Charity
Authors: Lesley Pearse
Contents
Charity
Lesley Pearse was born in Rochester, Kent, but has lived in Bristol for over twenty-five years. She has three daughters and a grandson. She is the bestselling author of nineteen novels, including
Ellie, Georgia, Tara, Camellia
and
Charity
, all five of which are published by Arrow. She is one of the UK’s best loved novelists with fans across the globe and sales of over three million copies of her books to date.
Also by Lesley Pearse
Georgia*
Tara*
Elle*
Camellia*
Rosie
Charlie
Never Look Back
Trust Me
Father Unknown
Till We Meet Again
Remember Me
Secrets
A Lesser Evil
Hope
Faith
Gypsy
Stolen
Belle
* Also available in Arrow Books
For every adopted child, especially those born in the Fifties and Sixties. It is my hope that some of the events in this book will give them a clearer understanding of the climate for unmarried mothers at the time, and perhaps give them the comfort of knowing they were never given up easily, or ever forgotten by their natural birth mother.
Acknowledgements
Louise Moore, Katie Green and Rebecca Salt at Mandarin for their unfailing enthusiasm and hard work on my behalf; John Potter for his support and wisdom and Darley Anderson, my agent, for just being there whenever I needed him.
Special thanks too for all those people who helped in my research, Sig. Capineri of the Hotel Berchielli in Florence, the staff of Studley Priory near Oxford, Dr Jane Fornear in Bristol and Peter Marsh.
Chapter One
Greenwich, London 1960
‘Make sure you get carrots from the front of the counter,’ Gwen Stratton glanced up from writing a shopping list. ‘There were several bad ones last week. And don’t go hanging around in Woolworth’s, Prudence, you know how Father feels about that!’
To an outsider stepping in from the frosty streets, the Saturday morning scene in the kitchen of number 14 Easton Street had a look of almost Victorian cosy domesticity. Mother sitting at the scrubbed wood table juggling a list of requirements against the meagre pile of coins in front of her; the four children dutifully engaged in various tasks around her.
An Aladdin paraffin stove, a pan of boiling handkerchiefs and meat being browned in a frying pan added diverse smells to the warm, steamy fug. The clatter of dishes, the polishing of brass and little James chattering to himself as he sat on his potty, almost concealed the resentment which emanated from all but the youngest member of the family.
All four children were remarkably alike and small for their ages. Four white-blond heads, pale, thin faces, big blue eyes. Charity and Prudence, fifteen and ten respectively, dressed alike in quaintly old-fashioned navy blue serge smock dresses and long grey socks, both with their hair neatly plaited. Tobias was nine, his shirt, long shorts and pullover all grey, his face streaked with black from the Brasso he was rubbing into candlesticks and an embossed wall plaque of a boat.
Young James, aged two, was shuffling around on his pot. Chuckling with delight at a rag book, he was wearing only a yellowing wool vest, his baby hair still fluffy and as yet unbrushed.
Everyone in Greenwich thought the Strattons were odd, but despite their eccentricity and poverty they were accepted, even admired.
Bertram Stratton was a preacher. Not an ordinary vicar like Reverend Soames at St Michael’s but an Evangelical preacher at Babylon Hall. He took his fiery sermons out into the streets, shouted out hell and damnation to anyone that would listen. His flock weren’t the people with smart clothes and nice houses but the poor and the downtrodden.
Their neighbours in Easton Street were ordinary people – bricklayers, plumbers and bus drivers – but they had a grudging admiration for a man who could stand out in all winds and weathers shouting out his godly messages with such ferocious certitude. They respected his life of piety, the lack of comfort or luxury in his home and nudged each other when they saw the four blond children who looked like frail angels going with him to his church.
Extreme orderliness masked the poverty and lack of modern appliances in the somewhat gloomy kitchen. Jars of bottled fruit sat in lines on bare wood shelves. Scoured saucepans hung with military precision on hooks above the old gas cooker. Even the few items of clothes hanging on the overhead airing rail were ironed and folded. There was nothing unnecessary; no letters poked behind cups on the dresser, odd buttons, books or toys left carelessly.
