Tomorrow's Past

Emma Dally

Description

London's Kentish Town in the Thirties and Forties teems with life in every street and alleyway. It is a place where everyone knows everyone else, where lives are interwoven in intricate webs and where feuds are passed down from generation to generation, 'Respectable' families live amicably alongside the poorest, the most unfortunate and most feckless, and loyalties for family and community are strong. While many families yearn to move away from the grimy streets to the fresher climes of Highgate and Hampstead Heath, there are a few faithful who are happy to stay - even through a World War. Such are the Turners, whose ancestors arrived and settled in Kentish Town many years ago.When young Annie Turner finds a brooch at the back of her mother's wardrobe, she is intrigued. Why does her mother refuse to tell her why she owns this valuable piece of jewellery? Why does she never wear it? In Annie's long and lonely quest to discover the truth about the brooch she gradually unearths secrets that not only alter her perception of the Turner family but also challenges her own sense of identity.Emma Dally's richly detailed and emotionally absorbing first novel is about the different kinds of love that exist within families - between husband and wife, parent and child, brother and sister, sister and sister. It is a novel about family secrets and how, within families, nothing is kept a secret forever.

Sujets

• Sagas

Informations

• Publié par: Hornbeam Press
• Date de parution: 29 septembre 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780956523655
• Langue: English

