Under the mistletoe, p.1
Under the Mistletoe, page 1
Katie Flynn
* * *
Under the Mistletoe
Contents
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
About the Author
Katie Flynn is the pen name of the much-loved writer, Judy Turner, who published over ninety novels in her lifetime. Judy’s unique stories were inspired by hearing family recollections of life in Liverpool during the early twentieth century, and her books went on to sell more than eight million copies. Judy passed away in January 2019, aged 82.
The legacy of Katie Flynn lives on through her daughter, Holly Flynn, who continues to write under the Katie Flynn name. Holly worked as an assistant to her mother for many years and together they co-authored a number of Katie Flynn novels, including Christmas at Tuppenny Corner.
Also available by Katie Flynn
A Liverpool Lass
The Girl from Penny Lane
Liverpool Taffy
The Mersey Girls
Strawberry Fields
Rainbow’s End
Rose of Tralee
No Silver Spoon
Polly’s Angel
The Girl from Seaforth
Sands
The Liverpool Rose
Poor Little Rich Girl
The Bad Penny
Down Daisy Street
A Kiss and a Promise
Two Penn’orth of Sky
A Long and Lonely Road
The Cuckoo Child
Darkest Before Dawn
Orphans of the Storm
Little Girl Lost
Beyond the Blue Hills
Forgotten Dreams
Sunshine and Shadows
Such Sweet Sorrow
A Mother’s Hope
In Time for Christmas
Heading Home
A Mistletoe Kiss
The Lost Days of Summer
Christmas Wishes
The Runaway
A Sixpenny Christmas
The Forget-Me-Not Summer
A Christmas to Remember
Time to Say Goodbye
A Family Christmas
A Summer Promise
When Christmas Bells Ring
An Orphan’s Christmas
A Christmas Candle
Christmas at Tuppenny
Corner
A Mother’s Love
A Christmas Gift
Liverpool Daughter
Available by Katie Flynn writing as Judith Saxton
You Are My Sunshine
First Love, Last Love
Someone Special
Still Waters
A Family Affair
Jenny Alone
Chasing Rainbows
All My Fortunes
Sophie
We’ll Meet Again
Harbour Hill
The Arcade
The Pride
The Glory
The Splendour
Full Circle
Dad, the man who helped me carry on xx
Acknowledgements
The Naafi girls.
Prologue
24 December 1923
Agnes McKinley pulled the large ring of keys from her skirt pocket and went through them until she found the correct one for the front door to the orphanage. As she slid it into the lock she paused momentarily. Was it her imagination or did she just hear movement coming from the other side of the door? She listened hard, then froze. There was no doubt about it, she definitely heard something that time! Someone was moving around outside, trying their best not to be heard. She pursed her lips. It’ll be one of those nasty little brats, she thought bitterly, no doubt thinking that just because it’s Christmas Eve, they can have themselves some fun, larking about in the snow, probably making themselves a snowman to scare one of us when we open the door. She nodded to herself. That’s what she could hear, the sound of snow being rolled into a ball. She jutted her chin in a determined fashion; she was going to give someone a nasty surprise! She would catch them unawares and smash their snowman to smithereens before carting them off to see Mrs Ancrum. She grinned maliciously. Mrs Ancrum and her husband had managed Greystones Orphanage for over ten years, and in that time they had come up with a variety of punishments which would soon make a naughty child regret their decision to play in the snow on Christmas Eve.
Seizing the tarnished brass handle in her skinny white fingers, she whipped the door open shouting, ‘Gotcha!’ Much to her surprise, instead of looking into the upturned face of one of the girls, she found herself looking down at the balding head of an elderly man. He was leaning over something lying at the top of the snow-covered steps, whilst he retrieved his homburg hat which she assumed must have fallen off his head. He stood up hastily, glaring at Agnes, then brushed the snow off his hat and rammed it back onto his head.
