Miss You Forever

by Josephine Cox

Genres: Family Life

Synopsis

As a woman lies at death's door in hospital, her touching story, encapsulated in her diaries, springs back to life.

In Miss You Forever, Josephine Cox writes a spell-binding saga of hidden lives and lost loves. Perfect for fans of Rosie Goodwin and Dilly Court.

One winter's night, in the coal-hole in her yard, Rosie finds that a woman sheltering there has been severely beaten by thugs. At a glance, Kathleen looks like an unkempt, aged vagabond who tramps the roads carrying all her worldly possessions in a grubby tapestry bag. Her only friend is the mangy old dog who accompanies her; the sum of her life is in the diaries she so zealously guards. Yet close up, Rosie can see that Kathleen has a gracious beauty - the 'look' of a respectable lady of means.

In hospital, fighting for her life, yet moved by Rosie's care and compassion, Kathleen entrusts the diaries to her, urging her to look at them. There, in the soft glow of the lamp, Rosie reads a heartrending tale of stolen dreams, true love, heartache and loss. A tale that, somehow, must have a happy ending...

What readers are saying about Miss You Forever:

'Loved this book. The characters are really likeable and a connection is made with them... It's really well written with lots of twists and turns. Well worth reading'

'It's one of these books which, once you start, you can't put down. Great story. Was in tears at the end, but it was tears of joy. I haven't enjoyed a book so much in years. I can highly recommend it'

'Quite easily one of the best books I have ever read'

Release date: January 19, 2012

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 254

Sample

The taunts rang in Kathleen’s ears. Tripping and stumbling over the cobbles, she hurried away, wincing beneath the onslaught of abuse and objects that followed her.

‘You’d better run, old woman.’ The jeers were merciless. ‘If you’re not out of sight in two minutes, we’ll set the dogs on you.’ As if to endorse the threat, the two bull mastiffs growled threateningly, straining at their leashes, mouths dripping saliva at the thought of sinking their fangs into her soft, ancient flesh.

‘What you got in that bag, then, eh?’

‘Huh! Crown jewels I shouldn’t wonder, by the way she’s clutching it.’

The dogs went crazy to be loosed. ‘They fancy that scraggy mongrel of hers for dinner,’ someone yelled, and they fell about laughing.

As she fled, Kathleen prayed the thugs would not carry out their threat. She knew the danger, for they were no different from many others who had made fun of her along the way.

The old woman had lost count of the times when she’d been jeered at, spat at, laughed at, or chased away at the sharp end of a pitchfork. People were wary of newcomers, especially ‘newcomers’ with no fixed abode or means of earning a living. Generally, they tended to pour scorn and contempt on such as Kathleen. Being made unwelcome was something she had learned to live with. There were times when she met with kindness and compassion, but these occasions were few and far between.

Too old and too tired to run any more, she yearned to put down roots, but with each passing year the prospect grew more unlikely.

In her lonely treks Kathleen Peterson had travelled the length and breadth of Britain. She had tramped across the green fields of the Emerald Isle and climbed the hills of Scotland. She had stayed in the Welsh valleys, travelled every nook and cranny of England, but her heart always brought her back to her native Blackburn.

Yet Kathleen had neither home nor family, no one who would miss her if she never returned. Her life was in the diaries she so jealously guarded, and in the mangy old dog she had found snuggling up to her when she awoke in an alley one cold February morning.

He was a dolly mixture of black and brown, with a long, meandering splash of white down his nose, and a speckle of grey round his whiskers. He had one black ear that had been broken in a fight and hung sadly over his head like an eye-patch, while the other ear remained upright and finely tuned to every sound. He reminded Kathleen of an old man she had known as a child; he, too, had had a black eye-patch and grey speckled whiskers that twitched when he talked. His name was Mr Potts. ‘What else can I call you?’ she had asked the dog, and so he was given the old man’s name.

The two of them became fast friends. They made a comical sight as they walked the streets, Kathleen in her dark shawl and boots, with a threadbare tapestry bag over her arm and her long grey hair in thick plaits that reached down to her waist, and the odd Mr Potts, head cocked to one side as he peered from under one ear, his body so close to her heels as they went that he might have been attached.

