The Girl on the Doorstep: from the bestselling author of The Workhouse Children

By Lindsey Hutchinson

Left an orphan, five-year-old Rosie Harris is found and raised by Maria, a Romany gypsy. Life on the road is hard, but the little girl soon feels one of the tribe with the travellers.

As she grows older, Rosie realises she has 'second sight' and is able to read people's palms and see into their futures. Needing to make a living of her own, she befriends the canal folk, known as the 'cut-rats' traversing the Black Country waterways with their cargo, and so offers readings to anyone who can pay.

Pursued by Jake Harding, a Romany bandolier who wants her for his wife, Rosie instead finds herself falling in love with a married man. And despite growing ominous signs that her future may be cursed, Rosie can't quite break away from the dream of a happily ever after...

Lindsey Hutchinson is a master storyteller, and her Black Country sagas are heart-breaking, uplifting and truly addictive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Aug 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781788541480

Lindsey Hutchinson

Lindsey Hutchinson is a bestselling saga author whose novels include The Workhouse Children. She was born and raised in Wednesbury, and was always destined to follow in the footsteps of her mother, the multi-million selling Meg Hutchinson.

Book preview

One

Rosie Harris sat on the front doorstep of the tiny cottage sobbing her heart out. Dribble and snot ran down her little fingers which were wedged in her mouth. Hair like a raven’s wing fell around her small face as the tears poured from her dark eyes. Her five-year-old mind couldn’t comprehend why her mummy was lying on the kitchen floor and wouldn’t get up. Rosie had called out and shaken the prone woman, having no idea her mother had died where she fell.

Hearing the sound of cart wheels rattle over the stony heath by the cottage, Rosie looked up. A shudder ran through her small body as she saw the beautifully painted gypsy caravan draw to a halt. A woman with hair which shone in the sunlight sat in the driving seat, and Rosie heard her speak softly to the horse before watching her jump deftly to the ground.

Rosie was afraid, she’d heard about the gypsies taking off with young children. Grabbing the edge of her pinafore she tucked it into her mouth, her fearful sobs sounding even louder. Staring up at the woman stood before her she heard the gentle voice again.

‘Now then little one, what are all these tears for?’

Rosie looked up into the coal black eyes of the woman speaking to her and shook her head. She’d had it drummed into her time and again by her mother to never talk to strangers. The gypsy woman’s soft voice sounded again.

‘I know what you’ve been told, sweetheart, but it’s not true. We don’t steal other people’s children. Now, won’t you tell me what’s wrong?’

‘My mummy won’t get up!’ Rosie blurted out before bursting into fresh tears.

‘Can I go in and see?’ the woman asked. With a nod from the child she stepped into the cottage and a moment later saw what the little girl meant. Walking over to the girl’s mother she felt for a pulse… nothing. The woman was dead. Shaking her head, she went back to the sobbing child.

‘What is your name?’ she asked quietly.

‘Rosie Harris.’

‘Well, Rosie Harris, your mummy has gone to live with Jesus.’ Seeing the little girl’s eyes widen she went on. ‘My name is Maria Valesco. Where is your daddy?’

‘I haven’t got a daddy,’ Rosie said looking even more forlorn.

‘I see. Well we need to tell the doctor and let him have a look at your mummy. Now, you should come along with me and we’ll tell him together,’ Maria said keeping her voice low.

‘I can’t leave my mummy!’ Rosie said indignantly.

Although still very young, Rosie knew what living with Jesus meant. She was suddenly aware that she was alone in the world and would most likely end up in the workhouse. She’d heard the grown-ups talk about the ‘Spike’ and she felt fear wrap itself around her.

‘Rosie my little rakli, it’s important that we fetch the doctor. Your mummy will still be here when we come back I promise, so why don’t you ride on the vardo with me? I’ll let you drive the horse if you want.’

With a sniff the young girl wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

‘What’s a rakli?’ Rosie asked.

‘It’s gypsy language for girl,’ Maria said gently.

