An Unsuitable Mother

An Unsuitable Mother
Sheelagh Kelly

A memorable saga from one of the best-loved writers of the genre. Sheelagh Kelly gives us the pain and determination of the people of York during the Second World War.Nell is just eighteen when war breaks out, and she’s keen to do her bit - which means leaving her safe office job and starting to train as an auxiliary nurse. This will bring her into contact with women of all ages and from very different parts of society - and it will also bring her face to face with the grim realities of war. But she has a secret to comfort her - a soldier she’s met and fallen in love with, who’s promised to return to marry her.The unthinkable happens: bombs fall on York. And for Nell, this coincides with a dreadful tragedy that she can share with nobody, and which brings life-changing consequences.Shhelagh Kelly writes with deep feeling, evoking all the warmth and hardship of a city under siege - the city in which she was born and which she knows so well. This will thrill her numrous fans and win her many more.

SHEELAGH KELLY

An Unsuitable Mother

Copyright (#uc547677a-81b3-5b66-868c-ca2e9a48656c)

This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2008

Copyright © Sheelagh Kelly 2008

Sheelagh Kelly asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Soource ISBN: 9780007211586

Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2008 ISBN:9780007287291

Version: 2016-10-26

For my cousin, Michael Kelly

Contents

Title Page (#u1f88d17c-ebbb-5474-a818-c16f04fadb4b)Copyright (#u1e92b599-820b-52c9-aa55-81ab053d3c57)Dedication (#u21924e7f-4f9b-5052-ba09-5f5838b7e7e9)Part 1 (#ud652a62e-e16a-5656-a702-184fb5ccb177)Chapter One (#ua7c03734-a822-59b7-85c2-76e2d169bc45)Chapter Two (#u49b3622f-b99e-5570-831a-fde277424f02)Chapter Three (#u071f809c-cb5a-5d11-8e00-a598abedaf6f)Chapter Four (#ud8c3c564-df88-5bcb-9355-fc6b02a5be00)Chapter Five (#u9497255d-b093-5f6f-8d9e-c122c97f1e29)Chapter Six (#u32af8992-523a-56b7-8004-83d5701ecf50)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Part 2 (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Part 3 (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-one (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-six (#litres_trial_promo)Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)Also by Sheelagh Kelly (#litres_trial_promo)About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

PART 1 (#uc547677a-81b3-5b66-868c-ca2e9a48656c)

1 (#uc547677a-81b3-5b66-868c-ca2e9a48656c)

What an intolerable burden, to be adopted by unsuitable parents. It was at times such as now that the holder of this view had a burning need to find the woman who had given birth to her. Whatever had made her abandon her baby, she could surely not be as insufferable as the one whose disembodied voice invaded this room.

Nell formed a weary reply to it now. ‘Ye-es, almost ready!’ When in fact she was not ready at all, but lounging on her bedroom windowsill, observing the newcomers moving in across the avenue; infinitely more fascinating than what lay in store.

‘You needn’t think dragging your feet’s going to help,’ inveighed Mrs Spottiswood. ‘And please don’t speak to me in that tone of voice! You’re coming to Ronald’s party, so get on with it.’

Some party, thought Nell, whose brown eyes remained fixed to the semi-detached house opposite, as yet another item of furniture was transported between the wooden rising-sun gates, and along a drive lined with hydrangeas. Her cousin’s send-off to war promised to be the dullest affair. Never mind that all involved had pooled their rations to concoct a good spread, with Aunty Phyllis in charge it would hardly be an electric occasion. At least, though thought Nell with a resentful sigh, there would be a do of sorts for the son of the house. Her own mother’s idea of a good send-off was to supply clean knickers, a flask of tea and a packet of sandwiches.

It was hard to believe there was a war on, with this dazzling August sunshine that lingered well into evening. No barrage balloons over York to mar the blue sky, nor even the faintest drone from one of the airfields that surrounded the city. Other parts of the county might be getting hammered, in southern skies British pilots battling desperately for what could be their final days of freedom, but the only bit of excitement around these parts came in the shape of foreign men seeking billets. None of them were around today, though, more’s the pity.

Nell closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sun, whilst waiting for the newcomers to reappear, and dreamed of the venue she would rather be attending, had she not been dragooned.

‘Eleanor!’

I am not an Eleanor, I am a Nell, came the irritated thought.

‘Coming!’ Sounding gay, but inwardly peeved at having to tear herself away, she went to grab a box of mascara from the dressing table. Spitting on the dwindling brown block inside, she worked it into a mud with the little brush. Then, determined not to miss anything, she repositioned herself by the window with her compact mirror, and began a hasty application to her lashes.

Whilst she was doing this, a figure entered her peripheral vision. In the hope that it was one of the new neighbours, and thus distracted, Nell poked herself in the eye. ‘Ooh, sod and blast!’ She was forced to cease everything, with a handkerchief pressed to her eye until the stinging receded.

And to cap it all, the figure had been no one important, only Geoff from next door, about whom she knew everything, for they had grown up together, though he was three years her junior. Fifteen: it seemed so long ago. She recalled herself at Geoff’s age in her final year at school, the trip to the hairdresser to lop off her plaits and reduce her dark-brown hair to jaw length, in preparation of starting work. But surely she had never been so childish as this boy? Certainly she had grown up very quickly in these last three weeks. A secret smile twitched her lips.

