Christmas to Come: a heartbreaking coming of age saga set in London's East End by Carol Rivers (best motivational novels txt) 📗

its nail on the wall and Bella's new dress lay over her bed in readiness for tonight. Now the slim fitting gown with the crepe bodice and elegant panelled skirt seemed to mock her.

Tears of frustration filled her eyes. For an hour and a half she had been trapped with Miss Conway, who had methodically trawled through the Harrington account, drawing up new documents. When Bella had finally been dismissed, the night was cold and unforgiving, a hint of snow in the air. Only the pubs she passed as she walked to the bus stop showed any sign of life. She had hoped to catch a bus all the way home, but she'd settled for one that left her at the top of West Ferry Road.

'Did Micky call here?'

Terry nodded, lifting his bony fingers to scratch his head.

'Is he coming back?'

'Yeah, Terry going to Micky's party.'

'What time did he say?'

Terry shrugged.

'Did he say anything else?'

'Terry goin' to a party.'

Bella sighed in exasperation. 'That's not what I asked, Terry, but then I know I'm wasting my breath expecting a sensible answer. Go and sit down somewhere while I change.'

Her brother hung his head and moved behind the curtain. Bella pulled it forward harshly, the rings rattling on the iron rail. What a dump this place was, she thought as she hurriedly took off her coat. Even though Micky had distempered the damp walls and Ronnie had got the council to disinfect the house each year, it was still a pigsty. The population of rats had grown and the bugs were relentless, despite the disinfectant. In fact it seemed as though they thrived on it. The cottage would never be anything else but a tip, but at least Micky and Ronnie had made it a tip they could live in. If the long-awaited prefab ever materialised – if – Terry would get his own room and she hers. Gilda and Ron Ellis and their two kids, a family that had once lived in Bow Street had been allocated a prefab a short while ago. The asbestos bungalow had three bedrooms and a kitchen with a separate toilet and washroom outside. Gilda had shown the world and his wife around it for weeks as if it was Buckingham Palace.

Bella stripped off her working clothes and rubbed her sore heels. She had blisters from walking all that way. She was also in need of a wash. But there was no chance of that. The sink would be full with dirty dishes and the drain blocked with dog-ends. She sat on her bed in her bra and knickers and gulped down her frustrated tears. It wasn't fair she had to live like this. No wonder the other girls ignored her. They could smell the filth on her no matter how much she attempted to wash it off. Bow Street was like indelible ink, you couldn't remove the stain. It stuck with you for life, filled every pore. She was not like the other girls at the office, never would be. And they knew it.

Bella lifted her dress from the bed, pressing the cloth against her cheek. Undoing the little buttons at the front she carefully pulled it over her head. With the same care she slid her arms into the long, tailored sleeves. Looking in the mirror, her eyes gazed back unhappily. She smiled, causing an immediate transformation. Her white teeth sparkled and her gaze resumed its intensity. Drawing back her thick auburn locks, she lifted her chin.

Lana Turner … yes, she could see the resemblance now as she lowered the lids of her eyes, assuming the expression Micky had described. He was returning for her and that was all that mattered. She took her bag and searched inside for a tortoiseshell compact she'd bought from the market, the case similar to Joyce's cigarette holder. Inside the compact was a pond of genuine loose powder. Tonight she would apply the full works.

It was five minutes to midnight.

Bella was sobbing loudly into her pillow. A pillow that smelt of must and damp and now looked filthy. She had cried so hard that the make-up she had carefully applied had washed onto it. She stared at herself in the mirror and laughed. No wonder Evelyn and Margery and the other girls despised her; she was a square peg in a round hole at Dixons no matter how hard she tried to fit. And it was the same with Micky. He didn't really care about her. Or Terry. Over the years they had been useful to him, returning him the best of the stuff they found on the debris. Every penny he'd paid them had been hard earned and she and Terry could have got more from a totter or the markets. But they had always been loyal to Micky. And now he was enjoying himself on Christmas Eve having forgotten them.

Was he relieved not to be burdened by them any more? After all these years, was today the beginning of a future without him? At this thought she wept all the more, burying her face in the pillow. She had tried her best to be independent. But her plan had backfired. Her real intention had been to make Micky want her all the more. She had clearly failed and was now paying the penalty. Life was unfair. She had tried hard to better herself but she was getting nowhere. She shuddered at the thought of what people knew about her. The girls at work had found out where she lived. She'd never told them, just said she came from the island. Then Evelyn had let it out one day, a look of scorn on her face as if Bow Street was a dirty word. Which, thought Bella as she blew her nose, to them it probably was.

'Bella crying.' Terry touched her arm gently. His gaze was full of sympathy. But he was part of her misery too and she shrank away from him.

'Micky coming. Micky