Extrait

Tomorrow's Past
EMMA DALLY
To my children, Rebecca, Alice and Ruth
Part One
CHAPTER 1
A Child is Born
It was a fine Saturday morning in May, one of those early summer days when the pale blue sky is clear, no clouds can be seen and the sun shines promisingly through a shimmering haze. The air was still crisp with the residue of spring, causing the women on the street to pull their woollen shawls tighter around their shoulders and the men to wonder whether they should still be wearing warm winter vests under their shirts.
Kentish Town Road was busy with shoppers. For those women whose husbands were lucky enough to be in work – and had handed over all or part of Friday night's pay packet – it would be a good meal tonight. Irish stew, perhaps, or steak and kidney pie with lashings of gravy. They might even be able to run to a nice joint of beef for the Sunday roast if they were lucky. For the first few days of the week the food would be relatively abundant. By Friday they would be down to a supper of bread and dripping.
Thirty-five years into the twentieth century, Kentish Town was a shabby, run-down part of north London. It had not always been so. One hundred years before, at the beginning of Queen Victoria's reign, it had enjoyed a brief reputation as a fashionable suburb. High on the hill which runs up to Hampstead and Highgate, Kentish Town had offered green fields and fresh clean air to those choking on the filthy grime in London. However, the popularity of the area had rapidly ended with the coming of the Midland Railway in 1864. The railway extension brought its own dirt to pollute the wide streets and tall villas which had once housed wealthy, genteel families and their servants.
These Victorian dwellings still remained, but since that time many of them had turned into run-down terraces and tenements filled with some of the poorest families.
Some were poorer than others. Respectable working-class families, whose men had skills which kept them in work and who were anxious to improve their living standards, lived alongside those for whom life was a struggle in which they were always the losers. Such people lived on the edge of society, barely part of it at all.
Though most of the inhabitants of Kentish Town were working class, many middle-class families still remained there, tied by their roots to the place where, in better days, their parents and grandparents had been born and brought up. Unlike their friends and peers, these families chose to stay living on the hill rather than depart to the more salubrious villas and gardens in Highgate and Hampstead.
But whatever a person's station in life, the community spirit was strong in Kentish Town. It gave everyone a sense of belonging, a support system, even a sense of responsibility – so long as the community's rules and customs were observed in return.
Regardless of the shifting population, the shopkeepers of Kentish Town always knew what their customers could afford. Bob Worth, the butcher, was one. He knew that he would sell more chitterlings, tripe and lambs' hearts than any good steak or lamb chops. But he still had some customers who could spend more on one Sunday joint than another customer could spend on a week's family cooking.
On the day our story begins his shop was busy. Women of all ages were queuing up and chatting as they watched the master butcher at work, cutting up the bloody meat with his choppers and sharp knives, banging loudly on the wooden block in the middle of the shop. Bunches of furry, glass-eyed rabbits were strung upside down across the window front, above a table piled high with fat sausages and chunky pork pies. Mr Worth worked fast, shifting his vast weight from one foot to another. Behind him, from thick metal hooks set into the ceiling, hung heavy beef carcasses waiting to be cut as the orders came in.
Bob Worth was large and square with heavy, thick brows which hung above his eyes like hairy caterpillars. After his size, his most striking feature was his hands which had the tips of several fingers missing. Customers noticing this for the first time would wonder, as Bob handed over their pound of scrag or sweetbreads, whether one of his fingers was included in the package.
Mr Worth lifted his large head and looked over the counter. 'And what can I do for you, Miss Turner?'
A small child stared up at him with bright grey eyes. She was slight and neatly built. With her well-trimmed brown hair, she was noticeably clean and tidy, dressed in a Fair Isle cardigan over a white blouse, blue serge skirt, white socks and leather sandals.
'I've come to collect the joint my mother ordered yesterday,' the girl said slowly, as though repeating lines she had carefully memorized. A pink blush crept up her neck as she spoke. 'My mother's not feeling well today,' the girl continued. 'She asked me to pick it up for her and says can you put it on the account.'
Mr Worth nodded and wiped his hands on the bloody apron wrapped around his large belly. Hobbling off to the back of the shop, he returned moments later with a bundle wrapped in white paper.
'It's all ready here, Miss Annie,' he said, 'a nice piece of pork. There's a good amount of crackling on it, your mother'll be pleased to see. I'm sorry she's not well. Please send her my best.'
As the girl left the shop, the women in the queue started to shake their heads.
'That Mrs Turner's been quite poorly lately,' said Mrs Rose to the woman behind her. Mrs Rose was a short spindly woman with thinning yellow hair and a liverish complexion to match. Her stooped frame was frail. She looked as if she could barely carry the large wicker basket in the crook of her elbow, already packed with carrots, cabbage and potatoes from the greengrocer next door.
Mrs Jones nodded. 'Yes, she's been quite ill. She's needed the doctor several times. And it's not just that baby she's expecting,' she added darkly. 'I think there's something else, you know...'
Mrs Rose dropped her parcel of meat into her basket. 'Well, let's hope she 'as more luck with this baby,' she said. 'She's 'ad a bad time losing those last ones.'
Mrs Jones sniffed. 'Well, bad luck comes to all of us, whatever our station in life,' she muttered. 'Money won't stop you getting ill health.'
'That's true, Pat,' returned Mrs Rose with a warning sharpness in her voice. 'But, you know, them Turners are a decent family, and I wouldn't wish the death of a child on anyone.'
As Mrs Jones was silenced by her friend, little Annie Turner walked up Kentish Town Road clutching the heavy white parcel to her chest. Her freckled face was set in an expression of intense seriousness. She was thrilled that she had been allowed to go to the butcher's on her own that morning, though she was sorry that it was because her mother had not felt up to going herself. Now, at last, her mother considered her old enough to do the errand by herself without being accompanied by Jack or Clara.
Jack was with his friends and Clara had gone with their father that morning to his office at the piano factory in Camden. He had to sort out some papers. Clara always jumped at the chance to go to the factory on Saturday mornings. While her father worked, Clara was allowed to play on the newly finished pianos, freshly tuned and about to be shipped off to the showrooms the following Monday. She liked to be the first person to play a serious tune on any new piano. She liked to make a first impression on the instrument before it made its way into the world. And as far as her father was concerned, the only time Clara could stay out of trouble was when she played the piano.
Annie pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes and smiled at the shopkeepers as she passed. She was feeling so pleased with herself that she did not even feel shy as she normally did. She felt so good and strong that when the little worry about her mother rose in her mind, she was able to push it back again for later. She was determined to enjoy herself for now. Feeling quite bold, she waved to the people on the tram as it trundled up the road towards Parliament Hill and Highgate.
Passing the jewellers, Annie stopped to look in at the window. Her mother had warned her not to dawdle but she could not resist having a quick look at the jewellery, especially the engagement rings – diamonds, with rubies, sapphires or emeralds, twinkling in the sunlight.
With a dreamy look on her face she held her left hand out in front of her, her fingers spread, and turned it one way and then the other. Just looking at the rich blue of the sapphires made her feel warm deep inside her.
'He'll be a lucky man what buys one of those rings for you, luv.'
Annie turned to see Mr Hamilton the stationer standing outside his shop. His bald head was shining in the sun. He had lovely big brown eyes and had probably been a very handsome man in his youth, her mother once told her. He was always friendly to Annie, who thought of him as a kind man.
Annie glanced at him and then looked away, wishing that the blush creeping over her cheeks and neck would disappear.
'You need more paper for your drawings, Annie? There's more for you here whenever you want.'
Annie loved to draw. One day she was determined to be a famous artist. Mr Hamilton provided her with scraps of paper and charcoal whenever he had some going. 'Thank you,' she whispered, staring down at her feet. 'I've got plenty for the moment.'
Mr Hamilton nodded. 'That's fine then,' he said, 'but make sure you let me know when you're running out. We got to encourage the next generation, ain't we? You never know, you could be as famous as that Picasso.'
Annie didn't know what he was talking about. She smiled sweetly at him and sidled away up the road towards home.
Annie decided to walk up Leverton Street on her way back. Unlike most of the other houses in the neighbourhood, the houses in the southern end of Leverton Street were in fact small cottages, with two rooms upstairs and