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Annie Rae
Annie Rae
Annie Rae
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Annie Rae

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Annie was five when she overheard her parents for once agreeing on something – their only child was a nuisance they wished didn’t exist. That’s when she concluded that life only offered something – like security, love and affection – to those who were prepared to go searching for it.
Annie dreamed of becoming wealthy and independent. She established her own business and soon learned that she had entered a man’s world; a universe where chauvinism, hypocrisy, condescension, intolerance and inequality flourished. In spite of numerous setbacks she did not give up; at the height of her career her business empire spanned several continents.
Marriage and a couple of children provided another form for security.
But – gradually – Annie discovered that her success came with a price; a failed marriage, two alienated daughters and no social life.
At the age of forty-seven Annie put her business empire up for sale. The nightmare that followed – created by potential buyers supported by lawyers and accountants – contained every variant of greed, dishonesty, arrogance and betrayal she’d ever experienced through the decades.
Finally, she was free. All she now wanted was peace of mind and reconciliation with her daughters.
But with her freedom came a situation Annie had not foreseen – the bridge she needed to cross had to be strong enough to carry the weight of love purchased for gold.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherAmolibros
Release dateJan 3, 2012
ISBN9781908557223
Annie Rae

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    Annie Rae - Ivar Rivenaes

    Annie Rae

    by Ivar Rivenaes

    Copyright © Ivar Rivenaes

    Published in ebook format at Smashwords by Amolibros 2011 | Amolibros, Loundshay Manor Cottage, Preston Bowyer, Milverton, Somerset, TA4 1QF

    http://www.amolibros.com | amolibros@aol.com

    The right of Ivar Rivenaes to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted herein in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you"re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

    With the exception of historical figures, all the other characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is purely imaginary

    British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data | a catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

    This book production has been managed by Amolibros

    About This Book

    Annie was five when she overheard her parents for once agreeing on something – their only child was a nuisance they wished didn’t exist. That’s when she concluded that life only offered something – like security, love and affection – to those who were prepared to go searching for it.

    Annie dreamed of becoming wealthy and independent. She established her own business and soon learned that she had entered a man’s world; a universe where chauvinism, hypocrisy, condescension, intolerance and inequality flourished. In spite of numerous setbacks she did not give up; at the height of her career her business empire spanned several continents.

    Marriage and a couple of children provided another form for security.

    But – gradually – Annie discovered that her success came with a price; a failed marriage, two alienated daughters and no social life.

    At the age of forty-seven Annie put her business empire up for sale. The nightmare that followed – created by potential buyers supported by lawyers and accountants – contained every variant of greed, dishonesty, arrogance and betrayal she’d ever experienced through the decades.

    Finally, she was free. All she now wanted was peace of mind and reconciliation with her daughters.

    But with her freedom came a situation Annie had not foreseen – the bridge she needed to cross had to be strong enough to carry the weight of love purchased for gold.

    About the Author

    Ivar Rivenaes was born in Norway and grew up during the WWII occupation 1940-1945. His two novels in Norwegian The Man Who Walked Backwards (1968) and The Story Of Richard Kahn (1973) got rave reviews and became bestsellers.

    Instead of pursuing a career as a writer he continued travelling during the decades before he settled in Hampshire in 1995. Those Who Leave was his first novel in English.

    He and his wife now divide their time between England, New Zealand and Norway.

    Praise for Ivar Rivenaes’ Book Those Who Leave

    The story which emerges is intriguing, fulfilling and ultimately consuming. The rewards are Rivenaes’ fascinatingly complex collection of characters.

    The Big Issue

    Ivar Rivenaes is a master entertainer with an uncanny ability to switch from subtle irony to black humour.

    Arbeiderbladet

    ...dialogue doesn’t get any cooler than this and Hollywood scriptwriters should be forced to read a book which succeeds in presenting effortlessly what they seem unable to truly achieve – truth, resonance and searing insight, all wrapped in a tightly bound political action thriller... . Overall, this is near perfect and will linger deeply in your soul long after reading; entertaining and thought-provoking in equal measure, Those Who Leave reminds the reader why the written word can be the most rewarding medium.

    Combat Magazine

    I can find no parallels in my own time for such a sparkling talent in a first book...I would have to go back as far as Nordahl Grieg to find a partner of comparable quality.

    Morgenavisen

    Of Previous Novels

    ...A fantastic first novel. This is a big work, full of materiel – thoughts and experiences, and stamped with a lively ability to write...

    ...Ivar Rivenaes has at any rate imagination, a sharp eye for the essential feature of a character, and last, but not least, – he is in possession of a baroque humour that infects the reader...

    ...He knows like few others how to drive the action forward so that one simply has to read on...

    ...one can’t remain indifferent, the book forces one to read on, to take a standpoint...

    ...This is well written! The 350 pages are entertaining, this writer shows an ability to express himself that is unusual in a first work. Passionate seriousness alternates with humour and irony to make exciting reading...

    ...I can find no parallels in my own time for such a sparkling talent in a first book...I would have to go—backwards—as far as Nordahl Grieg to find a partner of comparable quality...

    ...The language is excellent, with an effective, fast-moving idiom that is rich in variation. This book is clearly something beyond the ordinary among contemporary Norwegian books...

    ...Ivar Rivenaes is a master entertainer with an uncanny ability to switch from subtle irony to black humour...