Having been on the road since first light, Kathleen had arrived in Liverpool. She had fourpence in her purse, earned from sweeping an undertaker’s yard in Sheffield. She was hungry and cold, and, having consulted with the wise old Mr Potts, had decided that Liverpool was as good a place as any to stay awhile. ‘The market should be opening soon,’ she explained. ‘With a bit of luck we might go away with a bag of sweet potatoes.’ She hadn’t tasted a sweet potato in ages and her mouth watered at the prospect.

‘Are you still ’ere, old woman? I thought we told you to piss off!’ The four thugs who had taunted her earlier had followed her to the docks. ‘What ’ya got in yer bag, eh?’

Kathleen didn’t have to look round. She recognised the voice. ‘Come on, Mr Potts,’ she urged. ‘Let’s be off, before they come after us.’

In spite of her scruffy, neglected appearance, the old woman spoke in a soft, genteel tone that might have shocked the rough crowd who saw her only as an object of derision. Like many others who had never taken the trouble to know her, they would have been astonished to learn that Kathleen Peterson, the unkempt and aged vagabond who tramped the roads and carried all her worldly possessions in a grubby tapestry bag, was once a fine, respected lady.

Gasping and exhausted, she came to a busier part of the docklands. Here, men hurried at their labours, talking, shouting and whistling, great ships waited to be loaded and offloaded, trolleys were pushed back and forth and there was an air of hustle and bustle. One of the men, catching sight of her, touched his cap and bade her a cheery ‘Morning, luv.’

Kathleen turned nervously, wondering if her pursuers were following. They were, and her heart sank. If only she was younger, stronger, she might give them a run for their money.

The man paused in his work. He had seen the fear in her eyes and noticed how the thugs hovered a short distance away. He bristled. ‘Bothering you, are they, luv?’ When she nodded, he walked away, spoke to a mate, and together they approached the four thugs. On seeing the burly dockers, Kathleen’s pursuers made off like the curs they were.

‘They’ll not bother you any more,’ the man promised. ‘Where are you headed, luv?’

‘Nowhere in particular.’

He regarded her with concern. There was an air of dignity about the old woman that startled him. Her smile was bewitching, and her dark brown eyes were arresting, deep and troubled yet filled with the brightness of a summer’s day. He bent to stroke the dog, who backed away. ‘Not very friendly, is he?’

‘He’s hungry, that’s all.’ Kathleen fussed Mr Potts, and he sidled up to the docker, his tail wagging.

The docker laughed, ruffling the dog’s ears. ‘Pity he’s not fierce though,’ he commented, ‘or them devils might not have been so keen to tail you, eh?’ Mr Potts rubbed so hard against him he nearly lost his balance. ‘By! He’s a funny-looking dog an’ no mistake.’

Kathleen laughed. ‘That’s because he’s not a dog,’ she joked. ‘He’s an old man in disguise.’

‘You ought to be more careful, lady,’ the docker warned. ‘This area is known for thuggery and such. Anyway, what brings you out on a cold January morning? I should have thought you’d be tucked up in yer bed.’ The old woman was cold, he could see. With only a thin skirt and a ragged old jumper covered by a shawl, she was trembling. She and the cur were both pitifully thin, he noticed.

Kathleen’s answer shamed him. In a soft, genteel tone that shocked him, she explained, ‘Some of us don’t have a bed to tuck up in.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured, digging in his pocket and taking out a coin. ‘It’s all I’ve got on me,’ he apologised, ‘but yer welcome to it.’

Putting up her hand she smiled. ‘I don’t want your hard-earned money. You’ve been kind enough. I’m very grateful, but now we’d best be on our way.’ She turned, heading away from the docks.

‘Wait a minute!’ With her soft smile and independent manner, she reminded him of his old mother, though the old dear had been rough and ready to look at, with a cavernous mouth and kind, wrinkled eyes, while this old lady had clear, striking eyes and a set of teeth that would put a younger woman to shame. ‘Where will you go?’ he asked.

‘Here and there.’ Experience had taught her to be careful with strangers. Even with the kind ones.

