Our Lizzie Read Free

live?”
    â€œWith your aunt, I suppose. I’m sure Mrs. Reed will offer you a home when she hears how things stand.”
    Emma groaned. “Oh, no! Not Aunt Gertrude.” For their sole surviving relative was as domineering as their father had been.
    Mr. Peelby spoke somewhat impatiently. “Times are hard. Poorer people lack work and whole families are starving. You’re lucky to have someone to turn to.”
    Immediately he’d left, Emma turned to Blanche. “Whatever happens, I’m not going to live with Aunt Gertrude. You can if you wish, but I absolutely refuse.”
    â€œBut what else can we do?”
    â€œI don’t know, but I’ll find something. For a start, I’m not going to give Father’s clothes away, I’m going to sell them. Even if they’re only worth a pound or two, it’ll help.”
    â€œBut how…?”
    Emma pondered for a moment, then said slowly, “Sam Thoxby will probably know what to do. I’ll send him a message.”
    â€œBut the debts…”
    â€œAre Father’s, not ours.”
    *   *   *
    That evening, when Sam turned up at the house he’d been in and out of since the days his gran had done the rough charring work for Mrs. Harper, he said the wardrobe of fine suits and hats was worth something and agreed to sell the stuff. Emma was a little older than he was and Blanche older still. They and their mother had been kind to him as a lad, feeding him leftovers and giving him old scarves and gloves of Mr. Harper’s to keep him warm in winter. He never forgot a kindness because he hadn’t known many. Mind you, that wouldn’t stop him turning a penny out of this.
    â€œWhat about selling some of the other stuff as well?” he asked, looking round at the furniture and ornaments.
    Emma shook her head. “This all belongs to the creditors now.”
    â€œOnly if they get their hands on it.”
    The two women stared at him, then at each other. It was Emma who nodded. “I suppose we could sort out a few things.”
    â€œSmaller stuff would be best. I’ll come back with my handcart after dark.”
    Only when he’d left did Blanche ask, “Should we?”
    â€œWe need to. And,” Emma added thoughtfully, “we’ll keep Mother’s jewellery for ourselves.”
    â€œI don’t like to think of leaving debts unpaid.”
    â€œWell, I don’t like to think of us not having something to fall back on.”
    â€œMy annuity—”
    â€œIs not enough, dear. You know it isn’t.”
    That night, Sam and a friend brought a handbarrow round to the back door and took away three loads of stuff. Some of it would be sold, the rest kept to give the sisters a start in their new home.
    Emma worked herself to exhaustion sorting it all out. Blanche wept almost continuously and was of little use.
    *   *   *
    Lizzie was in the children’s playground when their neighbour found her. She was letting the swing move gently to and fro as she dreamed about a story she’d read at school. She was an orphan, the lost child of a duchess, kidnapped when she was very young by gypsies. She had long, curly golden hair, and —
    â€œThere you are, Lizzie Kershaw! I’ve been looking all over for you.”
    She jerked out of her daydream and scowled at Mrs. Preston from across the street. “Well, now you’ve found me, haven’t you?”
    That should have earned her a scolding, or at the least a muttered, “Cheeky young madam!” but all Mrs. Preston did was mop her eyes and pat Lizzie’s shoulder. “Eeh, you poor thing!”
    Lizzie jerked to her feet, leaving the swing rocking to and fro behind her. “What do you mean?” she demanded, arms akimbo. “We’re not poor.” Poor people only had bread and dripping for tea. They wore clogs and their clothes smelled sour. How dare