Ruby Flynn (38 page)

Once Bernadette had been cleaned up, Jerry was allowed into the labour ward. He had paced the corridors the entire length of the hospital during the birth, desperate for it to be over so that he could be allowed back at Bernadette’s side. No father was allowed in a delivery room in the nineteen- fifties. The baby business was women’s work. He held his precious bundle in his huge muscular arms, more used to lifting cargo than babies, and could barely see her little face through his tears. Being careful to protect their tiny, fragile scrap, he turned towards his wife and their eyes met.

‘She looks like ye,’ whispered Jerry. His voice was thick with emotion as the tears trickled down his cheeks. ‘She is the most beautiful baby in the whole world.’

Before Bernadette could protest, she gave in and didn’t argue. Was there ever a man who could love his new daughter more? Let him think what he wants, she thought.

‘Ye will have your lad next,’ she said with a smile and such confidence, he believed her without question.

She smiled up at him tenderly, her love for this man who was different from all others pouring out despite her exhaustion. He leant over and kissed her dry lips, thinking that he had never seen his wife as lovely as she looked right now, after twenty-four hours of hard labour and no sleep. His tears wet her face and as she laid a hand on the side of his cheek, she kissed them away and tasted the salt on her lips. Between kisses, they were quietly sobbing and laughing at the same time, flooded with the love their new baby had brought to them as her gift. Jerry hitched the newborn up so that she was wedged between them both and they each gave a nervous laugh as they leant down and kissed her too. The three of them, wrapped in one warm embrace, filled with the smell of the newborn. They were both high on the miracle of life.

‘I feel so scared,’ confided Bernadette to Jerry, looking up at him. ‘We have this little life to look after, she needs us for everything, Jer, we can’t fail her.’ Bernadette spoke with a degree of urgency, referring to the conversation they had had many times into the small hours of the night.

‘Shh, I know, my love, and we won’t,’ said Jerry. ‘She will be a princess, she will have everything she needs. I will never be out of work or let her down.’

Bernadette smiled up at him again. She felt safe and secure. She had no idea how happy one could possibly be, but she couldn’t help worrying about money.

Worry was in her Irish DNA. Famines had left an invisible footprint. Jerry and Bernadette had plans for their baby daughter. For months they had talked and plotted about how their children would be schooled. Regardless of what the priest said, they would have just the two, so they weren’t reduced to total poverty. They wanted their children to live a better life than their own had been and that of others on the streets. Bernadette was surely right: a son would be next. Jerry did not want his son to have aching bones every day from a lifetime of hard toil, or to be injured in one of the accidents that happened all too often on the docks, or to develop premature arthritis due to the excessive wear and tear on his joints from manual labour. He wanted his daughter to be more than a shop assistant or a cleaner. He wanted her to be a lady, a beautiful, kind lady who possessed all her mother’s gentleness, but who could grasp life’s opportunities and make something of herself.

Leaving them to have a few private minutes alone, the midwife went to fetch them both a cup of tea and some hot buttered toast. This baby had been a tricksy delivery and at one point she thought she was going to have to call for the doctor to assist. But just at the last minute, with the help of a pair of forceps, the baby shifted position and made its entrance into the world. The midwife had been touched by the obvious love and affection Nellie’s parents had for each other; knowing that the special first hour with a first-born came only once in a lifetime, she made herself scarce as quickly as she could.

Even though he had been up all night, Jerry would save the bus fare and walk back home. He could not remember ever having been as hungry as he was right now. After he had eaten breakfast he would change into his work clothes and be in time to clock on at the docks for the first shift. This was no time to miss a day’s pay.

Exhausted from her long ordeal, Bernadette lay back on the hospital pillows, feeling drowsy. She turned her head to one side and smiled at her husband, the man she loved more than life itself. Jerry had moved and was sitting on a chair next to the hospital bed, cuddling their baby, still unable to stop looking at her tiny face. Bernadette’s eyes were still full of tears as she gazed upon the manifestation of all their hopes and aspirations for the future, the baby, who was falling asleep on his chest, flooding his thoughts, absorbing every ounce of his new love and devotion. Watching them together increased her happiness, if that was at all possible.

As sleep fought to claim her, she tried to say his name and to reach out and gently stroke his hand. She looked down at her arm in confusion. Her hand was like a lead weight and, no matter how hard she tried, it wouldn’t respond. Unnoticed by Jerry, who at that very moment had eyes only for his new baby, panic slipped past him into the room and settled itself down upon Bernadette.

