Welcome to Weaver Street: The first in a heartbreaking and heartwarming new WW1 series

By Chrissie Walsh

If you love Katie Flynn and Pam Howes, you'll love Chrissie Walsh's WWI story of love, loss and triumph!

Kitty and Tom Conlon arrive in Liverpool in July 1916 to claim the house Tom’s great-uncle has bequeathed him in his will. The move to England couldn’t have come at a better time. Dublin is in turmoil following the Easter Uprising and Kitty’s brother is now in prison.

The house in Weaver Street is all they hoped for, and after a shaky start with her new neighbours, Kitty believes the world is her oyster. Until that is, Tom is conscripted into the navy.

With Tom away, it’s up to Kitty and the women of Weaver Street to get each other through the war.

Praise for Chrissie Walsh:'An authentic Yorkshire saga – you can almost hear the clacking of the looms. Add a feisty mill girl, determined to fight injustice, and you'll be reading through the night' Alrene Hughes, on The Girl from the Mill.

'Full of joy, sorrow and a big pinch of fun. I loved it' Elizabeth Gill, on The Child from the Ash Pits
'A captivating story of family, relations and the complexities of life. With truly heart-tugging moments that make you shed a tear. The Child from the Ash Pits is everything a good read should be' Diane Allen, on The Child from the Ash Pits
What readers say about Chrissie Walsh:'I could not fault any of this book, as the author brings all the characters to life, its such an interesting story that will engross readers all the way through. Loved it.'
'Really well written and very enjoyable, keeping the reader engrossed and gripped until the very last page.'
'Thoroughly enjoyed this book. I was engrossed from start to finish. Good strong characters, and strong storyline. Great author. I recommend.'
'The author writes so descriptively about the characters you feel you know them inside out. A brilliant read and I can’t wait for the next novel to be published.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boldwood Books
• Release date: Jul 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781802809350

Chrissie Walsh

Chrissie Walsh was born and raised in West Yorkshire and is a retired schoolteacher with a passion for history. She has written several successful sagas documenting feisty women in challenging times.

Book preview

1

LIVERPOOL, JULY 1916

‘Where do we go to now?’ Kitty Conlon’s luminous hazel eyes anxiously scanned the towering buildings on Liverpool’s Albert Dock. The damp, early morning breeze snatched the tendrils of red-gold hair that had escaped from her chignon, scribbling them across her forlorn, pretty face. She peeled them away irritably and breathed a deep sigh, the sharp smell of salt-sea air stinging her pert, little nose. Behind her, the Belfast steam packet was still disgorging passengers who, as they streamed past Kitty, seemed to know exactly where they were going.

‘The solicitor’s office in Portland Street.’ Tom Conlon’s sharp, blue eyes had been roaming the docks. Now they settled on his wife. He smiled fondly. The voyage had been a nightmare, the steamer buffeted by squalling seas but Kitty still managed to look beautiful, her glorious, tawny hair fanning her cheeks and her diminutive figure shapely in a bottle-green coat with a velvet collar.

Kitty’s heavy bag was making her shoulder ache so she dumped it on top of one of the two bulging suitcases Tom had set down. Whichever way they looked, the quayside swarmed with people, lorries and carts. Overhead, gulls swooped and mewed.

‘First, we have to find our way off the docks,’ Tom said, catching Kitty’s elbow and drawing her close as a heavily laden cart trundled past. Kitty pressed her cheek against the sleeve of his rough tweed overcoat, comforted by his nearness. She slipped her arm round his waist, feeling the need to hold on to him, to let the warmth of his body take away the chill that shrouded her own.

Tom lowered his gaze to look at her, and seeing the pallor on her cheeks, he asked, ‘Are ye all right?’ Kitty heard the concern in his voice as he folded her in his arms. She looked up into his strong, handsome face and saw nothing but love and considerateness. She gave a firm nod and a bright smile. She mustn’t let him see how fearful she felt.

‘Then we’ll make tracks,’ he said, releasing his hold on her. Immediately she felt lost and vulnerable but she pushed back her shoulders and lifted her heavy canvas bag that was stuffed to bursting with woollen shawls in case they’d had to sit out on deck, a damp flannel and a brush and comb to tidy themselves up after spending all night at sea, plus a pair of Tom’s second best shoes that they hadn’t been able to cram into their overloaded suitcases. At the top of the bag were the remains of the sandwiches she had made before they had left Dublin to travel up to Belfast to catch the steam packet. Tom had wanted to throw them to the gulls but Kitty, fearful of going hungry for the rest of the journey, had kept them.

