Tara

Synopsis

In the East End, twelve-year-old Tara witnesses her villain of a father almost kill her mother. She forges a determination then and there to change her life. This is the story of three beautiful and talented women. Mabel, whose great love for a gambling man has brought her close to insanity; gentle Amy, who marries a man brutalised by war and failure; and Tara, who is hungry for success and life on her own terms. To have both, she must battle against the legacy these two women have left her, the deep prejudices and dangers of Whitechapel in the 1960s - with its gang leaders, rogues, market traders and dolly birds - and the passionate love she has had since girlhood for the charming wideboy and villain, Harry Collins.

Table of Contents

• About the Author
  
• By the Same Author
  
• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Dedication
  
• Acknowledgements
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Chapter 15
  
• Chapter 16
  
• Chapter 17
  
• Chapter 18
  
• Chapter 19
  
• Chapter 20
  
• Chapter 21
  
• Chapter 22
  
• Chapter 23
  
• Chapter 24
  
• Chapter 25
  
• Chapter 26
  
• Chapter 27
  
• Chapter 28
  
• Chapter 29
  
• Chapter 30
  
• Chapter 31
  
• Chapter 32
  
• Chapter 33
  
• Chapter 34
  
• Chapter 35
  
• Chapter 36
  
• Chapter 37
  
• Chapter 38
  

Tara

Lesley Pearse was born in Rochester, Kent, but has lived in the West Country for the last thirty-two years. She has three daughters and a grandson. She is the bestselling author of fifteen novels, including
Ellie, Georgia, Tarn, Camellia
and
Charity,
all five of which are published by Arrow.

Also by Lesley Pearse

Georgia*
Charity*
Ellie*
Camellia*
Rosie
Charlie
Never Look Back
Trust Me
Father Unknown
Till We Meet Again
Remember Me
Secrets
A Lesser Evil
Hope

* Also available in Arrow Books

Tara

LESLEY PEARSE

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

ISBN 978-1-4070-9937-8

Version 1.0

www.randomhouse.co.uk

Published by Arrow Books 2007

8 10 9

Copyright © Lesley Pearse 1994

Lesley Pearse has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published in Great Britain in 1994 by William Heinemann
First published in Great Britain in paperback in 1995 by
Manderin Paperbacks
First published by Arrow Books in 1998
Arrow Books
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road
London, SW1V 2SA

www.rbooks.co.uk

Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co uk/offices.htm

The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

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

ISBN: 978-1-4070-9937-8

Version 1.0

In memory of Ralph Pearse, my father-in-law,
one of nature's true gentlemen.
It was Ralph who inspired me to use
Chew Magna in Somerset, as a setting for
part of the story. He was born and grew up there,
and to all of us who loved him,
he will always be there.

Acknowledgements

To Louise Moore, my editor, for her unfailing enthusiasm, wisdom and encouragement.

To Darley Anderson, my agent, for believing in me.

To Richard and Vivienne Flowers in the hopes they don't mind me creating an entirely fictitious history at the farm. To Margaret and Mike Barber for their memories of growing up in Chew Magna.

Thank you to Dennis Spear for your invaluable reminiscences of village life. Tower Hamlets library for their help in my research, and Westminster Training and Development Association for letting me take a peek into their offices in Paradise Row.

Apologies to Port Lympne for wandering round your grounds when you lay empty and unloved. One day I'll go back to see the tigers and gorillas.

Last, but not least, thank you to James Kellow and Tony for teaching me to play poker.

Chapter 1

Whitechapel, London, 1960

'Tell yer Dad I want the rent tonight. Or else!'

Anne stopped in her tracks, shame staining her pale face. Her mouth dropped open like the cod on the fish stall, arms weighed down by two string bags full of end-of-the-day cheap meat and vegetables.

'Dad must have forgotten,' she whispered.

Sid Bullock threw back his head and cackled mirthlessly. The golden light from the stall's hurricane lamps caught him under the chin, giving his long bony face a sinister look.

'Forgotten!' he roared, making people crane their necks to see what was going on. 'The only thing Bill MacDonald remembers these days is how to pour drink down his throat!'

Whitechapel Road was always busy, but at five o'clock on an icy January Saturday it developed a manic, desperate air. Stallholders anxious to rid themselves of perishable goods bawled out inducements to buy. Buses disgorged passengers to swell the already heaving throng of last-minute shoppers. Acrid, throat-burning traffic fumes mingled with smells of fruit, raw meat, hamburgers and onions. Yet even amid all this noise and confusion, Bullock's cruel jibe managed to make at least a dozen heads turn.

