Angels Cry Sometimes

by Josephine Cox

Genres: Family Life; Sagas

Synopsis

After heartbreak, grief and despair, can happiness be found again?

Josephine Cox's Angels Cry Sometimes brims with heartbreak and joy, hardship and indomitable spirit, that will hold the reader enthralled. Perfect for fans of Rosie Goodwin and Nadine Dorries.

The marriage of Marcia and Curt Ratheter seemed idyllically happy. As much in love as on their wedding day, nothing could mar their joy. But one fateful day in 1931 brought Marcia's world tumbling about her ears and left her and her two daughters bereft.

Barty Bendall has always loved her, he says; and the girls need a father. Marcia moves to Blackburn with him, where she tries to forget the past. Barty, though, sinks into bad ways, tyrannizing the family. In particular he vents his aggression on Polly, Curt and Marcia's first-born, blonde as an angel but afflicted since birth with an ominous shadow over her health.

Even in troubled times, lovely raven-haired Marcia was a fighter. But the news that Curt Ratheter has reappeared renders her the helpless prey of wildly conflicting emotions.

What readers are saying about Angels Cry Sometimes:

'All [Josephine Cox] books really engross me and Angels Cry Sometimes is no exception. Very moving'

'Enjoyable and realistic characters that we can all identify with'

'One of the best books I have read in a long time'

Release date: January 19, 2012

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 313

Sample

Taking his life in his hands, Curt brought his dark handsome eyes to bear on the old woman’s face, his voice quiet as he ventured to ask, ‘Can’t I stay?’

‘Stay!’ Grandma Fletcher couldn’t believe her own ears, ‘Stay, yer say? Why! I’ve never ’eard the like in all me life!’ At once, she pounced on him, her finger and thumb pinched tight about his ear-lobe and her expression one of incredulity, ‘Ye’ll be off, I say! This very minute, else yer’ll feel the weight o’ me foot up yer arse, my lad!’

‘All right! All right! I know when I’m beat,’ Curt protested as, with a backward smile at Marcia, he allowed himself to be unceremoniously ushered from the room. When the door was promptly slammed behind him, he fell back against the wall and collapsed into a fit of helpless laughter. Oh, that Grandma Fletcher, he thought. Was there ever another like her? She made him feel eight instead of twenty-eight! Yet, for all her bossy and cantankerous ways, she was a real darling, with a heart of gold and the ability to take command of a situation when everyone else was set to panic.

Of a sudden, the bedroom door was flung open. Grandma Fletcher fixed him with her bright blue eyes. ‘Ey! Don’t you be standin’ about doing nothing, fella me lad! Get down them stairs an’ keep yon fire stoked up an’ a fresh pan o’ water boiling! There’s a child on its way any minute!’ That said, Grandma Fletcher disappeared into the room again, firmly closing the door behind her.

‘By! that man o’ yourn is just like all men, lass . . . bloody useless!’

‘Now then, Mam, that’s not fair.’ Marcia was used to her mother’s way, and she loved her all the more for it. She would have followed up the argument in defence of the husband she adored. But, at that point she was gripped by a particularly vicious pain which made her cry out.

‘Don’t push, lass. Not yet.’ Grandma Fletcher had the situation well in hand. Fetching babies into the world was one of her favourite occupations. She was accomplished at the job, for hadn’t she delivered half the young ’uns down her street, at one time or another? ‘I’ll tell yer when to push,’ she informed Marcia, her concerned gaze falling on her daughter’s face, ‘’Taint real bad yet, is it lass?’ she asked, her blue eyes softening as they saw the pain in Marcia’s lovely brown eyes and noted the taut set of that extravagantly attractive mouth. The long black hair was pinned back by two mother-of-pearl combs, but all about Marcia’s face the stray dark wisps were mingled with the rivulets of sweat, and she looked altogether exceedingly uncomfortable.

