Outcast Child

by Kitty Neale

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

Daisy Bacon has an ordinary, happy life living with her family in South London, until tragedy strikes and her mother is killed in a devastating accident. Blaming herself, Daisy retreats into a world of silence, unable to utter a word. When her father remarries, the family home becomes unbearable at the mercy of cruel stepmother Vera. Luckily, Daisy can always count on her cousin Lizzie to bring sunshine to her life. But when shocking truths about Vera come to light, could it bring the possibility of a fresh start for Daisy after all?

Release date: December 8, 2011

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 336

Sample

Chapter One

Clapham, South London, 1954

Daisy Bacon dashed out of her street door, pausing momentarily on the steps as she glanced up and down the street. There was no sign of Sean or Patrick Carson, and with a sigh of relief she ran across the road to Susan Watson’s house. With a loaf of bread clutched to her chest she rang the bell, and after a few minutes her friend appeared.

‘Hello, Daisy,’ she said, her freckled face lighting up.

‘Hello, how’s your mum?’

Susan brushed a strand of wispy, honey-coloured hair to one side, and heaving a sigh she beckoned Daisy inside. ‘She’s a bit better, but the baby keeps wailing all the time. Mum says she ain’t got enough milk and it’ll ’ave to go on the bottle. I hope that does the trick ’cos I’m fed up with hearing it screaming,’ and with a small sad smile she added, ‘I wish I was an only child like you.’

Daisy threw her friend what she hoped was a sympathetic glance. Yes, she was an only child, yet she envied her friend and wished that she too had lots of brothers and sisters.

They climbed the dank dark staircase with the wallpaper peeling off the walls, and as Susan led her into their small flat Daisy’s ears were immediately assailed by the hiccuping sobs of a crying baby. The kitchen-cum-living room looked as though it was crammed to the rafters and Daisy felt a surge of guilt. How could she be jealous of her friend? The large family lived in just three rooms and she knew that Susan slept in a bed with several of her siblings. Two of the children were sitting at the table; their eyes avidly fixed on the loaf of bread that Daisy still held clutched to her chest.

‘Mum sent me across with this,’ she said, holding it out.

‘That’s kind of her,’ Susan’s mother said, the baby quiet now as she turned slightly in the threadbare fireside chair.

Daisy’s breath caught in her throat and she hastily averted her eyes from the sight of Mrs Watson’s thin pendulous breast on which the baby sucked frantically. The poor woman looked as white as a sheet and her eyes were ringed with tiredness.

‘Have you decided on a name yet?’ Daisy asked.

‘No, but I was thinking of calling him William. It’s a lovely name, but I expect it would get shortened to Willy.’

There was a hoot of laughter as the older child began to chant, ‘Willy Watson … Willy Watson.’

‘Shut up!’ Peggy Watson shouted. ‘Susan, give them some of that bread, but not too much ’cos the others will want some when they come in, and mind you leave a bit for yer dad.’

Daisy had rarely been in the Watsons’ flat. She and Susan played mostly outside, but now she watched in amazement at the deft way her friend handled the bread-knife. Susan seemed older somehow as she bustled round taking care of her siblings, and Daisy began to realise how different their home lives were. With a small strained smile, she said, ‘I had better go now. Are you coming back to school tomorrow, Susan?’

‘No, but if Mum’s up to managing on her own I’ll be back on Monday.’

‘I’ll be fine once this one’s on the bottle,’ Peggy Watson said. ‘I just need a bit of sleep, that’s all.’

‘Yeah, and some decent grub inside you too,’ Susan snapped.

‘Now then, it ain’t your dad’s fault that he got laid off. Things will pick up when he gets another job.’

‘I hope he gets one soon, ’cos you need more than just bread to build you up, Mum,’ Susan commented as she handed a slice to her mother.

Daisy, upset by the sight of the children cramming bread into their mouths as though they were starving, blurted a hasty goodbye.

Susan went to follow but her mother’s voice kept her rooted. ‘Don’t leave that knife where the children can get hold of it, yer silly cow!’

Turning hastily Daisy called, ‘It’s all right, I can see myself out,’ and feeling a surge of pity for her friend she made her way home.



‘What’s the matter, darling?’ Judith Bacon asked as her daughter came in. ‘You look awfully sad.’

‘I feel sorry for Susan, and the rest of the family. Honestly, Mummy, if you hadn’t sent that loaf across I don’t think they would have had anything to eat.’

