ABOUT THE BOOK
For ten years Delia has had to fend for herself and her son, Jack, and as a young unmarried mother life has never been easy. Every new coat and pair of shoes was bought with what little money she could scrape together as a singer on the stage.
But when the theatre work dries up, Delia faces a dilemma: continue the search for employment with no knowing whether she’ll find the stability and security her son needs, or return to the place that should be home … where only spite and hatred await them.
Desperate now, a chance encounter suddenly presents a lifeline. But Delia is faced with an impossible, heart-wrenching choice. Can she bear to leave Jack behind, hoping another family will care for him? Will they ever be reunited?
What else can a mother do to give her son the life he deserves?
CONTENTS
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
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
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Ending
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Val Wood
Copyright
A MOTHER’S CHOICE
Val Wood
For my family with love and Peter as always
CHAPTER ONE
November 1897
The boy, trailing behind his mother, kicked a pebble into the road. It seemed as if they had been travelling for ever. They had, he was sure of it; well, days anyway.
‘Come on, Jack!’ His mother’s voice was irritable. ‘Don’t dawdle.’
He wanted to ask where they were going, for she hadn’t yet told him, but he held back; he could tell when his mother was in the mood for conversation and she wasn’t now. She seemed … well, not exactly sad, but not very happy.
He had had his tenth birthday last Saturday, the eighth of November, and his mother had announced that they were going to do something special. He had thought that the special thing was the tea party they’d had in Brighton that afternoon with Mr Arthur Crawshaw, who was his best grown-up friend and his mother’s too.
His mother and Mr Crawshaw had both played at Bradshaw’s that evening and Jack had hung around the theatre until the show had finished. He and his mother had said goodbye to Mr Crawshaw and gone back to their lodgings, and the next day his mother had started to pack their belongings. She had said they were moving on, but she didn’t say where they were going.
They left Brighton on Monday morning and took the train to London; he’d asked her if she would be playing in London but she’d said she didn’t know until she’d seen her agent. Playing, he thought, kicking another stone. It wasn’t playing as he thought of playing. Playing was a game of cards or throwing dice. Playing was hopscotch, chalking squares on the ground and jumping in and out of them, making up your own rules and not caring if you cheated because it was your own game.
His mother’s playing was standing in the middle of a stage and singing to an audience, who sometimes clapped and sometimes didn’t. He liked London and hoped they would stay for a while, and whilst his mother was visiting her agent he walked by the Thames; the tide was out and he saw a group of children down on the muddy shore gathering up what he thought was rubbish and jumped down to join them.
They were not welcoming but he was used to that. They gathered round him, hostile and threatening, saying that this was their patch and everything on it was theirs for the keeping. He argued with them, telling them that they were wrong and that the very ground they were standing on as well as everything on it belonged to the Crown. He knew that for a fact, he said, for Mr Arthur Crawshaw had told him so and he knew everything about anything, but in any case he didn’t want any of their rubbish. He’d only come down to pass the time whilst he waited for his mother.
‘Who’s Mr Arfur Crawshaw?’ they mocked. ‘Never ’eard of ’im.’
‘What?’ he jeered back in his best imitation of Cockney. ‘You ain’t ’eard of ’im? He’s only the most celebrated Shakespearean actor of all time.’ He put his hands to his hips in a masterful pose and quoted, ‘I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it.’ The group of youngsters, three boys and two girls, stared open-mouthed and then as one they pounced and they all rolled in the mud, hitting but not hurting, until he heard his mother calling from above to get himself back up there right now.
‘Cheerio,’ he called, as he extricated himself from the fracas. ‘See you again.’
‘Not if we see you first,’ they shouted back and, grinning, went back to their rubbish collecting.
His mother wasn’t pleased to see the mud on his clothes and brushed him down with a heavy hand before softly cuffing his ear. ‘Look at the mess you’ve made, and there’s no time to wash your breeches!’
There was something in her voice that told him it wasn’t only his muddy clothes that had put her in a foul humour, but something else; he murmured sorrowfully, ‘Sorry. It was just a bit of fun.’
She nodded, but didn’t say anything more, and took his hand as they walked on. They caught a horse bus to King’s Cross station and she went in to enquire about trains. He sighed as he waited, and rubbed his cold hands together, blowing on them to make them warmer. So where to now? Another town? Not staying in London, anyway.
‘Did you get another gaff, Mother?’ he asked as they left the concourse. ‘Where are we going?’ He shivered. It was cold and starting to drizzle with icy rain. ‘Can’t we stay in London? Are you going to do pantomime?’
‘Don’t