Heading towards the old cobbled square where she knew the market was held every Saturday, Kathleen took a detour which brought them into a back alley. ‘Might as well find a warm place to have our breakfast,’ she said, peering into the back yards as she passed the tiny terraced houses. ‘Folks are still abed,’ she noticed, looking up at the bedroom windows and seeing how the curtains were still tightly drawn. ‘It’s Saturday,’ she muttered with a little smile. ‘Hard-working folk deserve a lie-in, and who can blame them?’ Still wary of the thugs who had threatened her, she glanced nervously behind. ‘Looks like we’ve lost the devils,’ she smiled. ‘We’ll be safe enough now.’

One of the yards was open. Its tall, wooden gate was split from top to bottom and hung from its hinges as though it might have been ripped off by some marauding drunk. From the house could be heard raised and angry voices.

‘As long as they don’t come out for a bucket of coal, we should be safe enough,’ Kathleen decided, with a wry little smile. ‘Be quiet and no one will be any the wiser,’ she said, wagging a finger at the mongrel. She noticed the coal-hole door was ajar. Cautiously, she went inside; it was dark and cold, but not as cold as the street outside. ‘Seems cosy enough,’ she remarked. ‘I’m sure no one would mind if we made ourselves comfortable for a while. And we can finish off the last of that pie, before it goes sour on us.’

Finding an old sack lying on the ground, she took it out and shook it, sending the black dust flying through the air. Then she laid it in a clean corner of the coal cellar and sat herself down, with the dog at her feet as always. As the cold struck through her thin skirt, she shivered. ‘It’s a hard life, Mr Potts,’ she sighed.

Waiting for any little titbit she might have for him, Mr Potts sat on his bony haunches, eyes bright and ear cocked, intently listening to every word the old woman uttered.

‘It’s not like it used to be, is it?’ the old woman pondered softly. ‘There was a time when you could walk the streets and be safe, when you could pass the time of day and not be afraid somebody might snatch your bag or run you through when your back was turned.’ She chuckled. ‘It doesn’t matter to you though. All you’re concerned about is having a full belly and a warm place to lay your head, and nobody can blame you for that, can they, eh?’

Her kind brown eyes misted over, her voice falling to a whisper. ‘As for me, what does it matter? Who is there left to care about a silly old fool like me?’ She gave a sad little grunt. ‘Nobody, that’s who. Never mind,’ she remarked wisely; she was not one to dwell on the downside of life. ‘When the time comes, we can say that we were here, and we made a difference. In the end, that’s all that counts.’

Smiling into the dog’s eyes, she cradled his hairy face between her two hands. ‘You might be a funny-looking thing, and you might have very little to say for yourself, but you’ve been a friend to me, and I’m grateful for that.’

Impatient now, the mongrel began to whimper, scratching at her with his paw.

She rummaged in her bag. ‘Let’s see what old Kathleen’s got for you.’ Laughing, she confessed shamefully, ‘I weren’t the only one watching the butcher throw his leftovers away. I’ll have you know I fought off a hungry cat for this particular juicy bit, though in the end I couldn’t see the cat starve and gave him a piece. So, you see, your dinner isn’t as big as it might have been. Mind you eat it slowly,’ she cautioned, taking out a muslin cloth and opening it to reveal a half-eaten meat pie. ‘It might be all we get between now and tomorrow morning.’

The dog enjoyed his titbit. Kathleen was delighted to find another treat skulking in the bottom of her bag; the fat muffin had been given to her by a grateful woman whose purse she had retrieved from the pavement only yesterday. ‘I’d forgotten all about that,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I must be going senile.’

She shared the muffin, and afterwards took a drink from a small stone jar. ‘There’s nothing better than a drop of cider to finish off a meal,’ she declared, licking her lips in appreciation.

From somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed the sixth hour. ‘Too early for the market yet. We’ll be all right here for another hour. By then the traders will be set up and the ground rolling with fruit and veg that’s fallen from the barrows.’ It might be bruised and battered, but it was good enough for the two of them, she thought.

The light from the house shone into the coal hole. ‘I think I’ll write for a while,’ she murmured. ‘Lord knows it’s been a curious day.’ From her bag she took out a pen and a small exercise book. In the half-light she could see well enough, though not without squinting.

Using her bag as a desk, she opened the book and began to write in fine, meticulous lettering.

