Tomorrow the World

Tomorrow the World

Table of Contents

Someone once said life was a wonderful adventure.

As a child I knew poverty and violence, and my only saving was the stories I wove around me, a cocoon in which to hide.

It was never easy, but I would not want to change my life in any way. I owe a great debt of gratitude to the people I knew then, and now, whether they be good or bad; and others, family and friends, who lift my spirits when I’m low, and comfort me when I’m sad.

So many people have touched my life: family and friends; neighbours; readers; professionals who shape and build my career; and so many more. People I hold dear to my heart. Some I will never meet, such as those who write to me from across the world, whose every word I cherish.

My big brother Sonny has been there for as long as I can remember. He was called ‘Sonny’ because as a child he was always smiling. He likes a pint, and he likes to sing, and we love him very much.

God bless you, sweetheart. Get well soon, and we’ll have you dancing in the aisles before you know it.

Part One

1850–1

SECRET LOVE

Chapter One

‘Are you afraid of me?’

‘Never!’

‘Then trust me.’ A charming, confident fellow, Peter Doyle had the mistaken idea that every woman in the world fancied him. ‘The snow’s coming down heavily,’ he told Bridget, ‘you’ll never get through on foot.’ He’d had his eye on Bridget ever since she came to work at Weatherfield Grange. ‘I insist on taking you home.’

‘No thank you, sir.’ Wise beyond her years, Bridget always felt nervous in his presence.

‘You are afraid of me!’ His smile was wonderful, but he had a certain naughty gleam in his eye, and judging from the way he moved his hand inside his trousers, he also had a rising bulge that would not be contained. It was a long time since his wife had shown him any favours. A man had to get his pleasures wherever he could.

As a rule he had no difficulty in persuading even the shyest of creatures into his bed. But Bridget Mulligan was not like the others; at only twenty years of age, she was delightfully fresh and different. It was no wonder he wanted her but, as yet, he had not managed to worm his way into her affections – or her bed, more was the pity! Still, there was time enough yet. He was a patient man.

‘It’s very kind of you, sir,’ Bridget said, ‘but I don’t need to put you to any trouble because a friend of the family is collecting me any minute now.’

‘Really, my dear?’ Suspicious, Peter scrutinised her pretty features.

‘It’s a standing arrangement.’ When needs must, Bridget lied beautifully. ‘If it snows, like today, I’m to wait for him at the gate – and I must not accept a ride home from anyone else.’

‘Quite right, my dear,’ he grudgingly conceded. Secretly, he thought it was downright wicked, especially when he could have been giving her the best ‘ride’ of her life. Damn her eyes, and damn her friend with her!

For what seemed an age he stared at her; the smile frozen to his face, and the member in his trousers straining to burst forth. When she nervously returned his smile, he gave a shrug, a little laugh, then turned abruptly and left the room.

‘Good shuts!’ she hissed, relieved that he’d given up. ‘Randy old bugger, I know what you’re after, but you can whistle in the wind till kingdom come, for all you’ll get from me.’

As she made her way down the back path to the servants’ gate, Bridget was shocked to see how the weather had deteriorated since midday. Now, at half past six in the evening, the wind was sharp and bitter-cold, driving the snow into her face.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Cook rushed by, her coat above her head, and her long skirt flapping round her ankles. ‘I wouldn’t let a dog out on a night like this!’ A fat lady, too layered with lard to catch a cold, she was never without a nip of gin in her pocket, and as she paused at the gate, she sneaked a swig from the flask. ‘That’ll keep the goosy pimples away,’ she chuckled. Returning the flask to her pocket, she set herself against the wind and cut a crooked path home. She was soon out of sight, but the sound of her voice raised in song told its own merry tale.

Bridget laughed. ‘Drunk as a lord tonight, and crotchety as hell tomorrow. We’ll all suffer in the morning, you can be sure of that.’ Still, she had a fondness for the dear soul, and anyway, what was life all about if a lady of Cook’s responsibilities couldn’t have a nip or two of gin when the fancy took her?