    Chapter 1

    The midwife shuddered. Heavy raindrops hammered the windowpanes. She wished she were home and asleep. Lightning illuminated the room and made it look smaller. Thunder followed like a rumble from a nearby avalanche. The naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered.

    Her name was Madeleine Madden. She wet her lips. Life had taught Madeleine that the Good Lord’s male creation was a loud, unfunny, one-dimensional and parasitic moron. Her profession had taught her that the virile specimen’s primeval instincts lurked just below the surface, as with any other animal.

    She walked across to the window, wiped the glass with her sleeve and looked out.

    The house was in Fashion Street, close to the junction with Commercial Street. She could see the imposing spire of Christ Church, once described as the most dilapidated of all of London’s churches. Her late husband had been a regular visitor to the churchyard, known as Itchy Park, where he had sought the company of other down-and-outs and drunk himself to death at the age of forty-three.

    Madeleine was born and raised in Bethnal Green where her father had been a prosperous crook and her grandfather an even more successful one. The household had been filled with legends of the good old days when characters like Joseph Merceron ran every conceivable racket on earth; brutal facts became glorified fiction, turning villains into true gentlemen who had standards, unlike the illiterate thugs of dubious origin who later surfaced and began taking over the East End.

    Madeleine pinched her nose. The odour of sweat, gin and nicotine was getting to her. She picked up the full ashtray and waddled into the bathroom. The floorboard under the threadbare carpet squeaked. The lid on the toilet was up. There were brown streaks down the bowl and the water looked like mud diluted with urine. She pulled the chain and watched most of the cigarette butts disappear. She mumbled a curse and went back into the bedroom. The shadows stopped dancing and the silence became eerie.

    Maybe she was dead, the woman in the bed? Then she moaned. Madeleine placed her hands on the sides of her chair. The room was cold. She looked at her fingers and cussed again. Arthritis had set in. Soon, she would be unable to work. She sighed and closed her eyes. Anno Domini 1955 was coming to an end and it hadn’t been a good one. The smooth, spineless and moustached Anthony Eden had taken over from Winston Churchill; not a good swap, the country needed the old bulldog more than ever. Ruth Ellis had been hanged for having had the last word with her worthless lover. The emergency crisis due to the railroad strike had caused untold misery. Young girls had committed suicide because James Dean had killed himself in a car crash. The Ballad of Davy Crockett could be heard everywhere. The Teddy Boys had grown into a formidable pest. Commercial television had been introduced. The only glimmer of a better life had come the year before when rationing was abolished, nine long years after the war ended.

    Madeleine shook her head and trudged awkwardly towards the bed. Her feet were aching. She dipped a flannel in cold water and wiped the woman’s face. They stared at each other. The woman’s eyes were glossy. Her lips were twisted. She made a rasping sound.

    Easy, Madeleine said. It won’t be long now.

    The woman stirred and grabbed the headrest with both hands. The veins on her forearms were prominent. She clenched her teeth and whispered, Never again.

    The midwife nodded. She had heard that one before. She said, Everything will be all right.

    The woman’s groan rose to a scream. Get the bloody thing out!

    It was her first child. She had been in labour for sixteen hours. Madeleine had a look. Things were moving.

    The woman began to swear. She snarled obscenities laced with blasphemies until a coughing attack halted her tirade.

    I am getting too old for this, Madeleine thought, but I need the money.

    She said, Keep pushing.

    Sweat streamed down the woman’s face. Her voice had become hoarse. Strange, the midwife thought, the look in her eyes is not one of suffering. It is hatred.

    Oh well, she’ll calm down, eventually. They always do.

    The head appeared two hours later. The midwife closed her ears and worked methodically. She held the newborn citizen up against the light. The child was blue and still. Madeleine turned the baby upside-down and slapped once. There was no reaction. She slapped again. No sound came.

    Dustbin, she mumbled. It happens.

    She looked towards the woman who had closed her eyes. She breathed heavily. Her hands were still on the headrest. There were black spots of mould on the wall behind the bed. A heavy and crudely carved wooden crucifix covered part of a crack that ran from the ceiling. A draught came through the window and there was condensation on the glass. The electric heater over the door was too small to have much effect. Madeleine wrapped a blanket around the child.

    I’d better tell her now, she thought. She glanced towards her bag and hoped she had remembered to bring tranquillizers. The child made a noise. The midwife leaned forward and listened. Another little noise reached her ears. She put her hands on the tiny body and smiled. Please God, she thought, see that this one stays alive till I’m out of here.

    She placed the child next to the woman and waited for a reaction. There was none. Madeleine sighed. It’s a girl, she said. Congratulations.

    The woman did not move but Madeleine knew she wasn’t asleep. She shrugged and went over to the window. Spots of water hung like drops of crystal in the light from a car whisking by. The greyness of dawn made her melancholy. The rain had stopped, but the wind swept across the puddles on the street below. The sounds of a city waking up scratched her eardrums. Soon, she could leave.

    The woman in the bed had not changed her position. The child was quiet. A church bell tolled a few blocks away.

    The midwife thought of something nice to say. She was well read and proud of her wisdom. A Chinese proverb came to mind. Her eyebrows twitched.

    She walked across to the bed and put a finger under the child’s chin. May you live in interesting times, little girl.

    The child made tiny noises as if she tried but could not manage to cry. Madeleine waited for the woman to open her eyes and put her arm around the child. It did not happen.

