The Barefoot Child. Cathy Sharp
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HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover photograph © Tanya Gramatikova/Trevillion Images
Cathy Sharp asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008286682
Ebook Edition © May 2019 ISBN: 9780008286699
Version: 2019-03-27
Contents
Copyright
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
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by Cathy Sharp
About the Publisher
It was bitterly cold that February morning in the year of Our Lord 1882 and the girl shivered as she shopped in the market, looking for the best bargains to take home for her mother. She’d been given two shillings and for that she must buy a nourishing meal for them all; a meal that would last for several days. Ma had asked Lucy to bring a piece of best mutton and vegetables so that she could make a stew that would be recooked for at least three or four days, ending up as little more than a thin soup, but it was all they could afford.
‘Josh hates mutton stew,’ Lucy had protested. ‘We have it all the time and he says it makes him feel sick.’
‘Please don’t argue with me,’ Lucy’s mother said. ‘My head aches so and I must bake the bread. If you can find another meat as cheap then bring it, but don’t worry me with your brother’s complaints – and Kitty needs new shoes again for her others are falling to pieces.’
It was true, Kitty’s shoes had holes in the toes to allow for growth and Lucy’s sister had been in tears over it the previous day. She’d told her that she must wear them a little longer or go barefooted. Kitty had flounced off to bed, saying she would rather go barefoot than wear them. As usual, these days, Lucy’s mother had blamed her for her sister’s lack of shoes. Lucy knew it was hard for Ma now that Pa was lost, together with all the money he’d invested in his cargo. Life had never been easy but since he was lost, Ma had become bitter and harsh.
Lucy blinked away the foolish tears. She was fifteen, her sixteenth birthday looming in early March, and the burden of looking after her brother and sister had fallen on her shoulders since Ma’s illness the previous winter.
Lucy didn’t mind scrubbing the kitchen floor for her mother before she left for work in the nail factory, nor did she mind preparing her siblings’ tea at night, though she was often so tired she could barely stand. She didn’t even mind that she had to go shopping on her afternoon off, but it hurt that Ma was always sharp with her, always complaining that she was lazy and that she neglected Kitty and Josh when it wasn’t true.
It had never been like this when Pa was alive. Lucy blinked rapidly to keep her tears away. Pa was a big, golden-haired man who seemed to fill the room with his booming voice when he was home from the sea, but he was dead, lost to them all. The sea he’d made his living from had swallowed him up in a big storm and for months they’d known nothing, but then the news had arrived of Storm Diver’s sinking and Lucy had wept bitter tears into her pillow night after night – and her mother had changed from a happy and loving wife to a bitter woman who never smiled.
‘Dreamin’ again?’ Lucy’s thoughts were hastily ended as she found herself confronted by one of the barrow boys who plied their trade in the busy market at the heart of Spitalfields. ‘Dreamin’ of me, I’ll swear – of the day I put me ring on yer finger …’ He was always teasing her, always pretending that he was going to marry her.
Lucy’s cheeks fired as her gaze avoided Eric Boyser’s wicked grin. A thin lanky lad, he wore a rusty black jacket, a threadbare cap, and baggy trousers he kept up with a piece of parcel string. Eric’s jacket was patched and patched again by his widowed mother for whom he worked. Mrs Boyser owned the stalls Eric ran and paid him only a few coins a week – and she didn’t like Lucy’s mother so there was no possibility that she would allow a marriage even if Lucy wanted it, which she didn’t. She was much too young for such things and if she did ever marry she wanted a man like her golden father – not a thin, dark, gangly boy with a long nose who thought it was funny to tease her.
‘I’m