Chapter 1

Pillowell, a coal-mining village in Gloucestershire, January 1901.

One might say that Florence Ada Harris’s contribution to 20th-century history originated in a violent shove between the shoulder blades, which hurled her out of the front door of the manse and flat onto her face on the flagstones outside.

He was ranting. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard “whore! harlot!... shame on me, my mission, your family, your sons!” And, loud and clear, “You will burn in hell!”

He was standing above her now, and she flinched, fearing more blows.

“Get out of this place!” he hissed. “I give you one hour to pack your things and go – and take your bastard son with you! Godfrey will stay with me. Do you hear me? Go- I never ever want to see you again!”

She heard him turn, there was a slight scuffle, then he stepped past her, dragging another man - obviously her lover, Rob - and throwing him down the steps to the road, shouting, “…foul adulterer … everlasting damnation! …. How dare you! Don’t ever show your face in the chapel again!” He followed the culprit down the steps. She heard him cross the road and walk up the path to the large stone chapel on the other side. There was a clatter of the key in the lock; the door slammed and was locked again from the inside.

She lay on the ground for a few moments, aching and trembling. Her head hurt; she had hit her forehead on the stone. Her ribs were bruised, and her right arm was badly grazed and bleeding. Heavy steps were approaching, and voices - miners coming off the night shift at the colliery, probably. Dawn was breaking. Painfully, she picked herself up, brushed the grit off her face and hands, gathered her nightdress around her, and turned back into the house. Just inside were her two boys in their nightshirts, shivering, white in the face.

“What are you doing here?” she cried, shooing them in. “You will catch your death of cold! Get back into bed quickly; it’s not time to get up yet.”

“But Mama, what happened? Why did Papa do that?”

“What was Rob doing here?”

“It was nothing, my darlings,” she tried to reassure them. “Your father was just a bit upset about something. He doesn’t really mean it. Don’t worry. Just go back to bed.” “But…but…” “No, go now.” Silently, they obeyed.

Florence, or Flo as everyone had called her since childhood, went into the kitchen and sat down on a stool at the old wooden table, shaking, too stunned to cry. For several minutes, she sat immobile, in a state of shock, her mind blank. Then, like a deluge, the whole horror crashed down on her. What had she done? How could she have been so wicked? How could she betray her devout, clergyman husband – and with a member of his flock! What had possessed her? And in any case, why had it not occurred to her that Josiah would return on the early train that brought many of the miners to the first shift of the day?

She had never seen her husband in such a fury. But he was right, she knew. She had committed a terrible sin. She had betrayed him, her upbringing, and everything she had been taught since her earliest childhood. She could expect no forgiveness either from Josiah or his congregation. This was the end of her.

Shivering, she rose, threw a shawl around her shoulders, and automatically stoked up the embers in the old, blackened range and filled the kettle. A black terror enveloped her. What should she do? She had no money, no means of support, and now no home. She felt naked, like a tortoise without a shell. How could she survive without a husband and a home? Where could she go? Certainly not back home to her widowed father. She shivered at the thought. Yet she must leave as quickly as possible. Those miners may have seen what happened just now. The news could already be flying around the village. Oh, the shame of it!

Her arm was hurting. Wincing, she bathed it in the sink and bandaged it. She went to the old, dim mirror and dabbed at the bruise on her forehead. It was turning blue and swelling. She looked distraught. Her oval face, surrounded by rich red hair, was still pretty but pale, and fine lines were beginning to show. She was thirty-one now. Ten years of pious poverty, hard work, and two children lay between her and the effervescent young girl she used to be. Where were the sparkling eyes, the enchanting dimples, and the endearing smile that those around her, particularly men, had found irresistible?

A cup of hot tea lifted her spirits slightly. “There must be someone who can help,” she said to herself. And all at once, it dawned on her where she could go. “Cyril,” she called. Get dressed, and put on your sailor suit. We are going to visit Aunt Emily!”

“Aunt Emily!” the boys came thumping downstairs with bare feet. They adored Flo’s oldest sister, who, in their early years, had been like a second mother to them. “I’m coming too!” cried Godfrey, the younger one. Flo felt as though she had been punched sharply in the stomach. She was being doubly punished - she was not only being cast out into a frightening world alone with the older boy. She was being forced to part with the younger one, her darling, her secret favorite – who knows, maybe forever! She could not bear the thought She would refuse to go! No mother should ever be told to do such a thing. She paced up and down in front of the stove. No! Never!

But moments later, she saw the hopelessness of her position. She knew Josiah and their Puritan world only too well. The Primitives were very democratic; the laity had even more say in decisions than the clergy, but she knew that their congregation would support Josiah to a man. Disgraced and dishonored, she could hardly appeal to them—indeed, fighting and calling attention to herself would only make things infinitely worse.

She went over and hugged Godfrey, pressing the child tightly against her. “What can I say to him?” she agonized silently. “I can’t tell him the truth. I’m going to have to pretend.”

Fighting back her tears, she swallowed hard and took Godfrey’s face in her hands. “Not this time, my darling. You must stay with Papa, or he will be lonely. We won’t be gone long, and if you are very good, Papa might take you to stay with Aunt Martha and the boys. And”—she added, improvising wildly—“next time you can come with me, and Cyril will go to Aunt Martha. How about that?”

Godfrey was not convinced and began to cry. “But why? It’s not fair, mama! I want to go with you!” he wailed and ran upstairs, weeping bitterly.

With tears running down her face, Flo entered the bedroom and put on her “good” dress, a severe, high-necked gown of navy serge, such as befitting the wife of a Primitive Methodist minister. She had made it herself. It was old and regrettably shiny, but her other one was even shabbier. Automatically, she scraped her long red hair back into the prim bun she had worn since marriage. What should she take? She had so little. She took down the photograph of her late mother from the mantelpiece and looked at it sadly. “Oh, forgive me, mama, forgive me! If only you were here to help me now!” she murmured and held it for a moment against her breast before putting it carefully into her battered holdall. After it went her other dress, underwear, stays, nightdresses, spare boots, Cyril’s few belongings, Bible, and prayer books. She looked in her purse and saw that the remains of the week’s housekeeping money would probably not even cover their train fare. After some hesitation, she went into her husband’s study and took out the contents of a tin box in his desk drawer, leaving in its place a scribbled note saying, “I will pay this back as soon as I can.” She looked around the house to ensure she had not forgotten anything important, then put on her cape, gloves, and hat, gingerly positioned it at an angle, and tugged at the short veil to hide the bruise on her forehead. “Looks a bit saucy, but it will have to do,” she thought.

As they reached the door, she stopped and clung tightly to the doorpost. She ached to run upstairs and carry Godfrey off with her. If only! Instead, she called, “Goodbye, my darling. Be good! We’ll be back soon!” Taking a deep breath, she grasped Cyril’s hand and, with her large holdall in the other, set off, chin in the air and a fixed smile on her face.

It was a cold, windy January day. The half-mile walk through the village to the station seemed endless. They were passing little houses where she, the minister’s popular wife, had visited or tended the sick, passing congregation members with whom she had so often prayed and sung hymns, children she had taught Bible stories. She greeted them all with forced gaiety as she went by. “We’re off to visit my sister! Back soon,” she called again and again.

She thought they seemed to know nothing yet, but who knew what dreadful rumors and stories would circulate when they found out that she was never coming back?