A Mother's Love by Maggie Ford Read Free Book Online Page A

their nice house in Ruth Road by the park, around the corner from Annie. But three hundred pounds, in one lump, made even her mouth water. She remembered thinking that what she couldn’t do with three hundred pounds wasn’t worth talking about.
    The same thought had occurred to Annie, to judge by the way she was speaking. ‘Providential accident, Will’s – for Harriet.’
    Clara thought it best at the time not to query that rather unkind remark. After all, to lose your husband and have a baby all at the same time was a terrible blow for any woman to bear. But some of Annie’s poison had rubbed off and she couldn’t help the envious tinge to what she had intended to be a consoling remark about the printing presses.
    ‘And now, gent’men,’ announced the auctioneer. ‘A platen printing press. Top of the range – “Arab” Crown Folio – bought brand-new by the late Mr Porter just weeks before his unfortunate demise. Who’ll start the bidding at fifty pounds?’
    ‘Forty!’ This from one of the two newest arrivals.
    Mr Jones looked affronted. ‘Come now, a quality machine, brand-new in perfect working order. Let’s be charitable to the widow!’
    ‘Fifty-five!’ Harriet’s eyes turned in the direction of the staccato offer. It came from the young man by the door. Her heart flowed out towards him on wings of gratitude.
    There was a small hiatus as those around drank in the bid. Then, unwilling to be outdone, the first man called out again.
    ‘Fifty-six.’
    ‘Sixty!’ The young man had become very alert and upright.
    ‘Sixty … two!’ There was uncertainty in the tone.
    ‘Eighty!’
    Harriet was staggered. A low hiss of astonishment swept through the room.
    Mr Jones’s voice rang out, pitched high with exaltation at such an exorbitant – one might say silly – bid. ‘Eighty pounds I’m bid.’
    The bidder obviously had no idea what he was about. There were no more bids. Mr Jones didn’t expect any, but he was well pleased, given that he had previously calculated that the commission he’d get out of the auction would hardly justify the work involved.
    ‘Eighty pounds then?’ Mr Jones declared on a falling note. His gavel rose. ‘Going – for the first time …’
    ‘Eighty-one.’ The newcomer stretched an antagonistic neck towards his rival. His look spoke for him.
Goad the fool one more time.
It was taking a chance, but worth the risk to see the fool go in deep.
    ‘Hundred!’
    Even Harriet, knowing nothing about prices, was staggered. At her side, Clara gasped. ‘That must be twice what it’s worth brand-new.’
    This time the silence drew itself out in defeat, with no counterbid coming. The auctioneer challenged for the third time, then brought his gavel down with a triumphant thud, revealing unprofessional elation at this mad offer. ‘Sold to the gent’man by the door! Name please?’
    But from the hallway, Harriet didn’t catch the name.
    The sale of the second, older press was even more surprising. The young man’s opening bid for a well-used ‘Model’ printer worth thirty-six pounds new was a staggering fifty pounds. There was no one else silly enough to bid but the auctioneer was beaming. The man was a raving lunatic – more money than sense – but who was he to tell him his business? His commission was now up far beyond his expectations.
    The young man seemed bent on buying up the whole shop. The auction closed finally to ragged clapping. Those who had managed to buy something moved to the table, while the rest filed out, their conversation animated in appreciation of a good morning’s entertainment. Harriet watched the young man speaking to Mr Jones. She felt quite giddy.
    ‘With what’s been sold and the money Will left, I’ve got nearly five hundred pounds. I can live on that for years.’
    She realised she’d said ‘I’, the child forgotten for the moment. It would have to be brought up, fed, clothed. Some of her joy waned. For some reason she recalled her