A Family Christmas Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Katie Flynn

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Jimmy and Mo Trewin have been living with the cruel Mrs Huxtable since their mother died and their father left them. Life is miserable, but when Mrs Huxtable’s brutal son Cyril returns home, they are forced to run for their lives, leaving them homeless on the cold streets of Liverpool.

  Young teacher Glenys Trent has just lost her job. With no family to turn to, she’s expecting a bleak Christmas, until fate leads Jimmy and Mo to her door.

  Glenys’s lonely heart is touched by the two ragged children, and she agrees to help them find their mother’s family in Wales.

  But the journey is fraught with danger as Cyril continues to pursue them. Will they ever find a place of safety?

  About the Author

  Katie Flynn has lived for many years in the north-west. A compulsive writer, she started with short stories and articles and many of her early stories were broadcast on Radio Merseyside. She decided to write her Liverpool series after hearing the reminiscences of family members about life in the city in the early years of the twentieth century. For many years she has had to cope with ME, but has continued to write. She also writes as Judith Saxton.

  Also available by Katie Flynn

  A Liverpool Lass

  The Girl from Penny Lane

  Liverpool Taffy

  The Mersey Girls

  Strawberry Fields

  Rainbow’s End

  Rose of Tralee

  No Silver Spoon

  Polly’s Angel

  The Girl from Seaforth Sands

  The Liverpool Rose

  Poor Little Rich Girl

  The Bad Penny

  Down Daisy Street

  A Kiss and a Promise

  Two Penn’orth of Sky

  A Long and Lonely Road

  The Cuckoo Child

  Darkest Before Dawn

  Orphans of the Storm

  Little Girl Lost

  Beyond the Blue Hills

  Forgotten Dreams

  Sunshine and Shadows

  Such Sweet Sorrow

  A Mother’s Hope

  In Time for Christmas

  Heading Home

  A Mistletoe Kiss

  The Lost Days of Summer

  Christmas Wishes

  The Runaway

  A Sixpenny Christmas

  The Forget-Me-Not Summer

  A Christmas to Remember

  Time to Say Goodbye

  Available by Katie Flynn writing as Judith Saxton

  You Are My Sunshine

  First Love, Last Love

  Someone Special

  Still Waters

  A Family Christmas

  Katie Flynn

  For Jean Hughes: If there are any mistakes

  in the book they are mine; the bits I got

  right are thanks to Jean.

  Acknowledgements

  I am extremely grateful to Lyn Davies who heard I was hoping to meet someone who would be willing to talk to me about their life in WWII in the ATS. She put me in touch with Jean Hughes who at the age of 92 still has fantastic memories of being on the AckAck sites and kept a marvellous diary of her experiences, a copy of which she gave me.

  Dear Jean, I am so grateful to you for your help: you should write a book yourself.

  Dear Reader,

  Ever since returning from seeing my son and granddaughters in Australia, I feel as though I’ve been running which, in a way, I have been because I’ve been trying to catch up. I had written a third of A Family Christmas before I left, but on arriving back at my desk I realised with some horror that the plot, which had seemed simple enough when I left, had changed into a story so complex that I could see no way of resolving it!

  I had been away for just over two months and having to virtually scrap a third of a book and start at the beginning again . . . well, I’m sure you can imagine how I felt, and how my poor editor felt too. So instead of getting quietly on with the new story, I began to fiddle with what I had already written . . . and the awful thing was that though I had completely changed the plot, the names remained the same! And for some unknown reason I had named a goody Sam, in this book, whereas a couple of books ago (I think it was in A Sixpenny Christmas), the baddy had been called Sam. I cannot tell you how muddled this made us all, though we managed to sort it in the end!

  But enough of muddles! Flash is now getting on for sixteen years old and was not at all delighted to come out of the marvellous cattery, where he is an elder statesman, after being incarcerated for over two months. At first he retreated into his bedroom and refused totally to come out, then he tried his ‘litter room’, and when we finally got him out of his cosy retreat he refused to look at us, turning his back and laying his ears flat whenever he thought himself observed.