Tom waited while she adjusted the bag, then, pulling the peak of his cap a little lower on his forehead, he lifted the two heavy pieces of luggage that contained the rest of their worldly possessions and set off at a brisk pace.

Kitty hurried alongside, the bag bumping uncomfortably against her hip as she struggled to match his stride, her legs still attuned to the rocking of the boat and the nausea she had suffered on the crossing still gurgling in her stomach. It made her feel unusually fragile. For a few awful moments she wondered if she had fallen victim to whatever ailed the woman who had come to sit next to her on the boat, the scabs round her mouth and eyes and the putrid smell of her indicating she was unwell. Kitty had moved away from the woman as soon as possible in case she might pass on her germs. Even so, she couldn’t help feeling as though she had caught something nasty.

‘How do we get there – to Portland Street?’ she panted.

‘I’ll ask somebody.’ Tom gave her a reassuring smile, and seeing that her cheeks were now red with exertion he slowed his pace.

Weaving their way between large piles of crates and dodging the lorries and carts, they joined the seething, sweaty crush at the port’s gate. When it was their turn to pass through the gate, Tom asked the uniformed official for directions to Portland Street.

‘It’s a fair walk,’ the gatekeeper said, glancing at Kitty’s strained face and then at her bulging bag and the suitcases. ‘You’d be better off taking a cab.’ He pointed to where a long queue had formed at the roadside, the people at the head of it boarding the vehicles as one cab after another came chugging down the road.

They joined the tail end of the queue, Kitty relieved that she wasn’t faced with a long walk, and Tom quailing inwardly at the thought of the expense; maybe they should walk. He asked the man in front of him if he knew the way to Portland Street, but halfway through the man’s ‘turn left at this street, right at that one,’ he resigned himself to taking a cab. Kitty, feeling peckish and not wanting to waste the sandwiches, fished them out of her bag and they ate them while they waited their turn.

Once they were seated in the back of the cab, Kitty and Tom smiled at one another, their relief at having made it this far plain on their faces. Tom had stowed the suitcases onto a rack at the rear, but Kitty had held on to her bag, resting it at her feet and liking the feeling of being in control of at least some of their possessions.

As she gazed out of the window at the grand buildings and the crush of people in the busy streets, Tom quizzed the cabbie as to how they should get from Portland Street to Weaver Street in Edge Hill. The cabbie, a mine of information, was able to tell him which tram they needed and where to catch it. Feeling more in control, Tom sat back to enjoy the journey, reasoning that the cab fare was well worth it: Kitty could never have walked the distance.

The cab trundled its way into the centre of Liverpool, stopping and starting in the congested thoroughfares. The streets thronged with people going about their business. Pavements steamed as the early morning sun dried off an earlier shower of rain, and a strong smell of horse dung, oil and pungent unfamiliar smells wafted through the open window. Tom and Kitty peered this way and that, commenting on the vast buildings that towered over dense, sooty rows of shops and houses. Kitty thought it all looked rather dank and depressing, even though they had passed some impressive shops such as Blacklers and Coopers.

‘Do ye think we’re going to like livin’ in Liverpool?’ Her voice wobbled plaintively. They hadn’t lived in the best part of Dublin, but it had been much pleasanter than anything she had seen so far.

‘I’ve no idea,’ Tom replied. ‘We’ll just have to wait and find out.’

‘How long did you say it was since your uncle Seamus had last visited your great-uncle Thomas?’ She already knew the answer and it only increased her anxiety but, like the tip of her tongue whenever she had a sore tooth, she felt the need to probe.

‘Ah, must be thirty or more years,’ Tom said easily.

‘That’s a long time. Tell me again what Seamus said about it?’

Tom screwed up his face. ‘Ach, well, like I already told ye, Seamus went over looking for work but he didn’t care for the place and came back home after a month or two. He missed the farm and the wild countryside in Clare, so he said.’

Kitty wondered if she would feel the same. She had grown used to missing her home place in Roscommon and now she worried that she would miss Dublin once she was living in Edge Hill. Home had been a remote smallholding where she had lived with her parents and three brothers. In the same year that she had turned sixteen her parents had died and Shaun, her youngest brother and the one nearest her own age, had left home. After that, things had never been the same.

