Chapters (38)
- Cover
- RITA BRADSHAW
- Dedication page
- Acknowledgements
- PART ONE
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- PART TWO
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- PART THREE
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- PART FOUR
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Epilogue
- One Snowy Night
- By Rita Bradshaw
It came to Adam as he continued to stare at her bent head that Ruby wasn’t the only one who had changed. This thought unsettled him more than the rest of their conversation but he didn’t want to examine why. He stood up, stretching as he said, ‘I’m for bed. I’m meeting the lads first thing to plan the week ahead although to my mind it’s a bit like shutting the door after the horse has bolted. We should’ve been more organized from the start. None of our lot took into account that the government would use the newspapers and the wireless to turn the British people against us, but how can we come back and challenge their lies with no voice? They’re saying the strike’s against law and order and King and country and calling us enemies of the state, and there’s that Cardinal Bourne telling the whole nation the strike’s an offence against Almighty God an’ all. That’s even put the wind up Catholic workers, let alone the middle class. It’s a mess, I tell you straight.’
‘I’ll be up in a minute when I’ve finished this.’
Once he had gone upstairs Olive put down her mending. She couldn’t see what she was doing for the tears blinding her and streaming down her face. He hadn’t forgiven her. He would never forgive her, and the fact that it was only what she deserved didn’t make it any easier to bear.
Chapter Eighteen
Ruby’s heart was pounding fit to burst. She stood in the middle of the establishment that until recently had been a sweet shop, looking about her. Shafts of sunlight slanted through the mullioned bay window and sounds from the street outside filtered through into the empty room. The walls were lined with shelves which had held large glass jars of every kind of confectionery, along with boxes of chocolates and bonbons, trays of coconut ice and different varieties of toffee, and other treats. The lingering smell made her mouth water, but all that was left now were the little scales and small brass scoop on the long wooden counter.
This was hers, she told herself, still hardly able to believe it. This shop, the one-bedroomed flat above and the small annexe that took up most of the tiny backyard, was hers.