‘I can’t hold back much longer, Mam,’ Marcia replied, her knuckles drained white as she gripped the brass bed-head above her. When she began twisting her head from side to side against the brass rails, the combs fell from her hair, loosing it all about her shoulders, as the onset of deeper contractions compelled her body to send the child on its outward journey.

‘No! No, lass! Don’t push, else yer’ll tear yersel’!’ Grandma Fletcher could see the dark object forcing its way into the world and her instinct told her that it was too early yet. ‘Breathe deeply lass,’ she urged, ‘sing a song if yer will! But don’t push that child on till it’s good and ready! D’yer ’ear me?’ When Marcia nodded, she hurried to the door, where she shouted, ‘Curt Ratheter! Fetch me that pan o’ water.’ When it was brought to the door and set down on the wooden stand-chair, she promptly wrapped her two capable hands about the big iron handle – lagged by Curt with a cloth to enable it to be held – then, with a grunt of satisfaction, she kicked the door shut and crossed the room, where she put the great steaming pan into the tiny hearth. The fireplace in this room was too small for a pan the likes of that one, but there was just room enough to stand it in the hearth, where it would keep nicely hot.

Marcia’s dark eyes followed her mother’s every move, thinking if she concentrated harder on that than she did on the impatient child battling to free itself, she might be less likely to give in to it.

After a few minutes, when Grandma Fletcher had got ready a bowl of warm water and all the other necessary paraphernalia, it was plain enough both to Marcia and her mother, that the child would not wait another second.

Downstairs, Curt Ratheter was a desperate man. He’d lost count of the number of times he had gone up and down those steep narrow stairs, or paced the rug here in front of the fire, or stopped now and then to listen for that wail which, when it did come, he knew would fill every comer of that little house with joy. It had been like that when Polly was born on 4 June 1928, nearly three years ago.

Thinking of Polly brought both a smile to his face and a sense of fear to his heart. A smile because with her bright blue eyes, fair hair and forthright character, she was a little duplicate of Grandma Fletcher – indeed, Grandma Fletcher had often said how, when she looked at young Polly, she could be ‘lookin’ at mesel’ when I were a toddler!’ But, if Polly had been blessed with the features of a little angel, she had also been cursed with a problem – which the doctors predicted might grow more serious over the coming years. Above Polly’s forehead and just beneath the hairline, there was a prominent swelling. At first, it had gone unnoticed, being no bigger than a pinhead. Yet, by her second birthday, Polly was beginning to find the spot increasingly irritating, always scratching and rubbing at it. Made anxious by its slow but sure growth, Curt and Marcia had time and time again sought reassurance from the doctor, who, after a most thorough examination of Polly, had told them, ‘There is no need for alarm, I assure you. Of course it will irritate – as any pimple or abrasion might plague a child. But, there is no evidence to tell us it is more serious than before.’ Additional tests also revealed that the growth’s roots had made no further inroad into deeper tissue, which, the doctor explained, was a blessing, since attempts to remove the tumour would prove more dangerous than leaving it alone. Curt and Marcia had no option but to accept this professional advice and add to it the weight of their own heartfelt prayers. Never a day went by but they didn’t thank God that Polly’s affliction had not yet interfered with either her general health or her ability to light up even the darkest day with her bright sunny smile. In every sense, she was growing into a lovely, happy child. Only that morning, when Curt had taken Polly to the town of Church, where she could stay with Grandad Fletcher till the new child was born, she had vigorously entreated her daddy, ‘Can Polly see her new baby?’ Whereupon, Curt had taken her on to his lap and, with her skinny arms flung protectively about his neck, he had promised her, ‘As soon as “Polly’s” new baby arrives, sweetheart . . . I’ll come straight back to fetch you.’ Then, only when he had sealed the promise with a kiss, was he allowed to return to nearby Preston and Stoneygate Street, where Marcia lay in the throes of labour.