Her elder brothers, Padraig and Brendan Mulvenny, were ten and more years Kitty’s age, and both of them being unmarried, they had expected her to take over her mother’s role. Fed up of waiting on them hand and foot and eager to make her own way in the world she had packed her bags and moved to Dublin.

Alone in the big city she had been fortunate enough to get a live-in job as a waitress at the Gresham Hotel. That was where she had met Tom. She’d been bowled over when the handsome man with a roguish smile, flashing blue eyes and black wavy hair had asked her to walk out with him. Her joy hadn’t lasted long. When she told him that her brother was a brigade commander in the Irish Republican Army, Tom had been horrified. He told her he wanted no truck with the hotheads ruining the country. All he wanted was to earn his living as a bookmaker, quietly and peaceably, and climb the ladder until one day he had his own business.

‘It’s fools like them that stop decent fellas like me from making their way. Who cares who governs the country as long as we have money in our pockets and bread in our bellies?’ he had argued.

For the next few weeks he had avoided her, but his desire to be with her greater than his abhorrence of her brother’s mutinous activities he’d sought her out. ‘Promise me ye’ll have nothin’ to do with your brother or his like,’ he’d said. Kitty had promised; she was already head over heels in love. After that, they’d spent every evening together. She had worried over what Shaun would think if he knew she was walking out with a man who didn’t support the Republican cause. After all, the Easter Uprising, as people were calling it, had cost many lives and some, like Shaun, were still waiting to learn their fate in an English jail. But when Tom told her he loved her and wanted her to marry him, Kitty had put all other thoughts out of her head.

The wedding had been small, neither Kitty’s nor Tom’s families making the journey from the west of Ireland to Dublin, but Kitty hadn’t expected anything else. She was marrying the handsomest man in Dublin and that was all that had mattered. Her friend, Maureen, from the Gresham Hotel, had been her bridesmaid and a chap from Power’s bookmakers had been Tom’s best man. During the three months they had been married Kitty and Tom, like two excited children, had sealed their love. Now, in July 1916, she had crossed the Irish Sea and was sitting in a cab to God knows where or what. And had she been able to read Tom’s mind she would have learned that his thoughts matched her own: had the decision to come to England been a wise one?

They had been married just a month when the letter had arrived at the rooming house in Dublin. Kitty would never forget the day. She came home from her job in the Gresham Hotel to find it lying on the little table in the lobby.

No sooner had she lifted it than that old crone, Mary Hannigan, who lived in the bottom half of the house had poked her head out of her door, curiosity burning in her black, currant-bun eyes. ‘Yez have a swanky letter wid an Engerlish stamp on it,’ she sneered, the derisory expression on her wizened face letting Kitty know just what she thought of anything that came out of England.

As Kitty gazed at the tiny image of King George V, Mary craned her wrinkled neck, peering at the envelope and then at Kitty, her eyes willing Kitty to open it. ‘It looks mighty important to me.’

Kitty stared at the envelope, her curiosity mixed with fear. It did look important in an official sort of way, the kind that a court of law might use to issue a summons, she thought. The very sight of it threw her into a tizzy.

‘So it does, Mrs Hannigan,’ she croaked, hurrying to the foot of the stairs.

‘Are yez not goin’ to open it?’ Mary squawked.

Kitty took the stairs two at a time, Mary’s scowl burning holes in her back as she climbed the narrow flight that led up to the two rooms she and Tom thought of as home.

Inside the living room cum kitchen Kitty placed the letter on the table under the window. She gazed at the envelope, her fingers itching to take the knife she used for paring vegetables and slit it open: but it wasn’t her letter, and she was unsure how Tom would feel about that. They hadn’t been married long enough for her to know such things, and it made her think how little she knew about her husband. Slowly, she unbuttoned her coat. I’ve a lot to learn, she’d told herself, tossing the coat over the back of a chair then smoothing imaginary creases from the crisp white shirt and calf-length black skirt that was her waitress’s uniform.

Still feeling hot and bothered, she turned back to study the envelope again. The postmark showed that it had been posted on the fourth of May 1916. That was just three days ago. Kitty neither wrote nor received letters, so she was surprised to learn that one could travel so far in such a short space of time.