  He now takes in his stride the presence of my daughter-next-door’s two lurchers and two black cats, and they very wisely take no notice of him. But age has made him cautious and he no longer stalks the birds when they come to feed from the seed, peanut and fat hangers. They know in some mysterious way that he is no longer a threat and when we have a sunny day (rare!) he lies in a warm patch and observes in an avuncular manner – you would think him a model bird watcher with no more interest in our feathered friends than was proper.

  And I am comfortably into my next book, the early part of which is set in the Yorkshire Dales, though that may change . . . plots have a habit of twisting round and biting you on the nose if you take them for granted. I search for a title, groan groan, always the most difficult part of starting a new book. How about The Seventh Wave? Only so far the sea hasn’t come into it. Or The Straight and Narrow? I don’t think so! Or Searching for Tom? That might do, because the story starts with Madeleine, who is around ten, trying to follow in the footsteps of Charles Kingsley, who wrote The Water Babies, when she discovers that Mr Kingsley actually wrote the book in the Dales near where she lives, and she begins to hope that he really did find the little creatures . . . well, you never know . . . if anyone out there gets a better idea . . . I leave it in your capable hands!

  All best wishes,

  Sincerely,

  Katie Flynn.

  Prologue

  IT WAS A hot day, but then most days are hot in Malvonia, a small South American republic, and the tall, dark-haired man appeared to be sunk in thought and not taking much interest in his surroundings. Below him the water of the dock had small fish investigating the mud, but the man hardly seemed to notice. There were few people about, for it was siesta, when all the shops and offices closed and respectable people took to their beds and slept away the hottest part of the day.

  The man was scarcely aware of the heat, for he was thinking of his home and his children. His mind played wistfully with a mental picture of snow on holly branches, children skating on the nearest pond and gifts beneath the Christmas tree.

  He had already bought presents for his son and daughter and wrapped them with great care in several layers of tissue.
Then he had placed the gifts in a stout box, sealing it with what seemed to be yards and yards of sticky tape, and enclosing the whole thing in brown paper, adding string and even some sealing wax. Then, with the parcel well secured, he had walked up from the docks into the seedy little town, found a post office, bought the necessary stamps and left the parcel with the clerk, who would dispatch it by the first ship heading for England.

  He had left the post office feeling relieved that the job was done, and headed for the dock where his ship, the Mary Anne, lay at anchor. The heat was beginning to get to him, and he ran a hand through his tightly curling dark hair, then produced a large handkerchief and wiped his glistening forehead. He was thinking again of snow and red berries, so he did not even glance at the group of men coming towards him. They were talking and laughing, and just as he reached the Mary Anne‘s anchorage one of them addressed him. The man began to say he did not speak Portuguese, but even as his mouth formed the words he felt a sickening blow on the back of his head and found himself face down in the water of the dock. Desperately he struggled and managed to rise to the surface, but then something struck him another stunning blow, this time on the forehead, and he lost consciousness.

  Chapter 1

  IT HAD BEEN raining when Jimmy emerged from No. 4 Solomon Court, but by the time he had run his little sister to earth, playing shop in the Latimers’ woodshed, the rain had turned to sleet and a sharp wind was blowing what felt like icy needles into his unprotected face. He had looked at Mo, happily selling a piece of broken china to Nelly Latimer, and grinned ruefully. It would have been nice to have her company, but he acknowledged that to request it would not have been fair. Mo was six, too young to be able to help with the laundry. It was far better to leave her playing happily whilst he undertook the errand which might or might not result in the sixpence that Aunt Huxtable had promised, so he had leaned down, patted Mo’s curly head and told her he was going to the wash house for Aunt Huxtable and might not be back before dusk, for the December days were short and in a few days it would be Christmas.

  Mo had been sitting cross-legged behind the makeshift counter – she was clearly the shopkeeper on this occasion and Nelly Latimer the customer – and had risen reluctantly to her feet, but Jimmy had waved her to sit down again. ‘No point both of us getting soaked,’ he had said kindly, ‘so go on wi’ your game.’

