A Good Mother

A GOOD MOTHER PATRICIA DIXON Copyright © 2023 Patricia Dixon The right of Patricia Dixon to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published in 2023 by Bloodhound Books. Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. www.bloodhoundbooks.com Print ISBN: 978-1-5040-8548-9 For Tara, With love, respect, and admiration. Always. x CONTENTS Love best-selling fiction? Also by Patricia Dixon The Parish of St Mary, Little Buddington, Cheshire Before 1. March 2020 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 After 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 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Lourdes, France. Acknowledgements You will also enjoy: A note from the publisher Love best-selling fiction? LOVE BEST-SELLING FICTION? Sign up today to be the first to hear about new releases and exclusive offers, including free and discounted ebooks! Why not like us or follow us on social media to stay up to date with the latest news from your favourite authors? Facebook Twitter Instagram ALSO BY PATRICIA DIXON Psychological Thrillers/Suspense/Dramas Over My Shoulder The Secrets of Tenley House #MeToo Liars (co-authored with Anita Waller) Blame The Other Woman Coming Home Venus Was Her Name * * * Women’s Fiction/Family Sagas They Don’t Know Resistance Birthright The Destiny Series: Rosie and Ruby Anna Tilly Grace Destiny Little bird, I have heard What a merry song you sing Soaring high, to the sky On your tiny wing Jesus little ones are we And he loves us you and me As we share in his care Happy we must be. William H Parker circa 1881 THE PARISH OF ST MARY, LITTLE BUDDINGTON, CHESHIRE PRESENT DAY Morning has broken. I know this before I open my eyes because outside the dawn chorus is in full song. I picture pale sunrays illuminating the sky while an array of little birds go about their business. No care for their sleeping human neighbours. Stubborn beaks and wings spread wide. Joyful in the new day. I know each of them by name, not personally but wouldn’t that be nice. I mean their song and species, their chirps and trills, whistles, and rattles. There was a poster on the wall in school and after listening to a tinny recording of birdsong, we took turns identifying them. I won a prize, a bookmark. I refused to use it, such was my pride and I still have it in my box of treasures. I listen. Remaining motionless apart from my eyelids that open slowly, revealing where I am. Not in our bedroom. The reason why. Because I couldn’t bear to sleep another night by my husband’s side. It’s been torture. The close proximity to a person who’s let me down so badly is oppressive, as though he’s intruding on my personal space but, thankfully, not the forbidden area of my mind. My thoughts and secrets, my intentions, are known only to me. I should’ve left the fug of our airless, soulless room before and I feel foolish for enduring it for so long. Especially the pig-like grunts that make me think of the petting zoo at the local garden centre. Here, at least I’ve been able to leave the curtains and the window open. Greet each new day as it begins or ends. Sun, moon, stars. An unexpected pink sunset and all the elements in all their glory. I hate the dark. Claustrophobia’s ally. When I am exhausted or in a low mood the sheath of gloom is like a blanket. It smothers me and brings on a panic attack. Invisible fingers wrap around the sinews in my neck. Thumbs press on my windpipe and then the drum of my heart beats Morse code for help as my lungs beg for oxygen. I spent most of last night in such torment. Baited first by my conscience and utter, lip-numbing fear but considering what lies ahead of me today, it was expected. Then slowly, as I became resigned to it all, calmness settled and left me cocooned in a wonderful sense of peace. Anyway, it’s here now. Morning. And once it begins this day will change my life, and that of others forever. Some more than most. Lives will end and lives will begin. It’s 6.30am. I know this because I heard a motorbike engine as our neighbour rumbled off on his way to work. Regular as clockwork Joe is. Same as the milkman. He’ll be here at 7.30am on the button, making the last few drops on his rounds of the village. Today is Sunday. One pint of orange, two of milk, fresh bread and six eggs. Maybe I should have cancelled, but Bobby needs the custom so it’s all good. I hate Sundays, have done for so long; yet today, I welcome it and what it will bring. Usually, the hours stretch on and on until my shift is finished. That’s how I see life, as a shift. Rinse and repeat. Another day ticked off the calendar. But it’s never truly over, not really, because even when the body gives in, the mind carries on. I’m a mother