‘You stand there,’ her brother ordered. ‘I won’t kick the ball too hard. But remember, you must stop a goal. That’s what being goalie is all about.’
Daisy didn’t argue, it was easier to let Bobby have his way. She was almost twelve and though she had missed a great deal of schooling, she had learned a good many lessons. The best, was gratitude. Gratitude for Amelia and Matt who had just brought a baby daughter into the world. For Aunt Betty and Uncle Ed who still loved each other in spite of everything. For Grandma and Aunt Pat, now enjoying their new home and Aunt Minnie and Uncle Leo and Will who had returned safely to the studio.
And lastly, she was grateful for today. For Mother and Pops and Bobby. It was true the war wasn’t over. But the Purbrights were united and strong and there was a glimmer - just a glimmer - that their happy lives might be resumed once again, at Poplar Park Row.
THE END
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ALSO BY CAROL RIVERS
Also by Carol Rivers
Bestselling Lizzie Flowers series
BOOK ONELIZZIE OF LANGLEY STREET
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Seasonal Christmas themed books
CHRISTMAS CHILD
CHRISTMAS TO COME
TOGETHER FOR CHRISTMAS
A WARTIME CHRISTMAS
IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER
MOLLY'S CHRISTMAS ORPHANS
LILY'S CHRISTMAS WORKHOUSE BABY (Short story)
Page-turning wartime books
GIRL WITH SECRETS
EAST END ANGEL
TOGETHER FOR CHRISTMAS
A WARTIME CHRISTMAS
Gritty East End family dramas
A PROMISE BETWEEN FRIENDS
A SISTER'S SHAME
EAST END JUBILEE
COCKNEY ORPHAN
LILY OF LOVE LANE
EVE OF THE ISLE
EXCERPT OF CHRISTMAS CHILD
CHAPTER 1
PART ONE
Poplar 1894
THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD HENRIETTA O’REILLY scuffed aside a lock of curling copper-coloured hair that fell stubbornly over her brown eyes. The icy water in the big china basin where she toiled, was freezing; her fingers were numb to the bone. Yet, after a hard morning’s laundering, there was still so much to do.
‘A labour of love,’ so Sister Patrick regularly assured her. ‘You’ll be fitting those curling tresses of yours into a halo before long.’
The thought of a halo appealed to Ettie, as she was know by the nuns. All the saints looked radiant in the pictures hanging on the convent walls. Their holy images with auras of gold inspired her. But it was hard to conjure a smile in the ancient orphanage laundry. Draughts as strong as storms rushed in from the broken windows. The mucky steam dampened her clothes. The air smelled strongly of soap and starch, and made her eyes sting.
Not that she minded, for having spent all her life in the care of the Sisters of Clemency, Ettie considered the orphanage her home. Situated in the hamlet of Poplar, East London, it was rare that she ever ventured beyond the high stone walls of the convent.
Sister Patrick was her favourite nun and though she had lived many years in England, she still spoke with her native Irish accent. It was Sister Patrick who, on her way to chapel on Christmas Day fourteen years ago had discovered the dying Colleen O’Reilly.
‘Sure, t’was a heartbreaking sight,’ Sister Patrick had related many times. ‘The ice was hanging sharp as knives from the eaves of the laundry. The snow was banked knee-high. I couldn’t believe me eyes when I saw a tiny figure, fallen against the laundry wall. And there you were, safe in the wee girl’s arms, a tiny speck of life. With the last of her strength, your mother was keeping you warm against her breast. Wrapped only in filthy rags, she was in no fit state to help herself let alone her baby.’
’Where is she now?’ Ettie had asked when she was small.
‘The good Lord called her to be his angel.’
‘Is she an angel now?’
’She’s a Dublin angel for sure,’ Sister Patrick assured her. ‘Colleen O’Reilly, Jesus rest her soul, was from the land of shamrocks just like me. She was born in a road I know well meself called Henrietta Street and she named you after it. Though saints preserve us, we all got lazy and know you as our darlin’ Ettie.’
Ettie never tired of listening to Sister Patrick’s explanations of her heritage. It gave her great comfort to know that Sister Patrick and her mother were so closely connected and that Dublin was the city of her mother’s birth. ‘What did she look like, Sister Patrick? Was she pretty?’
‘Ah, as pretty as a picture she was, just like yourself. A replica. Hair and eyes the colour of God’s own soil. And her countenance, well, it might have lit up the whole convent if she’d lived.’
‘And she really did love me?’
At this, Sister Patrick would look astonished. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, child, why wouldn’t she? You were her very own miracle.’
’Will I see her again?’ Ettie persisted, having studied the bible and her catechism sufficiently to know that angels appeared on earth with great frequency.
‘We all have a guardian angel,’ Sister Patrick would reply. ‘And before she died in my arms, your mother vowed to
