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  BILL BAILEY

  Catherine Cookson

  Table of Contents

  The Catherine Cookson Story

  Bill Bailey

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  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

  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

  Bill Bailey

  From the moment Bill Bailey arrived to take up residence at Fiona Nelson’s home in the Tyneside town of Fellburn, he made his presence felt in no uncertain terms. As a young widow left badly off, and with three children to bring up, Fiona had come to know all the problems of trying to make ends meet. So despite the inevitably disapproving comments of her own mother, reckoned locally to be an interfering woman, she advertised for a lodger to help pay for some of the bills. The result was Bill, somewhat rough around the edges perhaps, but nobody’s fool and doing very nicely with his own business as a builder.

  Bill often described himself as a middle-of-the-road man, valuing his freedom where personal matters were concerned, but it was not long before Fiona found she was wondering just what her world had been before he came into it. He might be outwardly an ordinary enough bloke, but he appeared to possess some pretty extraordinary qualities, which proved to have a great and lasting effect on the future lives of Fiona and her young family.

  Catherine Cookson’s novel is a richly entertaining tale of human relationships which are warm-hearted, full of humour and powerfully dramatic.

  Copyright © The Catherine Cookson Charitable Trust 1986

  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 1988

  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 978-1-78036-019-5

  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

  Chapter One

  ‘A paying guest?’

  ‘No, Mother; a lodger. As I said, he works on the buildings…he’s a lodger.’

  ‘You’re getting coarse. And what do you think people will say in the avenue?’

  ‘They’ll say, Mother, they wish they’d had the chance to take…a lodger. I know of three redundant managers in the street, and their wives are scraping for jobs.’

  ‘Well, far better go out to work again than take in a person like that.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve forgotten, Mother, we’ve had all this out before: I have three small children and it was costing me practically all I worked for in paying someone to look after them, and travelling expenses. Anyway, since that do in hospital, I haven’t felt up to standing all day smiling and saying, “Yes, madam; that was made for you,” and generally to old bags who still don’t know how the other half lives.’

  ‘You needn’t have paid anyone to look after them; I offered, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, Mother, you did. But look what happened when I was in hospital. There was chaos. I was hardly round from the anaesthetic when you told me you were on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and you listed all the things Mark had said and done. Anyway, don’t let’s go on: I am taking a lodger because I cannot make ends meet otherwise.’

  ‘Well, you know who’s to blame for that. And I’ll say it again: if he had been any kind of a husband he would have seen that you were properly cared for by taking out an insurance.’

  ‘He did take out an insurance, Mother. I have the house.’

  ‘Yes; and nothing with which to keep it up. He was irresponsible right from the beginning. A freelance journalist! Huh! he should have got a proper job. Your father provided for me.’

  ‘But only just, as you often tell me, Mother. Only just.’

  At this point the kitchen door was thrust open and a blond nine-year-old boy cried, ‘He’s here! He’s here, Mam. In a whopping big car,’ then turned about and disappeared.

  As though caught up in the boy’s excitement, Fiona Nelson and her mother went to the window and looked down the long narrow garden towards the gate, where a man was taking luggage from the boot of a car. He had placed two cases inside the gate on the pathway when the boy reached him and attempted to pick up one of the cases. They saw the man rumple the boy’s hair, at the same time apparently turning him towards the car for, together, they went back to it.

  ‘Well, he’s a good age.’

  Fiona glanced at her mother, saying, ‘That at least should put your mind at rest.’

  ‘Well, it hasn’t. The whole idea’s obnoxious. And look.’ She pointed. ‘Golf clubs!’ Mrs Vidler’s voice held a note of utter disbelief. ‘You said he worked on the buildings, a bricklayer.’

  ‘I said no such thing; I didn’t specify what he worked at. You made up your own mind about that after I said he worked on the buildings. And that’s what he does, so he told me, along with his men.’

  ‘His men?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a builder, Mother. He’s building those detached houses above the park.’

  ‘What!…Really! They’re expensive.’

  ‘Yes, Mother; they’re expensive.’

  Fiona watched her mother’s countenance alter. It was as if her face was changing its skin. She had seen that look before. It meant the chase had begun, for under that refined exterior was the hunter. But that she had never chased a quarry like this one approaching the front door now, Fiona would have been willing to bet.

  There was a tight smile on her face as she left her mother arranging her hair and hurriedly nipping at her lips. She crossed the small hall towards the open door to greet her future companion by saying, ‘Well, you’ve got here, then?’

  And the man, dropping the cases just inside the door, answered, ‘Yes, I’ve got here, in the flesh. And don’t attempt to move those.’ He indicated the two big cases with his foot.

  ‘I had no intention of doing so.’

  ‘Huh!’ He was looking her straight in the face, as he added, ‘No; you wouldn’t, would you?’

  Fiona felt herself rearing slightly. She wanted to step back from him, but she didn’t; she returned his stare, thinking that she had never been able to stand men with sideboards, even short ones like this; and they were grey, and yet his hair was still dark, in fact mostly black. He was only slightly taller than her, and she was five foot seven
; what was more, he was thickset. She had never liked thickset men. His whole appearance, like his voice, had a roughness to it. If there had been any romance left in her, she told herself, she would have said he looked rugged; but no, he was rough, all rough; and loud, as he proclaimed now by yelling down the garden, ‘Hi! laddie; don’t attempt to carry those.’

  He left her side and hurried down towards the boy, and took the golf bag from him; brought it swiftly back, dropped it near his cases, then went back to the car again. He hadn’t even glanced at her this time.

  When Mark came into the hall she put a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up and said, ‘It’s a Volvo, Mam, the car.’

  She did not remark on this, but watched her future lodger-cum-paying-guest place one more case on the drive, then lock the car door, after which she turned her son about and pressed him towards the far door, saying, ‘Go on into the garden; Katie and Willie are in the playhouse. Stay with them until I call.’

  ‘But, Mam.’

  ‘Do as I say, Mark, please.’

  The boy lifted his shoulders in protest, but did as he was bidden.

  Then there was the man again placing another large case against the other two, and she knew she should say to him, ‘You’d like to get unpacked, I’m sure.’ But she told herself she might as well get the family introduction over because her mother, in her present mood, would stay on until she did meet him.

  ‘Would you like to meet my mother? She’s in the sitting room.’

  ‘Anything you say.’ His tone implied, I’m in your hands, so she led the way into the sitting room where, looking from one to the other, she said, ‘This is Mr Bailey, Mother. My Mother, Mrs Vidler.’

  Fiona watched her mother move slowly towards him, her hand outstretched, and in her most refined tone say, ‘How do you do?’