LITMIR.BIZ

      Copyright

      AVON

      An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 77–85 Fulham Palace Road Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

       www.harpercollins.co.uk

      First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2011

      Copyright © Pam Weaver 2011

      Pam Weaver asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

      A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

      This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

      All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

      Source ISBN: 9781847562678

      Ebook Edition © MAY 2011 ISBN: 9780007443284 Version: 2014-12-12

      Dedication

      This book is dedicated to David, my husband, my lover and

       my best friend, who never stopped believing in me.

      Contents

       Title Page

      Copyright

      Dedication

      One

      Two

      Three

      Four

      Five

      Six

      Seven

      Eight

      Nine

      Ten

      Eleven

      Twelve

      Thirteen

      Fourteen

      Fifteen

      Sixteen

      Seventeen

      Eighteen

      Nineteen

      Twenty

      Twenty-one

      Twenty-two

      Twenty-three

      Twenty-four

      Twenty-five

      Twenty-six

      Twenty-seven

      Twenty-eight

      Twenty-nine

      Thirty

      Thirty-one

      Thirty-two

      Thirty-three

      Thirty-four

      Thirty-five

      Thirty-six

      Thirty-seven

      Thirty-eight

      Thirty-nine

      Forty

      Forty-one

      Forty-two

      Forty-three

      Forty-four

      Forty-five

      Forty-six

      Forty-seven

       Keep Reading

      Acknowledgements

      About the Author

      About the Publisher

      One

      Dottie glanced at the clock and the letter perched beside it. It was addressed to Mr Reg Cox, the stamp on the envelope was Australian and it had been redirected several times: firstly ‘c/o The Black Swan, Lewisham, London’, but then someone had put a line through that and written ‘Myrtle Cottage, Worthing, Sussex’, and finally the GPO had written in pencil underneath, ‘Try the village’.

      Australia … who did they know in Australia?

      She picked it up again, turned it over in her hands. Holding it up to the light, she peered through the thin airmail paper at the letter inside. Of course, she wouldn’t dream of reading it. It was Reg’s letter – but she couldn’t help being curious.

      There was a name on the back of the envelope. Brenda Nichols. Who was she? Someone from Reg’s past perhaps? He never talked about his war experiences, but perhaps he’d done some brave deed and Brenda Nichols was writing to thank him …

      There was a sudden sharp rap at the front door and Dottie jumped.

      Nervously stuffing the letter into her apron pocket, she opened the door. A boy with a grubby face stared up at her. ‘Billy!’

      ‘Mrs Fitzgerald wants you, Auntie Dottie.’

      Billy Prior wiped the end of his nose with the back of his hand. His face was flushed, a pink glow peeping out from the mass of ginger freckles, and colourless beads of perspiration trickling from the damp edges of his hairline. He was very out of breath.

      Dottie smiled down at him but she resisted the temptation to tousle his hair. She knew he wouldn’t like that any more. Billy was growing up fast. He’d take the eleven plus next year and maybe he’d be clever enough to go to grammar school. As he stood there twitching for an answer, she guessed why he’d come. There was obviously some hitch back at the house and he’d run all the way, keen to do an errand regardless of whether he might get a sixpence for his trouble. He was a good boy, Billy Prior. Conscientious. Just the sort of son any mother would be truly proud of.

      ‘She says it’s a pair of teef that you come,’ Billy ventured again.

      Puzzled, Dottie repeated, ‘It’s a pair of … Oh!’ she added with an understanding grin, ‘you mean it’s imperative that I come?’

      ‘S’right,’ he nodded.

      ‘You can go back and tell Mrs Fitzgerald I’ll be there directly.’

      ‘If you please, Auntie Dottie …’ Billy began again, as she turned to go back indoors. ‘Mrs F said it was urgent.’

      Dottie’s fingers went to her lips as she did some quick thinking. Should she leave a note on the kitchen table and go back with Billy? Her mind raced over the preparations she’d already made for the wedding party taking place the next day. Everything was under control; she’d left nothing to chance. Whatever Mariah Fitzgerald wanted, it couldn’t be anything serious. Dottie smiled to herself. People like her always needed to feel in charge. To Mariah, any slight hitch seemed like a major disaster. Dottie looked down at Billy’s anxious face and her heart went out to him. ‘Has there been a fire?’

      ‘No.’

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