  And he had set off, slinging the canvas bag across one shoulder as he tried to avoid the worst of the puddles, for the cardboard soles he’d inserted into his ancient boots did not do much to keep his feet dry. He was bound for the tearooms to deliver the clean laundry in his bag and collect the dirty stuff, which he would then take to the wash house. Normally Aunt Huxtable would do the delivery herself, but today she had handed the carefully ironed linen to Jimmy with instructions to take it to the little café and collect the appropriate payment. He had planned to spend the day cutting holly in Princes Park and selling it on Homer Street market to make a bit of money for the holiday, and had just been telling himself that he could still do this when Aunt Huxtable had added a rider to her instructions. ‘And when you’ve delivered the clean linen, just you take all the dirty stuff what she’ll give you straight round to the wash house,’ she had ordered him. ‘Find yourself a sink and put the cloths in it; there’s a bar of yellow soap in the bottom of the bag that you can use to get ’em clean. Then, when there ain’t a stain on ’em, you must rinse ’em well and put ’em through the mangle. When that’s done grab yourself a bit of line and hang ’em out. And don’t you go leaving ’em there else you can be sure someone’ll prig ’em. Gather ’em up whilst they’s still damp but not really wet, and bring ’em home so’s I can iron ’em. Then tomorrer you ‘n’ your sister can take ’em back to Mrs Simpson.’ She had looked at him craftily, her mean little eyes sliding from the top of his head to his leaky boots. ‘If you does as I say I’ll give you a tanner; always provided the stuff’s as clean as a new pin acourse.’

  Jimmy had stared at her, aghast. ‘But I’ve never done more’n carry the dirty linen up to the wash house for you,’ he had said. ‘Lads don’t go in the wash house, lerralone do the washin’. Why can’t you do it, Aunt Huxtable? I’m bound to make a mess of it, and then where will we be?’

  Mrs Huxtable had laughed harshly and given Jimmy a shove so hard that he staggered. ‘None of that snivellin’!’ she had said sharply. ‘I’ve gorra job in the pub scrubbin’ down, which will take most of the day. There’s nowt to stop a lad usin’ the wash house, ‘specially so near Christmas. If your sister were a bit older . . . but she can give you a hand. I reckon she knows how to wash a dozen or so tablecloths even if you don’t. Where is she, anyroad? It ain’t often the pair of youse is parted.’

  ‘Mo? I dunno,’ Jimmy had said vaguely. ‘Well, if I’m to do your washing as well as deliver the linen I’d best be off. And if you don’t come up with that tanner, Aunt Huxtable, it’s the last time I’ll run any errand for you, and that’s a promise.’

  ‘Don’t you threaten me . . .’ the woman had said menacingly, but perhaps there was something in the look Jimmy had given her which warned her that even worms will turn, so she gave a high, artificial laugh and actually smiled at him, though there had been little humour in the set of her thin-lipped mouth. ‘Awright, awright, you’ll get your perishin’ money, provided you do a good job, as I said. If you don’t, if there’s so much as one tea stain on one piece o’ linen, then you’ll not gerra penny. And bear in mind that me son’s ship docks at noon today; he won’t let me be cheated by a snivellin’ kid.’

  At her words Jimmy’s heart had given a couple of extra beats. He and Mo hated and feared Cyril Huxtable, for the man was a bully and enjoyed giving pain. Jimmy had known Cyril’s ship was about to dock and wished he had remembered to warn his sister to steer clear of the man, until he recollected that Cyril was always first in at the pub door as soon as he was paid off. He would be in no condition to bully anyone for a couple of days at least.

  Jimmy sloshed on, wondering whether he could get someone to give an eye to the washing once it was on the line. Maybe then he would still have time to cut some holly and make some real money, not just the measly sixpence which Aunt Huxtable had promised. But the sleet was turning to snow and Jimmy quickened his pace, seeing his destination ahead. He was looking forward to getting out of the wet, but when he reached the wash house he discovered that the steam from a dozen sinks and four enormous coppers made the atmosphere almost as damp as that of the street outside. Peering around him, he could not see one empty sink; every one seemed to be occupied. He looked for someone who might be ready to exchange their washing sink for a rinsing one, then turned as his name was called.

