A Daughter’s Courage: A powerful, gritty new saga from the Sunday Times bestseller
Her strength is all she has left…When Dorothy meets Robbie, she falls for him quickly and it’s not long before the pair are engaged. But then an unexpected pregnancy puts everything at risk, and Dorothy is left alone – with Robbie nowhere to be seen.Heartbroken, Dorothy picks up the pieces of her life as a working girl in Battersea helping to support her mother and father. But before long, things start to become difficult. Her father’s health is worsening, money is tight and worst of all, Robbie hasn’t come back for her.Can Dorothy find a way back to happiness in the face of real adversity? Will she have the courage to make it on her own – or is someone else waiting in the wings to save her?Gritty and moving, this is the perfect read for fans of Dilly Court and Maggie Hope.
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KITTY NEALE
A Daughter’s Courage
Published by Avon an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street,
London, SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018
Copyright © Kitty Neale 2018
Cover photographs © Getty Images/ Alamy
Cover design © Debbie Clement 2018
Kitty Neale asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely 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, down-loaded, 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.
Source ISBN: 9780008191702
Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9780008191719
Version 2017-11-24
For my dad, the first man I ever truly respected.
You’ve always been there for me offering quiet strength, dependability and security.
Thank you for everything you have done for me, and for your continued support.
We rarely share soppy sentiments, but I know you love me very much and you’re proud of me. I love you dearly too, and am so proud to call you my dad xxx
Table of Contents
Battersea, London, 1956
Crimson nail polish was the only splash of colour in the dank kitchen as Dorothy Butler painted her nails in preparation for her date with Robbie Ferguson. It was mid-September and she was sitting at the battered kitchen table. While waiting for the varnish to dry, she watched as her mother, Alice, flicked soapy suds from her hands before wiping them down the front of her washed-out apron.
Now twenty-two years old, Dorothy had been a child when her father returned from fighting in France, a broken man, unable to resume his work as a groundsman in Battersea Park. Since then, with only a small army disability pension to live on, her mother had taken in washing, which helped to pay the rent and buy the coal needed to warm the house during the long winter months. It was all Alice could manage as her fear of going outside kept her a prisoner in her own home. However, constantly leaning over the sink and scrubbing clothes had damaged her back, and Dorothy saw her grimace as she stirred the three cups of tea she’d just made.
Dorothy winced at the sight of her mum’s hands. They looked blistered, red raw, and she wished she could do more to ease her burdens. Her own job as a baker’s assistant didn’t pay well and, though they had sufficient to eat, there was only just enough money left to pay the bills.
‘Dottie, be a love and take this cuppa through to your father, will you?’ Alice asked.
Dottie blew on her freshly polished nails, hoping they were dry, as she obligingly took the weak tea which had seen the leaves stewed three times. She carried it through to the sparsely furnished front room. She wasn’t surprised to find her father Bill in his usual place, sat on a faded brown wing-backed armchair, staring up at the bare light-bulb hanging from the ceiling rose. Dorothy knew that her mother didn’t believe in luxuries, neither could she afford them. If it wasn’t practical or didn’t serve a purpose, then it wasn’t needed, and lampshades came under the latter heading.
‘Here you are, Dad,’ Dorothy said gently as she knelt next to her father’s chair. ‘I’ve brought you a nice cuppa.’
She studied her father’s pale face. His skin was almost translucent and etched with lines. He had an especially deep furrow across his brow which Dorothy thought had been caused by a constant frown. He looked in a permanent state of anguish and rarely spoke or acknowledged anyone. She wondered if her father even knew who she was. It had broken Dorothy’s heart when she had first seen him in this state, but it was something she’d now become accustomed to.
