Nest of Sorrows by Ruth Hamilton Page A

little sister. He was already annoyed about the homework, to rile him over Michael Wray would have been well beyond a joke.
    Peter put his head round the front door. ‘Right!’ He stepped inside, hands rubbing together in glee. ‘We’re off! I got made up to foreman, Rachel. An extra two quid a week and all the paint we can use. Sam Pilkington’s found us a house too, up Hawthorne Road. It’ll be handy for the girls’ school, and there’s nowt to keep us here now, is there?’
    Rachel looked at him askance. Leave May bank Street? Leave all her friends and neighbours? ‘Oh, I see. When are we moving?’
    He frowned. ‘Nay, there’s no need to go overboard with enthusiasm. What would you want to be stopping here for? You know it upsets you seeing somebody else living in your dad’s house.’
    ‘I’m just used to it here.’ Rachel finished polishing her brass plaque. ‘And so are the girls.’
    He looked at Judith. ‘Do you mind moving?’
    ‘No. Not if it’s nearer school.’
    ‘And Katherine? Where is she?’
    Judith studied her shoes. ‘Out.’
    ‘Out?’ His face darkened. ‘What the hell’s she doing out at seven o’clock on a Monday night? Ah, I see. You all thought I was away for the evening, didn’t you? Well? Where is she?’
    ‘Borrowing a book,’ said Judith hastily. ‘I think.’
    ‘Rachel?’
    ‘I don’t know. I just turned me back for a minute, then looked round again, and there she was, gone.’
    He hobbled over to a fireside chair. As always, as if to demonstrate outwardly the size of his emotional wound, his foot played him up just to keep pace with the hurt he now felt at his younger daughter’s ‘betrayal’. Hadn’t they given up a lot to get these two educated? Wasn’t he a fine man placing such store in girls, wasn’t he making the best of things? And him a war hero too.
    Rachel noted the saintly expression on his face and sighed inwardly.
    When Katherine returned at a quarter to eight, Judith was in the kitchen working at her geography books. There was no escape for Katherine. The living room was just a stride off the pavement, and she found herself face to face with her father as soon as she entered the house.
    ‘Well?’ he asked, his tone trimmed with sarcasm.
    ‘Oh.’ She stopped mid-step. ‘I didn’t think you’d be here.’
    ‘I am here, though. Where’ve you been?’
    ‘Sketching in the park.’
    ‘Sketching in the dark, more like. And where’s your pad?’
    ‘My friend has it.’
    ‘I see.’ He shifted his bad leg into a better position on the ever-ready footstool. ‘And what’s your friend’s name?’
    ‘Michael.’
    He shot out of the chair. ‘Eh? You’ve been out with a lad? You’re nobbut eleven. What the hell are you doing messing about with lads? Do you think your mam slaves in that bloody mill so’s you can start courting now and get wed at sixteen? Our Judith never goes with lads.’
    Rachel spat on her rag and took her temper out on the brass rose bowl. ‘Leave me out of it,’ she muttered. ‘I work because I want to.’
    Katherine bit her lower lip and put her head on one side. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ she said eventually. ‘He’s my friend . . .’
    ‘And how old is he?’
    ‘Thirteen. He saved me from the bullies after you’d gone back to the war.’
    ‘Thirteen? Thir-bloody-teen?’ he yelled. ‘He’s old enough to . . . to do things! You’ll stop away from him, lady!’
    ‘I won’t.’ A defiant chin was raised. ‘He won’t hurt me. Michael would never hurt me. He’s a Thornleigh boy . . .’
    ‘Bugger Thornleigh! He’s too old for you. And you should be with girls, girls your own age!’
    ‘He looks after me.’
    Peter stared aghast at his daughter. ‘Don’t we look after you? Me and your mam?’
    She hung her head slightly. ‘Yes, I suppose so. But Michael’s interested in art, we both draw pictures. He wants to be an artist and so do I. We’ve got . . . things in common.’
    ‘Aye,