    None of my business, Madeleine thought. She said, I’ll go and tell your husband and make a nice cup of tea.

    The notion of going downstairs and face the new citizen’s father did not appeal to her. She knew he was slouched in his chair watching television, duly accompanied by a glass and a bottle of whisky. He wouldn’t be too pleased learning that the child was bricks ’n’ mortar.

    This little girl won’t have much of a chance, Madeleine thought; with those two as her parents she’ll be damaged goods and there’s nothing to prevent it. History does indeed repeat itself.

    The woman opened her eyes a fraction.

    The midwife nodded towards the child. She produced a smile and asked softly, Has the little one got a name?

    She saw the woman’s lips move but could not hear the words. She leaned closer. You couldn’t care less, she repeated. Now, that’s not very nice.

    The woman blinked the perspiration from her eyes and said, Call her what the hell you like.

    Madeleine straightened up. She did not smile anymore. The tip of her fingers touched the child’s forehead.

    She said, Welcome to the world, Annie Rae.

    Chapter 2

    Jonathan Rae worked as a runner for a bookmaker. One of his grievances in life was that he had never become a university professor. Jonathan was good with figures and bookmaking was a poor substitute for an academic career. Lack of funds had sealed his fate. At the age of fifteen he had left education behind and got a job with a printer. Unbearable noise, dirty work, low pay and an unpleasant management made Jonathan quit twelve months before completing his apprenticeship.

    For some years he drifted from job to job, forever seeking and never happy. Bookmaking came by coincidence. Jonathan had never made a bet in his life, but his talent for figures was well known among the clientele of Dirty Dick’s, his local. Brave Bernie Johnson, a worldly and cunning man in his late thirties, had taken notice. He ran one of the East End’s many illegal betting operations and did better than most. Brave Bernie offered Jonathan a job, and the young man accepted.

    Neither Jonathan nor his employer could understand the stupidity of the Parliament almost a hundred years ago when misconceived morality quashed common sense and the 1853 Betting Houses Act closed down more than four hundred legal shops that flourished in London. No act of politicians, God or anybody else could ever eradicate people’s gambling instincts. Men of entrepreneurial spirit and with knowledge of human nature went underground and the market continued in the shadow of the law.

    Brave Bernie used a fish and chip shop on Goulston Street as his front. The shop, this most legal of commercial activities, was run by his sharp and capable wife. His business empire, which also included black market commodities like liqueur and tobacco, was located in the large backroom, measuring three hundred square feet. The opening hours for betting were from eleven in the morning till three in the afternoon, and from five to seven in the evening to cater for the dogs.

    Brave Bernie was pleased with his assessment of Jonathan. Within half a year the young man had turned into his most reliable runner; knowledgeable of the system and familiar with the area. He had quickly picked up how to conduct himself; punters came to see him as honest, deferential and pragmatic, and he was seldom the victim of threats and violence. He bought a second-hand bicycle; the old but reliable boneshaker was a mixed pleasure on the cobbled streets, but it was better than walking.

    Gradually, Brave Bernie gave Jonathan a good handful of the medium-to-large accounts. In the beginning, the staggering amounts of cash handed over used to scare him, but after a while he realised that Brave Bernie’s reputation for savagery against anyone crossing his path was not unfounded. This reassured Jonathan sufficiently to take on even larger accounts.

    Bets were written on any piece of paper available, with the punter’s pseudonym scribbled on the back. The money disappeared into what Jonathan called his sack, a leather bag which set the time when closed to ensure that no bets were placed at the more convenient time after the event had taken place.

    Brave Bernie was a wealthy man before he was thirty-five. His overheads were low; there were no books to keep, no duty to pay, and nobody could be taxed on an income that didn’t exist. He rewarded his runners ten percent of what they collected, and his only other outlay of significance was the money required to keep the police happy, enough to guarantee their unwavering co-operation. No raid took place without at least two days’ advance warning.

    Jonathan made more money than he thought possible when he dreamed away his existence as an apprentice. Added to his ten percent, three or four times a year Brave Bernie threw in a bonus and Jonathan’s savings grew and grew. Like his employer he did not trust the banks and invested in a burglar proof safe. It was black and shiny and blended nicely with his other worldly possessions in his one-bedroom flat in Bell Lane.

    In 1953, at the age of twenty-four, Jonathan concluded that the world had become a better place. The war in Korea was over, kind of. Stalin had died. Hilary and Tensing had conquered Mount Everest.

    Jonathan took advantage of the prospects of a brighter future. He set his eyes on one of the Georgian terrace houses on Fournier Street. The owner slammed the door. Jonathan complained to Brave Bernie who said not to worry; he’d take care of the bloody Jew. A deal was struck two days later. Brave Bernie and his legal advisor assisted with the formalities. Jonathan left his attic in Bell Lane and moved in with his sparse selection of second-hand furniture.

    §

    Sitting alone in his house at night, Jonathan began to wonder if he was meant for a life in solitude. He knew that women didn’t find him too exciting; one had even called him dull and humourless to his face, and, for the sake of good measure, she had added that there was nothing he could do about his shortcomings. The observation had hurt him, a hurt that steadily developed into an obsession and made his evenings long and his nights empty and short on sleep. Prostitutes took care of his physical needs but he was incapable of subduing his sense of permanent loneliness.