Rosie nodded and climbing up onto the caravan she was resigned to her fate.

As they travelled, Maria thought Rosie had probably had some home schooling. She seemed bright and her voice had no trace of a local accent, in fact she was rather well spoken.

An hour or so later the barrel-shaped vardo pulled up once more outside the dilapidated cottage and Rosie scrambled down and ran inside. She saw the gypsy had not lied when she said her mother would still be here.

The doctor’s horse and trap stopped alongside the caravan and the man jumped down and rushed into the tiny kitchen. Ushering Rosie to move aside he knelt down to examine the woman on the floor.

Rosie’s tears fell again as she went to stand by Maria in the doorway. She felt the woman rest a hand on her small shoulder.

‘Heart attack by the looks of it, probably worked herself to death,’ the doctor said looking up. Getting to his feet he looked over at the child now clinging to the gypsy’s skirts. ‘Well, little ’un, I’m afraid it will be the workhouse for you now your mum’s gone.’

Rosie sobbed loudly as the doctor walked towards her. She hid behind the long skirts of the woman stood by her.

‘Come on, I’ll take you, then I’ll get the undertaker down here,’ the doctor said as he reached an arm towards the crying child. He winced as the piercing scream almost shattered his ear drums.

Maria lifted the child into her arms and Rosie wrapped hers around the woman’s neck.

‘Seems she doesn’t want to go.’

‘Evidently, but she can’t stay here on her own,’ the doctor answered.

Walking out of the cottage Maria set Rosie on her feet once more and again, Rosie clung to her skirts.

The doctor had followed them out into the sunshine and grabbed Rosie’s arm trying to drag her to his trap.

In a lightning move Rosie snapped her head round and sank her teeth into the doctor’s hand. With a howl the doctor let go of her arm and Rosie ran to hide behind Maria.

‘Little bugger!’ the doctor yelped as he inspected the bite mark on his hand. More of a nip than a hefty bite, and he saw the skin was unbroken. ‘Right then, I’ll leave you to see to the child. I’ll go back and inform the undertaker and notify the workhouse.’

Turning to walk away he heard the gypsy call out to him. ‘I will take Rosie in, she can live with me in my vardo. I will await the undertaker.’

‘Fair enough, it will save the Parish having to pay her upkeep.’ Rubbing his sore hand, he muttered, ‘Rather you than me!’

Maria and Rosie sat on the front doorstep once more to wait and they chatted quietly. Rosie learned the horse was called Samson and Maria told of her travels from town to town. The undertaker arrived with a rough wooden coffin on a long cart pulled by two Shire horses.

‘She’s in the kitchen,’ Maria said. The undertaker nodded.

‘Come on, Rosie, I want you to have a look at your new home.’ Lifting the child onto the step at the back of the caravan, Maria opened the door and Rosie stepped inside. ‘It’s all right, little one, you go and investigate while I talk to the man outside.’

Leaving Rosie to look inside, Maria handed the undertaker a small pouch of money. ‘Thank you, sir.’

The man nodded and took the pouch.

Rosie’s mother was not now to be laid in a pauper’s grave, something Rosie would be thankful for in years to come.

Once the undertaker had left, Maria climbed into her vardo. Rosie was sat on an upholstered bench to one side holding a small musical box.

‘Aha, you found my music box, it’s pretty isn’t it?’ Maria asked.

Rosie nodded and closed the lid shutting off the music. Replacing the box gently where she’d found it, Rosie looked around her.

The roof of the caravan was arched and every inch was painted in bright intricate patterns. There were benches either side covered in thick material which she later learned could fold down into beds. To one side was a tiny black leaded stove with a copper kettle sat atop and above the stove were cupboards holding crockery and food stuff. At the further end was a bed lying horizontally across the cabin, and a tiny window above it with pretty chintz curtains. Below the bed was a wooden cupboard adorned with gold swirls. Everywhere was a myriad of bright colours and ornaments littering every available space.

