A Dedication
This book was written as a personal quest to find the answers to questions that had weighed heavy on my mind for many years. It was also written so that my family may never forget their roots and how the past will always shape the future. I want to thank my partner Michael for the tremendous effort he put in to researching my family folklore and the encouragement he gave me to search out the truth of my story. I would also like to thank my three sons, Oliver Nicky and Joe for their love and support as I travelled down some rocky roads of self- discovery. Thanks also to Caroline for helping me put my story into words and encouraging me to make the first steps into the world of writing. To the literary group who kept me on track as the book was written along with Hugh who encouraged me to take up the pen and learn my trade. I would also like to thank Debbie and Wendy for their eternal optimism and holding my hand at times in those moments when my discoveries over-whelmed me. The prayers of my friend Christine have kept me safe. Jonathan Conway, my agent has been a pleasure to work with. A huge debt of gratitude to Ingrid Connell and Kate Hewson from Pan Macmillan for their belief in a ‘very special story’. To Cheryl for helping me write my story and Claudia who did the most amazing job researching my family tree. Finally to the many colleagues from George Pindar Community Sports College in Scarborough for following the story with interest.
Guard a Silver Sixpence
In 1903, in the mining town of Barnsley, a brutalised wife called Emily Swann lashed out at her violent husband. Her actions brought tragedy and scandal in their wake. Her children were shamed, her family broken apart.
Over one hundred years later her great-granddaughter Felicity, also a victim of physical and psychological abuse, set out to uncover the secret history of her family in the hope it would heal the scars of her own childhood.
As Felicity discovered more about her mum and nan, and was led back to Emily herself, she came to see how all these women had all been caught in a damaging cycle, endlessly repeating the mistakes of the past. And she knew that she, at last, had the power to break free.
Guard a Silver Sixpence is the heartwarming story of an inspirational woman who learned that anything is possible if you can lay the past to rest.
Buy your copy now
Where it all begins – 1962
Do it again! Opening extracts Guard a Silver Sixpence – Published by Pan Macmillan 2011
My beautiful grandmoth Elsie Swann – circumstances made her cruel.
‘That’s not how you walk across a room,’ Gran snapped at
me. ‘Do it properly!’
Obediently I turned, went back to the living-room door
and set off again. Over the rug, past Gran on the sofa, her
tiny frame upright, her implacable grey eyes fixed on me.
Almost to my bedroom door, and safety.
‘Stop! Do it again, and get it right this time!’
Back to the living-room door. I took a deep breath and
started walking. I only managed a couple of steps.
‘No, no! Do it again.’
I set off again, over the rug, past the sofa. I hate you, I
hate you. You’re a bad woman.
Gran hissed and my heart jumped into my throat. I
stopped and glanced sideways at her, her body rigid, the
tip of her tongue sticking out between her yellowing false
teeth, her lips curled back. My hands were trembling.
Don’t hit me.
‘What am I doing wrong, Gran?’ I asked pleadingly. ‘I
just want to get it right – what do I do?’
‘Do it again!’
And where it all ends – 2011
An extract from the Epilogue of Guard A Silver Sixpence.
Emily and Hannah, though I never knew them. But in this
way it is for Gran, too.
The reading I chose for Mum’s funeral was the wonderful
letter from Eccesiastes about the nature of love. I’d
gone to Bradford to find the church where Gran and
Granddad had married, and the Bible on the lectern had
been open at this passage. ‘To every thing there is a season
. . . a time to weep, and a time to laugh. A time to mourn,
and a time to dance . . . a time to love and a time to hate;
a time of war and a time of peace.’
I liked the idea of it helping to put things straight again,
reminding us all of what really mattered in life instead of
lingering over the mess that Elsie and Albert had made of
much of their daughter’s life and of my childhood and of
their own marriage. It fitted the occasion perfectly for me,
especially the part about seeing through a glass darkly now,
but having faith that one day it would all be made clear.
As I threw my handful of dust on to Mum’s coffin, I
felt like I was saying goodbye to all of them – Hannah,
Emily, Elsie, Marjorie. ‘I’ve done the best I can for you
all,’ I told them. ‘I have tried to put things right, and now
let’s lay it all to rest.’
