Ellen Lives On

Lynda Haddock

Description

1971. When 15 year-old Ellen returns home from school in Yorkshire, her world is fragmented as she finds her mother has hanged herself. A dark mist descends, yet somehow she must find a new way to live. After her mother's funeral, Ellen is taken to live with her aunt and uncle and pressed into housework, forced to wait on the men of the household. She retreats into herself, into sullen, desperate silence to survive. In a fit of rebellion, she writes a letter to the local paper in support of the campaign for comprehensive education and the closure of her own prestigious selective school. Most of her fellow pupils shun her, and after a harsh rebuke from the headteacher, Ellen runs out of school - and far away, down to London to find her grandfather.Her situation doesn't improve, as she narrowly escapes the unwanted attentions of a stranger in King's Cross. Yet when she finds herselfcaught in the midst of a radical political rally led by a group of young women protesting for their rights, suddenly her world is changed.Although her grandfather is in hospital, Ellen discovers new friendships as she joins the group and learns to stand up: for women and forherself.Written to provide support, insight and comfort for those younger readers dealing with parental suicide,Ellen Lives Onalso offers keenperspective on long term women's issues. An engrossing story of one girl's struggle for self and survival,Ellen Lives Onwill be enjoyed byanyone interested in an addictive tale of love, loss and freedom.Lynda Haddock has opted to use suffragette colours for her cover to further support the cause for women's rights

Sujets

• Children's

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 12 octobre 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781789013016
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

ELLEN
LIVES ON
Lynda Haddock
Copyright © 2018 Lynda Haddock

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.


