Lily's Journey Read online

  Lily’s Journey

  TANIA CROSSE

  For my brother and his wife,

  two very brave and amazing people.

  And, as ever, for my wonderful husband,

  for his love and his unfailing support.

  Thank you for always being there.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Available from ALLISON & BUSBY

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Out of the darkness there came a wavering pinpoint of light. It was difficult to tell in the disorientating pitch black, but it appeared to be wavering in my direction.

  ‘Just be careful it isn’t a Dartmoor pixie,’ the railway guard had winked at me as he got back on the train. At least, I think he had winked. I couldn’t really see in the yellow glimmer from the storm-lamp that swung from his raised arm, but his voice had portrayed some amusement. He had been concerned at leaving me alone on the isolated station. Well, I say station, but it only bore the name of a halt and from what I could make out, it was nothing more than a raised platform with a small hut at either end. I told the guard someone was meeting me and watched as he retrieved the oil-wells from the two lampposts, plunging the halt into almost total darkness.

  ‘Last train has to do this, see,’ he explained, and when there was no sign of another living soul, he made the train wait, which amazed me. You wouldn’t find that in London! But we were miles from London. Miles from anywhere, or so it seemed.

  And then it appeared that someone really was coming and the guard hopped back on board. There was the usual squeak and lurch and hissing of steam, and the two carriages of the little moorland train moved off into the night.

  I watched it go, the red light at the rear fading into the blackness. It was as if my last contact with civilisation was being borne away for ever, leaving me behind, and I suddenly felt very alone. I shivered as the cold November wind licked about me, and I began to tremble. I had seen where I was going on a map, but just then I didn’t have a clue where I was. Just somewhere in the middle of nowhere. And so I turned my attention back to the single white light in the distance. It was growing brighter. Drawing nearer. The train guard obviously hadn’t really thought it was a pixie, but I could have believed it was. I still couldn’t see who – or what – was carrying the light.

  And so I waited. It had been a long day. I was tired and just wanted the journey to be over so that I could go to sleep. But now my heart was racing.

  At last I could just make out the silhouette of a man, a darker shadow in the obscurity that surrounded it. I stood perfectly still. Like a statue.

  Could it be that the figure coming towards me, this total and utter stranger who I had never known, really was my father?

  The light was almost on me now, and I could hear footsteps on the gravel that topped the narrow railway halt. The beam of light struck my face, blinding me, and I instinctively swivelled my head away, eyes tightly shut. I felt like a cornered animal, vulnerable and afraid, and turned back to defend myself, shielding my eyes from the dazzle.

  ‘You Lily?’

  I still couldn’t see anything beyond the flare of the torch, but I heard the voice, clear and gruff. At least it wasn’t that mischief-making Dartmoor pixie.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered boldly, not wanting him to know that I was as nervous as a frightened rabbit.

  ‘I’m your father. Follow me and keep up, or you’ll do your ankle on the rough ground.’

  For a moment or two, I didn’t move. What had I expected? Some joyous reunion? A hug? He was already walking away, shining the torch in front of him instead of into my face so that my vision had the chance to adjust. In a panic, I picked up my luggage and ran to catch him up. I wasn’t going to be left behind in this wild, inhospitable place. I was cold, not just with the damp and the wind that laughed at my city clothes and blew up inside my fashionably full skirt, but with a coldness that had penetrated my heart.

  It wasn’t easy, carrying the heavy case. I’m of a slight build and not terribly strong. Jeannie, now, she could have managed much better. Ah, Jeannie, my dear friend in London. I had only left the city I loved that morning, but already my life there seemed an age away and I had to force myself to imagine what Jeannie’s reaction to the situation would have been. She’d have winked and whispered bloomin’ ’eck under her breath. I felt a smile twitch at my lips, and the strength of our long friendship sparked inside me.

  ‘Do you think you could slow down?’ I called. ‘This case is heavy.’

  The figure halted and paused for a moment before turning back. I braced myself, instinctively expecting some sharp rebuff, but he merely grunted as he reluctantly took the suitcase from me without uttering a word. He was still a featureless, black form, shoulders hunched, as I trudged on behind him. My eyes were trained on the ever-changing ground illuminated in the shaft of torchlight. We were walking along an uneven, grassy track, totally unsuitable for my shoes. I only had the one pair, a sensible court shoe with a broad one-inch heel. Comfortable enough for me to be on my feet all day at work, but useless out here. The grass suddenly became earth. Muddier and muddier until we came to a point where the entire width was flooded. My father walked straight through without slowing his pace. I tried to step round the side, hoping my feet would find some drier ground as I couldn’t see in the dark. Instead, they slid on deep sludge that squelched over the top of my shoes. I could feel the cold slime seeping through my nylons and between my toes.