I’ve travelled a long way since Christmas, and now find myself here, in Liverpool. This time, God willing, I plan to stay.

Maybe here I will find a measure of peace, a way to forget. A way to leave it all behind and never think of it again.

Oh, if only I could, if only it were possible . . .

Overwhelmed by a surge of emotion, she could not go on. Instead she sat a while, head back and eyes closed, while the past came again to haunt her.

Kathleen could not say when it all began to go wrong. There had been times when life was good, and times when she despaired. She had known love and laughter, and sadness of a kind that would stay with her until her dying day. Once, a lifetime ago, she had a promising future, a family, and reason to hope.

Now, it was all gone, and she was reduced to foraging for a living. Yet she still had her pride. She mended her clothes and washed them in the brook. She bathed in the stream, combed her hair into tidy plaits and retained a semblance of dignity. When there was work she took it, and when there was not, she lived off the land. She never begged and took no favours, and always believed that something better would come along; that somehow, life would get easier.

But it never did, and with each passing day she grew older and more weary. Her bones ached in the winter, and her skin burned in the summer. At the end of a particularly bad day, her feet might be blistered and her spirit close to being crushed, but Kathleen didn’t complain. What was the use of that?

She gave a long, withering sigh, opened her eyes and stared at the page before her. ‘So much to tell,’ she murmured, ‘and no one to listen.’ Memories swamped her. So many. Too many.

She placed the pen between the pages, then closed the book, and carefully returned it to her bag. ‘My old eyes aren’t what they used to be,’ she whispered, ‘I’ll wait till the light’s better.’

In the house the row continued. ‘Somebody’s certainly got a temper,’ she commented. ‘Hope they leave us be.’ Undaunted by the raging voices, she slid down and crossed her arms over her precious tapestry bag. ‘I’ll just close my eyes for a minute.’

This was always a sign she was settling to sleep. The dog knew it, and normally when she closed her eyes he would curl down beside her. But not this time. This time he remained wary, one ear cocked and a low, hostile growl issuing from his throat.

The old woman didn’t hear it, for she was already asleep, warmed by the cider, and dreaming dreams of long ago.

While she slept, the four thugs crept up on her.

‘The old hag’s asleep,’ the ringleader hissed.

‘With no interfering docker to save her this time,’ chuckled another. ‘Let’s get a look inside that precious bag of ’ers.’

‘If you forced yourself on me, you might live to regret it.’ She realised the burst of defiance might cost her dearly.

She wasn’t wrong.

Without warning, he raised his fist and knocked her to the ground. ‘Sod you!’ He stood over her, eyes blazing. ‘Now are you satisfied? Can you see what you’re doing to me?’

Rosie Maitland was a small, pretty woman, with a soft heart and caring ways, while her husband Jake was a big brawny fellow. In his own selfish way he loved her, but he was possessed of a terrible jealousy and a hard, spiteful nature. When roused to anger, like now, he made a formidable sight.

He stared down on her, his face twitching with emotion. ‘I provide for you, don’t I?’ he demanded. ‘I pay the bills and keep everything straight. I never refuse if you want something for the house, and I work bloody hard, don’t I?’

When she didn’t answer immediately he gave her a nudge with his boot and raised his voice. ‘I said, I take care of everything, don’t I? I never deny you anything reasonable. ISN’T THAT SO, WOMAN?’

In that moment, Rosie hated him. ‘No, you never deny me anything.’ He never denied her anything, as long as it met with his approval, she thought bitterly. But he denied her the things she craved, like the smallest measure of independence, pretty clothes and the friendship of other women. Oh, she had friends at the charity hospital where she worked but she was not allowed to have anyone back to this house – the house she worked to furnish and maintain; and if she didn’t immediately tip her wage packet up the minute she came through the door on a Friday night, there was hell to pay.

A terrible look of suspicion came into his eyes. ‘You’re not cheating on me, are you?’ he hissed. ‘Because if you are, I swear to God I’ll swing for the pair of you.’

Her soft, honest voice made him feel ashamed. ‘You can trust me, Jake. You know I would never cheat on you.’ The defiance had gone and in its place was a degree of resignation. But the hatred remained. The hatred always remained.

