‘Oh, Michael, what an awful thing to happen.’
‘I couldn’t do nothing more. But I laid low for months ‘cos I was scared Old Bill would blame me.’
‘It wasn’t your fault. He should never have tried to take what wasn’t his.’
He shuddered and took in a deep breath. ‘Well now you know the truth.’
‘Thank you for telling me.’
‘It was what happened to the bishop that made me go straight. I knew I had to change before I ended up like he did.’
‘I’m very proud of you.’
‘You don’t blame me?’
‘Michael, you must know I love you. You are my other half.’
‘I love you, Ettie. I want us to marry and live here and run our business and have a family. Not be afraid of the past, because we’ll have each other. Do you want that too?’
‘More than anything,’ she said with emotion and he kissed her with all the passion that she knew was in his nature.
She clung to him, knowing that they had both suffered and yet through their suffering they had found each other again. God, in his wisdom, had reunited them, most strangely of all, in a place that meant so very much to her.
She gazed over Michael’s shoulder and looked at the portrait of Rose, who seemed to be smiling and Ettie, wiping a tear from her cheek, returned her smile. For hadn’t she done as Rose had whispered all that time ago?
‘Buck up Ettie! Show the world your mettle.’
And, in doing so, she had found her true place in life at last.
THE END
Reviews
I do hope you enjoyed Christmas Child. I would be most grateful for a short review - just a couple of words - on My Book if you have a few spare minutes. Reviews to help readers and writers alike are so precious!
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Acknowledgments
The idea for this story developed from the tales I heard as a child of my pipe-smoking great-aunt Rose whose rich Irish American ancestry and life in Soho has had a marked impression on my writing. I offered many thanks to her other-worldly presence during the creation of this book and feel deeply indebted to her inspiration.
Grateful thanks go to Carol Waterkeyn for her fine editing and proofreading.
To my dear friend Beverley Ann Hopper and all the wonderful Booklovers.
To chums Susanna Bavin and Julie Boon for their continuing and awesome support.
Immeasurable thanks go to Rachel’s Random Resources and the incredible bloggers who read and reviewed Christmas Child for my first ever Blog Tour.
Thank you Twitterers and Facebookers everywhere who have shared the journey with me.
A special acknowledgement to Alan Kean for his invaluable East End blog, “A Celebration of Life Past and Present,” from which I have learned so much.
I am indebted to all those brilliant reviewers who have read and commented on my books. You are part of the fabric of my work. Thank you.
And last but not least, a very special thank you to my excellent team of Arc readers and their help with my new Victorian Saga Romance series.
About the Author
Mum and Dad were both East Enders who were born on the famous or should I say the then infamous Isle of Dogs. They were costermongers selling fruit, veg and anything else that would stand still long enough!
Their family were immigrants who travelled to the UK from Ireland and France, while others emigrated to America.
As a child I would listen to the adults spinning their colourful stories, as my cousins and I drank pop under the table.
I know the seeds of all my stories come from those far off times that feel like only yesterday. So I would like to say a big heartfelt thank you to all my family and ancestors wherever you are now ... UK, Ireland, France or America, as you've handed down to me the magic and love of story telling.
Excerpt of Christmas to Come
If you would like to sample a little more of my Christmas magic, please enjoy the excerpt from the acclaimed Amazon bestseller about the notorious Bryant family. This book has it all; star-crossed lovers, East End gangland life and power struggles, a gritty drama romance that spans generations. Enjoy!
Prologue
Christmas Day 1940
Isle of Dogs
East London
'Terry's cold, Bella.' Five-year-old Terry Doyle squatted next to his sister in the dank, rubbish-strewn alley opposite the row of derelict cottages. Bella Doyle, only eight-years-old herself, slid her arm protectively around her brother's bony shoulders, painfully aware his thin white shirt was no protection against the winter's bite.
Terry was starving and today was no exception. They'd been scavenging on the debris all day and found little to satisfy their appetite. If only their mother and that pig of a man she'd picked up at the Rose hadn't decided to come home early! They must have had a skinful, then run out of booze or money or both.
Bella was weighing up this problem carefully; a problem she had been faced with more times than she had eaten hot dinners. In fact, to Mary Doyle's children, a hot dinner was something they could only dream about, and often had.
Bella knew that to enter their home now, a rundown dockside cottage dripping water from its mouldy walls, would be a risky business. After the week-long binge that their mother and her boyfriend Jack Router had enjoyed, even setting eyes on her children would be aggravation to Mary Doyle.
Bella understood the evils of alcohol even at her young age. If asked, she couldn't
