Hard Times on Weaver Street

Chrissie Walsh

Description

When the Great Depression hits Liverpool hard, can Weaver Street's close knit community keep each other safe?

As Liverpool and its residents begin to heal from the wounds and memories of World War I, life on Weaver Street in 1924 is blessedly peaceful.

At number eleven, widow Kitty Conlon is dreaming about her upcoming wedding to John, while at number nine her best friend Maggie is cursing her bad luck as she juggles the demands of her cantankerous mother, stroppy daughter and fly-by-night beau. At number fifteen, Mavis has a mysterious new lodger, while further along the street the O Malley family are missing their beloved Ireland.

But as the Depression begins to bite, and the arrival of the Muller family on Weaver Street signals the worrying drumbeats of conflict coming from Germany, the fragile happiness and peace Liverpool has been enjoying looks destined to end. And as the neighbours pull together in the toughest of times, the women on Weaver Street face the prospect of waving their menfolk off to war.

If you love Lyn Andrew, Katie Flynn and Pam Howes, you'll love Chrissie Walsh.

What readers say about Chrissie Walsh’s stories:

‘This was a very, very, very good read from start to finish I didn't want to put it down, the storyline is amazing.’

‘I really enjoyed this book, I couldn’t put it down and finished it in two days. Such a great author, I do hope there will be follow on books on Weaver Street following the lives of all the people I’ve now come to know.’

‘Great book with brilliant characters Kitty, Tom, Maggie, Beth and lots more. One of the best books I've read this year. Can't wait until next one comes out to see what happens to Kitty and her family.’

‘Loved this story couldn’t put it down a fab read. Kitty showed what a strong character she was. I can’t wait for next one. Have a try you’ll not be disappointed.’

Sujets

• Mashups
• 20th Century
• Siblings
• World Literature
• Historical
• Inglaterra
• Historical romance
• World War I
• Sibling
• General officer
• Greater Manchester
• Lancashire
• Historical fiction
• City Life
• General
• Sagas
• Family Life
• Romance
• Merseyside
• Grand Manchester
• Lancastre
• England
• Saga
• Liverpool
• Fiction
• Première Guerre mondiale

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 23 mai 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781802809534
• Langue: English

Extrait

HARD TIMES ON WEAVER STREET


CHRISSIE WALSH
CONTENTS




Part I


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5


Part II


Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14


Part III


Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26


Acknowledgments

More from Chrissie Walsh

About the Author

Sixpence Stories

About Boldwood Books
To my family, as always.
In memory of my dear friend Kay Jones (1942–2023)
‘We could have talked and talked all night.’
PART I
1
WEAVER STREET, LIVERPOOL, 1924