When, of a sudden, the wail of a child filled the air, Curt sped across the room and into the passage where, being halted by the sight of Grandma Fletcher at the top of the stairs, he asked, ‘Marcia?’

‘Marcia’s fine, me boy.’ With a broad satisfied smile on her podgy face, she went on, ‘An’ so is yer new baby lass.’ At this Curt sped up the stairway, clearing the steps three at a time and, in his exuberance, miscalculating the distance between Grandma Fletcher and the wall.

‘Watch out, yer silly bugger!’ she exclaimed, steadying herself on the banister rail. ‘Ye’ll ’ave me arse over tip down yon bloody stairs!’

Shouting an apology, Curt flung open the bedroom door, then, having done so, came slowly to the foot of the bed, where he stood awhile looking somewhat sheepish, fondly gazing into Marcia’s smiling brown eyes, his love for her painfully obvious in that dark intense gaze which never left her lovely face.

Being the focus of such intense and wonderful emotion, Marcia became surprisingly shy and, of a sudden, she could feel a warm tingling blush spread from her neck all the way up over her face and right down her spine. The feeling was both uncomfortable and delicious. Silly fool, she thought with a little rush of embarrassment, here I am twenty-four years old – a grown woman, and acting like a lovesick schoolgirl!

‘Happy, are you darling?’ Curt came closer, his gaze shifting to the warm tiny bundle in Marcia’s arms.

‘Oh, Curt . . . isn’t she lovely?’ Holding her newborn daughter close to her breast, Marcia’s smile was glowing as she met Curt’s proud gaze, ‘I know you wanted a son,’ she murmured, holding out one hand to draw him closer. ‘Are you that badly disappointed?’

Curt sat beside her, one hand holding hers, the other tenderly stroking the child’s face, ‘Disappointed?’ he said, leaning forward to kiss her, ‘how could I be disappointed, sweetheart? She’s so perfect.’ Then he went on with a cheeky grin, ‘Happen we’ll get a boy next time.’

Marcia laughed a little. ‘Happen!’ she said, loosing her hand from his and tousling up his dark hair, ‘we shall have to see, eh?’ Now, she was serious again. ‘Oh, Curt. . . I’m so happy! If all there is to look forward to in this life is our love an’ our children – an’ growing old together until the children have fled the nest an’ we’re an old married couple, then I’ll never want anything more.’ The love she had for this man was deeper now than she could ever remember. Four years they had been married. Four wonderful years, and every day that passed only intensified her love for him. ‘You and me – old and grey, and still so much in love,’ she laughed out loud, ‘and we won’t ever let anything spoil it, will we darling?’ she teased.

Quick to reassure her that no, they would never let anything spoil it, Curt was secretly afraid. He had always been open and honest with Marcia – especially where his love for her was concerned, for he adored her with a passion which frightened him. Yet, even as he agreed with Marcia at that moment, he himself felt uneasy. Honest as he had been with her in these four exquisite years since exchanging their marriage vows, there was a certain period in his life which he had kept hidden from her. To reveal that part of his background would shatter everything they had.

There had been times, in the dead of night when she had been sleeping, or at work at the mill, when there would come upon him such a feeling of guilt that made him sick to his stomach. Lately, he’d had this awful sensation that an avalanche of disaster was careering towards them. No rational explanation for it existed – and he put it down to the fact that his love for Marcia, Polly, and now the new baby, was so greatly important to him that it was only natural to fear it might be threatened.

Into the bedroom now came a determined Grandma Fletcher, demanding, ‘Yer can’t set there all day, Curt Ratheter! The babby an’ its mammy ain’t properly washed yet . . . an’ yer can surely see as Marcia needs ’er rest?’

‘Aw, Mam! Stop fussing,’ Marcia protested. ‘Another minute, eh?’