Judith gazed at Daisy, her eyes soft. In some ways her daughter was in ignorance of the ways of the world. As an only child they had cherished and sheltered her, but now she was growing up and the blinkers were coming off. Judith knew that they were lucky, owning this large four-storey house, and Henry her husband had a good position in a shipping office. The job was well paid and Daisy had never known the poverty that others suffered. ‘Things will get better for them when Susan’s father finds another job,’ she said gently, unconsciously echoing Peggy Watson’s words.

‘But how will they cope until then? Oh, I just wish we could do something,’ Daisy cried, her eyes moist with unshed tears.

Reaching out, Judith gathered her daughter into her arms, and although Daisy was twelve years old, she wished she could protect her for ever from the harsh realities of life. ‘Listen, darling, I’ve made a big pot of beef stew and dumplings for dinner and I’m sure there will be plenty left over. If you like you can take it across to the Watsons later.’

‘Oh thanks, Mummy,’ Daisy said as she leaned back to gaze up at her mother’s face.

Giving her daughter a last reassuring squeeze Judith released her, unaware that Daisy’s kind personality was a reflection of her own. Daisy took after her in looks too, with short brown hair and vivid blue eyes.

As Judith began to prepare the vegetables her heart was heavy. Daisy didn’t know it yet, but it seemed likely that the Watsons were going to be rehoused. Susan hadn’t been around to hear her mother saying that she was expecting a visit from the Housing Officer, and with yet another child she hoped to be given larger accommodation. Judith shook her head sadly, wondering how long it would be before they moved, and with no other girls of her own age living in the street, she knew her daughter was going to be heartbroken.









Chapter Two

It was a week later and Judith was sitting at the table watching her husband as he meticulously buttered a slice of toast. Henry Bacon was a quiet and taciturn man who sometimes found it difficult to show his emotions, but she loved him dearly. She knew that many people thought him standoffish, but his reserve hid a basic shyness. When Judith thought about Peggy Watson’s husband she counted her blessings. Billy Watson was a drunkard and a bully, and there had been many occasions when his wife had sported a black eye. And now there was another mouth to feed, she thought sadly as she pictured the thin, undernourished baby. Oh it wasn’t fair, it really wasn’t. Why was it that some women could have one baby after another, while she …

‘Are you all right, dear?’

Judith forced a smile. ‘Yes, of course. I was just thinking about the Watsons. Daisy is going to be awfully upset if they move.’

‘She’ll adjust, and she’s got other friends.’

‘Yes, but none that live nearby. I wonder now if we did the right thing in sending her across the common to St Catherine’s. Maybe she should have gone to the local school.’

‘Both Daisy and Susan wanted to go to St Catherine’s. It’s an all-girls’ school with a wonderful reputation, and if you remember we decided it was a good choice.’

‘Yes, I know, but she’s going to be lost without her, Henry.’

‘Stop worrying, Daisy will be fine. Now I had best be off or I’ll be late,’ Henry said as he rose to his feet.

Judith followed him into the hall where he picked up his briefcase from the hall-stand. At the same time, Daisy came running down the stairs, tucking her blouse into her grey pleated skirt.

‘Bye, Daddy,’ she called, running forward.

Henry leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, then turned and did the same to Judith. ‘Bye, girls,’ he said, smiling as he left the house.

Soon after that, Daisy left for school and Judith was alone in the house. Once again her thoughts turned to babies as she began her daily chores. It wasn’t just Peggy Watson. Even her best friend and neighbour Molly Carson was heavily pregnant, and knowing how much Daisy would have loved a brother or sister, she felt again the desolation of her miscarriages.



Later that day, deciding that there was just enough time for a cup of tea and a chat before Daisy came home from school, Judith decided to pop next door to see Molly. As she left the house she gazed up at the sky, appreciating the touch of warmth that March had heralded in. Spring was always her favourite time of the year and she loved it when the bulbs bloomed in the garden, bright yellow daffodils, mixed with the soft blue of forget-me-nots.

Judith stepped down to Molly’s basement, and when her friend opened the door she was unable to resist smiling. As usual, Molly’s clothes looked like they had been thrown on haphazardly. She was large in pregnancy and the bulk of her tummy caused her grey flared skirt to rise up at the front, revealing an inch of frayed nylon petticoat. Her dark greasy hair was pulled back into an untidy bun, but her brown eyes twinkled as she ushered Judith inside.

