The Branded Man Read online

  THE BRANDED MAN

  Catherine Cookson

  Contents

  Cover

  Titlepage

  The Catherine Cookson Story

  Books by Catherine Cookson

  Description

  Copyright

  PART ONE Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  PART TWO Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  PART THREE 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

  PART FOUR Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  The Catherine Cookson Story

  In brief:

  Her books have sold over 130 million copies in 26 languages throughout the world and still counting…

  Catherine Cookson was born Katherine Ann McMullen on June 27th, 1906 in the bleak industrial heartland of Tyne Dock, South Shields (then part of County Durham) and later moved to East Jarrow, which is now in Tyne and Wear.

  She was the illegitimate daughter of Kate Fawcett, an alcoholic, whom she thought was her sister. She was raised by her grandparents, Rose and John McMullen. The poverty, exploitation, and bigotry she experienced in her early years aroused deep emotions that stayed with her throughout her life and which became part of her stories. Catherine left school at 13, and after a period of domestic service, she took a job in a laundry at Harton Workhouse in South Shields. In 1929, she moved south to run the laundry at Hastings Workhouse, working all hours and saving every penny to buy a large Victorian house. She took in gentleman and lady lodgers to supplement her income and took up fencing as one of her hobbies. One of her lodgers was Tom Cookson, a teacher at Hastings Grammar School, and in June 1940, they married. They were devoted to each other throughout their lives together. But the early years of her marriage were beset by the tragic miscarriage of four pregnancies and her subsequent mental breakdown. This took her over a decade to recover from, which she did, often by standing in front of a mirror and giving herself a damn good swearing at!

  Catherine took up writing as a form of therapy to deal with her depression and joined the Hastings Writers’ Group. Her first novel, Kate Hannigan, was published in 1950. In 1976, she returned to Northumberland with Tom and went on to write 104 books in all. She became one of the most successful novelists of all time and was one of the first authors to have three or four titles in the Bestseller Lists at the same time.

  She read widely: from Chaucer to the literature of the 1920s; to Plato’s Apologia on the trial and death of Socrates (she said that here was someone who stuck to his principles even unto death); to history of the nineteenth century and the Romantic poets; to Lord Chesterfield’s Letters To His Son and the books and booklets that abounded in her part of the country dealing with coal, iron, lead, glass, farming and the railways. She disliked it when her books were labeled as ‘romantic.’ To her, they were ‘readable social history of the North East interwoven into the lives of the people.’ For the millions of her readers, she brought ‘an understanding of themselves’ or perhaps of their dear ones. Her stories do not bring in a realism in which the worst is taken for granted, but a realism in which love, caring, and compassion appear, and most certainly, hope. ‘This type of realism does exist,’ Tom Cookson said of her writing. There is nothing sentimental about her writing; she is unrelenting in the strong images she invokes and the characters she portrays. They were born of her formative years and her personal struggles. Many of her novels have been transferred to stage, film, and radio with her television adaptations on ITV, lasting over a decade and achieving ratings of over 10 million viewers.

  Besides writing, she was an innovative painter, and she believed that her father’s genes fostered the strength to work hard, but also, in rare moments of freedom, to strive to better herself. Catherine was famed for her care of money but had given much to charities, hospitals, and medical research in areas close to her heart and to the University of Newcastle upon Tyne, who set up a lectureship in hematology. The Catherine Cookson Charitable Trust continues to donate generously to charitable causes. The University later conferred her the Honorary Degree of Master of Arts. She received the Freedom of the Borough of South Tyneside, today known as Catherine Cookson Country. The Variety Club of Great Britain named her Writer of the Year, and she was voted Personality of the North East. Other honours followed: an Officer of the Order of the British Empire in 1986, and she was created Dame of the British Empire in 1993. She was appointed an Honorary Fellow at St. Hilda’s College, Oxford in 1997.

  Throughout her life, but especially in the later years, she was plagued by a rare vascular disease, telangiectasia, which caused bleeding from the nose, fingers, and stomach, and resulted in anemia. As her health declined, she and her husband moved for a final time to Jesmond in Newcastle upon Tyne to be nearer medical facilities. For the last few years of her life, she was bedridden and Tom hardly ever left her bedside, looking after her needs, cooking for her, and taking her on her emergency trips, often in the middle of the night into Newcastle. Their lives were still made up of the seven-day week and twelve or more hours each day, going over the fan mail, attending to charities, and going over the latest dictated book, with Tom meticulously making corrections line by line, for Catherine’s eyesight had long faded in her 80s.

  This most remarkable woman passed away on June 11th, 1998 at the age of 91. Tom, six years her junior, had earlier suffered a heart attack but survived long enough to be with her at her end. He passed away on 28th June, just 17 days after his beloved Catherine.