‘Hmh!’ Grandma Fletcher cast a cursory glance at Marcia’s lovely pleading face, before shifting a more disapproving glance to the tall handsome man seated on the bed beside her. Try as she might over these past years, somehow she had not been able to allay her suspicions regarding Curt Ratheter. He had always been a kind of enigma to her, for none of them knew too much about his life before his arrival in Preston, only that he’d been such a good worker at the Centenary cotton mill on New Hall Street that he was quickly made up to foreman. It was there that Marcia had met him and, not long after, they had been married. To Grandma Fletcher’s way of thinking, it had all been too quick. The dashingly handsome fellow had swept the lass off her feet. Oh, he loved her! Any blind man could see that. But, ’twas odd the way he so cleverly shrugged off any questions regarding his past – saying only that both his parents were gone: ‘one from tuberculosis, the other of a broken heart’. Beyond that, he would not be drawn. And Marcia was content to leave his past be, considering that to talk on it obviously caused him a deal of pain.

Grandma Fletcher, though, was convinced he had something to hide, even if it was nothing so terrible! Nevertheless he made her feel uneasy and suspicious.

She’d mentioned it to her old fellow, but he would have none of it, remarking, ‘Leave the lass an’ ’er man be! They love each other, don’t they? He’s good to ’er, ain’t ’e . . . provides well an’ lives a decent quiet life, don’t ’e?’ When in all truth she had to answer yes to all three observations, back came the conclusion, ‘Well then! Stop yer bloody moithering, woman – an’ give up fancying that ’e’s got things ter ’ide. Yer’ve too fertile an imagination, Florence Fletcher! I’ve allus said it. Aye! Too fertile an imagination fer yer own good!’ And, as far as Grandad Fletcher was concerned, that was an end to it. He might have convinced her were it not for that niggling instinct which would insist that Curt Ratheter had not been entirely honest.

Now, when his dark eyes found hers and, with a smile, he promised to stay only a minute before going off to fetch Polly, Grandma Fletcher felt embarrassed and ashamed should he read her thoughts. ‘Oh, all right! Five minutes an’ no more!’, she conceded. Halting at the door, she turned to ask Marcia, ‘Are yer settled on a name, lass?’

First giving a little secret smile to Curt, Marcia’s dark eyes lit up with pleasure as she told her mother, ‘if it had been a boy, we would have called him John – after Dad. But as it’s a little lass, we’ve both agreed, Mam, we want to christen her Florence – if that’s all right with you?’

For a moment Grandma Fletcher appeared speechless before a pink and pleasing blush spread over her homely features. Springing forward, she flung her two arms about Marcia, the tears bright in her blue eyes as she cried out, ‘Oh, lass! That’s grand – that’s right grand, bless yer ’eart!’ Then, seeming suddenly embarrassed, she looked sheepishly into Curt’s smiling face. ‘Tek ten minutes together. It’ll tek that long ter get some fresh water boiled up,’ she said, hurrying away down the stairs. Once in the privacy of the little back parlour, she pulled out a stand-chair and threw herself down onto its hard horsehair seat, crying and smiling simultaneously. After a moment she got to her feet, lifted the edge of her long voluminous skirt to wipe the tears from her eyes, then told herself sternly, ‘Come on yer silly fool. There’s no time ter waste spillin’ good tears! What! There’s the babby an’ its mam ter be properly cleaned up, everythin’ ter be left spick an’ span afore I mek me way ’ome to get the ol’ fella’s supper. Oh! An’ on top o’ that, there’ll be a christenin’ ter start thinkin’ on. By! What work an’ chaos a child does bring into the world, eh?’ As she busied herself, boiling water, collecting together a bar of carbolic soap, fresh towels and a clean nightie for Marcia, Grandma Fletcher paused in the task for just a moment. ‘Little Florence, eh? . . . Florence, like its old Gran’ma,’ she murmured. ‘Oh, won’t I be the proud one when the name’s read out over the font. I will that! Oh yes, I will that!’ She giggled like a two-year-old as she fell to her work once more, humming tunefully.

