Riches of the Heart

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

About the Author

Also by June Tate

Acknowledgements

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

To my two wonderful daughters: Beverley, who has the soul of a writer, and Maxine, whose spirit of adventure is awesome; and to my dear husband Alan for his patience and understanding.

By June Tate

Riches of the Heart

No One Promised Me Tomorrow

For the Love of a Soldier

Better Days

Nothing Is Forever

For Love or Money

Every Time You Say Goodbye

To Be a Lady

When Somebody Loves You

The Talk of the Town

A Family Affair

June Tate was born in Southampton. After leaving school she became a hairdresser and spent several years working on cruise ships, first on the Queen Mary and then on the Mauritania, meeting many Hollywood film stars and VIPs on her travels. After her marriage to an airline pilot, she lived in Sussex and Hampshire before moving to Estoril in Portugal. June, who has two adult daughters, now lives in Sussex.

To my friends, Florence Evens, Carey Cleaver, Pauline Bentley and Jan Henley, who between them taught me so much. To Anita, who always found a solution when I was faced with a problem. And to my lovely agent, Judith Murdoch, who had faith in my abilities as a writer.

Southampton, 1920

The door opened slowly – as she knew it would.

‘Lily, where are you, my little darling?’

The words were slurred, and rancid fumes of stale alcohol wafted across the small bedroom, no bigger than a box.

Through the grimy windows the moon shed its diffused light. Lily watched his silhouette as he stumbled towards the bed. She pressed herself against the wall behind the door, holding her breath. Fear made her body tremble.

He searched for her on the bed, cursing when he found it empty. ‘Where are you hiding this time? Come on out, you little bitch.’ His cruel laughter echoed.

Clutching her clothes and shoes to her chest, Lily fled through the open doorway, the roar of anger from behind filling her with terror. She raced down the stairs and stumbled into the little living room, where her mother, Mavis Johnson, a pale scrawny creature with dull eyes, sat doing a pile of mending by the fire.

Lily appealed to her. ‘You’re supposed to look after me!’ Her voice broke with anguish. ‘What sort of a woman are you? Why do you let him do this to me? My own father!’

The thin lips narrowed. ‘It keeps him out of my bed, that’s why.’ Fear was suddenly reflected in her eyes, as her husband appeared at the top of the stairs.

Looking up at the swaying figure, his beer belly hanging over his trousers, face bloated from too much alcohol, Lily knew there was no one to defend her. Any spirit her mother might have had had been beaten out of her years ago.

Her courage fired by desperation, Lily faced her father as he descended the stairs. ‘I’ll kill you before I let you touch me again.’

Jack Johnson, puce with anger and alcohol, grabbed her arm. ‘You’ll do as I say.’ He pushed her towards the stairs. ‘Get back to your room.’

She hung on grimly to the bannister, knowing what would happen to her if she did as she was bid.

He raised his hand to her and she lunged at him with all her might. Unsteady with the drink, he went sprawling. Seizing this chance, she made for the front door, her fingers shaking so much she could barely grip the knob. At last the door opened and she ran out into the night, tripping over the pavement in her haste and landing, winded, in the gutter.

Jack swayed in the doorway. ‘You little slut,’ he spat. ‘Clear off. I don’t want you in this house again.’

Flushed with relief at her escape, Lily shook her fist at him. ‘That suits me fine!’ she yelled.

The upstairs window of their neighbour’s house opened and Mrs Ryan peered out, a chamber pot clutched in her hand. ‘What the bloody ’ell’s going on?’ She looked at the crumpled heap and asked, ‘Is that you, Lily, love?’

Getting swiftly to her feet, the girl darted off without replying. She found shelter in the doorway of the corner shop and, with trembling fingers, dressed herself. Her skirt, with its worn material, and the threadbare jumper were not warm enough to keep out the chill of the hour. She put on one shoe, but a frantic search failed to find its mate. Crouching on her haunches, Lily began to shake, the trauma of the night belatedly taking its toll of the young, defenceless girl. What was she to do now? What if her father came looking for her? Terror made her feel queasy. The best thing to do was to get away.