  Catherine Cookson’s Books

  NOVELS

  Colour Blind

  Maggie Rowan

  Rooney

  The Menagerie

  Fanny McBride

  Fenwick Houses

  The Garment

  The Blind Miller

  The Wingless Bird

  Hannah Massey

  The Long Corridor

  The Unbaited Trap

  Slinky Jane

  Katie Mulholland

  The Round Tower

  The Nice Bloke

  The Glass Virgin

  The Invitation

  The Dwelling Place

  Feathers in the Fire

  Pure as the Lily

  The Invisible Cord

  The Gambling Man

  The Tide of Life

  The Girl

  The Cinder Path

  The Man Who Cried

  The Whip

  The Black Velvet Gown

  A Dinner of Herbs

  The Moth

  The Parson’s Daughter

  The Harrogate Secret

  The Cultured Handmaiden

  The Black Candle

  The Gillyvors

  My Beloved Son

  The Rag Nymph

  The House of Women

  The Maltese Angel

  The Golden Straw

  The Year of the Virgins

  The Tinker’s Girl

  Justice is a Woman

  A Ruthless Need

  The Bonny Dawn

  The Branded Man

&nb
sp; The Lady on my Left

  The Obsession

  The Upstart

  The Blind Years

  Riley

  The Solace of Sin

  The Desert Crop

  The Thursday Friend

  A House Divided

  Rosie of the River

  The Silent Lady

  FEATURING KATE HANNIGAN

  Kate Hannigan (her first published novel)

  Kate Hannigan’s Girl (her hundredth published novel)

  THE MARY ANN NOVELS

  A Grand Man

  The Lord and Mary Ann

  The Devil and Mary Ann

  Love and Mary Ann

  Life and Mary Ann

  Marriage and Mary Ann

  Mary Ann’s Angels

  Mary Ann and Bill

  FEATURING BILL BAILEY

  Bill Bailey

  Bill Bailey’s Lot

  Bill Bailey’s Daughter

  The Bondage of Love

  THE TILLY TROTTER TRILOGY

  Tilly Trotter

  Tilly Trotter Wed

  Tilly Trotter Widowed

  THE MALLEN TRILOGY

  The Mallen Streak

  The Mallen Girl

  The Mallen Litter

  FEATURING HAMILTON

  Hamilton

  Goodbye Hamilton

  Harold

  AS CATHERINE MARCHANT

  Heritage of Folly

  The Fen Tiger

  House of Men

  The Iron Façade

  Miss Martha Mary Crawford

  The Slow Awakening

  CHILDREN’S

  Matty Doolin

  Joe and the Gladiator

  The Nipper

  Rory’s Fortune

  Our John Willie

  Mrs. Flannagan’s Trumpet

  Go Tell It To Mrs Golightly

  Lanky Jones

  Bill and The Mary Ann Shaughnessy

  AUTOBIOGRAPHY

  Our Kate

  Let Me Make Myself Plain

  Plainer Still

  The Branded Man

  Fourteen-year-old Marie Anne Lawson, youngest daughter of a prosperous Northumbrian family, was running away from a sight she would rather not have witnessed when she stumbled and fell, injuring her ankle. She was discovered by a local man who, because of a disfigurement, was known as ‘the branded man’. Already fearful of him by reputation, his sudden appearance frightened her into unconsciousness. When she came to, she was back at The Manor and confined to bed for an indefinite period.

  Marie Anne’s mother, with no love and little sympathy, awaited her recovery with impatience, for she had already planned to dispatch her wayward daughter to London, where her Aunt Martha would supervise the development of her natural ability for the piano, the only talent her mother believed her daughter possessed. Marie Anne was already resentful at the enforced exile, and Aunt Martha’s frosty reception caused her to wonder if one domination would now be replaced by another. Only the friendship of her Aunt’s companion, Sarah Foggerty, prevented her from plunging into despair—that and the encouragement she received from her music tutor on her daily visits to the Academy. Why, then, did his sudden disappearance make it necessary for her to return to Northumberland, this time into the care of her beloved grandfather?

  Many twists and turns of fate awaited Marie Anne over the years, with Sarah Foggerty playing a part in her destiny—but neither she nor Marie Anne could have foreseen the consequences of their timely friendship.

  Set at the turn of the century in the wilds of Northumberland and in the slums of the East End of London, The Branded Man is the gripping story of Marie Anne, Sarah Foggerty and the mysterious man who was to influence both their lives.

  Copyright © The Catherine Cookson Charitable Trust 1996

  The right of Catherine Cookson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998

  This book is sold subject to the condition 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.