  The path became firmer. Just as well, as my feet were slithering inside my shoes. I thought I could distinguish the inky hulk of a building on the left, and fifty yards or so further on, another which appeared to be below me. There must be a drop, so I was careful to follow exactly in my father’s footsteps. Then he turned sharply between two stone walls and the wind whipped across my face as I followed in his wake. The walls on either side must have funnelled the air-stream through the narrow gap, and I shivered inside my gabardine raincoat. I realised, though, that we were walking between some buildings, cottages I assumed, and a second or two later, my father opened a door to the left. I wanted to get inside out of the cold, but the moment had come when I would see Sidney Latham face to face.

  I shut the door behind me. It was scarcely any less dark, and I waited for a light bulb to burst into life, bright and comforting. But my father’s silhouette was fiddling with something on what seemed to be a table. I heard the rasp of a match being struck. It flared, small and yellow in the gloom, and as an amber glow diffused through the murk, it dawned on me with astonishment that he had been lighting an oil-lamp.

  ‘Stop dithering by the door, girl, and come in,’ he growled.

  I was taken aback. Who did he think he was? I
felt like answering back, but thought better of it. I didn’t want to start my new life on the wrong foot.

  ‘I’ll just take off my shoes,’ I said instead. ‘They’re muddy.’

  ‘No need. You’ll soon learn you can’t keep mud out. Stone floor. Just mops over. No lino or fancy rugs like you’re no doubt used to.’

  ‘I’ll take them off anyway,’ I insisted, determined not to be intimidated.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ he shrugged.

  I stepped forward in my squelching, stockinged feet. It felt quite revolting, and the stone floor was so cold despite the surprisingly warm atmosphere. My father had lit a second lamp, turning it up so that the place flooded with a flickering, jaundiced radiance. We were in a kitchen. It was fairly small, perhaps ten foot square. Even inside, the walls were bare stone. They looked as if they had once been whitewashed, or perhaps it was just the light. A plain dresser with plates and cups and saucers stood along one wall, and in the centre was a simple wooden table with two rustic chairs. My father had his back to me, and I realised he was attending to an old cast-iron range. I was fascinated and yet horrified at the same time. I felt I had stepped back a hundred years.

  ‘Let’s see you, then.’

  If his bark was curt and unfriendly, I wasn’t going to let him see it had upset me. I tilted my chin as I came into the light, head held high and my eyes meeting his. He had a stern face, weather-worn and clean-shaven. He wasn’t particularly tall or broad, and clearly had no intention of removing his flat cap. He wore workman’s clothes and altogether looked like someone out of the 1930s depression photographs I had seen in a textbook at school. It was his narrow, mean mouth I noticed most, and his small eyes that looked me up and down. They stopped at my feet, and he failed to conceal a snort when he took in the mud-smeared toes. I saw him glance over his shoulder at the shoes I had placed neatly by the door.

  ‘Those are no good,’ he scorned.

  ‘I can see that,’ I bristled back. ‘But they’re all I’ve got. I’ll have to buy some more suitable ones. And some Wellingtons.’

  ‘Hope you’ve got some money, then.’

  ‘Yes, I have. So you needn’t worry about that.’

  I made my voice as abrasive as his. He blinked at me, but I held his gaze and he nodded slowly. We were getting the measure of each other. I had the distinct impression he wasn’t going to make my life easy.

  ‘Bring one of the lamps,’ he commanded a little less brusquely. ‘I’ll show you your room. Someone had left an old bedstead in one of the cottages, and I got a mattress from someone in Princetown. Their son was killed in the war and they’ve just got round to clearing out his room.’

  ‘Poor people,’ I answered with compassion. ‘War goes on affecting people’s lives long after it’s over, doesn’t it?’

  As I spoke the words, I realised how relevant they were to my father. And so I pronounced them with slow deliberation, catching his eye and hoping he would realise that I understood. Perhaps it would help break the ice. But he pushed past me and taking up my suitcase, stomped up the narrow staircase. I followed, bringing the oil-lamp as he had instructed.

  My room was on the opposite side at the top. It struck so much colder than downstairs in the kitchen, and it smelt musty. I put down the lamp on a chest of drawers. That was all there was, and the bed. The floorboards were bare. It was like a prison cell.

  ‘The mattress sags but it’s clean and dry. I got you the drawers from the same people.’ He deposited my case on the bed and then went over to light the candle in a cracked china holder next to where I had put the lamp.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said without expression. ‘I’ll pay you for everything, of course.’

  ‘No need. Didn’t cost me anything. Now you just unpack what you need for tonight. You’ll see better to do the rest in the morning.’

  He took up the lamp, leaving me alone with the feeble, vacillating flame from the candle. I heard him plod down the stairs and then all was quiet. So quiet. I’d never experienced such silence. It hummed in my ears. Mocked me. I sat down on the bed and let my eyes take in the room. Cold, stone walls. Torn curtains at a small window. It was so different from the cosy, friendly home I had left behind in London. My chin quivered and I wanted to cry. Where were the buses and the traffic at the end of the road, the streetlights, and the knowledge that there were people all around? Where was Jeannie, and where was my mum?