Rosie smiled. ‘It looks like the boats on the cut,’ she whispered.

‘Do you like it?’ Maria asked gently.

‘Oh yes!’ Rosie breathed.

‘All right then. Now, that will be your bed up there…’ Maria pointed to the small window, ‘and I’ll sleep on this one.’ She pulled at the bench and it folded out to reveal another bed already made up. Pushing the bed back into place she went on. ‘You know your mummy has gone from us?’ Rosie nodded, tears forming once again in her dark eyes. ‘So, you and I will live together in this caravan.’

Closing the door, the two climbed onto the driving seat and Maria took up again. ‘Rosie Harris, you and I will travel the country and we will have great adventures together. What do you reckon to that?’

Rosie’s beaming smile replaced her threatened tears as the horse walked on. ‘Oooh yes! What sort of adventures?’

Maria smiled at her new charge and said, ‘As many as you can count and as exciting as you can think up.’

As her fear drained away Rosie clapped her little hands together and settled herself closer to the woman who had saved her from a life in the workhouse.

*

It had been thirteen years since Rosie Harris had seen her home town of Wednesbury in the heart of the ‘Black Country’. Looking around her from the seat of the gypsy vardo, she guessed nothing much had changed. Then she remembered it was Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee soon and the townspeople would be in high spirits in anticipation of the celebrations. To celebrate, the streets would be decorated with bunting and flags and parties would be held where copious amounts of alcohol would be consumed. Everyone in their particular street would contribute what food they could manage, to be laid out on long trestle tables placed in the centre of the roadway. Music would echo its way between the buildings and folk would kick up their heels to its beat. Rosie smiled as she traversed the heathland known as Lea Brook. She kept her eyes peeled for the old disused coal shafts and guided the horse towards the Monway branch of the Birmingham Canal which bordered two sides of the massive triangle of waste land. The railway line curved around the Lea Brook side. They would stop over for a while in the hope of selling their wares, although she didn’t hold out much hope, for everywhere they stopped they were moved on the following morning by the council authority. Nowhere wanted gypsies around; people were afraid their children would be kidnapped or their houses ransacked and their goods stolen. Rosie clucked gently to the horse wondering for the hundredth time where people got these mad ideas from.

Nearing the towpath of the canal, Rosie tugged gently on the reins pulling Samson to a standstill. Jumping nimbly to the ground she began to unhitch the horse from the vardo, and tethered him to a nearby tree, leaving a long rope to enable him to graze further afield.

Her ears picked up the sounds of the ‘cut-rats’, the canal people, working their barges and narrowboats nearby. Her eyes caught glimpses of people staring and she waited for the inevitable shouts and jeers as she began to collect stones for a fire ring.

Setting the fire, Rosie called to the woman in the caravan. ‘Maria, fire is burning – time for tea.’

The dark head of Maria Valesco popped through the top of the split door at the back of the wagon. Climbing down Maria joined her young friend who was setting the kettle to boil on the iron trivet stood over the fire.

Looking around Rosie said, ‘No point in getting settled as I’m sure we’ll be moved on before long.’

Maria stroked the girl’s long dark hair and smiled. ‘It’s the life, my lovely, the Romanies are feared so we are pushed away. You know this as well as I do.’

‘I do, Maria, but sometimes I wish they would just accept us as we are – travellers.’

‘Don’t think on it, Rosie. Let’s eat before the darkness descends, then we shall see what the morning brings.’

Cooking their food in a frying pan on the iron trivet now relieved of the kettle, Rosie looked up to see a woman standing before her. She was dressed in an old long skirt and cotton blouse, her shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her brown hair was pulled into a loose bun at the back; her blue eyes twinkled and she was slightly overweight which made her pant after the walk across to them.

‘I thought this might sweeten yer tea,’ she said proffering a jug of milk.

‘Thank you,’ Rosie said as she accepted the jug and invited the woman to sit on a three-legged stool near the fire. Tea with milk was shared as the three women chatted quietly.