Agnes, however, was more interested in the small bundle lying on the steps. Bending down she tweaked the blanket to one side. Eyes narrowing, her jaw tightened angrily.
She spoke through pursed lips. ‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you can ruddy well take it with you!’ Standing up she thrust the bundle towards the man who backed away, his hands held up in a placating manner.
‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick,’ he spluttered. ‘This is nothing to do with me.’
Glaring at him, she indicated the thick undisturbed snow which carpeted the ground. ‘Well, whoever dumped it must’ve flown away, ’cos yours are the only footprints in the snow!’
He glanced at the footprints which led to the front door, then his eyes darted wildly around before fixing Agnes with a steely glare. ‘Whoever abandoned her must’ve done it before it started snowing!’ He shook his head in disgust, adding ‘stupid woman’ as he did so.
‘I’m stupid?’ spat Agnes, furious that he had the audacity to call her stupid, when he’d made such a ridiculous statement. ‘If they’d dumped her before it started snowing she’d be under the snow, not on top of it!’ Muttering ‘idiot’ beneath her breath, she was about to carry on with her verbal attack when something he had said caused her to stop in her tracks. She re-ran his statement through her head, then pointed an accusing finger at his chest. ‘You said “her”. How do you know it’s a girl?’
He gawped at her, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he groped for a response, but Agnes wasn’t going to give him time to think of any more pathetic excuses. She moved the baby’s blankets to one side and peered down before covering her back up. ‘I knew you were lying!’ she said, her eyes narrowing even further. ‘Typical man! Thinking you can just dump your unwanted baby willy-nilly, like a sack of rubbish, assuming that we have to take her in just because we’re an orphanage.’
He wore a thunderous expression as he struck the ground with the tip of his walking cane. ‘She is not my …’
Perhaps it was the fact that this man’s attitude towards his daughter reminded her of her own baby’s father, or perhaps she was just tired of listening to him; either way, Agnes had had enough. Stepping forward, she thrust the baby into his arms, causing him to drop his cane.
Shocked to find himself holding the baby, he stared at her in disbelief. ‘I – I …’
‘I – I,’ she mimicked with a sneer. ‘Take your baby and bugger off else I’ll call the police!’
The man’s sharp blue eyes narrowed at the mention of the police and he stared at her with a look of pure venom, as flecks of white spittle became visible in the corners of his mouth. ‘You dare to threaten me?’ he bellowed, his face turning puce as anger swept through him. ‘I …’ He stopped abruptly as the sound of his own voice reverberated around the empty streets. His eyes darted to the building behind her. The last thing he needed was to draw more attention to his current predicament. Taking a few deep breaths in an effort to calm himself, he stared down at the baby in his arms whilst he tried to think of a different approach. Looking up, he tried to reason with Agnes. ‘Why are you making such a big deal out of it? This is an orphanage. That’s what you do, take in unwanted children. What difference is one more going to make?’
She cast him a withering look. ‘One more miserable mouth to feed? One more bed to provide? One more unwanted brat to clothe? Oh no,’ she cried in mocking tones, ‘one more won’t make any difference!’ She paused. Something had been bothering her about the man but she hadn’t been able to put her finger on it until now. Folding her arms, she stared at him accusingly. ‘You’re not even from around these parts yet here you are dumping your kid on our doorstep like it doesn’t matter. What’s wrong with orphanages where you come from? All full up, are they?’
Unnerved that the woman might have guessed his regional identity, he began to splutter a protest. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about …’
‘I knew I recognised your accent!’ Agnes interrupted. ‘You’re a Scouser! A posh one, I’ll grant you, but a Scouser nonetheless.’ Her eyes travelled from the homburg hat which adorned his head, down to the black woollen tailored coat and the gold wedding band, finishing with his highly polished Oxford shoes. She appeared to come to a decision. ‘Doesn’t look to me as though you can’t afford a child, so I reckon you got some poor girl pregnant, then fetched her up here to Glasgow where no one knows either of you so she could give birth before your wife or your posh pals found out.’ S
He strode past her without bothering to reply and placed the baby back on the top step. Ignoring her protests, he descended the steps and picked his cane up off the pavement.