Astonishingly, his manner changed. Reaching down, he took her in his arms and held her close. ‘I don’t mean to be hurtful,’ he apologised, nuzzling her neck. ‘But you shouldn’t deny me my rights. It drives me crazy.’

She tried not to cringe from his touch. ‘Tonight,’ she promised. ‘I’ll be feeling better by then.’ Anything to appease him.

‘Why not now?’ He licked her mouth with the tip of his tongue.

‘No, Jake. Tonight.’ She looked at the mantelpiece clock. ‘You’d better go or you’ll be late for work.’ A tough, unforgiving foreman, Jake was one of the most despised men on the docks.

Squeezing her face between his rough hands, he whispered into her mouth, ‘God! I wish I didn’t love you so much!’ Then he kissed her abruptly, grabbed his coat and strode out into the yard, and straight into the ruffians. ‘Hey! What the hell’s going on out here?’

The thugs might have stayed and fought, but one look at this big, powerful man with a face as dark as thunder and fists the size of hammers and they were off in a rush, over the wall and down the alley.

‘You thievin’ buggers!’ Jake yelled after them. ‘I know yer faces. I’ll be looking out for yer!’

Rosie ran to the door. ‘What is it? What’s going on?’

He returned to give her a parting kiss, so hard and demanding it bruised her lips.

‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ he told her. ‘A few louts prowling about, but they’ll not be back, I can promise you that.’

‘What did they want?’

‘Whatever they could lay their hands on, I expect.’

‘But there’s nothing in the yard worth stealing.’

‘There you are then. Like I said, nothing for you to worry about.’ He held her for a moment. ‘Don’t forget what you promised,’ he whispered fondly. ‘I’ll be looking forward to it.’

‘You’d best hurry,’ she said, drawing away. ‘You know how you like to start the shift before anybody else.’ He insisted on being there first, to see the men arrive, to glare at them and make certain they would be penalised if they were even half a minute late. He liked it when they were late. It justified his existence.

‘Till tonight then, me little beauty.’ A quick, spiteful tweak of her breast, and he went off to his work, whistling merrily.

Inside the coal hole the old woman lay unconscious, her faithful friend lying beside her, his head bleeding. Only the occasional flickering of one eye gave a small sign that there might still be life.

As the old woman regained her senses, she called out for him. There was no reply; no familiar whimpering or nuzzling of a wet nose against her. Only a terrible stillness, a silence that was frightening.

As Rosie turned to go back into the kitchen, she thought she heard a noise. Swinging round, she called nervously, ‘Who’s there?’ Indignant now, she warned, ‘You’d better clear off! The police are on their way.’ Rosie waited and listened. There were no more sounds. ‘I must be hearing things,’ she snorted.

She was just about to close the door when she heard it again, a soft, agonised moan. Aware that one of the ruffians might still be lurking, she took up a heavy shovel and went cautiously towards the coal hole. She found the old woman crouched over the dog. ‘Mr Potts, it’s all right, I’m here . . .’ The old woman’s voice trembled with fear. A sob catching her words, she turned her eyes to Rosie. ‘They’ve hurt him,’ she croaked. ‘They’ve hurt my dog.’

Horrified, Rosie dropped the shovel and ran to her. ‘Dear God!’ Gently, she helped the old woman into a sitting position, shocked when her hands were warmed with blood. ‘Oh! You’re hurt too.’

In the half-light the old woman stared up at her with surprised brown eyes. ‘Help him,’ she whispered.

Rosie followed the old woman’s troubled gaze. She feared the mongrel was past all help. ‘I’ll see to him,’ she promised, ‘but you mustn’t try to move any more. I need to go for help, but I won’t be long, trust me.’

It took only a minute for Rosie to explain what had to be done, and while she ran back to the old woman, he brought his old flat-cart round to the alley. ‘She’s badly hurt,’ Rosie warned. ‘You take her weight while I keep her still. Gently now.’

Together they carried the old woman outside where they wrapped her in one of Rosie’s blankets and made sure she was safe for travelling. ‘I’ll stay with her,’ Rosie said. ‘You’ll have to take it slow, Bill. Go by way of the canal, that way we’ll avoid the cobbled roads.’