    Apart from a fondness for Scotch whisky taken neat, Jonathan could not see that he had any vices. Having noticed what suffering an addiction to gambling could cause, he never had a bet. He did not waste his money on anything luxurious. He vanished when arguments were brewing and he was a master at keeping a low profile. So, what was wrong? Jonathan was at a loss to comprehend why women avoided him. He was of medium height and build, he didn’t have any physical defects and he took a bath twice a month. When he faced the mirror he saw a long, narrow face with a straight and sharp nose, an oversized Adam’s apple, two tiny bone-coloured ears, a few blackheads around a pair of walnut-brown eyes and a neck decorated with small pinkish-white craters from chickenpox. His teeth were in a bad condition but he had learned to imitate a smile by moving the corners of his mouth without separating his lips. His dark hair was parted on the right-hand side and kept in place with Brylcreem, his only extravagance. All in all, he accepted that he could not be mistaken for Gary Cooper, but there certainly were uglier men around with no shortage of attractive women.

    One day, feeling particularly low, he went against his nature and confided in Brave Bernie. His mentor, who had a platoon of mistresses and a wife spoiled so rotten that she had become understanding, asked his favourite runner to sit down.

    You are bleedin’ boring, Jonathan. You sneak around as if you ‘ave a beef with the world. Smile, once in a while, for Chrissake. Birds don’t take to blokes lookin’ like they’re headin’ for their own funeral. Know what I mean?

    Jonathan sat silent.

    I’ve seen you down the boozer, Brave Bernie continued, you get blotto and only then do you say somethin’ to a skirt. All wrong, mate. Bein’ incoherent and waving your lolly makes you come across as a jerk and a clod’opper. Women ain’t fools, Jonathan. The useful ones are shrewder than me and you put together. They know what they’re after. Miserable sods don’t appeal to ‘em.

    Jonathan’s backside moved on the chair. I see, he said. Anything else I can do?

    Yeah. Clean yourself up. Make it a ‘abit, mate. There are times you stink like a goat. Also, why don’t you fix ‘em teeth of yours. It’s free, you know.

    Being suave had never been one of Brave Bernie’s aspirations, nor was he famous for mincing his words.

    Jonathan got up. Thanks, guv. I’ll heed your advice.

    He walked out.

    §

    Half a year later Jonathan met Cynthia Brown. Her family had moved from Glasgow to Hull when she was ten years of age. Her father was a factory worker and her mother a part-time cleaner. Cynthia had three younger brothers. At home, none of the children talked much. Both parents were Presbyterians and deeply religious. It was a joyless childhood. Cynthia stayed alive emotionally by daydreaming. Although most of her long-term dreams were diffuse, they had one meagre essence in common: when she finished college she would uproot and set sail for the capital.

    Abner Brown, her father, had left school at the age of thirteen with no qualifications, but he had become an avid reader. His favourite literature, apart from the bible, was history, biographies of good men, and anything associated with Christianity. He knew his way to the library blindfolded.

    Abner Brown saw his daughter as the dumbest of his four children. This she knew because he seldom missed an opportunity to tell her so. Still, he insisted on her going to college and advised her that an outcome of fewer than five A-levels would be frowned upon. She did not ask him why he thought such an achievement was within reach of a brainless girl; for two long years the contradiction puzzled her, but she did her best and was secretly pleased with her reward of two A-levels. The fact that she was not below average had no effect on her father. He sneered and did not talk to her for a week, but at least he didn’t hit her. Cynthia had learned to be grateful for whatever little mercy came her way.

    §

    Decision day came. They all sat around the dinner table when Cynthia took several deep breaths, stared at the ceiling and announced through colourless lips that she would like trying her luck in London. The few seconds of silence were total. Then, as Cynthia had expected, she was knocked to the floor by the worst psychological abuse hitherto produced by her parents. It was her duty to remain in Hull. Had they not given her a good upbringing? Had they not slaved for decades to give her an education? What, in God’s name, did she think an education was for? To get a decent job, that was why, in case she had yet to comprehend it. It was payback time, and the sooner this most modest of solicitations entered her thick skull, the better for all of them.

    Abner Brown was a union official and trained in dialectics. The lesson in gratitude went on for the rest of the day.

    That night, Cynthia fully understood why her parents had insisted on a college education. She lay in her bed and wished she had not been born before she cried herself to sleep.

    The next morning, which was a Sunday, her mother Thora offered to outline Cynthia’s future. Abner and his sons were upstairs putting on their black suits. They had five minutes to spare before going to church.

    Stay home with us for a few years, Thora said. It’s not forever, you know, we don’t mean that. You get a good job now, and I’m sure that one day you’ll meet a fine young man and get married and we all live in the same street here. That way, we can help each other, you see, when we get older. That’s what families are for. You know that, don’t you? Of course you do.

    Cynthia’s mind was in turmoil. Confusion took over each time she tried to think straight, and she was too scared to consider the resistance necessary to result in open revolt. Her dreams lost their colours. What little she had of joie de vivre broke down and surrendered to apathy. She had nobody to talk to; her world had become a cell and a dark angel had flown away with the key.

    §

    Cynthia gave in. She found employment in the accounts department of a local haulage firm, contributed financially and cooked dinner when she came home. She kept her parents company at night. There was no television in the house since all programs except the weather forecast were either sinful or a waste of time.

    The radio was switched on when so decided by the parents.