Realising his intentions, Agnes moved to grab hold of his arm. ‘Don’t you dare!’ she snapped. ‘You take her with you, you dirty old …’ She fell silent as he spun round and thrust the handle of the cane inches away from her nose.
Agnes went cross-eyed as she stared at the heavy-looking, elaborate silver handle which weaved back and forth in front of her eyes. It was in the shape of a cobra’s head, with its fangs bared and neck frilled. She could not help but wonder how much damage such a solid, sharp-looking object could do if he were to strike her with it.
Leaning forward so that his nose was close to hers, he hissed through gritted teeth, ‘You ever speak to me like that again and I’ll crack your head like a walnut …’ Without moving his cane he pushed his hand into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of notes which he thrust against her with such force that it caused Agnes to stagger back. Staring at her with utter hatred, he took a step back, adjusted his hat and straightened his coat. Seeing some of the notes fall to the ground, he indicated them with the tip of his cane. ‘Pick them up!’ he snarled.
Her mouth dry, Agnes did as instructed, taking care to keep one eye on the hand that was holding the sinister-looking cane.
As she stood up, he took a step back and, much to her relief, brought his cane back by his side, although she noticed his fingers were still tightly curled around the stem. Agnes gripped the money tightly. She watched as his eyes travelled down her form, resting on her swollen belly for a second or so before going back to her fingers which were bare of rings. He snorted as he fixed her with a look of disapproval. ‘You have the audacity to stand in judgement of me, when you’re clearly with child, yet I see no wedding band?’
‘Only I’m not giving my child away,’ Agnes replied quietly.
He looked at her with condescension then muttered, ‘Well, more bloody fool you!’ and strode away before Agnes had a chance to respond.
She wiped the tears of frustration from her cheeks. She had half a mind to call him back, to forbid him from leaving, so that she might have a chance to set the record straight on her pregnancy, but what was the point? He would have no interest in listening to someone like her – his kind never did, they thought themselves above women like Agnes, and the fact that she was pregnant without the benefit of marriage would only further his belief that she was less of a human being than he. All he wanted to do was dump his child and disappear into the night without fear of consequence. Her bottom lip wobbled at the unfairness of it all. The detestable old goat actually believed he was better than her, purely because she wasn’t married. What was worse, Agnes secretly agreed with him because deep down she was thoroughly ashamed of her sinful condition. If she could only turn back time, she would tell herself not to listen to the lustful yearnings of a man who had promised her the world. She recalled the fateful day when she had told him of her condition. She had worried that he might be angry, tell her she should have been more careful, instruct her to abort the unwanted baby, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. He had held her in his arms, and assured her that they would get married as soon as he got back to port in three months’ time.
‘I told you the night we first made love,’ he whispered softly, as he brushed the hair back from her tear-stained cheeks, ‘that I loved you and wanted you to be my wife. None of that has changed because you’re pregnant.’
Three months later, when her lover’s ship, the Duchess, arrived in port, Agnes offered to run an errand for Mrs Ancrum so that she might quickly nip down to the docks and see her betrothed. Looking up at the deck of the ship, she had hailed a group of sailors who were chatting idly. Waving in acknowledgement, one of the sailors came down the gangplank to greet her.
Agnes’s heart sank as she remembered the awkward look the man had given her when she had asked the whereabouts of Seaman Fitzpatrick.
‘He left the Duchess as soon as we docked in the Americas.’ He made the statement as though it were common knowledge. ‘A lot of the crew did. Didn’t he tell you of his plans?’
Agnes had scoffed with disbelief. ‘You’ve got it wrong, you must have misunderstood him. He told me we would get married when he came back to Glasgow …’ She fell silent, seeing the look of embarrassment which settled on the seaman’s face.