The envelope bore the embossed name and address of a solicitor’s office in Liverpool, Lancashire, in England. Kitty traced the dark, red lettering with the tip of her finger. Now why would a solicitor in Liverpool – a place she’d only heard tell of – be writing to her Tom? As far as she knew, he’d never been to Liverpool.

Propriety winning over temptation, she set the letter on the mantelpiece. Propped majestically between the chimney breast and a small, lead statue of Our Lady, the thick, cream envelope taunted Kitty as, knife in hand and ears pricked, she began to peel potatoes for the evening meal.

When she heard the thud of feet on the stairs her breath whooshed out. She hadn’t been aware of holding it. Almost dizzy with relief she rinsed her hands under the tap and, wiping them dry on her skirt, she ran to open the door.

Tom greeted her with a big smile, his blue eyes dancing as he leaned in from the doorway to kiss her. ‘That’s a grand welcome for a man to come home to,’ he said, pulling off his cap. Locks of wavy black hair fell over his forehead, curled round his ears and at the nape of his neck. Kitty ran her fingers through them as she returned his kiss. Then, words failing her, she wagged a finger in the direction of the mantelpiece. Bemused, Tom looked to where she pointed. Seeing the envelope, he strode over to the fireplace. ‘Who’s it from?’ he asked.

Seated stiffly upright on the cab’s shiny leather seat, too nervous to relax, Tom willed the cab to speed up and get them to the solicitor’s office. He would dearly have liked a cigarette. He gazed at the back of the cabbie’s head, greying hair straggling over a thick, red neck. If the cabbie lit up then so would he. The cab came to a complete standstill at a busy junction and Tom’s hopes rose then fell. Sadly, it seemed the chap was a non-smoker. He felt the warmth of Kitty’s thigh next to his own and glanced sideways at her. She looked pensive. He thought he knew exactly how she felt.

In the inside pocket of his best black suit jacket the letter was snug against his chest. With it was another letter in reply to the one Tom had written on the night the first letter had arrived. Had there been some mistake, he had enquired. By return, in grandiose language, Mr James Pennington of Pennington, Pennington and Duckworth had assured him that he was now the rightful owner of number eleven, Weaver Street, Edge Hill, Liverpool, in the county of Lancashire. When he had read it out loud Kitty had burst into tears. Tom still didn’t know whether they had been tears of joy or regret.

They had read and reread the letters many times over, gradually unravelling the unfamiliar terms and then digesting the full import of their meaning, all the while barely able to believe what they had read.

‘Bequeathed,’ Kitty said over and again, tasting the word on her tongue. ‘But why did your great-uncle Thomas leave his house to you, Tom?’

Tom had sat back, rubbing his finely sculpted jaw. ‘Well, for one, I was named for him, he stood for me at my baptism, and for another, I’m the last of the Conlons in Quilty. What with Da’s da being the only brother to marry and have a son, and then my da producing five girls and one son – me – I’m the last of the line to bear the name Conlon. Maybe Great-Uncle Tom hoped I’d be the one to carry it on.’ He’d given Kitty a nudge and a suggestive wink.

Kitty had giggled, but her brow had creased as she tried to make sense of it.

Night after night they had talked of little else, and during the day as Kitty served the diners in the Gresham Hotel and Tom took bets behind the counter of Power’s bookmakers, the thought of what to do about the house in Edge Hill was never far from their minds. Should they ask Mr Pennington to sell it and send them the proceeds? That seemed to be the simplest answer, Kitty argued. The money would afford them better lodgings in Dublin, maybe even enough to buy their own place.

‘I don’t know what to think, Tom,’ she persisted. ‘Will we be safe there? The English are at war with the Germans.’

‘Sure, an’ aren’t we at war with ourselves?’ Tom sneered. ‘Is Dublin the place where ye want to settle an’ raise a family?’

In a quandary, Kitty had given a helpless shrug.

Ever since those dreadful days at Easter, less than two months before, the city had been restless. Neither Tom nor Kitty were involved in the politics of the situation – unlike her brother, Shaun, who was now suffering the consequences – but the dangers could not be ignored. The Irish Republicans still thirsted for Home Rule, and the British Government were still haggling over whether or not they might come to some agreement. Both the British and Irish forces regularly perpetrated terrible deeds, and violence and fear roamed the heart of the city. The more Tom and Kitty had talked, the more convinced Tom was that Ireland was not the place to make his fortune.