Weaver Street was slowly coming to life, the pale morning light swallowing the remains of the night as it spilled over the grey rooftops of the redbrick houses. In the big double bed in the front bedroom of number eleven, Kitty Conlon lay dreaming. She was standing on the towpath by the glassy river that flowed between banks of drooping willow and riots of colourful wildflowers. Behind her was the café she had struggled to buy and turn into a successful business, its blue and white painted boards sparkling in the bright sunshine. The man she loved was coming towards her, and as he drew nearer, she could see the love in his eyes and in the curve of his lips. Her heart swelled, and she held out her hands to greet him.
A hot, sticky little hand with pudgy fingers grasped hers and tugged on it. The dream disintegrated. Startled, Kitty’s eyes flew open, and in the dim light filtering through the bedroom curtains she saw her daughter, Molly.
‘Mammy, Mammy, I feel poorly. I’m hot and itchy.’ Molly gulped back a sob.
Kitty shot upright, and scooping Molly up onto the bed, she looked at her closely before running practised hands over her forehead and then into the neck of her nightdress to her chest. The heat rushed into her palms. Holy Mother, the child was burnin’ up!
‘Lay down, darlin’, Mammy’s going to light the mantle.’ She lowered her daughter onto the pillows then leapt out of bed, the soles of her feet cold as she crossed the floor. A gusty March wind rattled the windowpanes. The gaslight popped and flared, eerie shadows dancing over the walls as she hurried back to the bedside.
‘I’m too hot,’ Molly whined, her flushed face wet with tears.
Gently, Kitty stripped her daughter of her nightdress, gasping when she saw the mottled red rash. ‘Oh, sweet Jaysus!’ If this was scarlet fever, it was a killer. Her chest tight, she struggled to keep calm.
’Tis all me own fault , she silently berated herself. I’ve been so wrapped up in me new house an’ me wedding that I’ve neglected her.
The wedding! Kitty thrust the thought aside. This was no time to be thinking about getting married. Only yesterday morning as they’d got ready to walk to school in the pouring rain, six-year-old Molly had complained of a sore throat. An’ what did I do? Kitty fumed. I gave her a jallop of honey an’ lemon an’ told her that ’ud cure it.
Crippled with guilt, she held Molly against her breast, murmuring soothing words and stroking her hot little back. Her skin felt like sandpaper. Then she laid her in the bed and pulled up the covers. Molly pushed them aside, her wails getting louder and louder. ‘I itch all over, and my throat hurts,’ she croaked, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks.
‘Lay still, darlin’. Mammy’s going for something to make you feel better.’
Kitty rushed to the bathroom and was back in seconds with cool, damp flannels. She bathed Molly’s flushed face and then her chest and back, and with each simple action she could feel panic building in her chest.
Molly’s cries abated. She gazed helplessly at her mother, her bright blue eyes awash like delphiniums after a shower of rain. Kitty gazed back, her jangled thoughts alerted by the patter of feet on the landing. She darted to the door.
‘No, Patrick!’ she ordered, barring his way into the room. ‘Be a big, brave boy for Mammy. Go ye back to bed an’ I’ll be along in a minute.’
Patrick stuck out his lip then began to bawl. Kitty didn’t know which way to turn. ‘Help Mammy, darlin’,’ she cried as she shooed her four-year-old son back to the bedroom he shared with his sister. ‘Molly’s sick, an’ I don’t want ye catchin’ it, so stay here like a good boy. I’m going to fetch Auntie Maggie an’ the doctor.’
Shocked by the urgency of her words, Patrick climbed onto his bed. He looked like a gnome in striped pyjamas. ‘Me be a good boy. Stay here. Molly sick,’ he said.
‘That’s right, darlin’,’ Kitty said, relief washing over her as she hared from the room and down the stairs, hurtling across the kitchen and out of the back door.
Rain had fallen during the night and the mad March wind tugged frantically at Kitty’s nightdress as, skidding and slipping, she ran to the house next door. It was bitterly cold and her flesh froze, her chilled knuckles stinging as she hammered on the peeling green panels.
‘Maggie! Maggie! For God’s sake, answer the door.’
‘What the…?’ Maggie Stubbs stared through bleary eyes. She was also still in her nightclothes, her face puffy with sleep and her bleached blonde hair hanging like rats’ tails. ‘What’s up?’
‘Go an’ mind the kids while I go for the doctor. Molly’s got scarlet fever.’
‘Are you sure?’ Maggie asked, grabbing her coat from behind the door.
‘I think so,’ Kitty panted, already halfway back to her own house.
The two women hurried inside. ‘Don’t let our Patrick near her,’ Kitty warned as she pulled on her coat. ‘I’ll go an’ see if I can rouse Dr Metcalfe.’ She looked frantically at Maggie. ‘Of all the times for this to happen,’ she wailed.
‘Go on,’ Maggie urged. ‘I’ll see to ’em. It might not be as bad as you think.’