‘Sure, you’re a sight for sore eyes, Judith. Come on in and I’ll put the kettle on. By the way,’ she added, ‘I saw Peggy earlier and she’s looking more like her old self.’

‘Yes she is, and I’m glad that Susan’s back at school. It doesn’t seem right that the girl was kept at home, yet I know that Peggy couldn’t have managed without her.’ With a small frown Judith then asked, ‘Did she say anything about being rehoused?’

‘Only that she’s expecting to hear from the Council soon. ’Tis about time they did something for the family, they’re packed like sardines in that tiny flat. Oh, and Billy Watson’s finally got himself some labouring work on a building site at Clapham Junction. Mind you, if he doesn’t stop drinking it won’t last any longer than his last job.’

As Judith watched Molly preparing the tea she was suddenly struck by an awful thought. Molly already had three sons, and now with another baby on the way, would she want to move too? With just this basement room, scullery and two bedrooms on the first floor it was almost as cramped as the Watsons’. The Irishwoman had moved here six years ago, and Judith would miss her terribly if she went.

‘Molly, will you be asking for a bigger place too?’ she blurted out.

‘Well now, I can’t say I haven’t thought about it. But even if we were given a larger flat, we would never get such a big garden. I would hate to live in one of those high-rise places that the Council are building now, and Paddy would be lost without his pigeons. No, Judith, I think we’ll stay put.’ She laughed then, adding, ‘Where else would we get a garden big enough for the pigeon loft?’

Judith heaved a sigh of relief, unable to imagine life in Fitzwilliam Street without Molly. When she herself had first moved to the area the tall, four-storey houses had looked affluent and imposing, with steps leading up to the front doors and large bay windows. Gradually though, most of the properties had been converted into flats. Since then there had been further changes and now many of the flats had been turned into bedsits, the tenants transient, staying for a short while before moving on again.

Smiling now at her friend, Judith picked up her tea, thinking about the lovely vegetables that Molly’s husband grew and passed around not only to her, but also to other neighbours in the street. They were a lovely couple, always cheerful despite not being very well off. Paddy’s job as a maintenance man in a local engineering factory wasn’t well paid, but with what he grew in the garden, along with Molly’s thriftiness, they always ate well. Both had pronounced Irish accents, despite coming to London over twenty years ago, and though all the boys had been born here, they too had a slight inflection when they spoke.

The two women chatted for a while, and then glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, Judith rose to her feet. ‘I had better be off, Molly. Daisy will be home soon.’

Nodding, Molly followed her out, and as both women climbed the steps to street level they saw Phyllis Tate advancing towards them, her thin face pinched in anger as she called, ‘Molly, them bleedin’ kids of yours ’ave broken me window.’

‘What! How did they do that?’

‘They was playing football in the street again. It ain’t right, Molly. Why don’t you make them play on the common?’

‘Phyllis, I’ve told them time and time again not to play ball in the street. Are you sure it was my boys?’

‘Of course I am. I ain’t blind you know, and now the little buggers ’ave done a runner. What are you gonna do about it, Molly Carson?’ Phyllis asked, hands on hips and her stance stiff.

‘If it was my boys I’ll flay them,’ Molly said, her round plump face suffusing with colour.

‘Yeah, but what about me window?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll get Paddy to replace the glass for you.’

‘Humph! Are you sure your husband knows how to do it?’

‘Of course he does,’ Molly said, her eyes now sweeping the street for her sons, but it was Daisy and Susan that came around the corner. ‘Here’s your daughter, Judith, and I envy you, so I do. I wish I had girls instead of my little hooligans. Still, you never know,’ she grinned, patting her stomach.

Judith smiled as Daisy came running toward her, knowing that Molly didn’t mean a word of it. She loved her boys and was fiercely protective of them.

‘Mum, can I play outside with Susan until dinner’s ready?’ Daisy asked as she reached her side.

‘Yes, but go inside and change out of your uniform first.’

‘Oh, Mum!’

‘Don’t argue, Daisy, and I’m sure Susan has to change too.’

With a rueful grin at her friend they separated, Susan running across the road to her house, shouting, ‘Get your skipping rope, Daisy.’

The three women remained standing on the pavement, all eyes peeled for Molly’s sons, and in no time Judith saw her daughter running out of their house again, waving at Susan who had reappeared too. She smiled at them briefly, but was distracted when she saw the Carson boys turning the corner. They were walking along sheepishly, and seeing the three women watching them they stopped short, their eyes wide with fear.

