house of women

by

catherine cookson

Catherine Cookson was born in Tyne Dock, the illegitimate daughter of a poverty-stricken woman, Kate, whom she believed to be her older sister.

She began work in service but eventually moved south to Hastings where she met and married a local grammar-school master. At the age of forty she began writing about the lives of the working-class people with whom she had grown up, using the place of her birth as the background to many of her novels.

Although originally acclaimed as a regional writer her novel The Round Tower won the Winifred Holtby award for the best regional novel of 1968

her readership soon began to spread throughout the world.

Her novels have been translated into more than a dozen languages and Corgi paperback editions have sold more than 40,000,000 copies. Three of her novels- The Fifteen Streets, The Black Velvet Gown and The Black Candle have been made into successful television dramas, and more are planned.

Catherine Cookson's many best selling novels have established her as one of the most popular of contemporary women novelists. She and her husband Tom now live near NewcastleuponTyne.

OTHER BOOKS BY CATHERINE COOK SON

Novels Kate Hannigan The Tide of Life The Fifteen Streets The Slow Awakening Colour Blind The Iron Facade Maggie Rowan The Girl Rooney The Cinder Path The Menagerie The Man Who Cried Slinky Jane Tiny Trotter Fanny McBride Tiny Trotter Wed Fenwick Houses Tiny Trotter Widowed The Garment The Whip The Blind Miller Hamilton Hannah Massey The Black Velvet Gown The Long Corridor Goodbye Hamilton The Unbaited Trap A Dinner of Herbs Katie Mulholland _ Harold The Round Tower The Moth The Nice Bloke Bill Bailey The Glass Virgin The Parson's Daughter The Invitation Bill Bailey's Lot The Dwelling Place The Cultured Handmaiden Feathers in the Fire Bill Bailey's Daughter Pure as the Lily The Harrogate Secret The Mallen Streak The Black Candle The Mallen Girl The Wingless Bird The Mallen Litter The Gillyvors The Invisible Cord My Beloved Son The Gambling Man The Rag Nymph Miss Martha Mary Crawford THE MARY ANN STORIES

A Grand Man Life and Mary Ann The Lord and Mary Ann Marriage and Mary Ann The Devil and Mary Ann Mary Ann's Angels Love and Mary Ann Mary Ann and Bill

FOR CHILDREN

Matty Doolin Mrs. Flannagan's Trumpet Joe and the Gladiator Go Tell It To Mrs. Golightly The Nipper Lanky Jones Blue Baccy Nancy Nutall and the Mongrel Our John Willie Bill and the Mary Ann Shaughnessy

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Our Kate Catherine Cookson Country Let Me Make Myself Plain

WRITING AS CATHERINE MAR CHANT

House of Men Heritage of Folly The Fen Tiger

THE

House of Women

CORGI BOOKS

THE HOUSE OF WOMEN A CORGI BOOK 0 552 13303 5

Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press a division of Transworld Publishers Ltd

PRINTING HISTORY

Bantam Press edition published 1992 Corgi edition published 1993 Corgi edition reprinted 1993

Copyright Catherine Cookson 1992

The right of Catherine Cookson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Conditions of sale 1. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

2. This book is sold subject to the Standard Conditions of Sale of Net Books and may not be re-sold in the UK below the net price fixed by the publishers for the book.

Set in llpt Sabon by Chippendale Type Ltd, Otiey, West Yorkshire Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers Ltd, 61-63 Uxbridge Road, Baling, London W5 5SA, in Australia by Transworld Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd, 15-25 Helles Avenue, Moorebank, NSW 2170, and in New Zealand by Transworld Publishers (NZ) Ltd, 3 William Picketing Drive, Albany, Auckland.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks.

PART ONE

PART TWO Possessions i973 i8i

"Something wrong, Peggy?"

"No. What can be wrong?"

"Well, I haven't seen you sittin' in the park, not at this time. It's near on dark; they'll be dosing up shortly."

"Well, let them close up. Let them close up."

