The Cuckoo's Child

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This first world edition published 2011

in Great Britain and the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2011 by Marjorie Eccles.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Eccles, Marjorie.

The cuckoo's child.

1. Industrialists – England – West Yorkshire – Fiction.

2. Woollen and worsted manufacture – England – West Yorkshire – Fiction. 3. Fires – Casualties – Fiction.

4. Family secrets – Fiction. 5. Police – England – West Yorkshire – Fiction. 6. West Yorkshire (England) – Social conditions – 20th century – Fiction. 7. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title

823.9'14-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-062-3   (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8032-1   (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-345-8   (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

Prologue

When Benjamin Kindersley left his home on Castleshaw Moor on the bleak Pennine heights between Manchester and Huddersfield, the day after his nineteenth birthday, he took with him the only clothes he possessed, plus a pound of ripe cheese, five pieces of oaten havercake from the creel above the kitchen fire where they'd been drying, the last spice loaf left from Christmas, a pork pie and two stone bottles of Prue's home-brewed ale. And his books.

‘All t'same, he'll get neither far nor fat on that,' Mary fretted, thinking of how much six-foot-two Ben could eat at a sitting. If he gets far at all, she thought, peering anxiously through the kitchen window at the darkening winter sky.

‘He must ha' gone for a soldier!' Lisbeth, who was only thirteen, was desolate, but she pictured how grand her big brother would look in uniform, even handsomer than the recruiting sergeant in the market last month. Though if he
had
gone to fight for the Queen there wouldn't have been any need to take his own victuals, the army would surely feed him – and why had he taken the velveteen waistcoat Heloise had stitched for him, that he'd scorned ever to wear?

‘To sell, of course,' said Prue, sharp as usual. ‘What d'you think he's going to live on, fresh air?'

He would have nothing else to sell. He'd never sacrifice his few precious books, packed in with the food in the best carpetbag slung over Grandpa Kindersleys' walking stick.

But it wasn't until they all met in the kitchen for a breakfast which none of them, except Prue, had much appetite for, that they discovered he had taken Lucie Picard, too.

‘He's sure to come back,' Mary said softly, though Ben's brief note had sounded very final:

‘There now, don't you go crying your eyes out, Lisbeth, love, he'll be back.'

‘Appen he will,' said Prue, putting the note into her apron pocket with finality. ‘But you know our Ben. When he says summat he generally means it.'

‘Aye, and 'appen he'll find hissen not welcome, if he ever durst show his face at North Brow again,' said Pa, and walked out of the kitchen, leaving the rest of his bacon on his plate and Ben's three sisters looking at one another. His face had sort of folded in on itself, the way it had when their mother died, and then, later, Heloise. He had never mentioned either of them since.

Though Mary had tried to speak confidently, in her heart she agreed with Prue. Ben had learnt to think before he spoke, since most of what he did say was likely to get Pa's back up. Like his book-reading did, and the scribbling he was for ever at. Joe Kindersley didn't believe farmers had any need to read, and as for writing, well, there'd been Kindersleys at North Brow since the seventeenth century, and not one of them had ever felt the need to put pen to paper, apart from the odd letter.

But what had Ben been thinking of, taking Lucie Picard?

Part One

London

Twenty-Two Years Later

One

It was a room of no distinction, plain and shabby, with drab-olive paintwork and the walls washed in a faded parchment colour, but it had a friendly warmth: a bright fire glowed in the grate, there were books all around. Best of all, it was blessedly quiet, the only private space in an overcrowded house that more often than not was shrill with women's voices and noisy with children's shouts and laughter, and the crying of babies. Laura never ceased to be amazed how, amongst all that, in addition to the raucous noises from the street outside, this little room could be so peaceful. Especially now, when the green rep curtains were drawn, a single lamp burned, the firelight winked on the leather spines of the books, and there was the warm nutty smell of toasting muffins.

There wasn't the money to spare for luxury. The Settlement here in Stepney was run on a shoestring by an ecumenical group of committed Christians, with a doctor willing to be called upon in emergencies, of which there were not a few. But most of all, it depended upon the quiet influence of Ruth Paston.