He might as well have announced it on the BBC. By the time the stalls were cleared and the rubbish swept up, it would be common knowledge that the MacDon-aids were in trouble again.

Once she'd called this tall, skinny man Uncle Sid. He doled out free chips from his shop and sixpences for sweets as if he was a real relation. Now he only spoke when he wanted to get back at her father.

'I'll remind him as soon as he gets in.' Anne wished she could melt into the rail of dresses behind her.

'C'mon, Sid! Ain't you ashamed of pickin' on a kid?' George's growling voice preceded his red face and plump body as he burst through a rail of jackets. 'If you've got a disagreement with MacDonald, pick it with 'im, not little Anne.'

She was twelve going on thirteen, a skinny kid in a long-outgrown, threadbare green coat. Her red-gold hair hung in pigtails, huge amber eyes welled up with tears and her wide mouth was sore in the biting wind, a red gash across a white, strained face.

Sid heard the veiled threat behind the jovial words and backed off.

'Tell him I want it, before he pisses it away tonight,' he tossed over his shoulder, and slipped away through the crowd.

'Bleedin' weasel!' George slid an arm round Anne's shoulder and drew her close to his thick sheepskin coat. 'Too scared to 'ave a go at yer dad, but don't mind ripping into a kid!'

Anne didn't see herself as a kid. Her childhood had gone down the pan as soon as she became aware that her father was a drunk, wife-beater, a thief and a blackguard. But she appreciated George sticking up for her.

'Got all yer shoppin'?' George bent down, enveloping her in his comforting smell of King George cigars, bacon sandwiches and a faint whiff of brandy. He took her cold hands in his and chafed them together. 'Anythin' you need 'elp wiv?'

Anne loved George, not only for his kindness and his generosity, but for his outrageous appearance. With his bald head, port-wine coloured bulbous nose and quivering belly he would have looked comic even in conventional clothes, but George never did anything in half-measures. A Russian fur hat, a glimpse of brocade waistcoat beneath his sheepskin and a red and yellow spotted bow-tie was his usual working attire.

George Collins was the top man in the market; a spieler who could sell anything to anyone and entertain them as they parted cheerfully with their cash. Master magician, juggler and clown, he could toss plates into the air and somehow land them neatly in straw-lined baskets without breaking one. He could find a half-crown behind a child's ear, sing a song, tap dance, insult his audience then two minutes later have them shrieking with laughter. But George wasn't just a sharp salesman. He sprinkled gold dust on people's lives, lifted their spirits and warmed their hearts, and Anne had wished more than once he was her father, not a mere pretend uncle.

'I've got everything now.' She wanted to remain in the circle of his arm, but she remembered her mother and Paul were waiting. 'I'd better be going, Uncle George, Mum's not too good.'

'That cough still?' There was no trace of teasing now, only concern in his watery blue eyes.

Anne nodded. 'It's not getting any better, and she's so thin, too.'

George patted Anne's shoulder and cleared his throat as if there were something he wanted to say but couldn't.

'Go on home, sweetheart, make her some honey and lemon and put a dash of yer dad's whisky in it.'

Anne looked over her shoulder as she reached the last stall, shifting her shopping to one hand. She raised the other in a wave, then blew him a kiss before slipping away into the darkness.

It was the blown kiss that made George's eyes prickle. Somehow it summed up their relationship, the affection between them and the need to keep it hidden.

Anne wasn't pretty. The combination of red-gold hair, white skin and huge amber eyes was fascinating enough to attract stares, but her shabby clothes and obvious neglect were all most people saw – a navy school skirt dangling beneath the coat, grey socks bunched round stick-thin ankles and chilblains on exposed wrists and knees.

Yet George could see beyond the pre-adolescent gawkiness to what she could be. Those eyes like polished pebbles held a yearning for a better life. Right now her wide mouth was too big in her pale, pinched face, but in another two or three years it might tell a different story!

George turned back to his stall piled high with china and fancy goods, suddenly chilled by a glimpse into the future. He noticed the filth underfoot, the tawdry cheap clothes on sale and the stink of poverty in the air.

He should have been more forceful with Amy Mac-Donald all those years ago. Why hadn't he convinced her that a stepfather would be better for Anne and Paul than their natural one? Didn't it come down to cowardice at the end of the day, whatever excuses he offered himself at the time?