‘We thank you for your kindness, it is rarely given to the likes of us,’ Maria said.

‘Nor us, the cut-rats I mean,’ the woman replied. ‘My name is Margaret Mitchell; friends call me Margy.’ She lifted her tin mug in a salute which said for them to call her by her nickname.

Rosie introduced Maria and herself before saying, ‘It never ceases to amaze me how the general populace tars us all with the same brush because of a few rogues.’

‘It’s the way of the world, gel,’ Margy muttered. ‘We’ll be movin’ along in the morning and I suggest you do the same.’ She indicated the direction of her narrowboat with a tilt of her head.

‘Yes, I think you could be right, Margy. We should get going before the townspeople descend on us in anger,’ Maria said as she stared into the fire contained within the circle of stones.

‘Maria, we can’t – not yet!’ Rosie said, consternation etching her voice.

Maria sighed loudly. ‘I know what you are thinking, Rosie, but I must keep us safe while we wait.’

‘What yer waitin’ for?’ Margy asked, dying to know what was going on.

Maria and Rosie exchanged a glance before saying in unison, ‘The Gathering.’

‘What, ’ere in Wednesbury?’ Margy gasped. She had heard of this whilst on her travels on the canal. Seeing Maria nod, she laughed loudly. ‘Oh bloody ’ell! I’ll bet that will lead to trouble.’

‘It may, though I wish for no trouble with the town. The Gathering is a time for travellers to come together so our young ones can choose a life partner,’ Maria said with a nod.

‘I can see as ’ow that’s important. It ain’t like you can marry outside of yer clan so-to-speak,’ Margy ventured.

‘Oh we can, Margy, but rarely does this happen. However, people do not understand our ways; they think we are here to cause upset and unrest. That is not, nor has it ever been, our intention.’

‘Ar well, us cut-rats have much the same reception from folk when we moor up. They ain’t got no time for us.’ Margy shook her head sadly as she stood to return to her boat. ‘Good luck to yer both,’ she said but as she turned to leave, Maria called her back.

‘Give me your hand, Margy Mitchell.’

Retaking her seat, the woman did as she was bid. She watched as Maria took her hand in her own. Tracing a finger along the lines of Margy’s palm her voice was barely more than a whisper.

‘You have a strong son…’

Margy nodded.

‘He has given you strong grandsons, two good boys.’

Margy smiled at Rosie who sat silently watching the proceedings.

‘You lost a daughter…’ Maria glanced up at the sad eyes which looked back at her, ‘have no more worry, she’s happy where she is now in the arms of the Lord.’

A dry sob escaped Margy’s lips.

‘Watch for one close to you for she is out to hurt you. Your husband needs a potion for his bad chest…’ Maria nodded to Rosie who moved to the caravan and returned with a tiny linen bag tied with a ribbon. ‘Make tea for him with this – he will recover well.’

Margy nodded her thanks.

‘You will live long and be healthy, Margy Mitchell.’ Maria let go of the woman’s hand.

Giving her thanks, Margy rushed off to infuse the herbs with hot water. Her husband did indeed have a bad chest; he’d had a barking cough for weeks and nothing he’d had from the doctor had helped. Margy had high hopes for the ‘tea’ she would brew and like it or not, her husband would drink every last drop!

Later that night, lying in her small bed in the cramped wagon, Rosie called to mind the first time she’d met Maria here in this very town. She recalled the story told to her often over the years of how they had fetched the doctor back to the little cottage. He had pronounced her mother dead and she did remember the discussion that took place thereafter. The doctor saying Rosie would have to go into the workhouse which had scared her witless, and Maria dismissing the idea out of hand. Rosie had become a traveller that day and had been on the move ever since.

Her mind flew back in time to when she was growing. She’d asked Maria why she was alone, why she didn’t have any children of her own.

Maria had explained about the ‘Gathering’ and how she had chosen not to take part. Her parents had been fairly well-off and had left her enough money to buy her own vardo. It was small, so relatively inexpensive, and she had painted it herself. The fittings inside such as the beds and cupboards had been added as and when she could afford it.