‘Think on it, Kitty,’ he had pleaded. ‘A house of our own and jobs aplenty. I know ye’re feared by the prospect of a strange place, but Dublin was strange to ye when first ye came from Roscommon. I’m not saying I don’t still miss my home in Clare, but I do believe there’s so much more opportunity in England. It served Great-Uncle Tom well enough.’

‘But I won’t know anyone,’ Kitty had pleaded. She was gregarious and liked having a circle of friends in a city about which she knew her way. The thought of being uprooted and having to learn about a new place didn’t appeal. It had been difficult enough coming from Roscommon to Dublin, but at least the people in Dublin were Irish. What would the English make of her, she wondered.

‘Sure, you knew nobody when you first came here, an’ look at the friends ye have now. An’ it took ye no time at all to learn your way about. Ye’ll do the same over there,’ Tom had told her confidently.

Kitty had tried to look convinced. Maybe they would be better off living in England. It was true that the shooting in the streets made her nervous. She was frightened of catching a stray bullet as she walked to and from work, or of the Gresham being commandeered by the rebels. The bar staff and waitresses had been told to be vigilant and keep a sharp eye out for strangers who might be carrying guns. The trouble with Dublin was you never knew who was a friend and who was an enemy. But would they be any safer in England? Kitty didn’t know what to think. At work she kept her opinions to herself, served at the tables, chatted with Maureen, and each evening she hurried home to the safety of Tom’s arms. Tom was so much cleverer than her and knew about these things. She tried to imagine what living in England would be like, and thought about her brother. But Shaun wasn’t living a normal life there, so that was no use.

Kitty sought Maureen’s advice. ‘What do ye think we should do?’ Maureen was the under housekeeper at the Gresham. Three years older than Kitty, she seemed to know a lot about everything. ‘Better the divil ye know,’ she’d replied. ‘Ye’ve not seen the place. It could be a wreck, and Tom might not get work. The English don’t like the Irish. An’ I’ll miss ye if ye go.’

Tom asked the Parish priest. ‘England’s not the heathen place some think it is,’ he had said. ‘I was there, in Manchester, as a young curate. If I were you I’d at least go and look at the property if only to assess its value. You wouldn’t want the solicitor selling it and telling you one price when he’d got double, now would ye? And ye can always come home.’ He gave Tom a benign smile and shook his hand. Tom had seen the wisdom in the old priest’s advice and doubled his efforts to persuade Kitty to at least go and look at the house.

And so – here they were in a cab in Liverpool, Kitty struggling to settle the swarm of butterflies that had invaded her tummy and Tom cogitating on what lay ahead. A punch of fear hit his stomach as he thought of how little they knew about what awaited them.

At last, the cab turned into a street lined with imposing buildings. ‘Portland Street,’ the cabbie announced. ‘Pennington’s is the one with the red door.’

Kitty stooped and gathered her bag, her heart pounding. Now they were really going to find out what Tom had inherited. She blinked nervously then smiled at Tom. He looked tense. The cabbie lifted their suitcases from the rack and set them down on the pavement. Then he held out his hand. Tom paid him, begrudgingly adding a sixpenny tip. The cabbie smirked. ‘Oh ta, mate, ta very much.’ Sarcasm dripped from his tongue, but Tom was past caring. He nodded for Kitty to go to the red door then followed her without looking back.

‘Is this the right place?’ she asked, her tone a mixture of excitement and fear.

‘It says so,’ he grunted, his eyes on the gold lettering etched on the window to the side of the door. A brass plaque set into the stone doorpost confirmed it.

He had never been in a solicitor’s office and he wondered how to conduct himself. He didn’t want to appear to be a gombeen from the bogs. He lifted the brass knocker, which was in the shape of a clenched fist, and rapped it. Then he turned the brass doorknob. The door was locked.

Kitty dithered, the strap on her bag biting into her shoulder. She set it down on the steps then looked expectantly at Tom.

‘They’re not yet open.’ He glanced up and down the street, looking slightly dazed and very apprehensive. ‘We’re too early.’ He stepped away from the door back to where he had left the suitcases. Kitty also stepped away to lean on Tom. She gazed up into his face enquiringly.

