A Place Called Home
Read A Place Called Home Online
Authors: Dilly Court
Contents
Born out of wedlock when her mother was only fourteen, Lucy Pocket has spent all her life in the care of her disreputable but charming grandmother, Eva. They dodge from one poor lodging house to another, always in debt and resorting to theft in order to exist.
Until her wealthy paternal grandfather buys her from Eva, determined to bring Lucy up to be a lady. When her grandfather dies, his despicable nephew cheats Lucy out of her inheritance, except for a run-down lodging house in Whitechapel, where she is forced to look after his three illegitimate children.
Jilted by her would-be fiancé, Lucy is determined to make a life for herself and the children, and to search for her long lost grandmother, creating the family she has always longed for.
Dilly Court grew up in north-east London and began her career in television, writing scripts for commercials. She is married with two grown-up children and four grandchildren, and now lives in Dorset on the beautiful Jurassic Coast with her husband. She is the bestselling author of twenty novels.
Mermaids Singing
Born into poverty and living under the roof of her violent and abusive brother-in-law, young Kitty Cox dreams of working in a women's dress shop in the West End.
For Ruby and Rosetta Capretti, life in the slums of the East End holds little promise. Despite their humble background, Rosetta is determined to work under the bright lights of the music hall and Ruby longs to train as a nurse.
Dismissed from her position as housemaid under a cloud of misunderstanding, Tilly True is forced to return home.
Twelve-year-old Eliza Bragg has known little in life but the cold, comfortless banks of the Thames, her only comfort the love and protection of her older brother, Bart.
Gifted with a beautiful soprano voice, young Clemency Skinner is forced to work as a pickpocket in order to support her crippled brother, Jack.
When Eloise Cribb receives the news that her husband's ship has been lost at sea she wonders how she and her children are ever going to manage.
Despite living by the side of the Thames, eighteen-year-old Rosina May has wanted for little in life. Until her father's feud with a fellow bargeman threatens to destroy everything.
When Hetty Huggins made a promise to her dying mother that she would look after her younger sister and brothers, little did she know how difficult this would be.
Eighteen-year-old Irene Angel lives with her parents in a tiny room above the shop where her mother ekes out a living selling pickles and sauces, whilst her father gambles away what little money they do manage to earn.
Since the untimely death of her husband, young mother Effie Grey has been forced to live on a narrowboat owned by her tyrannical father-in-law Jacob.
On a bitter winter's day, an unnamed girl lies dangerously ill in hospital. When two coarse, rough-speaking individuals come to claim her, she can remember nothing.
When seventeen-year-old Belinda Phillips discovers that she is pregnant, she has no option other than to accept an arranged marriage, and give up her child forever.
With their father dead and their mother a stranger to them, Lily Larkin must stay at home and keep house whilst her brothers and sisters go out to work.
When her feckless mother falls dangerously ill, Phoebe Giamatti is forced to turn to the man she holds responsible for all her family's troubles.
Despite the differences in their circumstances, Kate and Josie have been friends since childhood. But their past binds them together in ways they must never know.
Daisy Lennox is drawn to the suffragette movement, but when her father faces ruin they are forced to move to the country and Daisy's first duty is to her family.
Young Sarah Scrase's life changes forever when she and her widowed mother are forced to enter the notorious St Giles and St George's Workhouse.
Eleven-year-old Stella Barry is forced into service when her family find themselves living hand-to-mouth.
Must Charity Crosse give up her dream of running a bookshop and be forced to return to begging on the streets?
Dilly Court
For my youngest grandson, Peter, who loves dinosaurs, and for the newest member of the family in New Zealand, Ashton Charles
Aldgate, London, 1861
THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN
was there again, sitting in a brougham drawn by a sleek black gelding. The coachman sat as still as a dummy in a shop window, with his caped greatcoat pulled up to his chin and a striped woollen muffler covering the lower part of his face. He stared straight ahead, neither looking to left nor right.
Lucy Pocket shot a sideways glance at the man in the carriage, and was met with an unblinking stare. He had been in the same spot yesterday, and the day before. His eyes were a piercing blue, set wide apart beneath satanic-looking black brows, and he was clean-shaven, but his hair was long, reaching his shoulders in curls that gleamed like silver. She looked away quickly. There was a coat of arms in the lozenge on the carriage door, but heraldry was as unfamiliar to her as the languages spoken by foreign sailors from the ships that arrived daily at St Katharine docks. The man was obviously a toff, but the business which brought him to such a rough area as Nightingale Lane was anyone's guess. The romantic name of the road belied the fact that it was, and always had been, an area where the police worked in pairs, and ordinary people walked in fear.