The only word which summed up Easton Street accurately was ‘mean’. Built in 1890 of plain red brick, this terrace close to the River Thames was intended to house the poorest workers in the community. Even the amount of land used was frugal. The houses squashed and stretched up to squeeze in more rooms, rather than give their inhabitants comfort or space.
The Strattons’ neighbours had made the best of their homes. They painted and papered, knocked down walls, built bathrooms and modernised their kitchens. But number 14 remained just as it was built; even the old gas mantles on the walls were still in place, despite the addition of electric light.
A dark, draughty house, almost impossible to heat. Damp crept in each winter, peeling off paint and paper, leaving a musty smell that nothing could disguise.
No one could accuse Reverend Stratton of the sin of pride or even of laying up treasures on this earth. Although it was kept scrupulously clean and tidy, every stick of furniture had been given to them. The only adornments were framed biblical quotations on the walls; the one in the kitchen read ‘Honour thy Father and Mother’.
‘Are you listening?’ Gwen Stratton scowled round towards Prudence washing up just inside the scullery. ‘If you bring back mouldy carrots again I shall just send you back!’
‘Yes mother,’ Prudence sighed. She was dreaming of a pale blue velvet dress in the window of the haberdashery shop. She knew of course she’d never own it, any more than she’d ever be allowed to have her hair curled in rags or have patent leather bar shoes. But then, even her parents couldn’t stop her dreaming.
‘That’s enough Brasso.’ Gwen Stratton rapped her pencil over the back of Tobias’s hand. He was sulking because he wasn’t allowed out to play football in the street like the neighbours’ children. ‘Polish it off and put some elbow grease into it.’
Charity cut carrots and onions into slices at the end of the table.
‘What is the matter with you?’ Gwen Stratton looked up at her eldest daughter, irritated by her slow progress. ‘There’s more to do this morning than chopping carrots. Get a move on!’
Charity couldn’t meet her mother’s eyes.
‘I’m just tired.’ She glanced up at that biblical text on the wall. ‘I didn’t sleep much last night.’
The glass on the text acted as a mirror, revealing all her shortcomings so clearly. The childish plaits, pale face and stick-thin legs showed exactly how she got the nickname of Weed.
She was tidy enough – many people pointed out what a credit all four children were to their mother – but no one else at school had such awful old-fashioned clothes and clumpy shoes.
‘Pass the iron tonic here,’ her mother snapped. ‘You’re always tired these days. As if I haven’t got enough to worry about without you dripping around the place complaining all the time.’
Charity handed the bottle and spoon over silently.
Had a stranger observed Gwen Stratton pouring two large tablespoons of tonic into her eldest daughter’s mouth, they might very well have wondered why she didn’t take the medicine herself. For although the obedience of the children, the cleanliness and order in the house suggested she was a good wife and mother, something clearly ailed her.
Everything about Gwen Stratton was drab, from her weary voice, her clothes and her stooped narrow shoulders to the plain brown dress and shapeless cardigan she wore every day except Sundays. Thick lisle stockings, feet in worn carpet slippers suggested she was far older than her forty years. Bitterness wafted out of her like a sour odour.
Charity gulped down the tonic, quickly following it with a glass of water, then turned to the stove to flip over the browning meat. She had no need to ask what chores she had to do today. As the eldest, five years older than Prudence, she was responsible for the washing.
She added flour, stirred it well in, adding a jug of stock, then deftly transferred the bubbling mixture to a large saucepan, scraping in the vegetables. Nausea welled up again as a thick brown scum rose to the surface. She spooned it off, wishing she could do the same for her teeth, which seemed to be coated with the iron tonic.
‘Turn that down and leave it,’ Mother barked. ‘James has finished!’
Charity dutifully turned to her little brother, and lifted him from the pot to wipe his bottom.
‘Pooh!’ She smiled lovingly at James. ‘Hang on while I empty this, then I’ll get you dressed.’
She took the pot out through the scullery to the outside lavatory, emptied it and sluiced it round. She paused for a moment in the frosty air, fighting back the desire to burst into tears.
A burning soreness down below, hatred for her father seething in her heart and a feeling of utter dejection were enough to make her run down the back alley to the river and let herself sink into the glutinous brown mud. Yet as always she knew she had to stay here and bear it, for the sake of her brothers and sister.
