Chapters (71)
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- Part One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Part Two
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Part Three
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Part Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Part Five
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Books by Barbara Taylor Bradford
- About the Author
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Faith and wasn’t it a pity Bronagh had not managed to find her strength again, to go on living after catching a bout of scarlet fever. Only seventeen when she died, more’s the pity, Eileen thought, sadness filling her face. Life is hard, unsupportable sometimes, but we have to live what we are given.
And God doesn’t give us a burden we’re too weak to carry. At least, that’s what my mother believes. Oh, and I suppose so do I, Eileen admitted to herself.
Eileen went into the small larder and took out the package of pork sausages wrapped in greaseproof paper. There were four; one for each of them, and the fourth she would cut in half for Patrick and Blackie.
Placing a small pat of butter in the frying pan, she then opened the packet of sausages. She pricked them with a fork all over so they wouldn’t burst, and put them in the frying pan. Once they had begun to brown, she placed the chopped onions next to them. Sausage and mash for dinner, a favorite dish of her husband, which he ate with relish. She thought Blackie would enjoy it too.
A moment later, she heard the front door open and close, and as she moved forward Patrick put his head around the kitchen door.
“We’re back,” he said, smiling at her. “And famished. And doesn’t everything smell good.”
“Sausage and mash,” Eileen murmured, and noticing Blackie hovering behind Pat, she nodded. “There you are, Blackie. I bet he’s walked you all over Upper Armley.”
Blackie grinned. “And back again, and I swear on the heads of the Blessed Saints that I’ve never seen a nicer place. I’m going to like living here, Aunt Eileen, sure and I am.”
Ten
Like all poor, working-class folk, Blackie O’Neill was always preoccupied with food at some time or other during the day, with no exception.
His belly rumbled and he felt the first hunger pains begin around noon or twelve-thirty—the time of the midday meal, which he and everyone he knew referred to as dinner, but Cook at the big house and the Lassiters called lunch or luncheon. However, no matter what it was called, it was usually the main meal of the day. He and his cousins were convinced that only the aristocracy indulged themselves dining in the evening as well, with Cook working all day sometimes on different courses, or even another meal called supper.