‘Sean! Patrick! Get yourselves here!’ Molly bawled.

At that moment Judith heard the sound of screeching tyres and turned swiftly. In one heartstopping second she saw her daughter skipping in the middle of the road, chanting a rhyme, oblivious to the speeding car as it advanced towards her. It wasn’t slowing down! Why wasn’t it slowing down? It would hit her! It would hit Daisy!

Judith dashed into the road, her face white with fear as she screamed, ‘Look out, Daisy! Look out!’



Unable at first to comprehend what was happening as her friend suddenly dived from her side, Molly now watched in horror as Judith ran straight into the path of an oncoming car. No! Oh God, no! Rooted to the spot she saw Judith shove Daisy in the back, the child flying into the kerb. Then almost immediately there was a sickening thud as the car hit Judith … her scream of agony dreadful to hear as she was tossed into the air like a rag doll.

For a moment Molly’s legs refused to move, but as the car roared off she suddenly sprang to life, running to where her friend lay. Seeing the blood oozing from Judith’s body she was unable to stifle a scream, but then Daisy flung herself down beside her mother, wailing like a wounded animal. Fighting her nausea, Molly cried, ‘Daisy, come away, darling,’ as she tried to pull the child from the awful sight.

Daisy’s eyes were stricken as she looked up at her, and Molly was horrified to see that her hands were covered in her mother’s blood. She leaned forward, grasping Daisy under her arms, but as she tried once again to pull her to her feet, the child fought wildly. ‘Help me,’ Molly gasped, looking around frantically at the crowd that had formed.

Phyllis came to her side, her breath ragged. ‘I went to the phone box on the corner and called an ambulance. Is she …?’

Unable to hear the rest of the sentence, Molly fought the blackness that threatened to engulf her as a pain ripped through her stomach. She looked again at her dearest friend’s broken and battered body and knew, without shadow of doubt, that Judith was dead.









Chapter Three

‘I’ve given your daughter another thorough examination, Mr Bacon, and I still can’t find anything physically wrong with her,’ the doctor said. Then patting Daisy on the head he turned to Henry, adding quietly, ‘I’d like to talk to you outside.’

Henry followed the doctor onto the landing, and closing Daisy’s bedroom door behind him, he asked anxiously, ‘What’s wrong with my daughter?’

‘She’s still in shock, which isn’t surprising under the circumstances. The fact that she can’t talk is psychosomatic, and I’m sure that with time she will eventually regain her voice.’

‘Eventually!’ Henry exclaimed. ‘But she hasn’t spoken for two weeks. How much longer are you talking about? Days … months?’

‘There’s no way of knowing. However, if you feel it would help I could refer her to a specialist.’

‘A specialist! But I thought you said there was nothing physically wrong with her.’

‘Humph.’ The doctor cleared his throat. ‘I was referring to a psychiatrist, Mr Bacon.’

‘Do you really think that’s necessary?’ Henry asked, his face white.

‘I’m not sure if it will help at the moment, and perhaps we should wait to see how your daughter is in another few weeks. I feel sure that with gentleness and patience she will recover.’

Nodding his agreement, Henry escorted the doctor out. As he opened the street door he found Phyllis Tate mounting the front steps, a dish wrapped in a tea towel in her arms. ‘I’ve made you a nice shepherds pie,’ she said, pushing past them into the hall. ‘I’ll just open a tin of peas to go with it.’

Henry’s smile was strained as he bade the doctor goodbye and followed Phyllis into the kitchen. The neighbours had been marvellous, but sometimes he felt like screaming. He wanted to be alone. There was the funeral to face tomorrow, and as the time drew nearer he needed to give vent to the feelings that were like a hard knot of pain in his chest.

Phyllis, in the process of opening the tin of peas, turned briefly to look at him, saying, ‘Molly’s fine now and her baby boy is so bonny. You would never believe he came a month early when you see the size of him. She’s on her feet again and insisting on coming to Judith’s funeral.’

Henry closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the emotions that ripped through him. Molly’s baby had been born late at night on the day that Judith had been killed. One life beginning, and one ending. Oh Judith, Judith, you can’t be dead, you can’t, he agonised, still unable to accept his loss. Every time he heard a woman’s voice in the house he wished it were hers, and sometimes he actually thought he could smell the flowery perfume that she loved. Alone in their bedroom he would pull her clothes from the wardrobe, holding them tightly to him and drinking in her aroma. During the day he tried to hold his grief inside for his daughter’s sake, but as the funeral drew closer it was becoming impossible.

