Read Online The Most Precious Thing by Rita Bradshaw - Free Book Online
Authors: Rita Bradshaw
Ads: Link
lass.’ Blindly, she began to walk, but instead of stopping when she reached her own doorstep she passed the house without a turn of her head, continuing into Cornhill Terrace and then on to Southwick Road.
Alec was going to be married. He had been courting Miss Margaret Reed and now he was going to be married. The refrain was beating in her brain like a drum.
She passed the smithy on the corner of Southwick Road and then turned into North Bridge Street, the shopping bags still clasped in her hands and her head bent low into her neck. She hadn’t made a conscious decision about where she was going and what she was going to do, but her steps were steady as she walked towards Wearmouth Bridge.
There were few people about, the thick fog had seen to that, and when eventually she reached the bridge she continued along the pavement into the middle of the massive structure. She had seen someone fall from here some years ago when she had been going home with her da after watching the East End carnival procession. She had been tired and her da had been carrying her on his shoulders, so she had seen the man jump before her da did. There had been shouts and cries and people running over to peer into the water, but her da hadn’t let Renee or Billy join them. He had hurried them past the spot so fast her sister and brother had been crying that their legs hurt before they reached Southwick Road. She had cried for the poor man though.
From her vantage point high above the crowd she had seen his face quite clearly in the moment before he had launched himself into the river, and his expression had returned to haunt her in nightmares for months. Her mam and da had tried to soothe her, telling her it had been an accident and that the man had probably been rescued by one of the boats frequenting the water at the time, but she had heard them talking when they’d thought her asleep the following night on the evening the Echo had published an account of the suicide.
‘Poor so-an’-so,’ her da had said. ‘Lloyd George might have talked about a land fit for heroes, but what did that poor blighter find waitin’ for him when he comes home minus an arm? That he’s straight into the dole queue, that’s what, while them as sat nice an’ comfy at home durin’ the war makin’ money get knighted. Damn profiteers! The last straw was when his wife an’ kids went into the workhouse, accordin’ to the paper.’
She’d heard her mother murmur something, and then her da had replied, ‘Nor could I stand it, lass, I tell you straight. Seems he was a stretcher-bearer an’ lost the arm savin’ I don’t know how many; got the Military Medal, his wife says. Takes a lot of them things to fill your bairns’ bellies an’ keep warm though, don’t it?’
At the time, despite the awful circumstances of the ex-soldier, she’d wondered how anyone could come to a point in their life where they would actually choose to kill themselves; to decide to end their life before their allotted span.
She leaned over the iron railings, staring down into the curling misty darkness below.
And now she knew.
The bags were heavy and she drew back, placing them at her feet before once again leaning against the barrier. It wasn’t very long ago that she’d been happy. Sometimes she’d felt so filled with joy and happiness - like when she had been in the fields Carley way and a heavy frost had draped a blanket of diamond dust over the hedgerows, or when the sun had set in a sea of red and gold and purple. She’d felt then that she would burst if she didn’t express the feeling inside her. She would never feel like that again.
She couldn’t see the water in the blackness of the night but she could picture it. She shivered. Did it hurt to drown? Well, she’d soon know, wouldn’t she?
‘You ailin’, hinny?’
A hand tapped her on the shoulder and Carrie jumped violently. She swung round to find one of
Alec was going to be married. He had been courting Miss Margaret Reed and now he was going to be married. The refrain was beating in her brain like a drum.
She passed the smithy on the corner of Southwick Road and then turned into North Bridge Street, the shopping bags still clasped in her hands and her head bent low into her neck. She hadn’t made a conscious decision about where she was going and what she was going to do, but her steps were steady as she walked towards Wearmouth Bridge.
There were few people about, the thick fog had seen to that, and when eventually she reached the bridge she continued along the pavement into the middle of the massive structure. She had seen someone fall from here some years ago when she had been going home with her da after watching the East End carnival procession. She had been tired and her da had been carrying her on his shoulders, so she had seen the man jump before her da did. There had been shouts and cries and people running over to peer into the water, but her da hadn’t let Renee or Billy join them. He had hurried them past the spot so fast her sister and brother had been crying that their legs hurt before they reached Southwick Road. She had cried for the poor man though.
From her vantage point high above the crowd she had seen his face quite clearly in the moment before he had launched himself into the river, and his expression had returned to haunt her in nightmares for months. Her mam and da had tried to soothe her, telling her it had been an accident and that the man had probably been rescued by one of the boats frequenting the water at the time, but she had heard them talking when they’d thought her asleep the following night on the evening the Echo had published an account of the suicide.
‘Poor so-an’-so,’ her da had said. ‘Lloyd George might have talked about a land fit for heroes, but what did that poor blighter find waitin’ for him when he comes home minus an arm? That he’s straight into the dole queue, that’s what, while them as sat nice an’ comfy at home durin’ the war makin’ money get knighted. Damn profiteers! The last straw was when his wife an’ kids went into the workhouse, accordin’ to the paper.’
She’d heard her mother murmur something, and then her da had replied, ‘Nor could I stand it, lass, I tell you straight. Seems he was a stretcher-bearer an’ lost the arm savin’ I don’t know how many; got the Military Medal, his wife says. Takes a lot of them things to fill your bairns’ bellies an’ keep warm though, don’t it?’
At the time, despite the awful circumstances of the ex-soldier, she’d wondered how anyone could come to a point in their life where they would actually choose to kill themselves; to decide to end their life before their allotted span.
She leaned over the iron railings, staring down into the curling misty darkness below.
And now she knew.
The bags were heavy and she drew back, placing them at her feet before once again leaning against the barrier. It wasn’t very long ago that she’d been happy. Sometimes she’d felt so filled with joy and happiness - like when she had been in the fields Carley way and a heavy frost had draped a blanket of diamond dust over the hedgerows, or when the sun had set in a sea of red and gold and purple. She’d felt then that she would burst if she didn’t express the feeling inside her. She would never feel like that again.
She couldn’t see the water in the blackness of the night but she could picture it. She shivered. Did it hurt to drown? Well, she’d soon know, wouldn’t she?
‘You ailin’, hinny?’
A hand tapped her on the shoulder and Carrie jumped violently. She swung round to find one of
Similar Books
