Many a Tear Has to Fall, page 1
Table of Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles by June Francis
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
A Selection of Recent Titles by June Francis
SUNSHINE AND SHOWERS
PIRATE’S DAUGHTER, REBEL WIFE
IT HAD TO BE YOU
THE UNCONVENTIONAL MAIDEN
MAN BEHIND THE FAÇADE
MEMORIES ARE MADE OF THIS *
IT’S NOW OR NEVER *
LOVE LETTERS IN THE SAND *
MANY A TEAR HAS TO FALL *
* available from Severn House
MANY A TEAR HAS TO FALL
June Francis
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2016
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
Trade paperback edition first published 2016 in Great
Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2016 by June Francis.
The right of June Francis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the Biritsh Library
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8603-3 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-705-0 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-766-0 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described
for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
One
London: February 1959
‘You’re not going out in this, are you, dear? You sound a bit rough.’
Maggie Gregory glanced at her landlady and said hoarsely, ‘I’ve no choice, Mrs Cooling. I’ve had no phone call saying the photoshoot has been cancelled. Anyway, it’s indoors and it won’t take me long to get there.’
‘You wrap up well. You could certainly do with a warmer scarf than that one you’re wearing, however pretty it is.’ The older woman’s eyes brightened. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll lend you my mother’s old scarf. It’s real cashmere and is as soft and warm as anything! You don’t want to end up with pneumonia.’ She bustled away.
Maggie considered not waiting for Mrs Cooling to return, worried about being late. Her chest hurt when she breathed and she found herself praying that she wouldn’t end up with a bad dose of bronchitis like last year. Despite the Clean Air Act becoming law after the Great Smog in 1952, which had killed thousands of people in London, the capital still suffered from peasoupers when cold, damp and a lack of wind combined together. She leaned back against the lobby wall and closed her eyes, promising herself an evening at the theatre as soon as she felt fit. A fellow Liverpudlian, and a student at the Central School of Speech and Drama, had recommended a revue, Blue Magic, at the Prince of Wales theatre, starring Tommy Cooper and Shirley Bassey.
‘Here you are, dear!’
Maggie opened her eyes at the sound of her landlady’s voice and forced a smile. ‘You are good to me,’ she said.
‘Well, I promised my former lodger Liverpool actress Dorothy Wilson, and your brother Jared, that I’d take care of you. Now undo the top buttons of your coat and I’ll make sure this scarf is wrapped nice and snug about your chest,’ Mrs Cooling said. ‘I well remember when I was a little girl my mother rubbing goose grease on my chest in the winter. Not that we had a goose every Christmas, only when Dad had a bonus.’ She buttoned up Maggie’s coat and patted her shoulder. ‘Now you take care. Use your other scarf to cover your mouth so you won’t be breathing in so much of that filthy stuff outside – and if you don’t mind my saying so, dear, it’s time you gave up the ciggies.’ She wagged a finger in Maggie’s face. ‘Not only are they bad for your chest, but smoking ages the skin. You’re only nineteen and you don’t want to be looking ten years older than you are when you reach thirty.’
Maggie refused to believe that the ciggies would age her skin that swiftly, but thanked her for the advice. She had tried to stop smoking after her older brother, Jared, and sister, Dot, had gone on about it being bad for her health, but her resolve had only lasted a few days. Still, she did appreciate Mrs Cooling’s concern.
As Maggie left the boarding house she paused at the top of the steps and eased back her shoulders, recalling her mother saying: Shoulders back, head high. If you want to be seen to your best advantage, you mustn’t slouch!
Maggie felt a lump in her throat just thinking about her mother but, blinking back tears, she tugged up the silk scarf so that it covered her mouth and breathed shallowly, knowing that if she breathed any deeper it might trigger a coughing bout. She descended the steps and attempted to cheer herself up by telling herself that at least the visibility was not as bad as it had appeared from inside the lodging house. She wasted no time heading towards Gloucester Road Tube station and the Piccadilly line, to catch a train that would take her to the studio in Soho.
‘That’s a bad cough you’ve got there,’ said Charlie, the photographer, handing Maggie her wrap. ‘When you finish here you should go straight home, make yourself a hot toddy and get to bed.’
Maggie felt too weary to say that was what she intended doing, so simply nodded and warmed herself by the two-bar electric fire. Then she went behind a screen and removed the one-piece bathing costume and put on a polka-dot bikini in daffodil yellow and white, draping the matching short, sleeveless wrap with its frilled edging over a shoulder.