And what of me? For a long time it looked like I would
fall into the patterns of the rest of my family. I spent my
whole childhood plotting escape, yet when it came I didn’t
know how to deal with it. I was too trapped by my past to
be free. But after decades of struggle, I feel I’m finally
coming to terms with myself. If this story has taught me
anything, it is that while the past needs to be known and
understood, it also needs to be put in its place.
I will always be marked by the past. It is a part of me,
in the same way that the Waggonway will always be a part
of Barnby Furnace. But through experience, through education,
and through love, I am different from how I could
have been. I have three wonderful sons, and a job I love. We can
make our own history now.
Chapter Six
FIGHTING BACK
‘You’re a filthy prostitute! Don’t think you can get away
from me!’
Gran managed to land a stinging blow on the back of
my head as I made a dash for the door, but we both
registered that she’d had to reach up high to get the usual
vicious swipe to connect. I was thirteen, and I had grown.
I knew the blow was coming. But I also knew what I
was going to do when it did. I danced out from under her
hand, so she’d think she’d cowed me with the blow, and
then stood up again, skipping backwards down the passage,
flicking V-signs at her as I went.
‘Fuck you, it’s only a stupid telly,’ I shouted, using a
word I’d first heard from her, not my friends, when she
stood out on the doorstep delivering her rants against the
good character of the neighbours.
Then I shot out through the door into the street before
she could catch her breath.
Both of us, I think, were aghast at my blatant rudeness.
Running down the road I laughed like a maniac, feeling
like a freedom fighter who had just blown up an enemy
jeep, and not caring a bit about having to go home later
and face the music. She’d lost, I’d won, and it wasn’t the
first time, either. Things were never going to be the same
again.
My grandmother was barely five feet tall. Born in
another century into abject poverty, probably never wellnourished
at any point in her early life, she was never
going to be tall. It was probably something of a miracle
that she had survived at all. But it hadn’t occurred to either
of us that one day I would overtake her. I may not have
been a very happy girl but I was certainly a well-nourished
and very healthy one. Not long after my eleventh birthday
I was able to look her straight in the eyes. By my thirteenth,
just as adolescent attitude and hormones were kicking in, I
was taller than her. Not that this would have mattered if
I’d respected her. But fear is no substitute for respect, and
the worm began to turn.
Gran was very surprised by this turn of events. She’d
had it her own way with my mother for such a long time
– even though Mum was herself a good couple of inches
taller than Gran – that she had just assumed that history
would repeat itself.
I was determined that it wouldn’t.
Very suddenly, I was very much stronger than her, but
there was more to it than that. I was a product of a time
when there were daily references at school and in the street
to the idea that even children had rights. This was quite
beyond the experience of both my gran and my mother.
Fighting back against the injustice handed out by grownups
was not as unthinkable for me as it had been for my
mother. It was just a question of me finding the courage
to attempt it, and I seemed to have been born with a fiery
indignation against any kind of injustice.
The day arrived when, on impulse, I decided not to
walk like a soldier past Gran and her precious telly, but
instead to flail my arms around as I went past so that she
couldn’t see the screen properly. That was it, the first act
of deliberate provocation – and I felt defiant rather than
scared. I timed it nicely so that I could get out of the room
just as she lunged at me, and into my bedroom just before
she reached me.
I wasn’t able to hold the door shut against her, however,
and I knew I wouldn’t have enough time to get across the
room, open the window and climb out before she was
upon me. So, heart pounding in my chest, I opted for
opening the door fast and dashing past her, pretty sure
she’d only be able to whack me once.
‘You can’t catch me’ I shouted, knowing that she didn’t
have a chance. It was my time now and I was going to
enjoy every last minute of the chase.
‘Felicity Alice, come back here now! You’ll never get
away from me’.
‘Oh yes I will, you old witch,’ I taunted. And I ran. I
was laughing euphorically as I scrambled through the
window, the casement catch scratching my bum.
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