Contents (57)
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- 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
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- Also by Sharon Gosling
‘Really, Ron, say no more. I never should have asked. I of all people should understand not wanting to revisit the past.’
‘Oh?’
Toby shook his head. ‘Never mind.’ He looked towards the kitchen, thinking. He reached into his satchel and took out a notebook and pen.
‘What are you doing?’ Ron asked, as Toby scribbled a quick note.
‘I’m going to leave a note for Gilly. There’s a spare room at the cottage where I’m staying. She may as well use it if she needs somewhere.’
He waited until Dora McCreedy left and then went to the bar and had a quiet word with the landlord, who eyed the folded note with suspicion but nodded all the same.
Gilly worked until the end of her shift, not because she had any hope that she would still have a job at the end of it, but because she didn’t want to give Stan any excuse to stiff her on the day’s pay. Besides, she needed her share of the tips, and she wouldn’t get them if she walked out. She’d known the minute she’d seen the McCreedy bitch at the bar that the writing was on the wall. Gilly had started at the pub on Sunday, after going in late on Saturday and being told that they could use the help straight away because their usual girl was off for a week. Since then she’d worked as hard and as well as she knew how. She’d got on fine with everyone in the kitchen, she’d kept her head down and avoided questions, done as she was told, not got in anyone’s way, not smashed anything, been quick, been good. Stan was more than happy to pay her cash at the end of each day. Gilly wasn’t stupid – she knew she was getting less because of it, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. It was fine, anyway, because so long as she could sleep in the shed, there wasn’t much she needed to buy. All she really needed was food, and she knew how to survive on little enough of that. Especially when one of the perks of working in a kitchen was sometimes being allowed to take leftovers. Not that she ever asked. That might make it seem as if she needed them.
‘You can finish up now, Gilly,’ said Jo, from the other side of the kitchen. A big woman with a friendly face, the girl had tried to avoid her because she knew Jo had at least one teenager at home and had looked at her a bit too carefully when Gilly had lied about her age. ‘Stan wants to see you. He’s in the bar.’
Gilly picked up the last tray of glasses before walking through the double doors and into the pub’s dim main room. The last of the punters had gone, leaving behind only the smell of old beer and stale crisps. The landlord was at the till, cashing up. Gilly set the tray down and began to unload the glasses, watching as he counted out her wages. Someone had already divided up the tips, six small piles of silver and copper, ready to go into the worker’s tip bags. Gilly didn’t have a tip bag, hadn’t even been offered one. She had always been intended as an impermanence.