As time passed, Maria had settled into living a life with only herself to answer to. She caught up with other kumpanias, gypsy clans, now and then when news would be passed over a shared meal.

Rosie had wondered if Maria had been lonely. At times she was, the older woman had said, but on the whole Maria had been happy.

Rosie then thought back over the years and how she’d learned the ways of the Romanies. She reflected on how they were, and still are, shunned, all because they lived in a vardo, a traditional barrel-shaped gypsy caravan, rather than a house. But no, it was more than that, people were afraid. Tall tales had led them to believe bad things about gypsies, of them stealing children, of casting spells, of them talking to the dead!

Rosie smiled into the darkness. How could folk be so stupid? Lack of education – not knowing the ways of the travellers. Always people were afraid of what they did not understand. There again, they would not take the time to learn and she guessed it was an impasse that would never be breached.

Her thoughts moved to Margy Mitchell, the woman who they had met that day. Rosie instinctively knew, as did Maria, that the woman’s husband was ailing. She recalled feeling uncomfortable at Maria’s warning to the woman about betrayal because Rosie had somehow known this too.

She asked herself the same old question as she lay listening to Maria’s gentle snores. How had she known these things? Did she have the ‘sight’? Had she learned during her years of growing up with Maria?

The following morning a banging on the vardo door woke Rosie with a start. Draping a huge shawl over her nightgown she opened the top hatch and peered out into the bright sunshine.

‘Sorry to wake you,’ Margy Mitchell said as she shoved a parcel into the girl’s hands. ‘My ’ubby is so very much better this morning. He ’ad a restful night and I came to say thank you.’

Rosie smiled saying, ‘You’re most welcome, Margy, and be assured he won’t take poorly again.’

Margy stared at the girl then cleared her throat. ‘We’m on the move now but I wanted to thank you afore we went.’

‘Thank you too for this.’ Rosie held up the small package.

‘Oh, it’s only a bit of bacon, but it will give you both a good breakfast and set you up for the day. If ever yer should need ’elp, yer can pass a message through any of the cut-rats. It will reach us. Just ask for Margy on the Pride of Wednesbury.’

‘I will, thank you and safe journey. We will meet again Margy Mitchell.’ Rosie waved as the woman scurried back to her boat.

As Rosie got herself dressed and set the fire in the stone circle to cook their breakfast, she felt the uneasy sensation settle on her. There was trouble in store for the kind woman and the warning given to her regarding being hurt was at the root of it. Rosie knew when they met again, Margy would have quite a tale to tell.

Two

The massive expanse of heathland between Lea Brook and the towpath at the end of Portway Lane began to fill with gypsy caravans. Small camp fires were set and the travellers greeted each other enthusiastically.

Maria and Rosie had walked the town over the few days they had been in Wednesbury in an effort to sell their wares, but as usual, doors had been slammed in their faces and children were called indoors.

On the Wednesday, Rosie set out once more with her basket of pegs and lace over her arm. Walking up Portway Lane she crossed beneath the overhead railway bridge into Portway Road. Once in the town she knocked on every door but no one was buying. Turning into Foster Street she headed for the Holyhead Road, hoping she would do better with the houses there. Looking around her she saw large warehouses with shops dotted between. Further down were terraced houses, joined together with a ginnel to all at the furthest end. Everywhere was covered with a layer of grime and dirt and nowhere could she see any sign of nature. There were no trees or bushes, just bricks and mortar.

As she walked she considered changing her approach to the householders. ‘Buy some pegs from a gypsy’ certainly was not working. Knocking on a door at the top of the road she waited. The door was opened by an older woman.

‘Good morning madam, can I interest you in some washing pegs?’ Rosie spoke confidently.

‘How much?’ the woman asked screwing up her eyes in mistrust.

‘Three pennies a dozen, and they’re good strong ones,’ Rosie answered.

‘Ar all right,’ the woman said dipping her hand into her apron pocket.