She tried to open her mouth, but it wouldn’t work, and despite her best efforts, her arm would not move.

Jerry’s name urgently beat against the sides of her brain but could get no further, as she managed to part her lips and move her tongue, which felt twice its normal size. But no sound escaped. A black haze had begun to blur the edges of her vision. She struggled to maintain her focus on the adoring father and their baby lying in the cradle of his arms, trapped in their bubble of wonderment. She lay, silently imploring, desperately willing Jerry to move his gaze away from their baby girl and to turn round. Her mind screamed: Look. Look. Look. At. Me. He didn’t hear it as he kissed the downy hair on his baby’s crown.

Bernadette’s head became lighter and the sounds around her more acute. She could hear people outside in the corridor, giggling and talking as though they were standing right next to her bed, laughing at her.

And then, suddenly, she sank. The screaming in her head ceased. She felt as though life itself were draining out of her very soul as a chill sped upwards from her toes and fanned across her body like an icy glaze. She could no longer move her tongue and her eyelids felt leaden; there was no energy left to fight, no will to prise them open as she wearily succumbed to the dark cloak that enveloped her which was so heavy, so oppressive, that, try as she might, she just couldn’t lift it off.

‘She hasn’t even murmured a sound yet, she just has these great big eyes lookin’ at me now, just like her mammy,’ said Jerry, as he turned himself and the baby towards Bernadette.

The last thing Bernadette saw, as her eyes slowly closed, was the smile evaporate from Jerry’s face and transform into a look of horror as he suddenly looked down at the floor and saw a steady stream of blood, dripping from the corner of the bed sheet onto the floor, as though it were running from an open tap on a slow flow, creating a puddle of blood that had reached his own boots.

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I would like to say a special thank you to my editor, Rosie de Courcy and to Amanda Ridout, CEO at Head of Zeus. Both women, in addition to being top of their profession, are inspirational and passionate about books, writers and the world of publishing. I owe every word I have written to their faith and belief in my ability to deliver.

I would also like to say thank you to the entire Head of Zeus family who work as a highly focused and ambitious team, earning them the digital publisher of the year award for 2015. A remarkable achievement for such a young and innovative publishing house. I would like to thank my agent Piers Blofeld, yes, that’s right. He is related to the great giant of cricket commentary and yes, Ian Fleming did use his family name.

Having Rosie, Piers and Amanda in my life means I do not suffer from the renowned writers affliction of loneliness. They are always there and they absolutely understand every idea I bore them with, before bringing me back down to earth. But more than that, they let me be. They never push or guide me or tell me what they would prefer me to write and for that, I am eternally grateful.

A stunning new family saga from the No 1 bestselling author of The Four Streets trilogy.
Ruby Flynn
, set in Ireland and Liverpool, is the enthralling story of one family, haunted by ancient wrongs.

The FitzDeanes are wealthy. They have Ballyford Castle in Ireland and a growing shipping business in Liverpool. But a previous generation made a terrible mistake and now there are whispers that the family is cursed, unable to produce a living heir, even though Charles FitzDeane himself is a respected landlord, well-liked by his Irish tenants.

Now young Ruby Flynn, rescued when her family died during the storms of 1947, reared and educated by nuns, arrives at Ballyford, to work as a nursery maid. Soon rumours and strong emotions are swirling around the beautiful girl with red hair, green eyes – and a mysterious past. Who is she really? And what will her arrival mean for this powerful family, riven by tragedy?

T
HE
F
OUR
S
TREETS

‘A vigorous and vibrant story of childhood in Fifties Liverpool... she has so vividly captured the Four Streets and its larger-than-life characters, the result is as fast-paced as it is entertaining. An addictive novel to be devoured at one sitting.’

Sunday Express

‘The characters are engaging, the street scenes cinematic and the theme of the novel powerful. One night I found myself reading it in the bath. You don’t do that for work.’

Ann Treneman,
The Times

‘Catholic Liverpool, Irish immigrants and dark secrets... a funny and sometimes shocking saga. I couldn’t put it down.’

Cristina Odone

‘The characters are engaging, the streets scenes cinematic and the theme of the novel powerful.’

The Times

‘Angela’s Ashes with a Scouse accent.’

Irish Times

‘A heartbreaking tale.’

Liverpool Echo

N
ADINE
D
ORRIES
grew up in a working-class family in Liverpool. She trained as a nurse, then followed with a successful career in which she established and sold her own business. She has been the MP for Mid-Bedfordshire since 2005 and has three daughters.

Connect with Nadine on Twitter,
@NadineDorriesMP
.