‘Go away, Pa!’
‘All right, I’ll go, but I shall come back soon. You’re nearly old enough to know what it’s all about. I’ll teach you things, sweet, secret things – and if you’re good I’ll buy you something nice. What would you like? Sweets or some ribbons for your hair?’
‘I don’t want anything.’
Nancy had known instinctively that it wasn’t right for Pa to look at her when she had no clothes on, and she didn’t like what he was saying or that funny way his mouth went loose and wet. It made her shudder inside. She’d been innocent then; she hadn’t realised what a beast he really was.
At first Pa had pleaded with her to let him touch her in places that made her recoil in horror, but when she was resolute in refusing he began to threaten, first Ma and then Terry. It didn’t take him long to realise that Terry was her weak spot. When he’d started to hit Terry for no reason she’d known she had to let Pa touch her, even though she hated it – but it hadn’t stopped at touching …
Nancy felt the acrid taste of vomit in her throat as she remembered what he’d done to her the previous night. She’d screamed and cried out, begging him to stop because he was hurting her, but he’d just gone on and on until she couldn’t fight any more. It was the first time he’d done that, but she knew it wouldn’t be the last and she wanted to run away and crawl into a big hole.
Why hadn’t Ma interfered ever? She must have known what was going on. Pa hadn’t bothered to hide it from her. He often touched Nancy’s bottom or slid a hand over her breast when Ma was in the kitchen; Nancy had small breasts now that she was nearly fourteen. How could Ma just sit there and let him do these things to her own daughter? How could he do them?
‘Nance …’ Terry came to her, his bread and dripping finished, the only evidence the grease on his chin. ‘What was Pa doin’ to you last night? I heard you call out and I wanted to come and stop him, but your door was locked.’
‘Nothing, Terry, love. You mustn’t come even if I scream out, all right? If you interfere Pa will thrash you – and I don’t want you to be hurt. Please promise me you won’t do anything silly.’
Terry looked at her strangely, and for a moment his eyes seemed to glaze over. He put out his hand to touch hers.
‘I hate Pa,’ he said. ‘He hurts Ma and me – but if he’s doin’ bad things to you I’ll hurt him. I won’t let him make you cry any more, Nance. You’re the only person in the world I love – except Ma, but she don’t know I’m here much.’
‘Ma doesn’t know anything much,’ Nancy said, and bent down to hug him, inhaling the boyish scent of him, soap from where she’d washed him that morning, and his own special scent; a clean decent smell, not like Pa’s … not like that salty sweet stench that she could always smell after he’d been doing things to her.
She wished she could take Terry and run away, somewhere they would be safe and Pa would never find them – but how would they live? She hated her father, wished that he would have an accident at work and never come home. Why hadn’t he been killed in the war like so many soldiers? Why did he have to come home and make all their lives a misery? It would have been better if one of the V2 bombs had fallen on the house and killed them all than to live this way.
If there was only some way she could make them all safe …
‘I’m not goin’ to let him hurt you no more,’ Terry said, and Nancy smiled. He was a good boy and she loved him. He’d never wet the bed until Pa started knocking him around. If it was just her and Terry she could be happy for the rest of their lives.
A cold shiver started at her nape as outside the kitchen door she heard the sound of brutish laughter and coarse voices, and she knew that Pa had started his celebrations early. By the sound of it he was drunk already.
Angela yawned, coming slowly awake to a feeling of luxury and excitement. She stretched in the comfort of the soft bed and then realised that she was home in her own room. It was Christmas and Mark Adderbury was coming to spend the day with them. A smile touched her lips, because she was aware of a sense of peace. Christmas Eve at St Saviour’s had been so lovely, with the staff and children singing carols and Mark playing Father Christmas to the excited orphans of Halfpenny Street. It had been a very special time at the children’s home in London’s East End and Angela felt warmed because she knew that much of that happiness had been brought about by her efforts as the Administrator – and Mark’s too, of course. In fact all the staff had played their parts in giving the children something they would always remember with pleasure, but for Angela it had been uplifting. She really believed that she had begun to come out of that dark place to which she’d been driven by the death of her beloved husband, John Morton.
John’s death in the terrible war that was still fresh in everyone’s minds had sent Angela into a spiral of despair. Outwardly, she’d carried on at her job in the military hospital, but inwardly she’d felt the bleakness of an emotional desert. When she’d given up the job and returned home some months after the end of the war because her mother had been unwell and asking for her, Angela had felt as if she had little left to live for. Mrs Hendry had soon recovered from her chill and become her usual self and Angela felt trapped in the senseless round of entertaining and mindless chatter from her mother’s social acquaintances. She’d wanted something to do, something worthwhile that would make her feel it was worth living again – and she’d asked Mark for help. He’d suggested the post at St Saviour’s and she’d taken it instantly, and it had turned out so much better than she would have believed.
The children had touched her heart, especially one little girl called Mary Ellen and her friend, the rebellious Billy Baggins, but they all needed love and care, and Angela had discovered that she had a great deal within her still to give. Her heart might grieve for John but it was not dead. She could love the children, therefore perhaps she could find love for a man once more – know the happiness that had been hers so briefly before the cruel war had taken John from her.
For a long time she’d thought it would never happen, but recently she’d become more aware of Mark, of his strength and his generosity of spirit. In his work as a psychiatrist Mark helped his patients to recover and although Angela had never been his patient, she had learned to trust him and respect his judgement. She’d turned to him for help after John died and he’d always been there for her, as a friend; it was only recently, since she’d started work at St Saviour’s, that she’d begun to feel there might be something more than friendship between them. A certain look in the eyes, a smile or the touch of his hand – but Angela had not been certain, either of Mark’s feelings or her own. Perhaps it was still too soon – but she was happy to know that he was coming to lunch and would be with them until late afternoon, when he had to leave to visit some cousins.
She still didn’t quite hit it off with Sister Beatrice, the nun who was Warden of St Saviour’s, though they had somehow weathered the storm and were beginning to know each other a little better. Sister Beatrice acknowledged that Angela had her uses, particularly in the matter of overseeing the new wing, which would provide much needed extra space. Perhaps one day she would realise that what Angela really wanted was to help her and the children.
Hearing a crash from downstairs in the kitchen, Angela glanced at her watch and realised it was just after seven. Surely it was too early to start cooking the turkey for dinner? They would not eat their special lunch before two and it was the custom for them to get up at about eight, have a leisurely breakfast of warm muffins and jam or poached eggs on toasted muffins, when fresh eggs were freely available, and then start to prepare the turkey. So why was her mother up so early?
Dressing