  ‘Hello, Jimmy. Wharrever are you doin’ in here? If you’re wantin’ for an empty sink you can take mine on once I’ve got these perishin’ sheets an’ that over to the rinser. Come to that you could earn me grateful t’anks by helpin’ me to move ’em. Normally I wouldn’t ask, only I’m that wore out wi’ a-scrubbin’ at the stains . . . here, put your lot on me drainin’ board, then no one else will try to take over the sink.’

  Jimmy beamed at the speaker, a big Irish woman who lived in Solomon Court a couple of doors down from No. 4. Her name was Mrs McTavish and Jimmy knew she took in a great deal of laundry, doing not only the washing but also the ironing, and turning out piles of crisp, dazzlingly white sheets, tablecloths and the like every day. She was a hard worker and popular with the other women who used the wash house, but for a moment he hesitated, for Aunt Huxtable was also in the business of laundering for others, though in a very small way as yet. Suppose Mrs McTavish resented the competition and meant to splash him with scalding hot water, or wait until his attention was elsewhere so that she might pull Aunt Huxtable’s laundry out of the sink and on to the dirty, puddled floor? It was the sort of thing Aunt Huxtable would have done herself if she could get away with it, but Mrs McTavish was a very different kettle of fish. He caught the fat woman’s eye and saw
only appeal, and a sort of rueful friendliness, and so he took the copper stick from her huge, water-softened fingers and began to fish sheets, pillowslips and a couple of big white handkerchiefs out of the hot water.

  ‘Where d’you want ’em?’ he said gruffly. ‘Which sink is you rinsin’ in?’

  The small, skinny woman on the far side of Mrs McTavish gestured to the sink next to her own. ‘Drop ’em in there, lad,’ she said. ‘We’s all up to our ’oxters in washin’, what wi’ Christmas so close.’ She grinned at the big Irishwoman. ‘I’d gi’ you a hand meself, Feena, only I’s gorra sink full, a-waitin’ for a mangle to come free; the minute that happens I’ll get this lot across.’ She turned back to Jimmy. ‘This near the ’oliday we’s all at full stretch and workin’ our fingers into holes so’s we get paid in time to buy a bit of pork, or even a last-minute bird on Great Homey market.’

  ‘Aye, that’s why every sink’s in use,’ another woman remarked, twisting round to smile at Jimmy. She was younger than most of the others and was pegging out a line of nappies. ‘When I saw you in here, lad, I thought t’ings is desperate so dey are, else you wouldn’t find a lad in the wash house, not if it were ever so.’ She chuckled and wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘Your mam gorra big order?’ she enquired.

  Jimmy shook his head, feeling a blush burn up his neck and invade his face. ‘Nah,’ he said quickly. ‘And she ain’t my mam, neither. She said she’d gimme a tanner if I brought her tablecloths an’ that up to the wash house and stayed until the stuff was dry enough to iron.’

  Mrs McTavish snorted and patted Jimmy’s skinny shoulder. ‘Tell you what, lad – you put your things in to soak and help me wit’ me rinsin’, then I’ll help you wit’ yours an we’ll be done in no time.’ She turned to the younger woman. ‘You wasn’t to know, Annie. I doubt you ever met Grace Trewin, this young feller’s mam. She died a while back in a sannytorium of what we used to call consumption, though there’s a big long name for it these days, and a nicer woman – Welsh, mind you – you’d have to go far to find. Her man went back to sea immediately after the funeral.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And if you ask me, he were took advantage of. They lived at four Solomon Court and Mrs Huxtable told him she’d move in and look after his children as if they were her own, only he’d have to keep paying the rent and hand over summat for their keep as well.’ She turned back to Jimmy. ‘I’ll warrant you’ve guessed that your pa agreed in a hurry and don’t know the half of what goes on,’ she said. ‘He barely knew the woman by all accounts – he were away at sea most of the time, and then when your mam were so ill at the end he never left her side, ain’t that so, young feller? And now you and your sister gets more kicks than ha’p’orths from the Widow Huxtable, what you calls your aunt.’ She looked around, and Jimmy saw for the first time that most of the women were listening and grinning. ‘She ain’t your aunt, is she? Though even if she were she don’t do right by you. Your pa’s payin’ through the nose and would be fit to kill if he could see how you’re treated. You ought to tell ’im, lad, next time his ship’s in port. Will you do that?’