    One Saturday a month Cynthia was allowed to go to the pub with the girls from the office. She did not touch alcohol and she did not smoke. She knew they asked her to join because she was easy prey; lewd jokes and crude remarks made her blush and stare at the floor. The fingers of her folded hands took on a life of their own. The other girls found her body language hilarious.

    A subdued vanity prevented Cynthia from believing that she was much to look at. Her blond but lifeless hair fell like a wreath around her oval face, and the expression of insecurity in her large green eyes made her seem shifty. Her nose was small, slightly turned-up, and, although her mouth was full, some of the attraction was lost because she had a tendency to press her lower lip against her teeth. Make-up and perfume were sinful extravagances that other girls used. Her few old-fashioned frocks were faded from endless washing and her shoes were shapeless and black – always black – but, as her mother said, they were practical.

    Cynthia saw herself as bland and boring. She was convinced that her shyness was too entrenched ever to dissolve, and that it would take a miracle for a man to look at her twice. She knew she had no idea how to behave should such an experience come her way.

    The two subjects that dominated the conversation at the pub were men and clothes. Cynthia seldom participated but she listened hungrily. Most of the girls’ income went on clothes, and once in a while Cynthia closed her eyes and wondered what it would do to her confidence to wear marvellous outfits.

    The mirage was less vivid when she came home, on time, at a quarter to ten in the evening.

    §

    Slowly, Cynthia’s daydreams came back. She regained her belief that there had to be a difference between existence and life. For a long time she battled with her fears, but her instincts continued to tell her that she had to get away and that time was against her. Three of her class mates had left for the capital soon after graduation, and letters, read aloud in the pub, painted a picture that made Hull look drab, dreary and hopeless. The three emigrants repeatedly warned against marrying some local slob since this was tantamount to jumping voluntarily into a quagmire of misery from which there was no escape.

    Cynthia confided in Jeanette, the only girl she had been close to at college and now one of her colleagues. Jeanette agreed to assist. She, too, was toying with the idea of leaving the North behind, but she had yet to find the right moment to break off her engagement to a car salesman whose flashy image had stopped impressing her. Her parents were eager to see somebody else feeding her, and so, Jeanette emphasized, her farewell to Hull was only a matter of time.

    Cynthia began to apply for jobs in London. On each application she wrote care of Jeanette’s address. One early morning, three months and a dozen applications later, Jeanette winked and nodded towards her handbag. They went to the toilet. The letter was from a publishing company with a request for an interview.

    Two days later Cynthia quit her job. She went to the bank and took out her meagre savings. Both her parents were at work. She packed her things, wrote an unemotional farewell letter and took the bus to the railroad station. The feeling of being in a trance lasted till the conductor touched her shoulder and advised that the train didn’t go any further. She got off and closed her mind to the possibility that something could go wrong.

    The publishing company was located in Haymarket and specialized in women’s magazines. The job was in accounts. They saw who was coming. The salary offered surprised and disappointed Cynthia, but she knew she was short on options and accepted with a grateful smile. Her boss-to-be advised that accommodation in the East End of London gave the best value for money; he was born in that neighbourhood and knew what he was talking about.

    Cynthia stayed in the cheapest bed-and-breakfast she could find, near Aldgate East tube station, until she found a small bed-sit in Old Montague Street from where she began looking forward to an exotic life in the glittering capital. Once, after six months, she sent a brief letter to her parents and said she was fine. She did not give her address. Jeanette never came.

    §

    A year later, Cynthia was still in the same job and in the same bed-sit. She had no costly habits and saved what little she could without any particular target in mind. An exotic lifestyle had yet to arrive. She filled her evenings reading women’s magazines and watching whatever program took her fancy on her small black-and-white television. Her early interest in her appearance had begun to wane. Her faded dreams were giving way to resignation. There was still no man in her life. She had no close friends. It was Hull all over again, minus her parents. It was a limited solace but it was better than none.

    §

    Cynthia met Jonathan at King’s Cross tube station. A loaf of bread fell out of her shopping bag, and he picked it up. The train was late. They talked with moments of silence becoming shorter. They smiled when they learned that they lived only a few streets apart. He offered to carry her bags and escorted her to her front door. By that time they knew each other’s name. Cynthia said she liked listening to Victor Silvester’s band. Jonathan agreed and applauded her taste in music. He remembered Brave Bernie’s advice, grinned and added that Billy Cotton and Eddie Calvert weren’t bad either. Cynthia nodded. Jonathan said he liked her northern accent. Cynthia smiled. He asked for her telephone number but Cynthia did not have a telephone. Jonathan mentioned that he always went to Dirty Dick’s, his local pub, every Saturday night, assuming it would be counterproductive to admit that he went there every night.

    Cynthia kept smiling.

    §

    Cynthia and Jonathan saw each other as their only chance of ever getting married. She wanted the security and the status that a respected and well-off accountant could provide. Jonathan wanted a son. Both admitted to loneliness.

    For a while, Cynthia and Jonathan blossomed. She dipped into her savings, went to Selfridges in Oxford Street and came back with carrier bags in both hands. A local hairdresser taught her how to apply makeup properly. She bought perfume and high-heeled shoes. Woolworth provided a nice selection of jewellery. She held her head high when they went out together and walked daintily with tiny steps, her arm tucked under his. She laughed at his jokes. When he explained Cockney speech she listened intently, determined to pick up as much as she could of words and rhyming slang, however alien to her northern ear.