Bridget looked up at the dark and laden sky. ‘I don’t like the look of it and that’s for sure.’ Wild and spiteful, the night air cut through her hooded coat. ‘By! It’s bloody freezing!’ Drawing her coat tighter about her, she glanced back to the house; it looked warm and cosy, with the lights blazing a path through the night. ‘Happen I should have let him take me home after all.’ Thinking of his disappointed face made her smile again. In truth, she would rather run naked in a storm than let a man like Peter Doyle have his way.

Coming to the gate in a hurry, she lost her footing and slid to the ground. ‘Damn and bugger it!’ Now she was wet to the bone, her boots letting the snow in. And to make matters worse, as she tried to struggle up, she realised with a sinking heart that she had turned her ankle.

She had two options. She could either bear the discomfort of her ankle and press ahead, or she could try and get back to the house.

A pleasant thought struck her.

If she was to go back to the house, Harry might be there. But no, Harry wasn’t back from Manchester yet. She knew that, because she’d been watching for him all day. It was strange how she missed him whenever he was away.

Feeling ashamed, she chastised herself. ‘Bridget Mulligan, shame on you! Here you are, thinking pleasant things of Harry, and you a married woman these past four months.’ She had no right even to look at another man, let alone miss him. Not when she had a loving husband like Tom.

‘Maybe Tom will come for me,’ she thought aloud. But there wasn’t much chance of that, she reminded herself. Tom was at the quarry, taking delivery of new rolling stock. Before he left this morning, he had warned her he might not be home until later than usual.

‘Aw, well.’ Brushing herself off, Bridget sighed. ‘I’m not going back to the house, not with the squire after me at every turn, and I don’t mean to sit here and freeze to death.’

As she struggled on, Bridget was afraid she might fall into some deep ditch and be lost for ever. The landmarks were rapidly disappearing beneath a blanket of snow and it was becoming increasingly difficult to see where the lane was. ‘The squire was right after all,’ she groaned, her teeth chattering uncontrollably, ‘though I would never give him the satisfaction of telling him so.’

With the wind howling and the snow lashing down, Bridget didn’t hear the cart coming up behind her.

‘Whoa, boy!’ Catching sight of the small, forlorn figure in front, Harry Little drew back on the reins. ‘Easy there… whoa!’ A strong young man in his early twenties, Harry had no trouble bringing the horse to a halt. Dropping the reins, he leaped from the cart and hurried forward.

‘Bridget! What the devil are you doing out in this weather?’ He was angry, but that was nothing new. Bridget had a way of making him angry; mostly because she was married to someone else and not to him.

Relieved, and utterly exhausted, Bridget fell into his arms. ‘Harry! Oh, Harry, you don’t know how glad I am to see you.’

He gently shook her. ‘Have you gone mad? What possessed you to set out on such a wild night?’

‘I didn’t know it was this bad.’

‘You should have waited. You know I would always see you home.’

‘I know.’ She had no intention of telling him how the squire had offered and she had refused.

‘Well, this is no time to argue the point. Come on.’ Effortlessly lifting her into his arms, he carried her over the rough ground. ‘Good God, woman! You’re soaked to the skin!’

Bridget made no reply. The feel of his strong arms about her made her feel safe and warm.

Harry Little was a contradiction to his name; he was a tall, powerful man, lean and lithe, but as gentle as a lamb. He had a thick mop of brown hair and hazel eyes, an easy smile, a quick temper, and a heart as kind as any you could hope to find.

‘There!’ Placing her on the seat at the front of the wagon, Harry took a blanket from a box under the seat. ‘That should help keep you warm.’

Watching Harry tuck the blanket round her legs, Bridget couldn’t help but smile. He was like a mother hen. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I know it was stupid of me to try and make my way home in this weather.’

He climbed on to the seat beside her. ‘So why did you do it?’

Bridget shrugged. ‘It’s Friday and I wanted to get home, that’s all. And now I’ve turned my ankle.’

‘Hmm!’ Clicking the horse on, he skilfully manoeuvred the cart to the highest ground; pitting his strength against the elements was no easy matter. ‘Hold on tight,’ he warned. ‘There’s no way round this lot, Bridget. We’ll have to plough right through it.’ The weather was worsening by the minute, and Blackburn town was a good six miles away.