  Her face flashed before me. Not the face creased with laughter at Arthur Askey’s jokes on the radio, her eyes running with tears of mirth. Or the smile that greeted me each morning and tucked me up at night. But the motionless face, the mask of grey marble, sightless eyes closed, that lay on the crispy white hospital pillow.

  I leapt to my feet, dashing my hand over my eyes. I couldn’t turn back the hands of time. It was no good having regrets, and after all, it had been my choice to come and live with the father I’d never known I had. Surely it must be better than going into the children’s home I had been threatened with.

  ‘You’re only fifteen,’ the officious dragon from the local authorities had said. ‘You might have left school and have a job, but the 1948 Children’s Act makes you our responsibility until you’re eighteen.’

  Well, there had been no way I was giving up my newfound independence to go into a children’s home! So I had told her what my mother had revealed to me in the letter, proving it with my birth certificate and the adoption papers and pretending that I had always known all about it. And so now I was here.

  I glanced around the room again. I could make it more welcoming with a couple of rugs and some new curtains. I was handy with a needle and could perhaps make a pretty cover to hide the rusty bedstead. The bedclothes were topped with a heavy, somewhat old eiderdown, so a new counterpane to throw over it would make a difference. I had brought with me a couple of my mother’s figurines that I could display on the window sill, and I would add to them in time. Make the room mine.

  I peeled off my wet stockings and changed my flowing skirt and petticoat for some slacks, the only pair I had but they were clearly going to be of far more use. I had put on my twin-set and pearls that morning, wanting to look my best. I was convinced that my father would deride their unsuitability, so I put a thick cardigan I had knitted myself over the top. I took a deep breath and padded down the stairs in my bare feet, candle in one hand and slippers in the other.

  ‘Where can I wash my feet, please?’ I enquired in a polite but confident tone.

  ‘Bowl over there,’ he nodded, ‘hot water in the kettle and cold in the bucket. I’ve washed your shoes inside and out. They should be dry by the morning.’

  I felt encouraged. That was certainly more civil, so perhaps I had been mistaken in my original impression of him.

  ‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’ I gathered everything he had indicated to wash my dirty feet and since I couldn’t see a tap or a sink anywhere, I asked innocently, ‘Where do we get the water from?’

  ‘Leat on the other side of the track. By the entrance to the old quarry,’ he answered. ‘I suppose you expected running water and electric and gas, did you? Well, my girl, if you want to live with me, you’ll have to put up with what’s here. I live by nature, the way God intended. None of your lazy, labour-saving devices here. The water runs, though. Straight off the moor.’

  The muscles of his face moved into a sardonic grimace and I cringed. My initial reaction had been right after all. I didn’t know how I was going to stand living with him, but for now, I had no choice.

  ‘Is that safe?’ I asked, attempting polite conversation as I dried my feet and wriggled them into my slippers.

  ‘That leat has served people living here for over a hundred years. It’s been good enough for me, and it’ll be good enough for you.’

  Well, that had fallen on stony ground. I felt like telling him not to be so rude and ill-tempered, but I held my tongue. It wouldn’t serve any purpose to make matters worse. I had seen the Devonport Leat marked in blue
on the OS Map of Dartmoor I had bought, so I had guessed that a leat was some sort of stream. Possibly man-made to divert water for some purpose. But I didn’t fancy drinking water from a stream any more than I fancied sleeping in a dead man’s bed.

  ‘So what do we do for a lavatory?’ I ventured.

  ‘Pot under your bed,’ came the short reply. I might have known! ‘Empty it wherever you want. There are some old earth privies out on the tip if you prefer.’

  ‘Right. Thank you.’

  And thank God I had used the facilities when I had changed trains at Yelverton Station so that I didn’t need to go just yet. My father was ladling something out of a saucepan on the range, and he put the two bowls on the table before standing behind his chair, head bowed and hands clasped. I frowned, and then the penny dropped. A good, staunch Methodist, the local preacher had stated in the reference the welfare people had requested. I stood to attention. My mother had been Chapel, but she had never insisted that I went with her once I was old enough to stay behind on my own. But I had no objection if my father wanted to say grace.

  We sat down afterwards and he cut some chunks of bread and poured out some tea. I had to explain that tea makes me sick, to which he replied that he didn’t keep coffee in the house so, unless I wanted water, I’d have to go without. As it happened, I wasn’t fussed, and was more concerned about the greasy stew that was staring up at me from the bowl. It looked unpalatable and I wasn’t sure I could stomach it, so I didn’t mind that he had given me half a bowl as opposed to his own full one.

  ‘So who else lives here?’ I dared to ask as I tried to force down a second spoonful. It tasted disgusting, all fat and gristle.

  ‘Didn’t that Ellen teach you not to talk at mealtimes?’ Sidney Latham snarled.

  I’d had enough, and it riled me to hear my beloved mother referred to in such a way. I was tired, and I wasn’t going to let this bully have the upper hand. ‘No, she didn’t. You may not have noticed but this is 1952, not the Dark Ages. I will be polite and I won’t talk with my mouth full, but there is nothing wrong with talking over a meal.’