    Jonathan shaved daily. He bought Old Spice after-shave and invested in a new glass for his dentures. He had a wash every Wednesday and a bath on Saturdays. He bought a brown suit for festive occasions and polished his shoes every morning. A reliable source provided a handsome gold wristwatch and a Petticoat Lane trader came up with a magnificent imitation crocodile wallet. The old grey overcoat was replaced with a splendid garment made from wool and camel hair, guaranteed.

    After three months of seeing each other almost daily, Cynthia and Jonathan no longer sensed that the other was a stranger. There was still a touch of wariness in their relationship, but some of the initial reserved attitude had yielded to a degree of comfortable confidence. She told him about her childhood, her upbringing and why she’d left. Jonathan sympathized. He understood that her parents weren’t worth knowing, but did she not miss her brothers? He asked because he was an only child and would have liked to have a brother or two. Yes and no, Cynthia said; she did think about them, now and then, but they’d not been really close. They never had much to say to each other, during the years; the atmosphere in the house had not been conducive to anything resembling affection. That was the way she saw it, having had time and peace of mind to think about it. Also, what if one of the brothers squealed? No way would she want her father showing up on her doorstep.

    Jonathan nodded. He did not look back at his own childhood with joy in his heart. His father, Hugh Rae, had been a rag and bone man, roaming the area with a horse-drawn cart. He was insensitive and brutal and did not treat his animal any better than he treated his family. He was a born hoarder and as tight-fisted as they came. Jonathan tried to smile when he related to Cynthia that he had to wear clogs when a boy because his father would not pay for a pair of shoes. It had taken Jonathan years to live down the embarrassment. The home had been at the end of a passageway, in from the street, up the stairs and into a small living room with a kitchen and a scullery. The tin bath that hung on the wall in the scullery was used twice a month, provided that the gas cooker worked and provided that his father was in the mood to empty the bath afterwards. When it was Jonathan’s turn the water had turned cold and greasy. There were two bedrooms, the smallest facing the street. From the passage a door led to the yard where a brick shed housed the toilet.

    Pauline, his mother, wasn’t much of a cook; they existed mainly on suet, bread and potatoes. When she got hold of some money she sent Jonathan to the pie and mash shop. Such an event was the pinnacle of culinary luxury. They both knew that the master of the house had a taste for pickled herrings, fish and chips and jellied eels, but he never brought such goodies home. Again, Jonathan tried to smile when he told Cynthia about his mother queuing for food parcels at the Soup Kitchen for the Jewish Poor in Brune Street after the war.

    Jonathan was eleven years of age when the Blitz began in 1940. He heard his parents say that the Germans would continue to bomb until there was only one big heap of rubble left of the docks, but moving away from the East End was never an issue. Pauline’s idea of a bomb shelter, against all advice, was under whichever railway bridge was the nearest at the time of the attack, and she felt greatly vindicated when the Bethnal Green tube disaster struck in 1943 and one hundred and seventy-three people got killed.

    At the age of forty-one Hugh Rae suffered a fatal heart attack. Pauline’s favourite diet had become barbiturates and alcohol. She followed her husband to the kingdom of lost souls three years later. A rarely seen aunt moved in, a sister of his father, claiming that the abode was lawfully hers. Jonathan was in no position to object; his mother died penniless, and rent had to be paid. The aunt hadn’t been too bad, but at the age of fifteen Jonathan left the paradise of his childhood behind and moved into his attic.

    §

    Cynthia and Jonathan got married at a registrar’s office. There had been no sexual relationship prior to the wedding night. Jonathan’s experience was limited to the odd prostitute during the years. Cynthia’s dreams had never extended into the realms of physical entrance. Nor had she ever felt much erogenous demand. It took a while before Jonathan fully realized his wife’s indifference to physical contact; she did try, but neither was sufficiently qualified to feign satisfaction.

    For years, Jonathan had dreamed of having a son. There was no limit to what they were going to do together, from salmon fishing in Alaska to safaris in Africa. They would go to football matches together, to fights and on picnics. They would do the boy’s homework together. One day, with the help of his father, the boy would become an academic – a university professor. His name would be Christopher. Women would find him irresistible. Christopher would buy a property in Essex, and Jonathan would move into the gatehouse. Cynthia could stay where she was, or return to Hull; he didn’t care, as long as she was out of sight.

    Cynthia was aware of her husband’s filial dream, but she did not share it. Her maternal instincts were not merely limited; they were absent and there was nothing she could do about it. Secretly, she blamed her Presbyterian God for never having loosened His grip, but that was a consoling explanation and not a solution. Within a year of marriage she had compensated by developing a cruder side to her nature. Her comments and observations became acerbic or sarcastic. Blasphemies and obscenities were no longer taboo. Her once bland but pretty face had taken the appearance of a mask with few traces of softness. She had become fond of gin. When Jonathan complained about her behaviour she said it was a human right to choose a lifestyle that made her feel free.

    Her rapid moral and physical collapse threw Jonathan off balance. He was at a loss to understand why, and, little by little, it dawned upon him that there was nothing he could do about it. The moment came when he knew he didn’t care anymore, and he went back to his prostitutes. Cynthia was aware of his infidelity but did not raise an issue. Secretly, she was pleased. Beds were for sleeping in; anything else that was supposed to take place between the sheets filled her with a feeling of abhorrence. The less she had to think about it, the more comfortable she felt. Silently, they conceded that the marriage was a sham. They had drifted apart, but sharing a roof was better than solitude.