Rosie counted out twelve pegs then said, ‘I thank you for your custom, madam. Tell your husband he will get the job he goes for.’

The woman’s mouth dropped open and before she even had the door closed she was yelling to her man to get on over to the railway station and land himself the job of porter there.

Rosie smiled as she moved along the row of houses. She’d made a sale, her exchange with that woman had worked.

By the time she returned to the vardo, her basket was empty and her purse was full. Maria was delighted and had their supper ready, a pan of thick stew simmering on the trivet.

Rosie saw the beautifully painted vardos had been pulled into a large circle with a huge campfire set in the centre. The ‘Gathering’ was ready to begin.

As she ate her supper Rosie eyed the woman who had raised her. Maria would be more interested in the ‘Gathering’ this time. She would be hoping Rosie would be on the lookout for a life partner. Her thoughts roamed as she ate her broth. She was eighteen years old now and at the age when partners would be considered. Did she want a husband? In all honesty Rosie felt she did not. One day she wanted her own caravan, or maybe even a cottage. Could she live in one place again after all her years of travelling? Did she want to sell pegs for the rest of her life? No, she was adamant she wanted to do more with her years.

The sun dipped behind the horizon and the campfire was lit. Rosie heard someone tuning a fiddle and the excitement of the occasion grew in her. She watched as the men took their seats around the fire. A few notes sounded on an accordion and a tambourine shook. Fiddles whined as they were tuned accordingly and a baran rattled out a rhythm to keep the beat.

Rosie glanced around at the faces showing excitement in the firelight as darkness surrounded them. She knew the gypsy girls would be readying themselves in their wagons. It was an important evening for them and they would be wearing their finest dresses. They would dance around the fire in the hope of catching the eye of a young buck from the many watching them.

Suddenly a merry tune sprang up from the musicians and everyone clapped along with the beat. Beer and cider would be drunk in copious amounts before the night drew to a close.

‘You not joining in now you’re eighteen, Rosie?’ Maria asked as she sat next to the girl.

The two had celebrated Rosie’s birthday in March with a quiet meal in the vardo.

She knew the question would be asked and shook her head. ‘Not this year, Maria – maybe never.’

The older woman regarded the younger saying, ‘You will marry one day, you know.’

Rosie smiled. Maria’s predictions almost always came true and she had no reason to disbelieve this one.

‘I want to do things, Maria – I’m just not sure yet what those things might be.’

It was Maria’s turn to smile. A cheer rang out which brought their eyes back to the firelight.

The back doors of the vardos were flung open and young girls ran into the circle of light. The music picked up its rhythm and the girls pranced and spun around the fire. Rosie heard the jangle of their bangles and the bells around their ankles as they whirled past her. She watched as full skirts were swished from side to side giving a tantalising glimpse of shapely legs.

The music, dancing, firelight and laughter was intoxicating but Rosie had no wish to be part of it. She wanted more than she felt the Romany way of life could give her.

A massive cheer rang out as a young man shot from his seat and scooped a dancer into his arms. The couple moved to sit with the girl’s parents, the smiles broad on their faces.

More and more couples, who had eyed each other over the years, came together until at last the music quietened. No girls were left dancing in the light of the fire.

Rosie watched as people talked quietly and the music faded out. The ‘Gathering’ was complete for another year. Now would come the planning of the weddings.

Looking across the circle of people, Rosie saw the eyes of a young man watching her as he had throughout. She guessed what he had been thinking. He was hoping she would take part, and it was evident he was disappointed by the look on his face.

Rosie stood and with a goodnight kiss to Maria’s cheek, she retired to her bed, Jake Harding’s eyes watching her every move.

*

Margy and Abner Mitchell had moored up in a town not far from where the carousing of the ‘Gathering’ was taking place. Margy was excited but full of trepidation as they walked through the streets of Bilston. The sun began its descent towards the horizon and she was eager to see her grandsons; it had been a long time since they had last met.

