***chapter 11***

***Kathy, February 1956***

But let me tell you right here and now there had once been a spark in Kathy Ross of a human being. Of a mother even. And I can't help wondering if only…

But the world is full of if onlys and idle wishes. I wish so much Kathy had confided in someone because then…But she didn't. And I like to think that had it been you or I we would…But it wasn't.

So all I can do is take you back in time to tell you is how it shouldn't have been and yet was:-

Kathy Ross critically studied her reflection in the hallstand mirror. Even though folk said it was an unlucky colour, there was no denying she suited green. The green silk dress undoubtedly enhanced her features. She was by no means a raving beauty, but nor was she a plain Jane either. A little on the plump side maybe, but many a man preferred curvy to stick thin, and in green she became almost pretty. Her pale skin seemed to acquire a more pleasing tone, her light brown eyes shone with a fresh brightness, her glossy brown hair fell in gentle waves on her shoulders. All in all, it was an extremely pleasing image.

"You sure you'll be okay?" Shrugging into her brand new black tent coat, Kathy peeped round the living-room door at her guest.

"Aye, lass, we'll be grand."

Two-year-old Stevie was fast asleep upstairs and Alfie Simpson, to whom the question was addressed, looked up from watching a muted television set where several men and a football rolled continuously round the screen. Kathy's was one of only a handful of homes in the village that boasted a television and the picture would often flicker and jump, particularly in bad weather. Still, her friend looked comfortable enough. Four bottles of pale ale, a thank you for his babysitting, waited on the sideboard, a cup of tea and plate of digestive biscuits balanced on the arm of his chair, and a crackling fire swayed with the winter wind that roared down the chimney. None of the pit families were well off; most barely eked out an existence, but at least there was always a ready supply of coal. And how welcome that small mercy was on such a wild night as this!

Snowflakes swirled through the gathering darkness, a north wind tugged fiercely at the trees and already ice kisses sparkled on windows. She would have to watch where she walked, and perhaps it was crazy to wear kitten-heeled ankle boots in the snow, but it wasn't very far to Quigley's Corner, where they'd arranged to meet, and she had good legs that she liked to show off. Besides, it was her first date with Stan Gilmore and he had a few bob. She was keen to make a good impression.

A drained glass of wine stood atop the hallstand drawer. Drink calmed her nerves and Alfie understood. Arriving just as Kathy was finishing her second glass, he had insisted on pouring a third.

"Get it down yer neck, girl," had been his succinct advice.

It made a refreshing change. Ethel and Millie Ross had always strongly disapproved of her drinking while indulging Ste. "He works hard for his money," they said pointedly, whenever she complained about his regular Friday and Saturday nights out. Well, the b*****d was six feet under now and Kathy was determined to have some fun!

"What d'yer think then, Alfie?"

She sashayed into the room and twirled around, her coat as yet unbuttoned, her cleavage bursting to be free of the tight-fitting dress, her diamanté necklace and ear-rings flashing like diamonds in the firelight.

"Grand," he replied, without much interest.

It wasn't the reaction she usually got from men and Kathy felt somewhat peeved as she wrapped a pure wool scarf around her neck and tugged on her leather gloves, but she bit her tongue. It wouldn't do to make an enemy of an on-tap babysitter. Alfie had even volunteered his services.

A newcomer to the village, Simpson was an odd little fellow, who would sit in the White Swan for hours, wearing an old flat checked cap, nursing the same pint and puffing on the same unlit cigarette, apparently perusing a newspaper, but his bird-like eyes taking in everything around him. He was a closed book about his past and he never joined in conversations or banter. Of course, the rumour mills churned, but all that anyone really knew was that he did his job well enough and had always been a miner. And he knew nothing of Kathy apart from the fact she was a widow with a small child.

The fledgling friendship, built on nothing more than occasional remarks about the weather or the local bus service or the price of lamb, sharing nothing but a mutual recognition in each other as outsiders who scorned the village way of life, although Kathy's contempt was much more obvious and Alfie's much more hidden, suited both. Alfie never asked, and Kathy never told him, where she got the money from to make her frequent shopping trips to Leeds, buying brand new outfits, getting her hair done and eating in exclusive restaurants. Almost certainly, thanks to the gossips, he already knew anyway.

The fatal accident at the coal mine was entirely Ste's fault - he had downed a couple of pints before his shift - which meant the colliery was under no obligation to pay any compensation at all. But its owners, the Chorleys, were a kindly family and took pity on the young single mother, as did Ste's workmates, who dug deep into threadbare pockets. The Chorley brothers did have to make a stand to discourage such behaviour nevertheless and the compo, welcome as it was, wasn't as high as it would have been had Ste not been drinking. Six months later that payment and the collection cash was nearly all gone. Which was why someone she wouldn't normally have looked at twice, Stan Gilmore the butcher, a portly man pushing forty, with thin, greying hair, a bulbous nose, fleshy lips that he had a habit of licking, and a healthy bank account had suddenly become a very attractive prospect indeed. Kathy had enjoyed frittering away the money, secure in the knowledge Ethel and Millie Ross, just as they had always done, would continue to pay the rent and other bills "for the sake of little Stevie". She didn't want the good times to end.

As for the busybodies who thought she ought to be spending the cash on her small son and not herself, well, they could go to hell. Where they predicted Kathy was headed. And where, if such a place were actually to exist, she wished Ste would burn for getting her up the duff and saddled with a kid in the first place.

The funeral, a grand affair with a solid mahogany coffin and a carriage pulled by four black plumed horses, all paid for by Ethel and Millie Ross out of their savings, was done and dusted. Kathy was probably the only one out of the whole congregation who didn't cry. Although, aware she might get more money if she did, she made a great show of dabbing a hanky to her eyes, blowing her nose and clutching her little boy's hand.

Tears shone too on the tot's face, but Stevie had no idea what was going on and his tears were a mixture of boredom and fury at being restrained. Every now and again he would try to swing on the pew screen in front or climb on the bench behind and every now and again a villager would take him outside to play for a short while, ignoring his protests when brought back inside. Poor little mite, he didn't understand it was his father lying there cold and dead…