    One night Jonathan went to the pub and sat there for three hours. Images flashed through his mind. He drank more than his usual quota, but not enough to get legless. He paid up, went home and demanded intercourse. He made it clear that she could chose between pregnancy and divorce. Cynthia, who acknowledged on the quiet that there was no escape – she had nowhere to go to – closed her eyes and consented.

    Twelve weeks later she coldly announced that fertilization had taken place.

    Chapter 3

    Annie’s arrival did nothing to improve the relationship between Cynthia and Jonathan; on the day of Annie’s birth she announced that the child was her first and last, divorce or no divorce. For the next three months they hardly spoke to each other.

    Jonathan concluded that Cynthia hated men as other women hated spiders. He tried to overcome his disappointment. For a while he contemplated finding another producer. The thought was tempting, but Jonathan knew all along that his chances were as remote as the scenario was unrealistic. The sweetest of dreams had been shattered; life had become meaningless and his hopes had disappeared. Resignation twinned with bitterness, and Jonathan met each new day with a drink, a sigh and a shrug.

    It pleased Cynthia that she had no milk. Within a month she was back at work. She made an arrangement with Mrs Glover, one of the neighbours. Georgina Glover had four daughters of her own – Fay, Caroline, Nicole and Amanda. They were from six months to five years of age. Work-wise, one more or less made little difference to Georgina. What did matter was the money. She needed the cash. Her husband Michael was a decorator, in and out of work. He saw himself primarily as an investor. His broker was Brave Bernie. Michael’s four-legged commodities seldom paid dividends.

    Georgina was a large woman in her mid-twenties, bubbly and kind. She was born a brunette, but most of the time she was blond. Her eyes were bright and blue as cornflowers. She loved children and children loved her. She failed to understand mothers who didn’t stay at home with their babies, if in any way possible, but then, human nature was a permanent mystery, so why bother?

    In the beginning, Georgina tried to be friendly. She invited Cynthia to tea but there wasn’t much rapport between them. Cynthia never reciprocated. They established a working relationship and agreed tacitly that anything else was unwanted by Cynthia. Georgina’s husband Michael told her not to worry; Mrs Rae was a cold and wretched fish of a woman. Her husband was a humourless and miserable sod that didn’t even have the guts to bet on a certainty. As human beings they’re write-offs, Michael told Georgina. They paid for Annie, and what else mattered? He agreed that the little girl was lovely, a miracle, considering what the parents looked like. He and Georgina would do what they could for the tot.

    Georgina liked the way her husband put everything into perspective. Not many of life’s eternal losers were as loveable as her Michael.

    §

    On Annie’s third birthday, which fell on a Saturday, her parents took her to Vicky Park. They bought her an ice cream. After an hour Cynthia did not feel well and wanted to go home. Jonathan made no objection. He longed for the pub. Cynthia recovered the moment Jonathan was out of the door. She parked Annie with Georgina and went to a nearby cinema to see Gone with the Wind for the fifth time.

    Georgina knew it was Annie’s birthday and gave her a teddy bear. He was orange and stood twelve inches tall. Annie called him Ted. He was always in a good mood. Annie never went to bed without Ted.

    §

    Georgina believed it was wrong to over-protect children. Experience had defined her conclusions; she knew from her own background that survival instincts evolved quickly when parents were either unwilling, or too incompetent, to care about the upbringing of their offspring. This, in itself, could turn out to be an advantage, later in life, but without a certain measure of love, wherever it came from, the child could end up emotionally crippled. So, although there had to be affection together with a given quota of rules and guidelines, no child benefited from being hemmed in. The sooner the child became street-smart, the better. A child that didn’t learn to turn on a penny would never hold the upper hand, not when growing up and not as an adult. Society was a jungle, like it or not, and guardian angels were unreliable, apart from being in short supply. Look after yourself, was Georgina’s motto, ‘cause nobody else will.

    Annie listened, digested and absorbed Georgina’s wisdom.

    §

    Cynthia never forgot to switch on the television the moment she came home. It was on till she went to bed, usually later than Jonathan did. He read newspapers when he didn’t watch. There was no conversation beyond topics of mutual interest, like who was going to pay for what. From when Annie could talk she knew that her parents didn’t want her to hang around when they were busy entertaining themselves. Besides, soaps and films were adult stuff and not good for children to watch.

    Georgina, too, had a television set. Her daughters were allowed to watch for two hours every Saturday afternoon. She supplied them with books. "Read, she told them, that way you learn to use your imagination. See pictures in your mind. Allow your fantasy to flow free. That’s what you’ve got this for," she concluded and patted them on the head.

    What Georgina could not afford to buy, she got at the library in Whitechapel Road. It wasn’t often that Annie was without a book.

    In spite of her own logic, pragmatism and experience, it continued to bother Georgina that her neighbours were so seemingly oblivious to the emotional needs of their child. Cynthia treated her daughter with an air of indifference mixed with irritation. Jonathan’s contribution was silence, occasionally interrupted by a scornful remark.

    For a while Georgina toyed with the idea of talking to Cynthia and Jonathan. She would point out the inherent danger of their attitude. She would emphasize that they risked damaging the child for life. She would ask, what did it cost to show kindness? She would urge them to mend their ways.

