Gypsy - Lesley Pearse [2]
Alice, Sam and Beth’s mother, had an equally tough childhood, for she had been abandoned as a baby and brought up in the Foundling Home. At twelve she was sent out to be a scullery maid, and the stories she told of the exhausting work and the cruelty of the cook and housekeeper were the stuff of nightmares to Beth.
Frank was twenty-three when he met sixteen-year-old Alice, by which time he and his parents had achieved their goal and had a tiny shop with two small rooms above. Alice had often said with a smile that her wedding day was the happiest day of her life because Frank took her to live with his parents. She still had to work just as hard, but she didn’t mind that, for the purpose was to get even better premises where her father-in-law and husband could make shoes instead of just repairing old ones.
The hard work finally paid off and brought them here to Church Street, with two floors above the shop, where both Sam and Beth were born. Beth couldn’t remember her grandmother, as she’d been only a baby when she died, but she had adored her grandfather and it was he who taught her to play the fiddle.
Since Grandfather’s death five years ago, Papa’s shoe-making skills had become well known and now he made shoes and boots for some of the wealthiest people in Liverpool. He still worked extremely hard, from first light until dusk, and most nights he fell asleep the moment he had eaten his supper, but until tonight Beth had always thought he was a very happy man.
‘What on earth is going on down there? I heard you scream,’ her mother called peevishly from the top of the stairs. ‘Is it a rat again?’
Beth was brought up with a start. Appalled and terrified as she was, her instinct was to protect her mother.
‘Don’t come down,’ she called back. ‘I’ll get Mr Craven.’
‘You can’t disturb neighbours when they’re having their supper. Surely your father can deal with it?’
Beth didn’t know how to answer that, so she went to the stairs and looked up at her mother, hoping something would come to her.
Alice Bolton was thirty-eight but looked far younger for she was tiny, with blonde hair, wide, pale blue eyes and the kind of delicate features and complexion that suggested frailty.
Sam had inherited her blonde hair and blue eyes, but he was nearly six feet tall, with his father’s vigour and strong features. It was said that Beth was a double of her Irish grandmother, with her curly black hair, dark blue eyes and an impertinent manner that would get her into trouble one day.
‘For goodness’ sake don’t stand there looking so gormless,’ Alice snapped. ‘Just tell your father to come now or the supper’ll be ruined.’
Beth gulped, all too aware that lies and attempted smoke screens wouldn’t help in something like this. ‘He can’t come, Mama,’ she blurted out. ‘He’s dead.’
Her mother never grasped anything quickly. This time was no exception; she just stared at Beth blankly.
‘He’s hanged himself, Mama,’ Beth said, fighting back tears and mounting hysteria. ‘That’s why I wanted to get Mr Craven. You go back up into the kitchen.’
‘He can’t possibly be dead. He was fine when he came up for his tea.’
Beth was controlling the desire to scream the place down, and her mother’s disbelief almost made her lose that control. Yet it was true what her mother said, her father had appeared perfectly normal at teatime. He’d remarked on how good the seed cake was, and he’d told them that he’d finished the boots he was making for Mr Greville.
It didn’t seem possible that he’d gone back downstairs, finished his work for the day, tidied his bench and then calmly taken his own life knowing his wife and daughter were just upstairs.
‘He is dead, Mama. He’s hanged himself in the storeroom,’ Beth said bluntly.
Her mother shook her head and started down the stairs. ‘You’re a wicked girl to say such a thing,’ she said indignantly,