Ruth was middle-aged, unremarkable and dowdy, and yet underneath it all she had such a sense of quiet strength, purpose and warmth. No wonder the women who found themselves washed up here were so ready to turn to her. Supported by her Quaker beliefs, Ruth never showed outrage or astonishment and could be relied upon to give a balanced and clear-eyed opinion. She rarely said outright what she thought ought to be done, but after a chat with her, one usually left with a feeling of some satisfactory decision having been reached. However, it wasn't advice Laura sought tonight. A modern young woman at the beginning of the twentieth century, she had already made up her own mind: one of the quick, and occasionally mistaken, decisions that characterized her impulsive nature.

She knelt on the hearthrug, holding the long-handled toasting fork to the fire while Ruth made the tea, and then, after the muffins had been disposed of and they were both provided with a second cup, she sat back and came straight out with it: ‘Ruth – I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid I'm going to be leaving you in the lurch. I shall be going away in a week or two.'

A small silence fell until Ruth laid a quiet hand on Laura's arm, the hand that had stilled many a weeping woman, and often those who were too angry or too drunk to know what they were saying or doing. ‘I shall be sorry, too, you've been worth your weight in gold, but I hardly expected you to be here forever, child. And as for leaving us in the lurch, that's nonsense. Help always comes from somewhere. Tell me . . .'

‘I don't expect to be away for long. May I come back afterwards?'

‘Of course you may, that goes without saying.' For a while Ruth said nothing. ‘But only as a friend. You've been here long enough, and I hope it's given you something you needed. You have your life before you – and who knows where it will lead?'

What she was too tactful to say, Laura felt, was that although Laura had energy and willingness to spare, she did not possess the dedicated motivation the other helpers had, especially Ruth herself: that strong, calm commitment she had through her faith as a Friend, which kept her going, tirelessly, selflessly, year after year, in what was all too often a thankless task. And it was true, Laura admitted humbly, she could never aspire to that. She often felt torn in two, consumed by guilt at the contrast between the Spartan surroundings here and the luxurious comfort of her own home, while knowing she could not forsake that part of her life forever.

Yet over the last months, she had given of her best. Who could do less? It was in a sense repayment. The Settlement had been something of a lifeline for her after leaving college, when she had found herself feeling uncharacteristically lost, unable to make up her mind what to do. Her friends at the Royal Holloway had already made plans for their future. Most of them were taking up teaching, two already having gained positions in prestigious girls' schools. But Laura had no burning desire to be a teacher. The truth was that she had no burning desire to tie herself down to anything yet. She had chosen to go to college mainly as a gesture of independence.

And what had independence done for her? For several weeks after saying goodbye to the friends she had made, she had trailed along in her aunt's wake, doing all the things expected of her, inwardly despising their triviality. It was only by chance that she had heard of the work being done here in the East End with destitute women, and had immediately volunteered her services. To her amazement, her offer had been gratefully received. They were always glad of an extra pair of hands at the Stepney house, a temporary shelter for women who found themselves homeless for whatever reason: wives and their children knocked about by drunken husbands until even the streets were preferable to the marital home; young women pregnant and without a husband; rough, incorrigible women who had been in prison. Women for whom the only alternatives were the workhouse, prostitution, or the river. As long as they kept themselves and their children clean and sober, did not fight with each other and took their share of the cleaning and cooking, no one was turned away. Relieved that they were not forced to read the Bible or get down on their knees and pray unless they wished, they by and large followed the unspoken rules and respected those who ran the shelter.

Laura's privileged upbringing had not prepared her for work that was so physically back-breaking, and sometimes heartbreaking. She had often, at first, been shocked by the women's language, and their unruly behaviour, but she had grown used to it. Her eyes had been opened for the first time to appalling situations she had never dreamed could exist, the grinding poverty of the people she had worked amongst, the conditions in which they were forced to live. All the same, she had always known that her time in Stepney must sooner or later come to an end.

‘You see, it's like this,' she began, pushing back her hair, that bothersome light brown mop, whose pins
would
slip out, no matter what, while Ruth listened with her usual attentiveness. ‘I'm afraid my aunt and uncle won't understand – well, Aunt Lillian anyway,' she finished ruefully. ‘But I mean to go on with it.' Laura's chin, a rather sharp, determined little chin, went up. ‘I don't see what all the fuss is about. I'm not committing myself permanently. It's only a temporary thing.'

‘Well. You must do as you think fit. But be sure of your reasons for doing it, first,' Ruth replied, after the careful consideration she gave to everything. ‘Do think carefully about why you're doing this . . . are you sure you're not reading into it more than Mr Carfax intended?'