"There is something the matter, isn't there?" The boy carrying the guitar case slowly sat down on the park seat beside the young girl and, holding the case between his knees, he folded his arms about it and hugged it to him as if embracing it. He did not immediately speak but made a slight rocking movement presently, he said, "It's Andrew Jones, isn't it?"

"Who said it was Andrew Jones? And you, Charlie Conway, you are always sticking your nose into somebody else's business."

The boy did not turn towards her to counteract in any way this short tirade, but remained still, his arms tight around the guitar case, until she said in a small voice, "I'm sorry, Charlie. Don't stick your nose in; it's ... it's ... When her voice broke he turned quickly towards her, saying, " Come on home. Look; it's getting' on dark. "

"No, no." She shook her head.

"You frightened?"

She did not answer him, but turned her head away and blew her nose.

When, however, he said, "Can't you talk about it to somebody?" she rounded on him again: "Talk about what!" she cried.

"What you meaning?

Talk about what? "

"Well." He allowed the case to slip between his knees until the bottom came to rest on the grass;

then he said, "Well, there's your mam and your gran and your great-gran; surely you can talk to one of them."

"About what?"

He now turned on her, and in much the same vehement tone as hers, he answered, "About what's troubling you, making you cry. Sittin' here on a park seat where I've never seen you sit before; you're always flying through here as if the devil was after you; no time to talk to

anybody."

Through the deepening twilight, they stared at each other, and in the silence that had fallen between them she bowed her head deeply on to her chest and her voice was almost a whimper now as she said, "I'm frightened, Charlie. It's ... it's Dad. I'm frightened of Dad."

"He can't kill you." His voice was as low as hers;

and when she answered, "He could," he replied, "He'd get over it. Da did with our Lucy."

She almost reared back from him now, crying, "Anyway she's married and got two children. I'm ... I'm ... She stopped; then bringing her head forward and glaring at him, she said, " What are you insinuating? "

"Nothing. Nothing ... only ... " Yes; only? " Her head was nodding now.

He jerked himself to his feet, pulled the case up under his arm and said, "They're talking. It's all over the school. Your dear friend Mary Fuller couldn't keep her mouth shut if it was glued."

Seeing her face quiver and her shoulders droop, he said, "Somebody wants to give Andy Jones a black eye; and that's not all. Look; come on home with me."

She was bridling again.

"Why should I? I've got my own home to go to."

"Then why don't you go to it and talk to your mother, or them?"

"Oh you! It's all right for you. Talk to my mother or them. You're so clever at working things out, the great mathematician. Great-gran said you were born old."

She swung round from him, shaking her head wildly as if she were throwing something off, as she muttered, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"Oh, I don't mind. It's a sort of compliment. Coming from your great-gran an' all, yes, that was something; my mother's always saying she can cut you to pieces with a look when she likes. Look, Peggy."

He stood^in front of her now. One hand holding the guitar case, he placed his other on her arm and said quietly, "My mother knows how to deal with things. She'll go and talk to your mam on the quiet. Come on, else' his voice lightened 'we'll be thrown out." The short laugh he emitted verged on a giggle.

"Fancy being thrown out of the park at our age. I used to make a point of it at one time ... being thrown out of the park. I used to hide behind the bushes till old Mr. Terence caught a glimpse of me, then let him see me on purpose and run, not out of the West gate but the far one." He jerked his head backwards.

"I used to like to make the old fellow shout. He couldn't run: he was past it."

Peggy Hammond raised her head to look at this boy whom she had known all her life: she could never imagine him teasing the park-keeper because he never seemed to do anything that would get him into trouble.

He was what her mam called solid. She used to say, "May'll never have any trouble with him, he's too solid." At times she would add, 'and dull'. Sometimes she thought her iz

mam was jealous of Mrs. Conway. Once she had referred to her as

Auntie May and her father had barked at her.

When Charlie said, "This one can run, so I think we should be slippy,"

his broad plain face went into a smile and the thought passed through her mind that he looked like a man, not a boy, and when she stood up and started to walk by his side she changed the conversation by

pointing to the guitar case and saying, "Where were you going with that?"