He stared wretchedly at his own feet. ‘He told us as soon as we left dock.’ He ran his fingers through his hair before casting her a look of sympathy. ‘Sorry, love, but you know what they say …’
Agnes had nodded briefly then turned away before the man could see her foolish tears. ‘A woman in every port.’ That’s what the staff at Greystones had warned her, only Agnes hadn’t wanted to believe them, convinced that they were only jealous.
Now, with the memories washing over her, Agnes stared down at the baby in her arms. ‘You can’t be more than a few hours old, yet look at the trouble you’ve already caused.’ She glanced at the retreating old man. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish is all I can say. I dread to think what sort of child you’d turn out to be with that as your father.’ Sighing heavily, she made her way back inside. ‘I might not always approve of the Ancrums’ ways, but at least they’ll make sure you don’t turn into a spoiled brat.’ With the money and baby still tightly clutched to her chest she tried to shut the door, but it was no use, she simply had too many things in her arms. Placing the baby on the floor, she was pushing the money into her bodice when a sharp voice called out from behind, startling her.
‘Agnes McKinley!’ snapped the voice of Mrs Ancrum. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’
Fearing she had been caught in what could be deemed a compromising situation, Agnes hastily pulled her hand out from her bodice, scattering notes onto the floor as she did so. Before she had a chance to explain herself, Mrs Ancrum had crossed the floor and was picking up the money. Her eyes flicking towards the baby, she stood upright and waved the money in front of Agnes’s face. ‘Well?’ She glanced at Agnes’s bosom, where several notes protruded from the top of her bodice, and held her other hand out. ‘Hand it over!’
Shamefaced, Agnes began pulling the notes out. When she had handed the last one to her employer she bent down and scooped the baby into her arms, frantically gabbling her excuses. ‘I wasn’t nicking the money, only I couldn’t hold the baby and lock the door at the same time, so I thought …’
Mrs Ancrum looked at her with feigned surprise as she tucked the money into her skirt pocket. ‘You thought the baby belonged on the floor and the money in your bodice?’
Agnes shook her head, her eyes wide with horror. ‘No! That’s not it at all!’ she spluttered. ‘The key was in my pocket, and my hands were too full …’
‘So?’ said Mrs Ancrum, as she took the baby from Agnes’s arms. ‘Put the money on the floor and keep the baby in your arms. Just goes to show—’ she stopped short. She had been so surprised to catch one of her employees trying to conceal a considerable amount of money down the front of her bodice, she hadn’t questioned the presence of the newborn baby. She glanced at Agnes’s belly. ‘I can see it’s not yours, so where did this come from?’ she asked, raising the baby in her arms.
Relieved the conversation had taken a different route, Agnes began, ‘Some old man dumped her outside …’ She explained what had happened, hoping that once Mrs Ancrum had heard her tale she would not only believe what she had to say but sympathise with her predicament. Unfortunately, Mrs Ancrum was regarding her with reproving disbelief.
‘How convenient!’ she snapped, eyeing Agnes with suspicion. ‘No witnesses to back your little story, just a fistful of notes and a baby at your feet.’ She glanced at Agnes’s stomach again. ‘I reckon this amount of money would prove pretty handy with a baby on the way.’
Agnes swallowed hard. Why couldn’t Mrs Ancrum see that she was telling the truth? She tried seeing things from her employer’s point of view then wished she hadn’t, because the other woman was right – it was a lot of money – and if Ancrum hadn’t caught her red-handed, when push came to shove, just what would she have done with that amount? Would she really have handed it over when no one else knew of its existence? After all, there was no fear of the old man returning. Placing a hand on her stomach, she lowered her gaze. ‘I swear on my baby’s life … ’ she mumbled beneath her breath before being cut short by Mrs Ancrum who was shaking her head.