Knocking on the front door of the end of the well-kept terrace house they waited and presently it was opened by their daughter-in-law.

Sarah Mitchell, wife to their only son Bill, had a face like thunder when she saw who was at her door. ‘Bill is out!’

‘Well, we came to see all of yer,’ Margy said as she took in Sarah’s appearance. She hadn’t changed a bit, her grey eyes screwed up in a pinched face. Her mousy brown hair caught back in an untidy French pleat.

‘I told you before, Margy, I don’t want you here!’ Sarah said spitefully.

Abner laced an arm around his wife’s shoulder and whispered, ‘Come on, I told yer we wouldn’t be welcome.’

Then to Sarah he said, ‘We ain’t ’ere to cause trouble, we just wanted to see the boys and our son. We’ll be at the canal overnight if ’e has a mind to visit.’

‘Bill won’t be visiting – and neither will my sons! Now please leave my house and don’t bother to come back – ever!’ Sarah spat.

Margy and Abner stepped away and heard the door slam behind them. Margy cried all the way back to their boat, Abner doing his best to console her.

Once aboard, Abner brewed tea and they sat talking quietly about their daughter-in-law, Sarah Mitchell and what had made her so spiteful.

‘I don’t understand it, Abner. Why is ’er like this? What ’ave we ever done to her?’

‘I don’t know, Margy.’ Abner hung his head in sadness.

‘Do you think our Bill knows her’s like this? Do you think her’ll mention we called?’

Abner just shook his head. ‘I don’t expect her’ll bother,’ he began.

Margy cut in, ‘That gypsy told me about this yer know.’ She saw her husband raise his eyebrows in question. ‘Oh ar, ’er said as one close to us would hurt us, and in a way ’er was right.’

Abner nodded then said quietly. ‘Margy that’s the last time Sarah will throw us out. I ain’t ’aving you go through this every time we come ’ere.’

‘But, Abner…’

‘No wench! Look at you, sobbing like yer ’eart will break. Every single time this ’appens it cuts yer deeper – I ain’t ’aving it Margy, and that’s an end to it!’

Margy burst into tears again and her husband wrapped his arms around her in an effort to comfort her. ‘This ’as been ’appening for too many years and I can’t bear it any longer. Now, whether our Bill knows what’s goin’ on or not, I don’t know. What I do know is he can get a message to us via the cut-rat grapevine if he’s a mind to. The fact that he ’asn’t in the past tells me he won’t in the future. We ’ave to resign ourselves to the fact our son doesn’t want to know us anymore.’

Margy’s tears became a flood and Abner held her tightly. ‘Come on, let’s get to bed, we ’ave an early start in the mornin’.’

In the cramped bed in the small cabin of the ‘Pride of Wednesbury’ Abner listened to his wife’s breathing finally settle. Staring into the darkness, silent tears ran down his cheeks as he relived past years in his mind.

Bill Mitchell had loved being on the canal with his parents until that fateful day he’d married Sarah. Flatly refusing to live life on the canal she had insisted Bill find work

Reviews for The Girl on the Doorstep

[kris_anderson-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Girl on the Doorstep is an absorbing historical novel (I was up quite late finishing it). Rosie is a friendly main character who possesses the sight. The secondary characters are equally delightful. Margy is quite a character and Sarah, Bill’s wife, is an individual that you will love to hate. I thought the book was well-written and had gentle pacing. It was interesting to find out more about the gypsy lifestyle as well as the “cut-rats”. Before trains and trucks took over transporting goods, items were shipped along the canals in England. Their boats were their whole life. It provided their livelihood as well as a place to live, entertain and raise their family. I like how the “cut-rats” looked out for each other. Life is full of ups and downs as we see in The Girl on the Doorstep which is a story about the working class. I enjoyed the interactions between the characters as well as their can-do spirit, courage, and generous natures. There are good life lessons presented throughout the book and I liked the variety of characters. Lindsey Hutchinson did not disappoint with The Girl on the Doorstep.