    Michael advised against. They are what they are, he said. You can’t change them. It is the girl’s misfortune to have parents like that. There is nothing you can do about it. A talk will make things worse, if anything. Just think back, he added; "already when we first met them, years ago, they were two miserable sods, and they’ve gone downhill ever since. We’ve seen it before; people who are not positive will eventually deteriorate and become pathetic caricatures and those two have now succeeded."

    Georgina knew he was right. She looked out. Daylight seeped through the rain-streaked kitchen window. She saw Annie walking the pavement with her adopted sisters. Feeling helpless made Georgina angry.

    Michael saw the rash on her neck and said, It could have been worse.

    In what way?

    She’s got us. I mean, supposing we weren’t around?

    Georgina nodded and said, Bless you, my love. Michael could spot a ray of sunshine in the middle of the night. She went on, Why the hell did they get her in the first place?

    Michael said, I’ve heard he wanted a boy.

    That makes it even more diabolical.

    What’s that, pet?

    His attitude. He is discarding a child because it is the wrong sex. The bastard ought to be castrated.

    Michael got up. Well spoken, my rose. He put on his jacket. I’ll go and see if there’s any work around.

    Georgina turned away from the window. Bring home some money, honey. I’ve got eleven unpaid bills on the table.

    §

    Annie came across as a shy and quiet child. She never talked much. At times there was a distant look in her hazel eyes as if visiting a world inaccessible to anybody else. Georgina had summed up Annie as a sensitive child who did not miss much. A streak of defiance ran deep. She disliked being pushed. She was of an inquisitive and critical disposition; perhaps more than was good for her at such an early age, Georgina thought, but she concluded that discouraging Annie would be wrong.

    With her blond curly hair and pale skin, Annie looked like a fragile little doll. Georgina knew better. At the age of five, Annie was becoming street-smart, and she could punch, kick and bite as well as anybody. Other children soon picked up the signals of danger; when Annie turned silent and her eyes froze over it was time to take a step back.

    One Sunday morning Annie came into Georgina’s kitchen with Ted under her arm. Her eyes were red and her eyelids swollen. Faye, Caroline, Nicole and Amanda played in the lounge. Georgina closed the door.

    What is wrong, Annie?

    Nothing.

    You have been crying.

    Annie climbed up on a chair. She put both arms around Ted. Mummy and Daddy don’t love me.

    Georgina sat down. She pushed a tray with cookies across the table. Annie did not move. Georgina said, Tell me what happened.

    They argued so I could not sleep. They screamed.

    Georgina swallowed. What did you hear, Annie?

    They screamed about bloody Annie. Daddy said he wished I’d never been born. Mummy said it wasn’t her fault.

    Oh Christ, Georgina thought, now what? She reached for a cookie but changed her mind. Her hands were not steady.

    Mummy said I am a fucking nuisance. What is a nuisance?

    Georgina shifted her bulk on the chair. For a second she avoided Annie’s stare. I am not going to dodge the question, she thought, and I am not going to lie. She’ll see through me anyway. A nuisance is something irritating, she said.

    Annie said, I thought so. She pressed Ted closer to her chest. Why don’t they love me?

    Georgina’s lips were dry. She gave herself time by going over to the fridge. She came back with two glasses of milk. She thought it strange that there no longer seemed to be any expression in Annie’s eyes. She said, Some people do not have the gift. They do not know what love is. It’s the way they are. They can’t help it.

    Why is she staring at me like that, she thought? Have a cookie.

    Now I know, Annie said.

    They kept looking at each other. Georgina wanted to cry. The voice inside her cursing Cynthia and Jonathan Rae grew louder. What the hell are they doing to this child, she thought? Don’t they understand that Annie could end up emotionally crippled?

    No, she concluded; they don’t – and even if they did they wouldn’t care.

    Annie slid down from her chair and went into the lounge.

    Georgina suppressed a sigh. She buried her face in her hands.

    Now I know.

    A child of five should not talk that way.

    Chapter 4

    Annie took to school, but not without reservations. She excelled when interested and switched off when bored. Most teachers found her obstinate and opinionated, ridiculously so for her age. The child was far too young to have acquired such anti-social traits. The verdict fell within six months. Annie was a spoilt brat, a maladjusted child with parents to blame. They clearly adored her and were stupid and irresponsible enough to let her have her own way.

    Not so anymore, the teachers decided. There was but one way to neutralize children of such disposition, and that was to ignore them. It was the only realistic remedy available when it came to difficult specimens. Sooner or later such children would see daylight and end up as good citizens. The method had proved itself, time and again.

    One of the teachers disagreed. His name was Ryan Keogh. He was Irish. He thought that Annie was a gifted little girl who should be assisted and not overlooked. He never used the word bright. Keogh often talked about teachers’ duty to show respect for the individual, however young. He did not believe in conformity of any kind. He had a hang-up about free spirits. Neither the headmaster nor his colleagues took him and his ideas seriously; they called him The Preacher. Suspicion was that he had a drink problem. It was commonly acknowledged that he was in the wrong profession.

    Keogh kept to himself and stuck to his guns. The influence and impact, later in life, of a child’s formative years should not and could not be underestimated. Anybody could adapt, to some extent, as life took its course, but nobody had ever been able to break the mould. Shepherding a child was a sacred mission, Keogh believed. Guiding an innocent and immature mind was God’s way of ensuring continued progress on earth, and few were chosen, for some reason. Discussing logic with the Almighty was a waste of time, like arguing if day followed night, or vice versa. Only a fatalistic

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