Bill’s wife stayed behind to close up the house and keep an eye on the sorry Mr Potts. ‘Poor little devil,’ she murmured, stroking his soft fur. ‘What kind of monsters did this? Attacking an old woman and killing her dog? They should be hanged.’

When Mr Potts seemed to sigh, she drew back, astonished. ‘Lord above! I thought you were done for. You must be tougher than you look. Like the old woman, eh?’ Delighted that he still drew breath, Amy took it upon herself to tend Kathleen’s brave little friend.

Rosie worked long hours to watch over her. She sat by her bedside and talked to her as though Kathleen could hear. She described the weather, and she read from the pages of the newspapers; she sang softly, and picked out the humorous incidents at the hospital in an effort to amuse Kathleen. But it was all to no avail. Kathleen slept on. And with every day that passed, it seemed the old woman’s life was disappearing with it.

The ward was quiet now. Beyond the curtain the sky was darkening into evening. Above the door, the big round clock rhythmically ticked away the seventh hour.

Rosie arrived to take over the shift. This was her favourite time. Behind her she left a husband whose appetite to satisfy himself on her was insatiable and obnoxious, while here in this place there were people who valued her, people who trusted her. It was a good feeling.

Taking off her coat, she made her way along the ward, checking that everything was as it should be. That done, she hurried towards the far end of the ward where the doctor and the other ward nurse were in discussion by the old woman’s bed.

‘In a way it might be a blessing if she goes,’ Dr Naylor remarked as she approached. A kind old gent, disillusioned with the way things were, he had developed his own philosophy. ‘She doesn’t appear to have any family, and she’s old and apparently homeless.’ He sighed from his boots.

Leaning forward he gently prised open her eyelids. ‘She won’t last long in my opinion. It’s a pity, I know, but there’s nothing more we can do.’ He looked at the old woman’s face. ‘Amazing what a bit of soap and water will do, don’t you think?’ he asked softly. ‘When she was brought in she looked like any other old vagabond, but now . . . Well, I mean, she has a certain, oh, I don’t know . . . a kind of gracious beauty – the look of a lady.’ He laughed at his own ramblings.

‘She does have a fine face, doesn’t she?’ Rosie agreed. It was a good face, with strong features, high cheekbones and a full, plump mouth. The eyes were closed, but the long dark lashes and gently arched brows gave the impression of vitality beneath.

When she was brought in her hair had been covered in coal dust and her hands were blue with cold, but now, with the long grey hair combed into deep, shining waves about her shoulders, and her slim hands stretched out on the blanket, Kathleen had the look of a woman who had been a real beauty in her time. ‘How old do you think she is?’ Rosie asked, intrigued.

Dr Naylor shrugged. ‘It’s hard to say. She may have been living rough for some time, and such a life will age a person. But her skin is surprisingly good, and her hair has a remarkable sheen.’ He picked up one of her hands. ‘See here, how firm and clean her nails are? Whoever she is, and however she came to be a vagabond, this lady took great care of herself. Normally we find months of dirt ingrained in the nails, and the same beneath the breasts; the feet, too, are usually diseased, but not this woman’s.’ He laughed softly. ‘She has healthier feet than I have, and God knows how many miles she may have trudged along the roads.’

‘How old though?’ Something about the old woman had stirred Rosie’s heart.

He shook his head. ‘She could be in her late fifties, early sixties. Like I say, it’s difficult to be precise.’

‘I wonder if she has a family somewhere.’

‘Who knows? We’re not paid to do detective work, my dear. We’re here to mend bodies if they can be mended. She received a vicious battering. I believe she may go in her sleep, and that would be a merciful thing. I suspect it won’t be too long before we have the use of her bed.’ With those words, he moved on to the next patient.

As Rosie considered his harsh comments, her colleague stepped forward. ‘Ain’t no good dwelling on it.’ A scrawny creature with a dark scraping of hair beneath her white cap, Nell Salter had a thin, whining voice that made cats want to mate.

Rosie didn’t answer.

‘That old woman’s been here over a week,’ Nell persisted. ‘The doctor’s right. There’s nothing else we can do for her, and you can’t deny we do need the bed.’

Drawing her aside, Rosie was sharp. ‘That “old woman” is a charity case, and this a charity hospital. It’s gentry with consciences who keep . . .