‘Oh, Barty – she won’t bite you know!’ Marcia laughed. When she took the child into her arms, Barty’s heart made a skip and he couldn’t help but think how fetching Marcia looked, in that light grey dress which fell in pleats to the hips and there was gathered into a broad hugging band, before falling to just below the knees in a full swinging hem. Her dark stockings flattered her legs and matched her small heeled ankle-strapped shoes. Covering her long black hair, which flowed loosely over her shoulders, was a white felt beret, arranged becomingly to one side.

For as long as he dared, Barty held the child between himself and Marcia, his greenish speckled eyes lingering on her smile and drawing pleasure from it. ‘You look lovely, Marcia,’ he murmured in a low intimate voice, ‘really lovely, lass.’

Marcia recognised that look in Barty Bendall’s covetous gaze and, for a moment, was shaken by it. But then she reminded herself that Barty had looked at her that way for too many years for it to bother her now. He and his mother were next-door neighbours to the Fletchers – had been since as far back as Marcia could remember. She and Barty Bendall had played together as youngsters, gone to school together and grown into adults together. Somehow, Marcia had always suspected that Barty loved her like a sweetheart, although, as far as she had been concerned, there was never anything remotely like that in their relationship. Yet he was a nice enough bloke and in her own way Marcia was fond of him. Like Barty, she had no brothers or sisters, and they each seemed to fill a certain need towards the other. In the early days, it had been comforting to have a friend of almost the same age, right next door. She thought by now he should be married or at least courting strong. But, according to her Mam, Barty ‘can’t keep a lass fer longer na five minutes!’

Marcia supposed he’d just turned out to be a flirt. Certainly, if the look he was giving her this minute was anything to go by, she wouldn’t be at all surprised if he led the poor lasses a right merry dance! He wasn’t unattractive either, she observed, with those green speckled eyes and fine, wavy brown hair. He wasn’t tall or commanding in figure, but had a smart almost military bearing, and at times, he did have a twinkle in his emerald eyes and a lopsided smile which could seem particularly charming. Today, being Easter Sunday and the day of little Florence’s christening service, he had on his best dark pin-striped suit and a sparkling white shirt, whose thin collar had been so drastically starched by his doting Mam that it dug deep into his neck like a strangling garrotte.

Choosing to make light of Barty Bendall’s forward attentions to her, Marcia eased the child from him, whispering playfully, ‘If I were you, Barty . . . I should undo your top button afore you choke to death!’ Seeing that his heartfelt compliments fell on deaf ears, Barty gave a small grunt of annoyance before turning away in a dark sulk.

Later, when the christening party had congregated in the front parlour of the little love-nest at Stoneygate Street, Curt put his arm about Marcia’s shoulders. Leaning down to whisper intimately in her ear, he said, ‘Whatever did you say to Barty? The poor fellow’s been in a dreadful mood ever since!’

‘I said nothing to hurt his feelings,’ Marcia protested, ‘it’s just that now and again, he has to be gently reminded that I’m a married woman!’

Curt straightened up, his dark eyes fixed on Barty, who, by now, was looking the worse for drink. He watched the little fellow for a minute, imagining what he must be going through and feeling a little compassion for him. Bending again to Marcia’s ear, he whispered, ‘I can’t help but feel sorry for him, you know. The poor chap’s totally besotted with you!’

‘Nonsense!’ Marcia retorted. ‘According to Mam, he has more than enough girlfriends to keep his mind off me!’ Yet inwardly she acknowledged the truth of Curt’s remark, which agitated her strangely.

At that moment, the fellow in question looked up from his glass of tipple. Then, seeing Marcia’s dark brown gaze on him, he gave her a most charming smile, flicked the wispy brown hair from his eyes and, raising his glass, declared in a voice properly suited to his brisk authoritative bearing, ‘Here’s to little Florence! May the powers that be see fit to give her a long and Christian life!’ Whereupon, he fell away in a dead stupor – upsetting both chair and table and consequently calling a halt to the proceedings.