* * *
‘Open wide, young lady.’ Dr Metcalfe peered into Molly’s mouth. ‘Hmm! You were right to be alarmed. Tongue’s swollen and coated,’ he mumbled, running his bony fingers under Molly’s chin, ‘and the neck’s slightly swollen. And, of course, there’s the rash.’ He straightened and turned to Kitty. ‘She’s not the worst case I’ve seen, Mrs Conlon, but I’ll have to send her to Oxford Street – can’t risk the spread of infection.’ He picked up his bag. ‘I’ll arrange for the ambulance.’
At the mention of the isolation hospital in the city and the ambulance, Kitty burst into tears. ‘How long will we have to wait?’ she sobbed.
‘Who can tell?’ Dr Metcalfe replied laconically. ‘Keep her cool and comfortable.’ He shambled from the room, a tall spare man bent with age. Kitty stared at his back, wild-eyed. Then she clattered down the stairs after him. The doctor paused at the front door. ‘Keep the boy away from her. I’ll let Oxford Street know you’re coming. I’ll be back shortly.’
Kitty’s knees sagged as the door closed behind him.
The next hour seemed interminable. As she sat by the bed, she recalled the time George Metcalfe had attended her aged neighbour, Margery Boothroyd. He’d taken one look at Margery, saying, ‘Bad heart, nothing I can do. Let her die in her own bed.’ And she had, two hours later. A shiver ran down Kitty’s spine.
Molly tossed and whimpered, and almost choking with panic, Kitty applied yet more cool cloths to her skin. ‘Sweet Jaysus, what’s keeping him?’ she cried hysterically. ‘Where’s that blasted ambulance?’
‘It’ll be on its way, Queen. Don’t get yourself in a state,’ Maggie soothed, ‘you’ll only set her off again.’ She nodded at Molly, who was now lying quite still, her eyes tightly shut. Maggie was standing outside the bedroom door on guard duty. Patrick wheeled his cars up and down the landing, asking every two minutes, ‘When will Molly be better?’
‘Take him down an’ give him some breakfast,’ Kitty said, her voice ragged. ‘The porridge is in the cupboard by the sink.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ Maggie said, making for the stairs, and Patrick skipped after her, brightening visibly at the idea of the house getting back to normal.
When Kitty heard the front door open again, she ran to the head of the stairs.
Dr Metcalfe’s grey head bobbed up to meet her. She hurried back to the bedroom, the doctor plodding behind her. He set down his bag then slowly pulled off his thick woollen gloves. ‘Bitterly cold morning, Mrs Conlon,’ he remarked.
Kitty felt like screaming. She opened her mouth, and when the words came out she was surprised how calm she sounded. ‘Where’s the ambulance?’
‘Ah, well, there’s the thing,’ Dr Metcalfe said heavily. ‘The Oxford doesn’t have a place for her. Overcrowded, you know, what with all this diphtheria and fever going about.’ He harrumphed. ‘Not enough beds – not enough nurses.’
Kitty paled. ‘So what do we do? Where will she go?’ Her voice had almost risen to a shriek.
‘I’ve given it careful thought,’ he said ponderously, ‘and I say we keep her here. Far less infection in this house than at the Oxford.’
‘But… but… how will she get better if she’s not in hospital?’
‘Hopefully with your good care and mine, Mrs Conlon,’ he said, taking a small packet of yellow powder from his bag and giving Kitty an enigmatic smile. ‘You see, Mrs Conlon, I’ve long believed that infection spreads infection. Where is there more infection than in an isolation ward, I ask you?’
Kitty suppressed a groan.
‘When I learned that they didn’t have a bed for her in the Oxford, or anywhere else in the city for that matter, I thought where can the child receive the best care she can get,’ he continued, ‘and the answer was obvious – at home with her mother.’ He moved to the side of the bed. ‘Fortunately, you’re a sensible woman, Mrs Conlon, unlike some who call me out at the first sneeze or clutter up my waiting room with nothing more than a cut finger that simply requires a plaster.’
Kitty supposed she should have felt flattered, but his prevarications were sorely trying her patience. ‘So what do we do now?’ she asked curtly.
‘We start by easing the t