‘Have they caught the driver yet?’ Phyllis asked, breaking into his thought.

Henry struggled to compose himself, but now found anger rising again; anger that he tried to fight against, but that threatened to consume him. Shaking his head he said, ‘No, not yet, but I hope they do soon. God, if I ever get my hands on the person responsible for killing my wife I’ll kill them! Kill them!’ he yelled, spittle flying out of his mouth. He felt a tug on his arm and spun around, shocked when he saw his daughter standing behind him, and unaware that his voice sounded sharp, he said, ‘Daisy, I didn’t know you were there.’



Daisy turned swiftly and ran back upstairs to her bedroom. He was so angry; her dad was so angry. Filled with both fear and remorse, she flung herself on her bed, clutching the pillow to her chest.

Never before had she felt so lost and alone, unable to believe that she would never see her mother again. Oh Mum, Mum, her mind screamed. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

The bedroom door opened and her father came into the room. He would hate her … hate her if he knew. The bed dipped as he sat down, and as she looked at him, her eyes wide with nerves, he leaned forward and scooped her into his arms.

Daisy felt herself being rocked back and forth, her father’s arms tight around her. She heard a strangling sound, and then he began to sob, his body shaking.

‘I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to snap,’ he gasped.

Her own eyes filled with tears, but they refused to fall. Why can’t I cry? Why can’t I cry too?

There was a knock at the front door, voices, footsteps on the stairs, and her father rose hastily to his feet, surreptitiously wiping his eyes.

Molly Carson stood on the threshold, a soft smile that was tinged with sadness on her face. ‘Hello, darlin’,’ she said. ‘I’ve brought someone to meet you.’

She advanced towards the bed, cupping a bundle, which she placed gently in Daisy’s arms. ‘Meet Francis,’ she said, pulling back the shawl.

Daisy gazed in wonder at the baby’s face. His eyes were closed and she could see tiny blue veins in his eyelids. He had a little puckered mouth, a tiny nose, and as the shawl fell further back she saw a slick of black hair. She felt a lump in her throat, and for the first time since her mother’s death a tear rolled silently down her cheek, followed by another that dripped off her chin and onto the baby’s face.

‘That’s it, darlin’,’ Molly murmured, taking Francis from her arms. ‘Tears are the best medicine.’ She handed the baby to Phyllis, who had followed her into the room, and then sat down on the bed, holding Daisy closely to her ample bosom.



Despite the tears Daisy was still unable to speak and on the day of her mother’s funeral she sank back into her shell where nobody could reach her.

Gradually the pattern of her life changed, and now after school she went to Molly’s until her father came home from work. Susan Watson still walked to and from school with her, but the only way they could communicate was by Daisy writing on a pad, which she constantly carried with her. She knew it made Susan impatient at times, and now that she couldn’t bear to play in the street after school, they were gradually drifting apart.

The blow came four weeks later when there was a knock on the door at about six in the evening. Her father answered it, and Daisy was surprised when he led Susan into the sitting room.

‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ she said.

Daisy nodded, her eyes puzzled.

‘Me mum got a letter from the Council. They’ve given us a house in Balham.’

You’re moving? Daisy scribbled on her pad.

‘Yes, next week. Don’t look like that, Daisy, we can still be friends.’

She wrote rapidly again. School?

Susan, who by now was used to Daisy’s cryptic notes, knew immediately what her friend meant. ‘I’ll have to change schools.’

Daisy stared at her friend, unable to believe what she was hearing, but before she could write anything, Susan said, ‘I can’t stop. I’ve got to keep an eye on the kids ’cos me mum is all in a dither and is starting to pack our things already.’

Blinking away the tears that were filling her eyes, Daisy walked with Susan to the door and after seeing her out she rejoined her father in the sitting room.

‘Don’t look so sad, darling, you’ve got lots of other friends,’ Henry said.

Flopping onto a chair, Daisy shook her head. Her father was so wrong. She didn’t have lots of friends. The other girls at school had been kind at first, but as the weeks went by they slowly began to drift away. She didn’t blame them. Why would anyone want to be friends with her? And anyway, after what she had done, it was no more than she deserved.

