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A Daughter’s Secret
Anne Bennett
A moving and gritty saga of loss, separation and finally hope, set in wartime BirminghamAgnes Sullivan is fifteen when her young brother Tom finds her drunk and crying in the lane near their farm. Her dancing teacher has raped her and abandoned her. Aggie is forced to leave home when she discovers she’s pregnant and Tom, barely a teenager himself, decides the teacher must pay for his actions.Aggie flees to Birmingham, but the safe haven she’s been promised turns out to be too dangerous to stay in. She’s left with few options until someone she would never have spoken to in her former life gives her the help she so desperately needs. But will World War One ruin her precarious hopes of a future?Anne Bennett’s sagas of Birmingham during the wars have won her many fans, as they are packed full of emotion, determination and authenticity. Regional sagas don’t come any better than this.
ANNE BENNETT
A Daughter’s Secret
COPYRIGHT (#ulink_7bd5094d-75f0-520a-9784-ad5b35cb9aa2)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
This paperback edition 2008
1
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2007
Copyright © Anne Bennett 2007
Anne Bennett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Find out more about HarperCollins and the environment at
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This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Ebook Edition © JUNE 2008 ISBN: 9780007283576
Version: 2017-09-08
DEDICATION (#ulink_6052a552-c465-597d-b241-a9c504025698)
To my grandson Jake, the eldest Bennett boy, with all my love
CONTENTS
Cover (#ube6ee4e4-b44a-5c62-a1d1-210065448f61)
Title Page (#u85bc6330-560f-55f0-8d46-3f912e151f6f)
Copyright (#udc5e8652-4b84-59f7-a9c4-f84c73203725)
Dedication (#u79850779-9a50-53d8-9498-73868e491ce6)
Chapter One (#u66945145-52df-5716-892f-ec3b1cfd5e05)
Chapter Two (#udc719d2a-0a5b-531e-a8f2-98d29fdb2c0a)
Chapter Three (#u49e06fa0-7aef-51da-aac1-f9061a73abff)
Chapter Four (#ucfbdbc99-2654-53bb-922a-240d494d21c4)
Chapter Five (#u7d023b61-08a1-57c6-a40e-677180cd17f7)
Chapter Six (#u9b8e3dcc-2918-577f-863c-3003418514be)
Chapter Seven (#u731d64c8-2ee3-536d-a213-a06842675bf5)
Chapter Eight (#u143e936e-d786-5585-83a1-ee0e8ba9935a)
Chapter Nine (#u87f21a79-62ca-5157-895f-91410fbfeec8)
Chapter Ten (#udcd012ec-dd67-5b04-a8a0-75f668442ec4)
Chapter Eleven (#u238b9c52-49b6-5c4a-9aeb-428b33dfefa0)
Chapter Twelve (#u3b8131ea-afa2-5b5c-8e31-2e0fdb0a4e30)
Chapter Thirteen (#u913b71d8-b7f3-5c4b-a7c7-4aea982faec3)
Chapter Fourteen (#u1ef98681-be1f-552f-a567-28ec31172640)
Chapter Fifteen (#u3b22e85e-03ce-581f-9aa2-45efcb8ed463)
Chapter Sixteen (#u4bc8a361-14db-5554-badb-613a596624a3)
Chapter Seventeen (#ua2aa9ddb-f98d-50e1-9580-612c8fa8d575)
Chapter Eighteen (#ub0549019-5778-5055-82ed-6e25f2936e90)
Chapter Nineteen (#u00493500-36b0-56a0-bed7-fd67bcb07b28)
Chapter Twenty (#u54b7581b-cdb5-593f-8158-cb26e7f89128)
Chapter Twenty-One (#u4a769d00-9889-586a-add9-2e040fb10f67)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#u68176f43-e4c8-5fac-931d-db8c9ad710c9)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#u43540868-bfaf-51ce-8751-9e9d6b48109d)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#ub1604a30-944e-52ef-8bf5-af5d20d1b649)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#u4f2ef0c5-1b49-59a4-abc7-a185686cb1f1)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#ud05f7517-8eca-5b1c-a3bd-c7f663caa771)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#u41fe5bf2-b86d-5a3b-8fbc-9f97d1e2847c)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#u1aca289a-8266-5ede-8be9-f8af01187a8b)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#u17b613dc-35cc-549a-9380-e12bd988797c)
Acknowledgements (#u29ed6302-c0e8-5232-8153-7448014199bf)
About the Author (#ua08945b4-12f5-5814-ac39-3c1061e7adf0)
Also by the Author (#ua41caa45-a91a-5996-b07a-6b5f615004f4)
About the Publisher (#u0c11b634-9ab4-5e0d-9b54-a4c0877e2965)
ONE (#ulink_95596fff-c18a-58be-8bd0-8bcccceac1e4)
As Thomas John Sullivan drove the horse and cart past St Mary’s Catholic church on the way home from Buncrana, the nearest market town, the noon Angelus bell was tolling.
