it could not go on for ever. The little girl was growing, a baby no longer. She needed companionship, the outside world, people, animals, beauty, stimulation. When she had an hour Annie would take her into the market place, telling her what the objects were on the stalls, ordinary, everyday things which were a wonder to the child who stared for hours on end at four blank walls. Annie carried her out of the town and into the countryside which surrounded it, letting her wander in the woodland, watching her absorption with a simple cowslip, a scurrying beetle, the cows in the fields and for a brief moment her child would come alive. They would run, hand in hand, and Annie would shout out loud but Catriona would put her hand to her mouth, her eyes enormous in her pinched face as she looked about her as though, even here, she must make no noise .
The newspaper was the Lancaster Herald and was dated several weeks ago, evidently left there by some traveller from the North. It lay discarded beneath a table in the snug bar, the floor of which Annie was about to scrub. It was thick and would make a good pad on which to kneel, she decided and then later, if she could pinch a good candle stub, she would read it in the privacy of her room. Who knew what great events might be taking place in the world of which she was completely ignorant .
Catriona was asleep, her face pale in the flickering light from the candle, her hair in a lifeless tangle on the stained pillow. She had eaten half a pork pie, some cold potato and a spoonful of cabbage, obedient as always, but vague and ready, worryingly so, to go back to the heavy sleep Annie had wakened her from .
Annie watched over her for half an hour, anguished by the little girl's docility, then, sighing, she picked up the newspaper .
She turned the pages lethargically. What did she care if there was to be a revolution in Paris as seemed likely? Or even if it was happening in the county of Leicestershire from where, no matter how she tried, there was no escaping the drudgery and hopelessness of her life? She was about to throw the newspaper down and climb into the bed with Catriona when her own name sprang out at her from the words which were printed there. The shock of it sluiced over her like a deluge of icy water and she gasped, her breath catching painfully in her throat. Her brain became numb and her hands shook and for several moments she could not focus her eyes nor even keep the newspaper still .
`Annabelle Abbott,' it said, 'late of Browhead Farm, near Hause in the county of Cumberland . .
Dear God . . . she couldn't read it . . . the candle-flame flickered so . . . and her hands would not stop their trembling . . . Annabelle Abbott . . . that was her .. . her name and there could be no more than one Annabelle Abbott surely? And if there were, this one lived at Browhead . . . it was her. It was her !
At last she reached the end of the words, the words printed in the four-week-old copy of the Lancaster Herald, the words which appealed to Annabelle Abbott or anyone who knew of her whereabouts to contact the firm of solicitors, Hancock, Jones and Hancock, in King Street, Lancaster .
Chapter 4
King Street was a pleasant thoroughfare in the centre of Lancaster. It led away from the Town Hall which was large, pillared and handsome and, at this time of the day, its wide shallow steps were busy with the feet of the respectable and hard-working citizens who had business there .
She and Cat had walked from Warrington where her money for railway fare had run out. They had moved in an almost straight line going northwards through Wigan and Preston and Garstang, but happily on more than one occasion they had been given a lift on the back of a cart, the farmer taking pity on the weary woman and child and inviting them to 'hop up' and sit among the crates of indignant hens and geese, the sacks of corn and potatoes he was taking to market. Annie had been grateful, smiling her glowing smile,
The newspaper was the Lancaster Herald and was dated several weeks ago, evidently left there by some traveller from the North. It lay discarded beneath a table in the snug bar, the floor of which Annie was about to scrub. It was thick and would make a good pad on which to kneel, she decided and then later, if she could pinch a good candle stub, she would read it in the privacy of her room. Who knew what great events might be taking place in the world of which she was completely ignorant .
Catriona was asleep, her face pale in the flickering light from the candle, her hair in a lifeless tangle on the stained pillow. She had eaten half a pork pie, some cold potato and a spoonful of cabbage, obedient as always, but vague and ready, worryingly so, to go back to the heavy sleep Annie had wakened her from .
Annie watched over her for half an hour, anguished by the little girl's docility, then, sighing, she picked up the newspaper .
She turned the pages lethargically. What did she care if there was to be a revolution in Paris as seemed likely? Or even if it was happening in the county of Leicestershire from where, no matter how she tried, there was no escaping the drudgery and hopelessness of her life? She was about to throw the newspaper down and climb into the bed with Catriona when her own name sprang out at her from the words which were printed there. The shock of it sluiced over her like a deluge of icy water and she gasped, her breath catching painfully in her throat. Her brain became numb and her hands shook and for several moments she could not focus her eyes nor even keep the newspaper still .
`Annabelle Abbott,' it said, 'late of Browhead Farm, near Hause in the county of Cumberland . .
Dear God . . . she couldn't read it . . . the candle-flame flickered so . . . and her hands would not stop their trembling . . . Annabelle Abbott . . . that was her .. . her name and there could be no more than one Annabelle Abbott surely? And if there were, this one lived at Browhead . . . it was her. It was her !
At last she reached the end of the words, the words printed in the four-week-old copy of the Lancaster Herald, the words which appealed to Annabelle Abbott or anyone who knew of her whereabouts to contact the firm of solicitors, Hancock, Jones and Hancock, in King Street, Lancaster .
Chapter 4
King Street was a pleasant thoroughfare in the centre of Lancaster. It led away from the Town Hall which was large, pillared and handsome and, at this time of the day, its wide shallow steps were busy with the feet of the respectable and hard-working citizens who had business there .
She and Cat had walked from Warrington where her money for railway fare had run out. They had moved in an almost straight line going northwards through Wigan and Preston and Garstang, but happily on more than one occasion they had been given a lift on the back of a cart, the farmer taking pity on the weary woman and child and inviting them to 'hop up' and sit among the crates of indignant hens and geese, the sacks of corn and potatoes he was taking to market. Annie had been grateful, smiling her glowing smile,
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