Read Online Abigale Hall by Lauren A Forry - Free Book Online Page A

their first and only date. There was something about her blue eyes and the way she smiled, he had to ask her out for a dance. The evening was a disaster for them both, but it ended up being for the best. Jessie soon found another boy to latch on to and Eliza started work at the Palladium.
    Peter stuffed his frozen hands into his pockets, wishing for the first time that he was wearing the knitted mittens his mother had given him for Christmas. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, clapped his hands together and sneezed into his sleeve. He searched for his handkerchief then realised that, too, he had left at home. He was kicking a stone about when an older couple approached the maisonette, their hands laden with shopping baskets. They stopped when they saw Peter. He removed his cap.
    â€˜Good afternoon. I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if I could have a word with Jessie?’
    The couple said nothing.
    â€˜Jessie Rolston? She lives here, does she not?’
    The woman dropped her shopping and burst into tears.
    â€˜Oh. Oh dear. Here, let me help you.’ Peter scurried after the rolling potatoes, gathering them from the gritty pavement. He tripped over his own feet but managed to maintain his balance as he bagged her groceries. ‘I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .’
    The man spoke. ‘Are you with the police?’
    â€˜No, sir. Only a friend. Peter. Peter Lamb.’ He extended his hand, but the man kept hold of his sobbing wife. ‘We work together at the Palladium, but I haven’t seen her in a few days. I thought she might have fallen ill or . . .’
    â€˜Why don’t you come in, son?’
    Inside a small kitchen, Mrs Rolston busied herself lighting the coke in the grate and making tea. Cracks riddled the walls and many windows were boarded up. Shrapnel had taken chunks from the bricks in the fireplace. The sitting room was blocked off with an old sheet, and Mr Rolston’s armchair was positioned awkwardly between the larder and the cooking range. He sat there now, fiddling with the small, broken wireless in his lap.
    â€˜How do you like your tea, dear?’ Mrs Rolston asked, her voice weak and tired.
    â€˜Milk, two sugars, please, ma’am.’ Peter smiled. It brought no joy to the room. ‘Please don’t trouble yourself about the sugar.’ Though he spoke to strangers every night at the theatre, he had no idea how to begin this conversation, not without making Mrs Rolston cry again. Mr Rolston cursed at the wireless.
    â€˜Any good with electrics?’ he asked Peter.
    â€˜No, sir. I’m doing an apprenticeship in accounting.’
    Mr Rolston stopped listening as Mrs Rolston served the tea, adding a small spoonful of powdered milk to each cup. Peter thanked her and sipped the tea. The Rolstons left theirs untouched. It was a bitter, watery mixture, the teabags reused too many times.
    â€˜Where is Jessie?’ he asked quietly. Mrs Rolston began scrubbing the range. Mr Rolston buried his face deeper into the wireless.
    â€˜Do you know where she is?’
    Mrs Rolston sniffled, and Mr Rolston sighed.
    â€˜Moved out a few months ago, didn’t she?’ Mr Rolston said.
    â€˜I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .’
    â€˜Said she wanted to be an independent woman,’ he continued, his voice mocking. ‘Whatever the bloody hell that means. Not even married and she leaves us, goes to live in some brothel. Don’t even write.’
    Mrs Rolston slammed her fists onto the range. ‘Because she can’t! She can’t. She can’t.’
    Peter looked between them. ‘Why can’t . . . ?’
    â€˜Don’t you start, woman! I’ll hear no more of that rubbish.’
    â€˜No! I need someone to listen. Someone needs to listen.’
    â€˜To what? How you’ve gone mad?’
    Mrs Rolston flung herself at Peter. His tea spilled over the table top.