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Boldwood Books - Lizzie Lane

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193 pages

English

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A gritty story of two girls from opposite backgrounds and their search for freedom and happiness.

1925 - The Midlands

Born on the canals, feisty Beth Dawson knows danger lurks in the shadows and suspecting she might be pregnant after a vicious attack she quickly marries a fellow boatman.

Her mundane existence is interrupted by the arrival of Anthony Wesley whose mission is to organise the impoverished boatmen for strike action. Feeling valued and soon falling for Anthony, Beth wants to help the cause in any way she can.

Along the way she is befriended by the company owners rebellious daughter Abigail Gatehouse. She too is in love with Anthony and sensing the attraction between Beth and Anthony, Abigail is overcome with jealousy.

Soon both young women are caught up in events that spiral out of control.
Only time will tell what the future holds for them both.

In the meantime, it’s all about survival...

Previously published as Where the Wild Thyme Blows by Jeannie Johnson

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Publié par	Boldwood Books
Date de parution	14 juin 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781837518630
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,1500€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

TROUBLE FOR THE BOAT GIRL

LIZZIE LANE
CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

More from Lizzie Lane

About the Author

Sixpence Stories

About Boldwood Books
1

Beth Dawson climbed on the guardrail and leaned against the cabin roof of the brightly painted narrowboat until she was high enough for everyone to see.
‘It’s only two days old,’ she shouted, waving a newspaper above her head.
Women gossiping, men smoking and children playing hopscotch with lumps of coal all stopped what they were doing and turned towards her.
‘Thought you was off,’ someone said.
‘There’s plenty of time. We’re off up the Avon and Kennet.’ The Kennet canal joined the River Avon in Bristol to the Thames in London. ‘We’ll be halfway there by teatime tomorrow.’
It wasn’t necessarily the truth, but it didn’t matter. The newspaper was spread in front of her. She was ready and everyone was crowding around.
No point in getting her best green skirt dirty, so she hurriedly placed sheets of religious tracts on an upturned barrel before sitting on it. The Baptist minister who’d given them to her would be mortified to see pages of holy words pressed against her bottom, but she gave it no mind.
Patting the newspaper flat, she smiled at the gathering crowd. Most were women, their nut-brown faces shaded by bonnets, a style lingering from the last century. Eyes bright with interest, they waited for her to read out loud what they could not read for themselves. One or two children, their breath warm and sticky against her neck, peered over her shoulder, pretending to read. She knew they couldn’t, thought it a shame and was thankful her mother had taught her well.
Front-page stories were read out first. ‘Mr Ramsay MacDonald is reported to be thinking of forming a coalition government although at present this is not confirmed.’
‘Never mind ’im. What about ’is Majesty? What’s ’e up to, then?’ The speaker was Mrs Bryce. A clay pipe jiggled at the corner of her mouth, gripped with the few teeth she had left. Always knitting, not once did the clickety-clacking of her needles falter.
A murmur of approval ran through the crowd and Beth obliged. ‘His Majesty the King and Queen Mary are at present staying at Windsor with Prince Edward, the Prince of Wales, and their younger son the Duke of York.’
Someone asked if there was a picture of them, and if there was could she cut it out and stick it up somewhere.
‘That wouldn’t be right,’ exclaimed an indignant Mrs Bryce. The needles stopped clicking. She was obviously shocked. ‘You only have proper pictures of the King and Queen on walls, not fuzzy ones from newspapers. It’s disrespectful.’
Beth thought about it. ‘I suppose it’s better to have any sort of picture than none at all.’
Mrs Bryce sucked her lips into her toothless mouth and snorted. The needles resumed their clicking.
The other woman smiled triumphantly. She was younger than Mrs Bryce, though you’d hardly know it. The hard life of providing food and comfort to a large family had taken its toll. The living accommodation barely measured eight by ten and sleeping arrangements were like a Chinese puzzle. Wages were low, charity sporadic and supplies were supplemented from the fields passed en route between Gloucester and the Midlands. Long gone were the days when the boatmen had a cottage as well as a boat. That was before the railways. A carrier had to be competitive in order to survive.
One item after another was read, including advertisements for patent medicines, boot polish and even ladies’ corsets. She knew the precious moment was over when she heard clothes rustling and a whisper, a mutter, then a full-blown exclamation running through the group of listeners: ‘Daddy Dawson. Daddy Dawson. Daddy Dawson.’
The louder it got, the quicker people dispersed. Her father was respected rather than liked, even by his own family. She sighed and, despite her fear of him, remained reading.
He called to her from the other end of the boat. ‘Elizabeth!’
He was on his way.