Still waiting for her right eye to stop smarting, tweaked by thoughts of other things, she continued to watch Geoff with her left. In his Boy Scout uniform, he was practising lobbing grenades, ripping out the pin with his teeth, and generally playing the big warrior. Except that the grenade was a potato. Stifling laughter, Nell leaned again on the windowsill to maintain her one-eyed surveillance, as, time and again, Geoff cantered with manly strides up the path, like a spin bowler hurtling for the wicket, his mouth emitting an explosion upon hitting the target.

Then his mother came upon the scene. ‘Geoffrey, what have I told you about wasting food?’ And, much to Nell’s further amusement, she cuffed him sharply round the head, ignoring his protests that he was only following orders.

Biting her lip in sympathy for poor Geoff’s plight, though still tickled, Nell finally managed to adorn her lashes with mascara, and added a quick smear of rouge to her lips and cheeks. At her mother’s further shout of impatience, she snatched a last look in the mirror, heaved in dissatisfaction for the tall and well-built figure reflected there, with its heavy breasts and thighs – such a big girl – then she prinked a dark-brown wave, smoothed the white sleeveless blouse and blue skirt, and tripped to the stairs.

But before she was halfway down, her mother witnessed a crime. ‘You are not leaving this house with bare legs!’

‘All my stockings are laddered!’ With no need to impress relatives, Nell had been hoping to save her one decent pair.

‘Then you can wear ankle socks!’

She turned back with a grumble. ‘Oh, all right, I’ll go and have another look …’

‘And close your window whilst you’re there!’

Nell’s white sandals stopped in mid-track. ‘It’ll be stifling!’

‘Why do you have to argue with every single request I make?’ It was Thelma Spottiswood’s turn to sound weary now. ‘Close it! It’ll be after blackout when we return, and I’ve no intention of leaving an open invitation to every crook in York. Anyone who’d stoop to pinching the lightbulb out of a public lavatory would have a field day in here.’

Nell wanted to complain that, if previous so-called family parties were anything to go by, they would be home well before nine thirty. Nevertheless, she went back to her room to don stockings and to pull down the sash – which was criss-crossed with brown tape as a safeguard against being shattered by bombs, even though York had been virtually free of those after almost a year of war – for it didn’t do to upset Mother. Be prepared, that was Thelma Spottiswood’s motto, as testified in her stock cupboards, her first-aid box, the stirrup pump forever at hand, and the thermos flask close to the kettle ready to fill with hot water in case of an air raid. So, being a considerate girl at heart, Nell did as she was told, finally arriving downstairs to present herself with a smile.

But her heart was to sink, as her father ordered dispassionately, ‘You can get that muck off your face for a start.’ Making ready for his stint as a member of the Home Guard, and changed from his shirt and tie into its newly issued khaki, Wilfred Spottiswood bent to put on his bicycle clips. But just because he would not be attending the party did not mean he would allow his daughter free rein. ‘You look like a trollop.’

With no expectation that Mother would spring to her defence, a dutiful but inwardly hurt Nell rubbed at her lips with a handkerchief, hoping not to blot away too much of the colour. That was one of the drawbacks of having elderly guardians – no, positively ancient, thought Nell, who still found it astonishing that they had been children at the time of Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee – how could one expect them to understand a modern girl’s outlook? Father would quite gladly spend all weekend in his garden, or painting the house, and keeping both immaculate – but woe betide if his daughter should attempt to embellish her looks. Checking the pockets of his battledress for his identity card and his manual, and slinging a rifle over one shoulder and a gas mask over the other, he finally deigned to spare her another, rather resentful, glance. The fact that he made no comment informed Nell that she was classified as fit to leave the house.

Father, though, was the first of them to depart, saying, ‘Have a good time at your party, but don’t be too late home.’

‘That’s if we ever get there,’ sniped his wife, with an accusing glance at their daughter.

Good time indeed! A grouchy Nell knew where she would rather be. Waiting now for her mother to don hat and gloves, she wandered to the window and watched her father push his bicycle to the footpath, where he paused to run a critical eye over his newly clipped privet. What could possibly be out of place? Why, it looked as if he had used a blasted spirit level on it! Then he cycled off, a grey, reserved and unhealthy figure, who spared not a wink of curiosity for the folk who were moving in. This was no surprise to Nell, for, outside work, the only human being to whom he paid lip service was her mother. Mother was a marvel at everything, possessing the ability to whip up a delicious meal despite this rationing, and would have it on the table the moment Father came in, and treated him as lord and master. As for their daughter, they seemed to think it sufficient that they were donating every material comfort that Father’s good position at the insurance firm could endow: a room of her own in a well-furnished house; a family car – even though it might be stuck in the garage most of the time due to wartime restrictions on petrol; elocution lessons to oust any trace of Yorkshire accent that they themselves retained; a grammar-school education, and a decent job to follow it. Yes, Nell was grateful for their sacrifices, and it was perhaps understandable when they had endured twelve childless years before adopting her that they wanted to be constantly involved. But did they have to be such old miseries?

‘What are you sighing at now?’ came the testy demand.