The following week, after Susan and her family moved out of Fitzwilliam Street, Daisy had to walk home from school on her own. At first she didn’t mind. It was easier to be alone, not to have to worry about trying to communicate by writing on her pad all the time. But by the end of the third week her nerves were jumping. Now, when she was walking home from school, Molly’s sons Patrick and Sean took every opportunity to torment her. They seemed to resent it that she went to their house after school, but unable to bully her in front of their mother they took to ambushing her on the Common.

Still grieving and unable to cope with their teasing, Daisy took to comfort eating. Molly baked cakes three times a week, and now made an extra batch for Daisy and her father. When she gave them to her to take home, Daisy would sneak them up to her room, and at night when unhappiness gnawed at her stomach she would cram the cakes one after another into her mouth.

‘Look, it’s Porky Pig,’ Patrick jeered as Daisy walked home from the sweetshop on Saturday.

Her heart sank. She tried to skirt around them, but every time she moved they moved with her, blocking her path.

‘Come on, give us a grunt, Porky!’ Sean cried, howling with laughter.

‘Leave her alone!’

Daisy spun around, relieved to see Molly’s eldest son, Liam. He was sixteen and at work, but on the rare occasions that she saw him he was always kind to her. He had black hair and wonderful emerald-green eyes, which were now blazing with anger. ‘Get indoors the pair of you, and I’ll have a word with Mam about your behaviour.’

Without a word the boys ran off, and smiling gratefully, Daisy gazed up at Liam.

‘Take no notice of them, darlin’, they’re just a pair of silly kids. You come and see me if they give you any more trouble – all right?’ he added.

Daisy nodded, and after giving her a little wink, Liam walked away.

It was then that Daisy’s hero worship was born, and for many nights as she lay in bed stuffing cakes, she would think of Liam and of how he had helped her. In her imagination he became her handsome knight in shining armour, riding to her rescue on a huge black horse.









Chapter Four

Vera Tucker looked at her measly wage packet with disgust. How would she ever be able to save enough money to get her son back? At this rate it would take years.

In despair she flung herself onto the bed in her tiny room. It felt as if a part of her was missing and her arms ached to hold her baby again. Georgie was only four months old and he needed her, needed his mother. Hate for Lennie Talbot rose in her chest. He had taken their son and thrown her out, and she was helpless against him. Maybe she should have told him the truth – told him why she wouldn’t sleep with him any more. No, he would have gone mad. Yet what had happened wasn’t his fault, or hers – the truth lay in the past. God, if only she hadn’t got mixed up with him in the first place. It was hopeless – how could she fight the biggest gangster in the area?

Oh my baby, my baby, she thought, tears stinging her eyes. Money … if she only had money, then she could somehow snatch Georgie back and go abroad where Lennie would never be able to find them.

There was a knock on her door, and fighting her tears she rose from the bed. Guessing that it was her landlady, she grabbed her wage packet and counted out the rent money. Olive Cole insisted that it was paid on the dot, and in the three weeks that Vera had lived in this bedsit she had come to despise her landlady. The woman was a sloven and a gossip, and Vera avoided her as much as possible. Heaving a sigh she opened the door, the money in her hand.

‘Hello, Miss Tucker. How are you? I haven’t had a chance to talk to you all week.’

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Vera said, her voice dismissive as she held out the money.

‘Thank you, and have you got your rent book?’

Blast, I forgot it, Vera thought as she turned back into her room. It was the opportunity Olive Cole was waiting for and she followed in behind her.

Searching frantically, Vera found the book behind the small make-up mirror on her dresser, noticing that after quickly scanning the room, her landlady was now staring avidly out of the window, looking down at the street below.

‘How’s your job going at the hospital? You’re a receptionist, aren’t you?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ Vera said shortly, fed up with the way that Olive Cole questioned her at every opportunity.

Crossing the room she handed the landlady her rent book, annoyed that instead of filling it in she continued to look out of the window. ‘Oh look, there’s Mr Bacon,’ she said. ‘It was a terrible tragedy when his wife was killed, and now he’s been left to bring up his daughter on his own.’

Vera looked without interest at the car that had drawn up opposite, but then Mrs Cole spoke again and her ears pricked up. ‘Mind you, he’s comfortably off you know. He owns the house and he’s got a very good job. He’s the manager of a shipping office. Yes, Mr Bacon is quite affluent and he gave his wife a lovely send-off. She had a beautiful mahogany coffin with brass handles.’

Normally Vera was sickened by Mrs Cole’s gossip. She seemed to know about everything that went on in the street, and what she didn