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ISBN 9781789013016

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd





For my father
Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ONE
That morning, Ellen’s mother had been alive and now she was dead.
After school that Friday afternoon Ellen walked home from the bus stop as usual. As she wandered through the Winslet Estate to the small, pebble-dashed council house she shared with her mother, she found herself staring at the gardens of the estate’s semi-detached homes. Each one was different: some were carefully planted with roses and flowering shrubs, others were just scrap yards, places where children’s out-grown bicycles and empty boxes were stored. As she passed them, Ellen remembered Pat, her best friend from primary school, and the game they had often played together of awarding marks out of ten for each garden. Pat had failed her eleven-plus exam and was at a different school now so Ellen never saw her. She missed her.
Ellen had her key in her hand as she walked down the short front path to her house. But when she tried to open the door, the key wouldn’t go in. She fiddled and pushed for a minute or two; the lock seemed to be stuffed full of something hard. Something was wrong. She banged on the door, shouting, ‘Mum, Mum, are you there… Mum?’
There was silence. She thumped again, with both hands this time. Still no reply. Anxiety began to grip her, a tight band around her heart. She banged again. Then she tried, uselessly, to push against the door with her shoulder. No movement. She walked round the side of the house and tried the back door, but it was locked. When she leant down she could see that the key hole there too was blocked with something. All the windows were firmly shut. The kitchen curtains were closed.
Ellen’s mind whirled. What should she do? She recalled that morning at home. Her mother had been up for breakfast, looking pale and sallow in the red silk dressing gown her father, who had been a sailor, had once brought home from Singapore. Unusually, she had kissed Ellen before she left for school.
‘Whatever happens now, I want you to know that I’ve always done the best I could for you,’ she had said.
There had been something Ellen couldn’t quite understand in her mother’s voice. It could have been longing, or regret, or an urgency to explain something that she couldn’t quite say. Ellen wasn’t sure, but the moment had stayed with her all day. As she recalled it now, the panic that had been growing within her intensified; it was as if a hole had opened in her lungs and filled up with blood-red flame.
– – –
Ellen didn’t know the next door neighbours very well. On one side, there were two children: the son already grown up and in the army; Joyce, his sister, was a couple of years older than Ellen but she went to the secondary modern school round the corner from the estate and so the girls had never got to know each other. As Ellen’s heart thumped, Joyce pushed open the garden gate and started to walk down the path to her house. Ellen remembered that Pat and she used to award this garden five out of ten.
‘Joyce…’ she called, tentatively. ‘Joyce – is your mum in? I seem to be locked out of the house… I don’t know what to do.’
Joyce looked surprised. Ellen felt self-conscious and awkward in her High School uniform of striped tie and navy blazer with a blue trim. She was still wearing her beret with its gold badge. Joyce’s school didn’t have a uniform.
‘Dunno – I’ll go and see. Have you tried knocking? Where’s your mam?’
Ellen waited while Joyce climbed the back steps and called to her mother. The wait lasted a minute, two minutes, three minutes… What should she do? Then Joyce’s mother, Mrs Boyle, appeared in her overalls, peeling her hands out of rubber gloves.
‘What’s up, love?’
‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I can’t get into the house. The key seems to be stuck… I don’t know what to do.’
‘That’s odd. I haven’t seen your mam today, come to think of it… Come in and wait here. She’s probably popped out somewhere. Did you forget your key?’
‘I’ve got my key, but the locks are jammed.’
‘Well, our Arthur will be home shortly – he’s on leave, you know. He’ll have a look at it for you. Come in, love.’
Ellen had rarely been inside the Boyles’ house before. The kitchen and living room mirrored hers, but the bathroom was downstairs, by the back door. This must be where Mr Boyle washed when he got home from the pit. Ellen had often seen him tramp down the Crescent in his heavy boots, his face black with coal dust. A little later, if Ellen and her mother were in the back garden, they would hear him shouting to his wife from the bathroom.
‘All right, I’m done now, Ma. Come and do me back.’
Only a few weeks ago, when she heard this, Ellen’s mother had said, ‘For goodness sake, it is 1971. Why does he come home all dirty like that? There are showers at the pit now!’
A few weeks. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
– – –
The wallpaper in the Boyles’ sitting room had a pattern of flowers and stripes. There was a large plastic-covered sofa, and a television in the corner. Ellen sat stiffly on the edge of the sofa. The panic round her heart was intensifying. But Mrs Boyle asked her about school and what she had done in the summer and she somehow found herself answering, despite the insistent heavy beating of her heart. Joyce, apparently too shy or embarrassed to talk to Ellen, had gone upstairs to her bedroom. Ellen wasn’t sure how long she sat there before Arthur arrived.
‘Hello Ma,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Get t’kettle on.’ And then, seeing Ellen, ‘Oh, who’s this? Haven’t seen you for a long time, young lady. How’s that posh school of yours?’
Arthur had a warm smile and gentle air, for all his height and strength. Ellen sensed sympathy in his sharp blue eyes.
‘What’s up, love? You look pale as a ghost.’
‘It’s mum… the house… I can’t get in. The locks are jammed. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Do you want me to come and look? See what brute strength can do?’
‘Yes please.’
Ellen followed Arthur next door and watched him as he examined the locks. She felt as if she were forcing herself to breathe. The look of concern on Arthur’s face deepened. He leant his shoulder against the door and pushed. Nothing.
‘Look, love, I don’t want to frighten you, but I think we should call the police.’
Ellen could feel her shallow breath and her heart thumping. She couldn’t get her words out.
‘Would you like me to do it, love?’ said Arthur, gently. ‘I’ll go t’phone box now.’
Arthur ran the few steps up the path, hopped lightly over the gate and jogged to the end of the street until he reached the red telephone box. Mrs Boyle, who was hovering in the background looking concerned, said, ‘Come inside for a bit, love, while we wait. I’m sure it’s nothing.’
But Ellen couldn’t move. She stood looking at the steps, fixing the dark green door in her mind, trying to breathe. Afterwards, she wasn’t sure how long she had waited until the police car arrived. She was dimly aware of Arthur standing next to her and exchanging worried glances with his mother. It felt as if there were no such thing as time. A single birdcall broke the silence of the early evening. Then a police siren, distant at first, grew louder and louder. Ellen found herself wishing that the sound had nothing to do with her, that it wasn’t that of a police car destined for her house. At the same time she felt certain that it was. It was only seconds later that a flashing light appeared in the street and the car squealed to a halt. A policeman and policewoman jumped out, slammed the doors and ran down the path to Ellen’s house. Ellen couldn’t have described them afterwards, but she remembered the policeman’s voice, low and urgent. He was talking to Arthur.
‘You’ve knocked again I tek it?’
‘Aye.’
‘Ok, let’s go in – step back everyone please.’
And the policeman lifted a long battering ram that had been hanging by a strap over his shoulder, and rushed at the door. It seemed to give way easily and Ellen thought fleetingly about the care her mother always took to double lock the door at night and how safe she had felt when this was done. No one could reach her then. How mistaken she had been. How fragile it had all been, after all.
The policeman pushed through the door. Immediately he stepped out again, just as Ellen moved forward to follow him. There was no time in those moments. Ellen saw the look of horror as the policeman’s face seemed to collapse; heard him shout, ‘Get out.’ And entered a world that had changed for eve