"It's where I've been with that ... it." Again he swung the case up into his arms and he hugged it to him as he said, "I've been for my first lesson."

"You don't need lessons; you can play it."

"That isn't playing it, that's just strumming. Anybody can strum. I'm going to learn it properly. He's a classical guitarist, Mr.

Reynolds."

He laughed now, saying, "He hates groups. The tiddly pompom- poms, he calls them. He's very funny: he makes you laugh, that's until he starts the lesson."

"Then you won't be going to the old people's sing-song or keeping in with the school group, because all that is tiddly pompompom, isn't it?"

He continued to walk on, the guitar case again being carried by the handle; and when he made no retort she muttered, "I'm being bitchy; I don't seem to be able to help it these days. I ... I... " Oh! Peggy, don't cry. Oh lord, don't cry. Look, we'll cross over to Hooker's field and go in the back way . "No/ No/ Not that way." She had stopped abruptly, and he with her.

"Well, I just suggested it because it could be a short cut. All right, we'll keep to the road, but we can still go in the lane by the bottom way."

They walked on in silence now, and five minutes later they entered the lower end of Bramble Lane, where bungalows had recently been built opposite the cemetery wall. Beyond the bungalows were older houses.

These were detached, each with a quarter of an acre of land, some divided from their neighbours by tall cypress hedges that had grown twenty feet or more in the eighteen years since they were planted shortly after the houses were built.

The last house of this type in the long lane was Charlie Conway's home.

It, too, was separated from its neighbour, which was Peggy Hammond's home. This house, however, had been built in 1913 when Bramble Lane was a real country lane; and it had taken its name from the lane and was called Bramble House. It was a much larger house than the superior dwellings that, apart from the bungalows, completely bordered one side of the lane. It stood in two and a half acres of its own grounds and was overlooked by no-one. Here, cypress trees had been

planted along three of its four sides. The front side, facing east, looked directly on to cow and sheep pastures belonging to a farm which was the last bit of open agricultural land within Fellburn itself.

Naturally the occupants of Bramble House felt superior to the rest of the dwellers in the lane. Over the long years they had kept themselves to them selves. In a way, it was as though a concession had been granted to the forging of the friendship between Lizzie Hammond and May Conway. May, being forty-six, was the older by nine years, yet in spirit she was far younger than Peggy's mother. As she was apt to say to her husband Frank, "Between Gran and Great-gran and Leonard Hammond, Lizzie has been nul led ... May Conway now looked from her son to young Peggy Hammond, and in her breezy fashion she said, " What now, brown cow! What's up? You hit Peggy? " and she grinned as she looked at her son, and he, answering, said, " Don't be daft, Ma. "

Then why have you been crying, Peggy? Come and sit down. Have you had your tea? If not you can sit with us. "

"She hasn't been home yet, Ma."

"Oh." May turned and looked at the kitchen clock.

"Your mother'll be worrying. Where have you been?"

When Peggy still made no response Charlie said, "She's been sitting in the park, Ma. She's worried;

she wants to talk to you. I'm going up to me | room. " 1 " Don't you want your tea first? " | " No; that can wait. " j " All right, sir.

Very well, sir. I'll bring it up I when you ring. " | " Aw! Ma. "

The boy tossed his head as he laughed; I then he glanced at Peggy, saying, " She's daft at times, | but not all the rime. " | When the door closed on her son, May Conway | pulled a kitchen chair out from under the table and, | pointing to it, said quietly, " Sit down, Peggy.

"

When the girl was seated, she herself sat down opposite her and, placing her forearms on the table and joining her hands together, she said, "Well, what's it all about?"

Peggy looked across the table into the kindly face of the woman whom her father considered common;

but she couldn't bring herself to say the words that were terrifying her, yet when her lips moved in and out, and her eyes blinked, and the tears pressed from her lashes, she had no need to use words, and May Conway said, "Aw! hinny, no."

Peggy gave no answer, she just nodded her head a number of times; and when May Conway's hands came across the table and gripped hers she burst into a storm of tears. Immediately May was round the table and at her side, holding her and saying, "There!