Sneaking a glance at Bridget, Harry couldn’t help thinking how pretty she was. With that long, thick brown hair and big brown eyes, she had the bright, wondrous look of a child. Even now, with just her cold, pink nose poking above the blanket, her goodness shone out, and not for the first time he realised how much he loved her.

‘I’m surprised the master let you out at all,’ he said. ‘If he had any sense he’d have made you wait until I got back, or at least offered to take you home himself.’

‘He did.’ Bridget suspected that Harry already knew.

‘I thought as much.’ The wind was howling so loudly that he had to yell to make himself heard. ‘Fancied his chances, did he? The lecherous bugger!’

Just then the cart struck a boulder and the impact threw them sideways. ‘Jesus! That’s all we need.’ Harry climbed from the seat and took stock of the situation. ‘Part of the wall seems to have broken away,’ he called back. ‘It must have given out under the weight of snow.’ Squaring his shoulders, he began digging into the rubble with his bare hands. ‘Got to clear a way here,’ he shouted. ‘Stay where you are, and keep well wrapped up.’ The wind was like a cold, hard blade slicing through him.

Glancing up, he was angered to see Bridget climbing down from the cart. ‘No! Stay there!’ Waving his arms, he gestured to her not to come any further.

Pretending not to hear, Bridget ignored him. In no time at all, she was beside him, pulling her weight with his to roll back the large boulders that blocked their way.

‘You’re a stubborn little devil,’ Harry told her, but he admired her determination all the same, especially when he knew she was in pain from her ankle.

With the way partially cleared, Harry helped Bridget back to the cart and lifted her on to the seat. That done, he checked on the horse. ‘God willing, we’ll soon have you out of this,’ he told the tired creature, and for his reward he got a wet, grateful nose nuzzled in his face.

‘Is he all right?’ Bridget, too, was concerned about the horse.

‘He’s a big strong feller, used to all manner of weather.’ Harry clambered on to the seat and took up the reins once more, adding pointedly, ‘And he knows how to be patient, whereas you, you young bugger, couldn’t sit still if your life depended on it.’

‘It doesn’t though – does it?’ The danger they were in was all too apparent.

‘It well might, unless we can keep going.’ He knew they would have to negotiate some deep rutted tracks, invisible under the drifting snow, before coming to level ground.

Images of Tom coming home and not finding her there turned Bridget’s stomach. Her husband was a good man, but he was a stickler for routine; discipline, pattern and good order, that was Tom. So much so that if one day was too different from the one before, he could be impossible to live with.

Reaching out, Harry squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t you worry, sweetheart,’ he told her. ‘I’ll get you home.’

‘I know you will.’ Harry had a habit of calling her sweetheart. Tom never did, and that was a shame because when Harry did it, it made her feel warm all over. But then Harry and Tom were like chalk and cheese. Harry was twenty-two and Tom only four years older, but there was a world of difference between them. Harry was full of spirit, always smiling and cheerful, while Tom took life too seriously, rarely smiling, and always looking for the next problem. But the thought of Tom was strangely reassuring. She did love him, she told herself. In fact, she told herself this time and again, as though wanting to believe it.

‘Tom’s bound to worry if I’m not home when he gets back from the quarry.’ What she meant was, that Tom would throw a tantrum. That was his usual way of dealing with things that upset his precious routine.

Harry urged the horse on, gently tapping its rump with the whip. ‘Come on, feller, get the young lady home and it’s worth an extra bag of hay to you.’

The weary horse made a valiant effort, but deep down Harry was worried. If the wind kept up at this rate, they might not get through this side of morning.

‘How about if we turned back?’ Bridget was no fool. She knew the road well. She also knew the dangers.

‘Too late for that.’ Harry had given it a passing thought, but with the walls collapsing into their path and the road possibly blocked behind them, it was not an option. ‘Wrap that blanket tight about you,’ he advised. ‘With luck, the heavens will ease up and smile on us. All the same, from now on, if I ask you to stay on the cart, I’d be obliged if you’d do as you’re told. Two of us out there breaking our backs is downright reckless. If one of us gets hurt, there’s always a chance the other can fetch help.’