That evening, when Polly and Florence were tucked away for the night, Curt pulled Marcia onto the settee beside him – laughing out loud when she squealed that the horsehair seat was pricking her legs.

‘Never mind, darling,’ he assured her, ‘now that the christening is done with, we might soon be able to afford a settee with a softer seat, eh?’

Cuddling up to him, Marcia murmured how wonderful it would be if only they could persuade the landlord to replace all the cumbersome dark furniture with something lighter and more pleasing to look at. ‘But he never will!’ she concluded. ‘Why should he? He can put any old rubbish in here and still get his rent regularly paid!’ She had no love for the landlord, who had bought up several houses on Stoneygate Street and was constantly looking for every which way to increase his rent. Also, he was well known for casual treatment of the tenants – thinking nothing of throwing them out on any excuse. There were always plenty of poor souls waiting to move straight in again.

‘Let’s not spoil a lovely day by talking about “Scrooge”!’ Curt pleaded, his dark eyes wide and on his features a most comical imitation of Marley’s ghost – the sight of which sent Marcia into a fit of laughter.

A few moments later, when Marcia was quietly content in her husband’s arms, the one clasped protectively round her shoulders, the other reaching across her lap to tenderly squeeze her long fingers in his, she thought she would never be happier than she was now. When his lips kissed the top of her head and, after a while, his face stroked her long dark hair, there came into Marcia’s heart such an overwhelming sensation of joy that it made her want to cry out. Lifting her head, she brought her dark gaze to bear on him and, for a long exquisite moment, they gazed into each other’s eyes – uniquely content in each other’s arms.

‘I love you, Marcia Ratheter,’ Curt whispered against her mouth, ‘I’ll always love you.’

‘And I you, darling,’ Marcia murmured, before offering herself into that glorious heart-melting kiss, which, for a while afterwards, took her breath away. It had been three months since Florence was born, and longer than that since she and Curt had made love. Now it was time and, oh, how she wanted him!

For now, though, the two of them stayed locked in a loving embrace, content to sit before the fire and reminisce in its comforting glow – Marcia savouring the moment, Curt in more pensive mood, brooding on the past which still threatened his happiness.

After a moment, his thoughts found their way to the christening of his new daughter and from there he was made to dwell on the man whose deep love for Marcia was so painfully evident to him. Of a sudden, he felt obliged to make mention of it. ‘Fancy Barty Bendall getting drunk! I didn’t know he was a man for the tipple.’

‘Oh! He’s not.’ Marcia sprang to Barty’s defence. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen him even slightly tipsy afore!’ Here, she gave a small fond laugh. ‘Barty’s an old softie really, you know, Curt. You’ll see! He’ll be round here tomorrow, full of remorse and thoroughly ashamed of himself.’

‘Grovel to a mere woman! The very idea!’ said Curt, smiling.

Marcia playfully clipped his ear, warning ‘I’m no “mere woman”, my man! So, you’d best know your place, if you see what’s good for you!’

Catching her to him, Curt told her quietly, ‘Oh, I know what’s good for me all right,’ and Marcia, serious again, reflected on Barty’s condition when they’d taken him home. To be driven to drink like that, well – he must have something tormenting him. She hoped it wasn’t her!

‘All in all, the christening did go well, though,’ Curt said as he released Marcia from his arms. Going to the fireplace, he poked at the fire and afterwards positioned the wire guard before it.

Meantime, Marcia had taken up the local newspaper from the side-table and was glancing at one column in particular. ‘You know, Curt, that were a nice gesture for Mam to send details of the christening to the paper. I really can’t understand why you kicked up such a fuss when you saw it. It was meant to be a surprise for us . . . not a shock! It did upset Mam when you took on so.’