She thought of last summer and the lovely russet tweed swagger coat that she had modelled for a winter collection, and how she had sweltered beneath the lights. She wished she was wearing it right now, but that was magazine modelling for you.
‘Wow! You look great in that bikini,’ said Charlie, his eyes lighting up as she came from behind the screen.
‘Thanks, my sister and brother are always saying I could do with more meat on me. They don’t understand the modelling business. I just wish I was basking on a sunny beach abroad right now,’ she said hoarsely.
‘Save your pennies and we could go together,’ he suggested.
She drew in a painful breath. ‘You know I’ve got someone, Charlie. Otherwise I’d take you up on your offer,’ she said, adopting the pose he had suggested earlier and allowing the wrap to dangle from her fingertips on to the scattering of sand that sat against a backdrop of painted sea, palm trees, and a dazzling sun in a clear blue sky.
‘But you hardly ever see him,’ protested Charlie. ‘Now hold that pose.’
Maggie remained perfectly still, thinking of Norman Marshall, who was a marine engineer and away at sea for months on end. She had not heard from him since the end of November, and that was worrying, especially as Jared’s wife, Emma, had written in her Christmas card that Norman’s twin brother, Pete, had married his on-off, long-time girlfriend, Peggy McGrath, the week before Christmas. Apparently they were living with the twins’ mother, Gertie Marshall, in Bootle. Maggie had tried to convince herself that the all-important Christmas card to her from Norman had gone missing in the post. What with him working on a BP tanker, he sailed thousands of miles to far-distant lands in his job. She had hoped to receive a Valentine card last week, but she had looked in vain for its arrival and could not help but feel hurt and worried. So much so that she had even thought of writing
Last time she had seen Norman had been at the beginning of September, when they had met up in Chatham, Kent. Then he had still been full of the news that his twin, who worked in a shipping office in Liverpool, had not only broken up with Peggy yet again but that she had disappeared. So it had come as something of a shock to hear from Emma that the couple were now married. Did Norman know? He had written twice since last she had seen him, but the letters had been brief and with no mention of his twin. It would have been nice to have a double wedding, just like Maggie’s brother and sister had done, but that was definitely out of the question now. She remembered how Norman had kissed her with real passion when they had last parted. She had been convinced he could not bear to let her go and had expected him to ask her to marry him. Although he had never actually said those three little magic words, ‘I Love You’, to her, she had felt certain that he did.
‘Have you gone into a trance?’ asked Charlie, interrupting her thoughts. ‘This is the third time I’ve spoken to you.’
‘Sorry,’ mouthed Maggie, wanting nothing more than to get back to her digs and burrow beneath the bedcovers with a hot-water bottle, a hot toddy and a couple of Aspros.
‘D’you want to make us a coffee?’ asked Charlie.
She shook her head, thinking he had a nerve asking, knowing she wasn’t feeling well. But that was men for you, thinking only of themselves. ‘I want to get home before the smog worsens,’ she whispered, and went behind the screen.
Her fingers trembled as she got changed, thinking that there were some exceptional men out there; her father, for one. He had cosseted her when she was a little girl and encouraged her to believe that she could do anything if she had enough faith in herself. That was before he had caught the muscle-wasting disease and oh, how he had suffered during the last few years of his life. He had been kind, thoughtful, and so brave. It had been frightening watching him gradually weaken and fade away.
A shaky sigh escaped her as she finished changing into her own clothes. Ten minutes later she re-emerged from behind the screen, muffled up in scarves, hat and coat. ‘See you again,’ she said, blowing Charlie a kiss as she opened the studio door and went out.
Despite the smog, she was able to find her way to the nearest Tube station and catch a train to Gloucester Road. As she left the station she felt exhausted, and tried to comfort herself with the thought that she did not have far to go. The ringing noise made by her high-heeled boots on a pavement slippery with moisture echoed strangely, and she felt in danger of losing her bearings due to the smog.
She came to a corner. Was this where she turned? She was aware of the shadowy shapes of people passing by; she would have asked directions but they vanished so quickly. She was finding it more difficult to breathe and her chest ached with the cold, despite being well wrapped up. Feeling even more weary than earlier, she stopped and rested against some wrought-iron railings and closed her eyes. She would count to fifty and then move on.
A few moments later she heard a door opening, then footsteps and a clang, as if a latch had been lifted. She caught a whiff of Old Spice aftershave and then heard a match being struck and cigarette smoke tickled her nostrils. Her chest wheezed and she coughed.