Lucy quickened her pace, concealing the bundle she carried beneath her ragged shawl as she headed towards Cat's Hole buildings, where she and her grandmother had been living for the past six months. They never stayed anywhere for long: they had to keep moving, but they had so far managed to steer clear of the law and the gangs who demanded protection money.
She sidled along the high brick wall which separated St Katharine docks from the London dock, glancing over her shoulder to make sure she was not being followed, but the carriage had gone, vanishing into thin air, or so it seemed. She tightened her grip on the bundle she concealed beneath her shawl and hurried on until she reached Burr Street and Cat's Hole, an aptly named building pinched between a tobacco warehouse and the King George pub. She was jostled by a large woman wearing a cloth cap, with a clay pipe firmly gripped between her teeth. âLook where you're going, you stupid little cow.' The woman, who reeked of jigger gin, thrust open the pub door and a gust of warm air laden with tobacco smoke and the smell of unwashed bodies, stale beer and pickled onions slapped Lucy in the face. The noxious odours in the street were little better; the stench of the mud on the riverbank and night soil waiting for collection almost completely overpowered the rich aroma of molasses, tobacco and roasting coffee beans exuded in belches of steam from the manufactories and warehouses. Lucy sidestepped a soot-encrusted chimney sweep whose head was bent beneath the weight of his brush-filled sack as he cannoned along the road. She let herself into the building and closed the door.
The passageway was narrow, damp and dark. A shaft of light from a window at the top of the stairs helped her find her way to the first floor, and the back room where she laid her head at night. Ten feet square and bare of anything other than an iron bedstead, a deal table and two wooden chairs, it could not even with a stretch of imagination be called a home. Lucy tossed her bundle onto the table and looked round, playing the game: in her mind's eye she saw a comfortable living room furnished with chintz-covered armchairs, an inviting sofa and a rosewood table, on which stood a silver vase filled with red carnations. The clove scent of them filled her nostrils, momentarily blotting out the stink of the outside privy, which was used by all the occupants of Cat's Hole. There were pictures on the walls in her dream home. Sometimes she allowed herself the luxury of examining them individually, and they changed from day to day. On rare occasions, when she was dipping pockets in Trafalgar Square, she allowed herself time to visit the National Gallery and wander through its many halls, gazing at the great masters' works. She crossed the floor, her imaginary new boots barely sinking into the thick pile of the Chinese carpet, and her silk petticoats swishing beneath her merino gown. She drew back the wine-red velvet curtains, but the material seemed to dissolve at the touch of her fingers and the dream faded into reality; she was left holding a scrap of moth-eaten cotton. She looked down at her shabby boots, which were a size too small. The uppers had come away from the soles exposing her bare toes, and the heels were worn down to almost nothing. She lifted her skirt to reveal a red flannel petticoat that hung limp and mud-stained, ending well above her ankles, and she sighed.
âWhat's up, Lucy?'
Eva Pocket breezed into the room carrying a wicker basket which she placed on the table. She eyed her granddaughter with her head on one side. âYou was playing the game again, wasn't you?'
Lucy nodded, and her bottom lip trembled. âSorry, Granny. I know it's silly, but I can't help it.'
âCome here, my duck.' Eva held her arms outstretched and Lucy walked into her warm embrace. Cuddled up against Granny's generous bosom she felt like a child again, although at the age of ten, very nearly eleven, she considered herself to be a young woman. She had worked the streets since she was six and could sell matches or bootlaces with the best of them. She had toiled in a laundry and she had scrubbed floors, washed dishes and done all manner of jobs. She had even set herself up as a shoeshine, working outside Bishopsgate station, but she had been seen off by a group of boys who were plying the same trade. She was a grown-up now and able to take care of herself, but Granny's hugs were always welcome.
Eva released her, giving her a searching look. Nothing missed Granny's sharp eyes. âCome on, love. Out with it.'
Lucy took off her shawl and laid it over the back of a chair. âHe was there again, Granny. That strange man was watching me, I'm sure of it.'
Eva discarded her faded blue bonnet and tossed her head so that her mass of curls floated about her pointed face like a cloud of spun gold. At forty-two she was still a handsome woman; not exactly beautiful, but her large, almond-shaped eyes brimmed with intelligence and their unusual shade of blue-green seemed to change with her mood. People said that Lucy looked just like her grandmother, but she could not see it herself. Eva turned away, unbuttoning her mantle. âI'm sure it's just a coincidence, poppet. Maybe he's looking for someone, but it's not likely to be you or me. What would a gent want with a pair of guttersnipes like us?' Her merry laugh made the room seem bright and sunny and she spun round to tweak Lucy's curls, so like her own.