Muttering something about not being too fond of surprises, Curt cleverly skated over the subject. And, putting out his two arms to lift Marcia from the settee, he softly suggested, ‘Let’s away to bed, eh? Where we might find more exciting things to talk about.’ There was no mistaking Curt’s intimation as he pulled Marcia to him, at the same time gently propelling her upstairs. All the while, his peace of mind more disturbed by that small, seemingly innocent article, which Grandma Fletcher had brandished under his nose with a triumphant flourish. Oh, he knew she had meant well. But that article could just be the thin end of a cruelly destructive wedge. He hoped not! Dear God above, he hoped not!

Deeply embittered by the break-up of a recent relationship, her predatory nature had brought her back to Lancaster where, with a deal of cunning, she intended to exploit another old source by which she might be kept fed and clothed. And, if the picking was ripe, perhaps a few odd luxuries here and there.

By her third week in the area, she had almost given up hope of ever finding Curt. Then browsing through the local paper, she had come across a certain article. The report was of a christening, of the second daughter of Marcia and Curt Ratheter from Preston. Fran Ratheter had made discreet contact with both the newspaper and the church mentioned. By presenting herself in a most genial and polite manner, she had elicited enough information to know that the Ratheter family lived in Stoneygate Street. From there she had twice followed Curt Ratheter to his place of work at the Centenary cotton mill, in New Hall Street, the first time to discover his place of work, the second with the intention of accosting him. To her fury her courage had deserted her at the last minute.

Today, however, on this fine April morning, she would suffer no such setback, or her name was not Fran Ratheter!

At five a.m. she left behind the seedy bed-sit, caught a tram from the boulevard and settled back against the uncomfortable wooden-slatted seat for the duration of the thirty-minute journey. Some while later she made her way along Puffin Street and, just as the mill whistle was screeching to summon the workers, she spied the tall handsome figure of Curt coming towards the gates.

Positioning herself beneath the lamp where he could not fail to see her, Fran Ratheter ignored the curious looks of other mill-hands who hurried to their work, choosing instead to keep her eyes fixed on that familiar figure which came ever closer. This was a moment she had long waited for. It was a moment she must savour to the full and, she seriously hoped, it would be the time when her fortune took a turn for the better. She was also excited by another thought – how shocked and alarmed Curt Ratheter would be to set eyes on her. Yet even she could never have envisaged how utterly devastated was Curt, when, emerging from the hurrying throng, he caught sight of that small upright figure, her eyes searching him out and a look of pure animosity on her pinched features.

At that moment Curt Ratheter saw his whole world turn upside down. As he stood, shocked and transfixed by the sight of his nightmare come true, he might have been persuaded to strangle the life from her for what she could do to him now – and for what she had done to him in the past

Now that she was satisfied he had seen her, Fran Ratheter came forward, her eyes never once straying from his face, which was now drained to a chalk-white colour. When, in a moment, she stood before him with a leer on her face and an air of arrogance about her stance, Curt could feel himself trembling from head to foot – with fear or rage, he couldn’t tell.

‘You! What in the name o’ God do you want?’ he growled.

How he loathed this creature. He had married her some eight years ago when he was a blind hot-headed young man of twenty-one and she was a worldly woman of twenty. Within only months of their marriage, her eye was already beginning to rove, yet, being young and too ready to forgive, he had believed her tales of remorse. When she had miscarried with the child he had eagerly awaited, he sympathised with her – not knowing until much later that he was never the father, and that the child was not lost accidentally, but aborted by some back-street crony of hers. Later there had been another child, stillborn. The father of that child had been his own father. When the whole sorry business erupted like a festering sore, the two of them took to their heels to set up house together and the whole dreadful scandal struck his mother down with a massive heart-attack. A dear, gentle woman he had deeply loved and one who, at the age of thirty-nine, was laid to rest. This foul unrepentant creature standing before him had been responsible! Fran Ratheter! How could he not hate her?

‘Oho! I can see yer not too pleased to see me, eh?’ She swiftly launched into her reasons for being there. She needed money! Money which