‘Who’s there?’ The man’s voice was sharp. ‘Mrs Sinclair, is that you?’
Maggie wondered if she was imagining that hint of a Liverpool accent as a figure loomed up close by. She decided it was time she moved, but had only taken a couple of steps when her feet slid from beneath her and she fell heavily on to the pavement. As she lay there gasping, she heard hurrying footsteps.
A woman cried out, ‘Is that you, laddie? I’m sorry to be late but it’s this bloody smog!’
‘Stay right where you are, Mrs Sinclair!’ ordered the man. ‘There’s someone on the ground! Be careful you don’t trip over them.’
Maggie managed to lift her head. ‘Please help me?’ she said hoarsely.
A man’s face hovered a few inches above her own and blue eyes gazed into hers. ‘Are you all right, queen? Here, let me give you a hand up.’ Maggie noticed he was wearing a trilby and a checked scarf about his throat. ‘Mrs Sinclair, perhaps you could help? You take one side and I’ll take the other.’
Between them they managed to hoist Maggie to her feet. ‘Don’t let me go!’ she croaked, clinging on to them as her feet threatened to slide from beneath her again.
‘It’s all right! We’re not going to let you fall,’ said the man.
‘You don’t think she’s been drinking, do you?’ said Mrs Sinclair.
He sniffed. ‘She doesn’t smell of it.’
‘I haven’t!’ wheezed Maggie, shivering.
‘She doesn’t sound well. I think she needs to get warm and have a sit-down,’ said the man. ‘D’you think you can cope with her, Mrs Sinclair? Make her a cup of tea. I’m a bit behind and I have to get cracking. You know how it is.’
‘Indeed, I do. I just hope she hasn’t got this flu that’s going around. Is the wee laddie asleep?’
‘Yeah! Here’s the key.’
Maggie felt him remove his hand from her arm and sensed him hand over the key. Then he vanished into the swirling smog.
‘Come on, let’s get you inside,’ said the woman briskly. ‘Can you manage the steps? There’s four going down.’
Maggie nodded, and somehow she managed to descend the steps to the basement flat without falling. She was aware that Mrs Sinclair turned a key in the lock and pushed open a door. She ushered Maggie inside and closed the door behind them.
A shivering Maggie gazed about her. The room was lit by a single electric bulb hanging from a low ceiling and a fire glowed in a black-leaded grate protected by a fireguard; on the hob stood a blackened kettle.
‘You go and sit down while I make us a brew,’ said Mrs Sinclair.
Maggie managed to make her way over to a sofa, and only then did she realize that there was a boy covered by an army blanket lying there. His eyes were closed and he was clutching a Dinky car. Cautiously Maggie sat at the foot of the sofa, not wanting to wake him.
‘So what’s your name?’ Mrs Sinclair asked.
Maggie’s gaze shifted from the boy’s face, to that of the woman who had thrust the kettle on to the fire and was now putting milk in cups.
‘Margaret Gregory.’ She hesitated. ‘That man?’
‘What about him?’
‘Is he from Liverpool?’
‘Recognized the accent, did you? You have a hint of it yourself.’
Maggie grimaced. ‘I thought I’d got rid of it after having elocution lessons.’
‘I have an ear for accents.’ Mrs Sinclair removed the steaming kettle from the fire with a folded cloth and poured water into a teapot.
‘So are you on your own in London or did you come with friends?’ asked Mrs Sinclair, lowering herself into a shabby armchair by the fire, still wearing her coat and hat.
‘On my own, but there are other Scousers living in this area. I never thought when I came south I’d be glad to hear the accent,’ Maggie said hoarsely, drawing her scarf more snugly about her neck. She took another sip of her tea before adding, ‘I’ve heard some say it’s an ugly accent, but I don’t think it’s that bad. Besides, it would be unrealistic to expect every visitor to London to talk BBC English.’
‘That’s true. I’m from Perth and have lived here for over thirty years, and folk can still tell I’m from over the Border. How long have you been in London, Miss Gregory?’
‘Nearly three years.’ They had been difficult years at times, Maggie thought to herself, not at all like the life in London she’d imagined. ‘I have digs just off Gloucester Road,’ she said. ‘They were recommended by another Liverpudlian. An actress actually. She’s … quite well known … not only from the stage … but also from films and the telly,’ she wheezed.
‘So what do you do?’ asked Mrs Sinclair.