‘Dear Lord, but it’s perishing cold,’ his wife, Biddy, commented from the seat beside him. ‘The fields and hedgerows are still as heavily rimed with frost as they were this morning, for the sun hasn’t put in an appearance all day.’
‘Aye,’ Thomas John agreed, ‘it’s mighty cold, right enough. That’s Donegal for you. Sure, don’t we have the coldest of winters here at times?’
‘We do indeed. Is the child all right, Aggie?’
In the back of the cart, Aggie nursed her little brother, Finn, holding his body tight against her own, her warmest shawl wrapped around the two of them, and yet still he shivered.
‘He is all right,’ she said. ‘Just cold, like the rest of us.’
To divert him, Aggie said, ‘We’ll be home in no time now, and it’s meant to be cold, Finn, for it is nearly Christmas.’ She knew that Finn would know little of Christmas, or Santa Claus either, for he was only just turned eighteen months old. She saw a slight frown pucker his brow as she went on, ‘You’ll like Santa Claus, Finn. He brings good boys and girls presents.’
The child would, she knew, barely know the word ‘present’ either, for the Sullivan children had few of them. There was no money for such frivolities. But for Finn, the youngest, it would be different. Much had been made of him by all the family when he arrived. Aggie knew her mother had bought a few wee things in Buncrana that morning to fill his stocking on Christmas morning and she was looking forward to seeing his face.
‘Aye, nearly Christmas,’ Biddy said. ‘And then the turn of the year – 1898, I wonder what that will bring.’
Thomas John chuckled. ‘What would it bring, woman, but more of the same? Life seldom changes much, except we all get older.’
Aggie thought her father was right, and she was glad. She liked the familiarity of one day following the other predictable and safe. She had been twelve in June, so she had left school and now helped her mother in the home full time. She always looked forward to Saturday morning when she would go to Buncrana with her parents, leaving her brothers Tom and Joe to mind the farm. Her mother would sell their surplus produce in the market, like many other farmers, while Aggie went with her father to buy things needed for the farm. Since Finn’s birth, however, her primary task was to look after him while her parents were busy.
She didn’t mind this in the slightest, for it gave her a chance to meet up with her former classmates, and especially her best friend, Cissie Coghlan.
That day, though, it had been so cold that she had been glad to go home, and she was looking forward to getting into the warm house and out of the wind. When they passed the church she breathed a sigh of relief that they were not that far from home.
Tom and Joe were waiting for them in the yard, having heard the rumble of the cart. Thomas John brought it to a halt in the cobbled yard before the squat whitewashed cottage, scattering the pecking hens as he did so, and alerting the two dogs, who came from the barn barking a greeting.
Tom went forward to take the horse, saying as he did so, ‘I have the water on to boil and the potatoes are in a bucket on the stool inside.’
Biddy nodded and said to Aggie, who was climbing out of the cart with Finn in her arms, ‘Take the wee one inside. This intense cold is too much for him.’
The warmth hit Aggie as she opened the door. The room was dimly lit from the one small window at the end, though the sky looked grey and cloud-laden. But the fire burned brightly in the hearth and she saw that one of the boys, likely Tom, had banked it up with peat. There was a further stack of it the other side of the fireplace. The heavy black pot was heating the water over the fire, held up by one of the hooks of the crane that folded out from the wall.