A smartly dressed gentleman approached from behind, muttering an apology and giving a curious look as he sidestepped them and the suitcases. Tom and Kitty jumped apart, embarrassed. The man strutted into the adjacent office and out of sight, but not before Tom had noted his well-cut suit and black Homburg hat. Suddenly he felt gauche and shabby even though he was wearing his good overcoat and best black suit. He pushed his cap to the back of his head then took it off. Folding it, he stuffed it in his pocket. Then he ran his fingers through his hair and straightened his shirt collar. Frowning, he continued fiddling with his attire, unbuttoning his overcoat then buttoning it again.

Kitty saw how unsure he looked and was surprised. As she watched him tidying his clothing she started to do the same. Tom was right as usual. They had to make a good impression, so she pushed stray wisps of hair under her hat and brushed imaginary bits of lint from her green coat. They must have looked an odd pair standing on the pavement, suitcases at their feet and lost expressions on their faces. So odd, that they attracted the attention of an elderly woman coming towards them.

‘Are you lost?’ Her fleshy face was kind.

Tom scowled. He hated giving the impression that he was out of his depth, so he didn’t respond. Kitty, however, seeing the friendly face, said, ‘We’re just gatherin’ ourselves afore goin’ in there.’ She nodded at the red door.

‘You’re Irish.’ The woman rested her heavy basket on her hip.

‘We are,’ Kitty agreed, unsure if, in the woman’s opinion, that was good or bad.

She beamed at Kitty. ‘So was my dear old dad. He came from Cork.’

On friendly ground, Kitty replied, ‘Clare for him and Roscommon for me. We’re just after coming off the overnight steam packet.’

‘Oh, so you’ve just arrived in Liverpool?’ The woman moved her basket to her other hip, ready for a gossip. Tom slid his eyes to Kitty and gave an imperceptible shake of the head that said: don’t engage her in conversation. But it was too late.

‘I’m surprised at you coming here, ’cos you’re not in the war over in Ireland are you? Well, not like we are.’ She chuckled. ‘You’ve got your own troubles.’ She put the basket down on the pavement and sighed heavily. ‘I’m just on me way to me daughter’s in Bootle. I go to give her hand wi’ me grandchildren. Five of ’em there is, an’ her man killed at Ypres so he was.’ She pronounced it ‘Wipers’. Kitty, none the wiser, murmured her condolences. Tom shuffled his feet irritably.

‘It’s a proper bad do losing all our lads to the Germans,’ the woman continued bitterly, ‘and them bombing our ships in the Mersey.’ She blew out her cheeks. ‘Bloomin’ foreigners.’ She glanced quickly from Kitty to Tom. ‘Present company excepted,’ she muttered. As she’d been talking an efficient-looking young woman and a plump, well-dressed man had arrived at the solicitor’s office. He unlocked the door and they entered.

‘So, whatever brought you to Liverp—’

‘We have to go,’ Tom barked, cutting the woman off and glowering at Kitty.

‘Very nice to meet you,’ Kitty blurted, hoisting her bag on her shoulder. The woman looked disappointed and went on her way.

‘Ye shouldn’t have encouraged her,’ Tom snapped.

Kitty was hurt. ‘I was just being polite.’

‘She was a nosy old besom,’ he grunted, mounting the steps to the red door. It just wasn’t in his nature to tell everyone his business. Furthermore, he’d reached the stage whereby he himself doubted the wisdom of having made the journey. He turned the doorknob. The door opened. Surprised, he went and snatched up the suitcases and marched inside, Kitty at his heels.

Inside the offices of Pennington, Pennington and Duckworth they were cordially greeted by the efficient young woman and even offered a welcome cup of tea. ‘Young Mr Pennington was handling Mr Conlon’s affairs but he’s gone to join his regiment and do his bit,’ the secretary explained as she set down the tray, ‘so Mr Duckworth will see you shortly.’

‘Everyone seems very friendly,’ Kitty whispered, as they sat at a little table in the hallway waiting for Mr Duckworth. She sipped her tea and nibbled a shortbread biscuit. The woman’s remarks about the war had unnerved her and the hot, sweet tea was having a calming effect. She patted her hair and yet again smoothed imaginary bits of fluff from her coat. Was she dressed smart enough for a solicitor’s office?

Mr Duckworth – plump, pink and balding – ushered them into his office, its walls lined with shelves containing fat, leather-bound books. Once seated behind his desk in a high-backed, leather chair, and with Tom and Kitty perched on two small, spindly chairs in front, the solicitor raced through the details of the last will and testament of Thomas Francis Conlon. Tom did his best to