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Sister’s Struggle by Mary Gibson
About the author
Mary Gibson was born and brought up in Bermondsey, south east London. After a thirty year
career in publishing, she took the opportunity of early retirement to write a book of her own.
Her début novel, Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts, was inspired by the lives and times of her
grandparents in World War One Bermondsey. It went on to become a top ten Kindle best
seller and was selected for World Book Night 2015.
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Website: marygibsonauthor.co.uk
About the book
A young girl struggles to keep body and soul together in 1930s London, while her proud but
spendthrift widowed father refuses to accept charity.
London, 1935.
Ruby is always hungry, but she will go without if it means her young brothers can eat. 1930s
Bermondsey might be called the larder of London, with its pie, pickle and jam factories, but
for the poor working classes, starvation is often only a heartbeat away. When Ruby’s
neighbour suggests she ought to go to the Methodist Mission for free food, Ruby knows her
father will be furious, but that she has no other option.
It is a decision that will change the course of her life forever, split her family and in the end
lead her to face a terrible choice between duty and a great love.
Buy links
Kobo: http://bit.ly/2qUQe6o
iBooks: https://apple.co/2Bh69BV
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2zgDfAs
Google Play: http://bit.ly/2DLUH3t
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EXTRACT
Ruby woke up hungry. It was a hunger so fierce it had penetrated her dream of
the fat rat that lived inside her and was gnawing its way out of her stomach. But just
as the sharp teeth took another bite at her she jolted herself awake. She sat up with the
metallic taste of blood in her mouth. She had bitten her own lip. Groaning, she lay
back down, tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks, pooling where her neck met
the pillow. She rocked herself quietly. What was she going to do?
Beside her, two-year-old Davey slept peacefully, each breath puffing out his
pink lips. His head rested on her shoulder and she pushed aside the curling tendrils of
dark brown hair from his forehead. He was a beautiful child, but sickly, with skinny
arms and spindly legs that barely held his feather weight. The three Scully children
slept, top and tailed, in one bed and she edged aside Eric’s smelly feet which were on
a level with her nose. They needed a good wash. She’d have to ask Dad for a sixpence
for the Grange Road baths when he got home.
She glanced at the long sash window, the rotten frame loose and the curtains,
which had been threadbare even when Mum was alive, keeping out none of the cold.
They blew in and out with every chilling gust of wind. Through the window she could
see the bell tower of St James’s church opposite. The bells were silent, resting. She
always loved to hear them, chiming out hymn tunes on Sunday mornings or pealing
for special services. The bells were so close that their ear-splitting tones would echo
round their three small rooms, reverberating against the thin brick walls, setting sash
windows trembling. She loved their sound. But she also loved it when they were
resting – great lumpen iron things set on massive wooden beams within the bell tower
– waiting for the hand that would set them into motion, and release their music to
heaven. On Sundays there was never the prospect of a lie-in. The sound of St. James’ bells woke everyone, churchgoer and heathen alike.
But whatever the day, the hands on the church tower clock were never still.
Now they edged towards five o’ clock. She waited until the creeping morning light
grew strong enough to penetrate Eric’s pale-lashed eyelids. The boys would be
hungry when they woke – and their hunger would be even harder to bear than her
own. Dodge could say what he liked: the pain she felt was definitely hunger and the
hungry rat was feasting on her. She licked the salt tears and pretended they were soup.
It was torture to lie here, knowing the queue for a free breakfast at the Bermondsey
Central Hall was already forming and they couldn’t join it. Hundreds of children were
already there in the dawn light, the promise of a good breakfast keeping them warm
on this bitterly cold morning. The idea of provoking her father’s rare, fierce temper
was daunting but the thought of another day without any food was worse...
She waited until the morning sun stroked Eric’s blond hair to silver and a finger of
light caused his lids to flicker open. Then she wasted no time. If she delayed, she
might change her mind. While his sky-blue eyes were still clouded with sleep, she
dragged him from the bed and shoved shorts and shirt into his arms.
‘You ain’t got to have no wash this morning, just get dressed.’
The pain in her stomach was urgent now, demanding as a bawling child and
just as difficult to ignore. As if on cue, Davey let out a wail. While she dressed him
she pacified him with a piece of rag dipped in the remains of last night’s condensed
milk. Eric had pulled on his clothes and she spat on her hands before wiping them
around his neck. Then she spat on them again and plastered down his fine, blond hair
which stuck up like a pale dandelion seed head. Slipping into her frock and shoes she
glanced in the mirror above the mantelpiece. Her small-boned face and pointed chin was framed by straight, silver blonde hair, chopped into a rough bob by her own hand.
She hastily ran the comb through it. In lieu of a wash, she rubbed sleep from her eyes,
which were exactly the same sky blue as Eric’s. Only Davey had inherited their
mother’s dark hair and warm brown eyes. Dodge insisted that she and Eric were
descended from Vikings, like him. By which he meant that their grandmother had
fallen for a Scandinavian sailor off the docks which resulted in Dodge’s birth nine
months later. The sailor had felt the call of the sea shortly after and was never seen
again. ‘She named me after me father! He dodged the bullet, didn’t he?’ her dad
would laugh, bearing his absent parent no ill will.
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