you,’ she said.

The men at the bar turned away and resumed their conversations. Other customers returned to their games of dominos and cards. Ginger pulled a stool to the bar. ‘There you go, Emma Devaney, the best seat in the house.’

Behind the bar, Molly pulled two pints of stout, keeping a watchful eye on Emma.

‘What’s your business in Ryhope, lass?’ she called.

‘I’m to find a pub called the Forester’s Arms. My mother’s sister runs it.’

‘Bessie Brogan?’ Molly said.

‘That’s her, do you know her?’

Molly’s face erupted into a huge smile as she placed two pints of dark stout with creamy heads on the bar. ‘Know her? She’s one of my oldest friends. Bessie and I run the busiest pubs in Ryhope. I’ve known her ever since she moved here from Ireland. I knew your uncle Pat too, God rest his soul. He’s not long passed, and Bessie’s not been the same since. Is that why you’re here, to look after her?’

‘No, I . . .’ Emma hesitated, trying to work out how she would explain why she’d come to Ryhope. She knew she’d need to invent a tale; she could hardly tell the truth.

‘Bessie will have you working there, I expect,’ Molly said.

Emma shivered inwardly. Working in a pub was the last thing she wanted. Dealing with drunks and being leered at wasn’t what she’d hoped for. A tiny part of her still harboured a desire to nurse and care for others, but she knew that could only be a dream. She had no training, and the only job she’d done so far was cleaning people’s houses. Still, even working in a shop would be preferable to working in a pub and serving drunk men.

Ginger took a sip from his pint, then placed it on the bar. ‘I thought Jimmy Porter was working at the Forester’s Arms?’ he said to Molly.

Molly shrugged. ‘All I know is that Bessie has been making on she’s managing all right without Pat, but I know different. She’s become a ghost of a woman since he died. She keeps herself to herself now, rarely goes out, and as for the pub, well . . .’ she took a sharp intake of breath, ‘it’s not the place it once was.’

Emma was intrigued to know more. ‘How do you mean?’ She noticed Molly and Ginger exchange a look. ‘What is it? What’s happened to Bessie’s pub?’ she demanded.

‘Drink up and I’ll tell you,’ Ginger said.

Emma lifted the glass to her lips and took one sip after another as Ginger filled her in on the details. The first pint slipped down easily, and when he offered to buy her another, she said yes. As she drank, she learned that the Forester’s Arms was gaining a bad reputation for breaking the law and serving beer out of hours. And on the rare occasions when it did close on time, drunks staggered out an. . .