  ISBN 978-1-78036-067-6

  Sketch by Harriet Anstruther

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described, all situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  Published by Peach Publishing

  PART ONE

  One

  Marie Anne could not believe what her eyes were seeing. From where she stood in the deep shadow of the yew hedge, looking across the narrow sward to where the high summer moon illuminated the two figures leaning against the old willow tree, its ridged bark standing out as if it had been scored by a penknife, she knew the woman to be her sister Evelyn. She not only knew her, she knew that she disliked her intensely and, too, that Evelyn returned the feeling twofold. And that man with her…that man. Oh, no! That was Roger Cranford. He was from The Grange; Mrs Cranford’s second cousin, it was said. He had been abroad and was recuperating from a fever and he was so wonderful to look at and to listen to. She had looked at him and had spoken to him and he had been so nice to her. She had thought about him at nights. Oh yes, she had thought about him at nights. More so since last Saturday at the family picnic in The Grange grounds—he had touched her hair and said it was the colour of burnished brass. Evelyn had been there and he had hardly spoken to Evelyn, and yet…and yet—the words were ringing loud in her head—they had used her, both of them. Evelyn had told her mother it wasn’t safe for her to wander beyond the grounds and by the river because there were gypsies settled in Farmer Harding’s field.

  On three occasions lately, while out with Evelyn, Roger Cranford had appeared; and once, after she had run to the wall to look over to where the gypsies were encamped, she recalled that when she returned they were standing quite close and laughing.

  Her mouth now fell into a gape as she saw her sister’s hands go out and cup the man’s face. Then her own body jerked as he pulled Evelyn towards him and held her tightly. And when their faces merged she closed her eyes. She couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t. She couldn’t. He had been so nice to her and Evelyn. Oh, how she hated and loathed Evelyn; Evelyn, whom their mother held up to her as a model of decorum.

  When she opened her eyes again they were no longer standing against the tree but away from it, and Evelyn’s head was strained back as if she were pushing away from him; but she was letting him handle her. Oh Lord! Lord! She couldn’t bear it, she couldn’t. What should she do? Jump out on them?…He…he mustn’t do that! It was bad, bad: he had his hands inside her summer blouse, which was wide open. She again closed her eyes and now she gripped handfuls of the yew hedge until the crushed leaves stung her palm. She must get away, run back home and tell somebody.

  Don’t be silly. Don’t be silly. This was the feeling that often checked her wild running, especially when she was tired and she still had the urge to rush here and there. Only in The Little Manor, close by, where her grandfather lived, was she allowed uninhibited freedom.

  When she next opened her eyes and again made out the pair of them, they were no longer on their feet, and what she witnessed next, but only for a minute or so, was the man without his underclothes and her sister’s legs bare up to the thighs, and they were acting like the animals in the fields, like the dogs in the yard.

  Picking up the front of her own dress, she turned and ran down the short yew walk into the wood.

  She did not, however, make for the house gardens, but cut through a break in the boundary wall and over fields until she came to the river. Here, her first impulse was to plunge in and wash herself clean all over, although without looking at her body. She never wanted to look at her body again, ever, not ever. She stood gasping for air; there was a pain in her chest. Another thing she was certain of, she would never visit the tree-house patch again. At one time there had been a good house up in the branches, that was until Pat
fell and broke his arm and Vincent had carried her up the ladder and from there pushed her along a branch. She was six years old then, and he was sixteen, and she always seemed to be wrestling with him. He would start by tickling her, then holding her down on the ground and staring into her face, and always he would call her a brat. But on that particular day she had screamed the wood down and her grandfather had ordered that the tree-house be demolished.

  From then on, no-one except herself seemed to visit the small patch of sward and the lone tree. Whenever she went missing it would be assumed she was running wild round the grounds, whereas generally she could have been found sitting with her back against the tree and drawing odd-looking sketches of birds and animals.

  Later, when she was sent away to Miss Taggart’s school in Hexham, that period too ended with her running away. She hadn’t actually run, she had simply caught a train and returned home.

  Now they were about to send her away again, but they were still debating as to where. Her mother was for Aunt Martha’s in London, there to continue her musical education, because one thing she was good at was playing the piano. From a small child she had picked out tunes without music.

  She was about to sit down on the river bank when she was startled by a rustle in the undergrowth somewhere behind her. When she heard actual footsteps, then saw a tall figure slowly loom out of the scrub into a patch of moonlight and move in her direction, she let out a cry that sounded like the squeal of a trapped animal as again she took to her heels and, head down, ran blindly on.

  She was not aware that she had tripped, only of being hit on the head by something.

  When she came up out of the blackness she did not immediately open her eyes. She was aware only that she was lying on the hard ground. When she attempted to move she groaned aloud from the pain in her foot, but it was when the weird face hung over her that she screamed; and when it spoke to her she sank into the blackness again.

  The next thing of which she was conscious was being swung gently from side to side. It would have been a nice sensation, she told herself, if it wasn’t for the pain in her head that had moved down to her foot …