Family Drama 4 E-Book Bundle
Four gripping sagas at a bargain price. Perfect for fans of Call The Midwife and The Village.Pearl, the heroine of Nobody’s Girl, will do anything to survive. She’s escaped from her cruel orphanage and is determined to start living in the real world. But when she gets tangled up in the murky south London underworld she meets the dangerous Kevin and her life is thrown into jeopardy. Can anyone protect Pearl from Kevin and her own heart?In There’s Always Tomorrow, when Dottie’s husband Reg receives a mysterious letter through the post, Dottie has no idea that this letter will change her life forever.Ruby sees former WW2 evacuee, feisty Ruby being forced to fend for herself when she returns to her family in LondonThe Girl From World’s End is a tale of love and heartache in the Yorkshire dales during WW2. When tragedy strikes for Mirren and her handsome husband Jack, there’s only one place for Mirren to go…
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FAMILY DRAMA 4 BOOK BUNDLE
Kitty Neale, Pam Weaver, Marie Maxwell and Leah Fleming
Table of Contents
KITTY NEALE
Nobody’s Girl
For Rita McAneny.
We have worked together, laughed together, shared sadness and tears, my precious friend for over twenty years.
Contents
Read an Extract from A Father’s Revenge
With thanks to Maxine Hitchcock, Keshini Naidoo, and all the team at Avon for their much appreciated kindness and help in bringing this novel to print.
The moon was in its first quarter as the man climbed out of his car. A high wind wailed through the skeletal branches of trees, the sound echoing that of the tiny bundle clutched in his arms. He ignored the cries, uncaring, feeling only disgust as he held the bundle away from his body.
His face was grim. He was going to make his daughter pay for almost ruining the family name, and her bastard would pay too. It would cost him dearly, yet worth it to watch her suffer, not once, but twice. My God, he had thought her perfect, his only child, but she had turned out to be a slut.
He reached the end of the lane, his eyes flicking from side to side as he turned onto a small, built-up road. He had chosen well. There were no houses, and with a wartime blackout in force, no streetlights pierced the dense blanket of darkness.
The building loomed, but still he was cautious, looking swiftly over his shoulder before roughly laying the bundle on its concrete steps. The wrapping fell to one side, the infant mewling, but the man was heedless of the cold night air.
At first he had wanted the bastard dead, but then decided it would be too easy for her, the slut’s suffering short. No, he’d bide his time, watch her grieve, and then one day, when the time was right, he’d tell her the truth. And when he did, he’d watch as she suffered all over again.
His smile thin, he swung on his heels now, swiftly walking away.
He was only just out of sight when a door swung open. A woman emerged, running swiftly down the steps and, taking up the baby, she carried it inside.
Battersea, South London, 1956
Dolly Dolby picked up a thick white plate from the stack and scowled. ‘Gertie, get in here!’
Up to the elbows in hot water, Gertrude Wilson sighed and, grabbing a tea towel, she hurriedly dried her hands before leaving the small, cramped washing-up area. She was used to Dolly’s moods and met her ferocious gaze with equilibrium.
‘What do you want now?’
Dolly stiffened with annoyance. She was a woman at odds with her name: there was nothing doll-like in her appearance. Tall, formidable, and big-boned, with a broad flat face above wide shoulders, her only saving grace was long, thick, chestnut-brown hair. However, the only person likely to see it was her husband when she let it down at night. In the kitchen she wore it pulled back tightly and covered with a thick hairnet.
Scowling again, she indicated the remnant of dried egg on the rim of the plate. ‘What do you call this?’
‘I do me best, but I ain’t feeling too good today.’
‘What, again? Mrs Neverwell, that’s you. If it ain’t your bleeding varicose veins, it’s your arthritis. Maybe I should think about replacing you with someone who can wash up properly.’
It was an empty threat, but one Dolly enjoyed. Gertie had been working in the café for over ten years, and in her own way Dolly was fond of the woman. There weren’t many who would put up with the conditions in the small washing-up room, which contained just two deep Belfast sinks with wooden draining boards. There was a tiny window looking out onto the yard, and now, in July, it was like working in a hothouse.
‘After all the years I’ve worked for you, you’re threatening to sack me over one dirty plate,’ Gertie whined, her small brown eyes filling with tears.
‘All right,’ Dolly placated, ‘don’t start with the waterworks. I’m just spouting wind and you know that. Just make sure that in future you wash up properly.’
‘Two full breakfasts with black pudding and fried bread,’ Rita Marriner shouted as she hurried into the kitchen, slapping an order slip onto the table.
Dolly glared at the young waitress. ‘Didn’t you hear the bell? Those two breakfasts have been standing there for nearly five minutes.’
