Prologue
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Sweat trickled into Kate’s eyes and yet she was shivering. The throbbing in her temples made it difficult for her to raise her head. Her body twisted and turned, trying to find a position where her bones didn’t ache. Lying on her back made it easier to breathe, but if she stayed in that position for too long, it was agony. Her throat was dry and she was constantly thirsty, but when she tried to reach for some water, her hand shook so much that she couldn’t hold the cup. She floated in and out of today and into tomorrow on waves of pain that made it impossible to distinguish day from night, wakefulness from sleep, presence from absence.
Life was going on around her, she could hear voices. The clatter of pans told her that food was being prepared and the smells of cooking reached her nostrils, but when Albert tried to spoon soup into her mouth, her tongue couldn’t taste and her throat wouldn’t swallow. His gentle words of encouragement urged her to try to eat, but her appetite had left her, along with her ability to decipher was what real and what was an invention of her fevered mind.
In this world of drifting, she clung on to the threads of her life that wove in and out of her consciousness. She heard her child crying, but couldn’t go to him, her limbs weighed her down. She felt the touch of her husband’s lips, but could not kiss him back. Always there for her, she was so grateful for that, but his face was no longer clear to her, she was slipping away from him.
Where was she? Micklewell, her Hampshire home? Was this her sister, Dot, bending over her or her mother, Ada? Whose was this face? Then she remembered. She was in a lodging house in Fareham. She’d left her village home in 1912 and so much had happened to change her life since then. She had to fight this. Please God she would survive this illness. She had so much to live for.
Part One
Chapter One
September 1912
Kate Truscott removed her muddied shoes, rinsed the dirt from her hands and wiped them on the rough towel hanging beside the kitchen sink. She smoothed down her rumpled skirts and sighed.
‘My back is killing me,’ she moaned as she sat down opposite her mother who had her breast bared, feeding her fourth child. ‘I’ll be glad when there’s no more spuds to lift in that field. Seems like we’ve been digging and bagging forever.’
‘You wait ’til you’ve birthed a few babes, then you can complain about backache,’ her mother replied.
Kate was fifteen years old and her intention was not to become a mother just yet. She had more important things to think about, dreams of a different life, a life that did not entail grubbing around in the dirt on a farm. The money she earned was a feeble amount, but at least it meant she was contributing to the family income. She just didn’t want to be doing it for the rest of her life.
‘I’ve brought back a bag of potatoes,’ she said. ‘The ganger said I could take the ones that were scabby or spoiled by the fork. They’ll last us a few days.’
‘Well they’ve kept you late today,’ Kate’s mother, Ada, said.’ You’d best get upstairs to your sister now. She wants you to tell her a story. She won’t go to sleep without one.’
Kate smiled to herself as she opened the door at the foot of the stairs. Her sister, Dot, was as dark as she was fair but they shared the same spirit. The difference between them now was that Kate was on the verge of womanhood and Dot was still a child.
Kate’s light-brown hair fell down her back and she flicked the loose strands away from her face and out of her deep blue eyes as she concentrated on navigating the turning stairs. She remembered to duck her head to avoid the beam, for she’d grown to be taller than her mother now. Her courses had started and she felt within her a surge of energy that she sometimes found it difficult to contain. Her breasts were filling out and she was aware of attracting the attentions of the young men of the village. She had a boldness in her expression that spoke of her growing confidence in herself.
Dot was sitting up in bed when Kate entered the room. ‘About time too,’ Dot said wrinkling her nose at Kate.
‘Just you wait ’til you have to earn your living, Dorothy Truscott,’ Kate said. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are. Now, which story is it to be?’
‘The one about the two mice.’ Dot grinned, nestling down under the covers.
As Kate told the familiar story, she looked down at her sister’s sweet, freckled face and smiled. When she spoke the final words, she kissed her lightly on the forehead and rose up from the bed, trying not to make the metal springs complain with their usual squeak. She turned towards the door only to hear a pleading voice whisper, ‘Tell it again, Kate, please tell it again.’
‘But I’ve told you it so many times, Dot,’ Kate replied, ‘and there’ll be trouble from Ma if you stay awake any longer. It’s Sunday school tomorrow morning.’
‘Oh Kate! You know it’s my favourite story,’ Dot whined. ‘What sort of mouse are you, Kate, a town mouse or a country mouse? I’m definitely a town mouse. I can see myself drinking from fancy glasses and eating off the best china.’
‘I’ve told the story and now I’m going downstairs. I’ve got the washing-up to do and then Ma has given me a pile of darning —Dad’s work socks. Just be grateful you’re eight and not fifteen,’ Kate replied.
‘Phew!’ said Dot with her fingers clamped to her nose. ‘I hope she washed them first.’
Kate picked up a cushion from the chair in the corner and threw it at her sister.
‘Cheeky,’ she said, suppressing a giggle. ‘Don’t let Ma hear you casting doubt over her homemaking skills or there’ll be trouble. Now, night, night!’
Kate returned to the kitchen, the main family room in the house where they ate, drank, gossiped and sewed. She looked at her mother and wondered how she coped with bearing so many children. She was beginning to show her age and she was often tired. Many of the daily tasks fell to Kate. There was always plenty to do. She washed and cooked and cleaned as well as working in the fields at Wellhouse Farm. It was nearing harvest time and there was a deal of picking and gathering in to do, so there were not many of the daylight hours that she could call her own. Her brother, Fred, did little to help around the house, as he was out labouring long hours. Together the family managed to feed and clothe themselves and keep warm in the winter, but there wasn’t much left at the end of each month.
The kitchen was warm from the range which had been stoked to cook the family meal. The stew had boiled over and the smell of burnt gravy filled the kitchen. Kate’s nose wrinkled. That would be another job to do, cleaning that up before the blacking, which was long overdue!