Rising to her feet, Lily limped along the road with an uneven gait, but this soon became so uncomfortable that she cast the remaining shoe aside. Crossing her arms over her chest, she hugged herself for added warmth.

Turning the corner, she collided with a lascar dressed neatly in his seaman’s uniform of dark-blue trousers and matching jacket. As he clasped her by the arms, her legs seemed to turn to jelly and her heart pounded. In the low light from the street-lamp, she saw his white teeth strangely bright against his dark skin. His hair was plastered down with Macassar oil.

‘Hello, missy. You want jiggy-jig?’

Overcome with rage she pushed him away. ‘You filthy pig! You’re just like my father.’

He stepped forward, catching her again by the arm.

‘Take your hands off me!’ she cried. Swiftly bringing up her knee, she caught him in the groin. He cursed in a foreign tongue as he doubled over with pain.

Free from his clutches, Lily ran down the road, laughing hysterically. Her laughter, born of fear, soon died in her throat and eventually, gasping for breath, she stopped and hung on to a street-lamp for support. There was a pain in her side from running. She held it whilst she recovered. ‘No more bloody jiggy-jig for me,’ she vowed. ‘Not ever.’ When at last she could breathe freely she wondered, What am I to do now? Where shall I go? I won’t go back. I
can’t
go back … I hate them. Both of them!

The street in this rundown area of the docklands was silent and empty except for a solitary cat walking across the road, its tail held high, its green eyes shining. Lily watched the animal’s elegant passage, wishing she could change places with it.

The night chill seeped through her bones and made her shiver. Best to keep on the move, she thought. I must find somewhere to sleep.

There was an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach as hunger gnawed away at her. There had only been bread and scrape for supper these past few nights, her father having spent the last of the money in the pub.

The enormity of Lily’s situation began to dawn on her. There wouldn’t even be bread and scrape now. She had no home, no money. But at least there wouldn’t be any more beatings and no further invasion of her body, which filled her more with shame than anger. It made her feel dirty. No man would ever make her feel that way again. She’d get by, somehow. Nothing would induce her to return home. I’m never, never going back, she vowed. And yet, even as she swore to survive, she was filled with apprehension. The docks were a dangerous place for anyone, but more so for a fifteen-year-old girl, all alone and in the dead of night. She shivered as the sudden shrill whistle of a goods train made her jump.

Queens Park looked ominous in the dark. During the day the area was a buzz of activity, but now it was eerie. Huge cranes loomed, dark, menacing silhouettes against the skyline. There were no deep throaty roars from the funnels of an ocean liner, no crowds, only an occasional drunken figure, staggering back, hopeful of finding the dock gates and a warm bunk aboard their vessels, docked silently in one of the berths. A sound of voices raised in anger, a policeman’s whistle, carried in the air. Shrubs and trees loomed out at Lily, casting strange shapes and shadows. Branches swayed in the night breeze. Lily tiptoed along the path, glancing all around her, terrified of seeing anyone, and of being seen.

She was making her way towards a wooden bench when she saw, by a shaft of moonlight that suddenly appeared from behind a cloud, the shape of a sleeping figure. She paused beside it. A hand shot out and grabbed at her skirt. Lily screamed. The figure sat up. The smell of filth and decay from the woman made Lily retch. It was Mad Maria, a well-known character around the docks. The old hag pushed her face towards Lily.

‘What ya want?’

‘I’m looking for a place to sleep,’ was the defiant answer.

‘This is my pitch. Now bugger off!’

Lily moved quickly away from her as soon as Maria let go, only to almost stumble over a man, snoring, curled up fast asleep beneath a tree. He was wearing a steward’s jacket, stained with vomit. Beside him she saw something glitter in the moonlight. Bending down she picked up a sixpence and put it in her pocket.

Two men began to fight outside the closed doors of a pub and she was scared they would come into the park and find her. Across the way, she saw that dimmed lights were still on in the reception area of The South Western Hotel.

Crossing the road, she crept up to the door and pressed her nose against the pane of glass. Inside she could see the night porter asleep in a comfortable armchair. A large potted palm spread above his head like a canopy. His cap was low over his nose, covering his eyes. Lily watched the steady rise and fall of his chest as he slept, envious of his comfort.