Of the crowd that had listened, only her mother remained, her eyes and her feelings hidden behind the broad brim of her bonnet. Other bonnets and the tousled hair of the smaller listeners melted away, the adults back to their boats or to fill their Buckby cans (tall tin jugs) with fresh water. The children, their boots clattering on the loose concrete, ran among the machinery and played at boats with bits of wood in the oily puddles.
‘Elizabeth!’ His boots clunked the length of the boat. ‘Are you deaf? Answer me when I call ya!’
She quickly folded the newspaper and her mother snatched it from her. ‘He’s getting himself into a temper,’ she murmured as she hid the newspaper among the folds of an old cardigan that was in the process of being unpicked and reused.
His shadow fell over them.
Her mother looked up at him as meek as you like. ‘I’ll have a fresh brew ready for when you get back.’
‘You’d better have!’
Like bullets, his dark eyes shot to Beth. ‘Are we off to the wharfinger?’ she asked.
‘Why else would I call you, you stupid lump! Now get off yer backside and next time move a bit faster when I shout or you’ll get the back of my hand. Now! Are you ready?’
Her blue eyes regarded him from beneath the dark hair that framed a face turned nut-brown by sun, wind and rain. ‘Of course I’m ready,’ she said, more defiantly than she should.
‘Move! I don’t have time to waste.’ His voice was as sharp as his looks.
Many times she’d wondered how a man with such looks as his could possibly be her father. His nose was hooked, his mouth wide, his eyes dark and piercing. A gold ring hung from his right ear and a red kerchief circled his neck. No wonder the land people called them gypsies.
Bells hung from the straps binding his corduroys just below the knees and tinkled as he walked in front of her. Ignoring the black water that splashed up from dirty puddles and on to her skirt, she glared with silent resentment at the angular shoulders, the riot of hair on the nape of his neck. Menacing to face, he seemed less so from behind. She looked at him as she pleased.
A sharp wind blew off the water. She hugged her green cardigan around her. Despite the weight of her work boots, she strode proudly. No one noticed a frayed cuff or a torn hem if you moved fast enough.
In the shadow of the red-brick warehouses, men were piling crates, sacks and tubs on the quay.
‘Well hello, me fine young girl!’ called one sweating stevedore as he straightened from his task.
‘Now what could you do with a girl like that?’ said another.
‘Plenty!’ called a third. ‘A tramp dressed in rags seems like a lady in silk as long as it’s dark!’
The men all laughed just as they always did. She gave them no regard. They were the same on a dozen wharves the length and breadth of England, rough men brutalised by a hard job and dire living conditions. She could tell by the set of her father’s shoulders that he was bristling.
It was all her fault, of course. ‘That’s the way of women,’ he’d told her enough times. ‘The sooner Elliot Beaven marries you, the better! Like all women, you’re fit only for warming pans, pots and beds!’
Her cheeks dimpled. Soon she’d be married like any respectable woman of eighteen and things would be different. It would fall back on her mother to read the manifest and show him where to sign. For the second time that day, she glowed with pride and didn’t care tuppence if pride was a sin!
He slowed as they approached the office door, took the cigarette that lodged behind his ear and shoved it into his pocket. ‘Don’t want ’im to think I earn too bloody much,’ she heard him mutter.
The office walls were a deep shade of brown. The wharf manager sat behind his desk, corn-coloured hair flopping limply over a pink forehead. Although he must have heard the door opening, he did not acknowledge their presence.
Beth hung back as hat in hand her father stepped forward, shuffling his feet.
‘Dawson from Jenny Wren, sir, loaded and ready to go.’ His voice was low, his words softened by the need to appear subservient.
The wharf manager continued to write. He would bide his time.
Her father stood rigidly, eyes downcast.
At last, the wharf manager threw his pen down on his desk, sprawled back in his chair and looked up. ‘Dawson?’
‘That’s me, sir. Dawson. Daniel Dawson. At your service, sir.’
The wharfinger, as the wharf managers were called, was new. ‘Been here before?’
‘Many times, if you please, sir. I used to see Mr Turner.’
‘He’s dead. I’m Mr Allen. Mr Harry Allen.’ He smiled.
‘You can continue to call me sir.’
A nerve quivered in her father’s cheek. Anyone seeing him for the first time might not notice it. But she did. She knew it well.
The wharf manager blinked in her direction, looked away then as if unsure whether he was seeing things, took another look. ‘Well, hello. What, or should I say who, have we here?’
His eyes lingered on her face, dipped to her bosom and came back again as he pushed the manifests across the desk.
Her father acted as though he hadn’t heard, though she was sure he had.
Well, her father might be afraid of this man, but she wasn’t. After all, she told herself, he was only being friendly. ‘I’m Beth Dawson,’ she said brightly.
Harry Allen raised his eyebrows. ‘Related to this man?’ He sounded almost surprised.
‘My daughter, sir,’ her father muttered. His reluctance to introduce her was painfully obvious in the clenching of his jaw.
‘Good morning, miss.’ Mr Allen gave her a slight incline of his head before addressing her father ag