She carried Finn across the stone-flagged floor and sat him near the warmth on a creepie, a low seat made of bog oak.
‘You sit there, my wee man, and get warm while I start dinner for us all,’ she said, and she was rewarded by a broad smile from Finn as he felt the heat from the fire.
Aggie ladled water from the pot above the fire into a basin, which she then placed on the table, the bucket of potatoes beside her ready for scrubbing. Her mother came in, followed by Joe, carrying parcels. One of these newspaper-wrapped bundles Biddy placed beside Aggie: she knew what was in it and that was fish that her father had bought from the fleet at Buncrana harbour.
Later, with the scrubbed potatoes boiling in their jackets in the big pot, and the plates taken from the dresser and put on to the side of the hearth to warm, Aggie helped her mother prepare the fish for frying, first, chopping off their heads and then slicing through each one expertly to remove the bone, as she had been taught from a child.
It was as the family was halfway through the meal and their hunger somewhat eased that Aggie said, ‘Me and Cissie were talking to Mr McAllister today.’
Biddy looked at her daughter. She knew McAllister was newly arrived in the town and there had been great curiosity about the family as there would be about anyone new. Biddy said, ‘Isn’t he the husband of Philomena, who was left the grocery store?’
Aggie nodded.
Thomas John frowned slightly. ‘And what business had a man like that with two young girls?’
‘He was nice, Daddy,’ Aggie protested. ‘I’m sure he was just being neighbourly. He asked our names, and when I said mine was Aggie Sullivan he said he could take a bet that wasn’t my given name and that Agnes had a much better sound to it.’
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ snapped her mother. ‘You are called Aggie and that’s all there is to it.’
‘Whisht,’ Thomas John cautioned his wife. ‘Let the girl get on with her tale. What else did he say?’
‘Then he asked would we like to learn to do the Irish dances properly and I said yes but there was no one now to teach us,’ Aggie continued.
‘Seems a strange thing to ask a body,’ Biddy said. ‘Why would he ask you a question like that?’
Tom, two years younger than Aggie, kept his head down so that his mother wouldn’t see his smile. He knew Aggie would have liked to dance all the day long if she had been let. He could take a bet she and Cissie had been jigging about and this McAllister had seen them. No wonder he asked them such a question.
Aggie didn’t answer her mother. Instead she went on, ‘Mr McAllister said it was shameful for us to lose our heritage this way and that he came from the West where such things were prized highly.’
‘Not just now he didn’t,’ Biddy said. ‘His wife was only after telling me this morning that they had been living in Birmingham, England this long while when news came of her aunt’s death. She was really surprised that she had been left the grocer’s shop in the town.’
‘Anyway,’ Aggie said, fearing that they had gone off the track a little, ‘he has offered to teach us to dance, and he said he can also play tin whistle and fiddle, and he can teach any who want to learn those too.’
‘I dare say he would have the time right enough,’ Biddy recounted wryly, ‘for he is more this side of the counter than the other side. He seems to prefer talking with the customers to serving them. His wife has her work cut out with four wee ones to see to as well, for he doesn’t seem to be great in that department either.’
‘Talk sense, woman,’ Thomas John said. ‘What man has a great hand in rearing weans? Sure, that’s a woman’s job.’
‘I know that,’ Biddy said. ‘I just think it a shame that that Philomena McAllister has such a hard time of it. She told me herself her husband is too fond of sitting in Grant’s Bar. In fact, he is there so often she wonders if he has shares in the place.’
‘That’s between them, surely,’ Thomas John replied, ‘and not our business at all, at all. From what I see of McAllister, he’s a personable-looking fellow and he is right, the children shouldn’t forget their heritage. But there has been no one bothered since Matty Phelan died a few years ago.’
‘There’s nothing like a spot of Irish dancing right enough,’ Biddy conceded. ‘I could fling my heels up with the best of them when I was a girl.’
‘So I can go?’ Aggie burst in, almost breathless with excitement.
