Catherine Cookson - Before I Go

PRAISE FOR CATHERINE COOKSON

Humour, toughness, resolution and generosity are Cookson virtues... In the specialised world of womens popular fiction, Cookson has created her own territory.

Helen Dunmore, The Times

Queen of raw family romances

Telegraph

Catherine Cookson soars above her rivals

Mail on Sunday

Catherine Cookson is an icon; without her influence, I and many other authors would not have followed in her footsteps.

Val Wood

ALSO BY CATHERINE COOKSON

Fiction

The Kate Hannigan Series

Kate Hannigan

Kate Hannigans Girl

The Mary Ann Stories

A Grand Man

The Lord and Mary Ann

The Devil and Mary Ann

Love and Mary Ann

Life and Mary Ann

Marriage and Mary Ann

Mary Anns Angels

Mary Ann and Bill

The Mallen Novels

The Mallen Streak

The Mallen Girl

The Mallen Litter

The Tilly Trotter Trilogy

Tilly Trotter

Tilly Trotter Wed

Tilly Trotter Widowed

The Hamilton Series

Hamilton

Goodbye Hamilton

Harold

The Bailey Chronicles

Bill Bailey

Bill Baileys Lot

Bill Baileys Daughter

The Bondage of Love

Other Fiction

Saint Christopher and the Gravedigger

The Fifteen Streets

Colour Blind

Maggie Rowan

Rooney

The Menagerie

Fanny McBride

Slinky Jane

Fenwick Houses

The Garment

The Blind Miller

Hannah Massey

The Unbaited Trap

Katie Mulholland

The Round Tower

The Glass Virgin

The Nice Bloke

The Long Corridor

The Invitation

The Dwelling Place

Feathers in the Fire

Pure as the Lily

Blue Baccy

The Invisible Cord

The Gambling Man

The Tide of Life

The Girl

The Cinder Path

The Man Who Cried

The Whip

The Black Velvet Gown

A Dinner of Herbs

The Bannaman Legacy

The Moth

The Parsons Daughter

The Cultured Handmaiden

The Harrogate Secret

The Spaniards Gift

The Black Candle

The Wingless Bird

The Gillyvors

The Maltese Angel

My Beloved Son

The Love Child

The Rag Nymph

The House of Women

The Golden Straw

The Year of the Virgins

Justice Is a Woman

The Tinkers Girl

A Ruthless Need

The Obsession

The Upstart

The Bonny Dawn

The Branded Man

The Desert Crop

The Lady on my Left

The Blind Years

Riley

The Solace of Sin

The Thursday Friend

A House Divided

Rosie of the River

The Silent Lady

Non-Fiction

Our Kate

Let Me Make Myself Plain

Plainer Still

Her Way

Childrens Books

Bill and the Mary Ann Shaughnessy

Matty Doolin

Joe and the Gladiator

The Nipper

Our John Willie

Mrs Flannagans Trumpet

Go Tell it to Mrs Golightly

Lanky Jones

Rorys Fortune

Text copyright 2017 The Trustees of the Catherine Cookson Trust

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

www.apub.com

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781612184210

ISBN-10: 1612184219

Cover design by Lisa Horton

We wish to thank all the picture sources, which include The University of Newcastle upon Tyne, The Howard Gotlieb Archival Research Center, Boston University and The Catherine Cookson Charitable Trust. While every effort has been made to trace copyright sources, Amazon Publishers would be grateful to hear from any unacknowledged copyright holders.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

AN EXPLANATION OF CATHERINES DECLINING HEALTH AROUND THE TIME OF WRITING

From my unknown father, I inherited something called HHT, hereditary haemorrhagic telangiectasia a very rare vascular trouble. Its first tangent was anaemia, but we didnt categorise tiredness under that name eighty years ago.

Should I baulk at being sent out on a message or doing another task by saying, Im tired, our Kate our Kate was my mother the answer I was invariably given was, Work it off. Youll cope.

Then one day in 1984, as I was assiduously correcting my work, I found I was reading with my head well to the side and the print wasnt as clear as usual. I put a hand over my left eye. Oh, I could see all right. I put a hand over my right eye. I remember getting to my feet, startled. There was nothing there except a sort of light at the side.

Within a couple of days, I was in hospital and going through tests.

Im afraid, said the specialist, youve had it as far as this eye is concerned. Or words to that effect. It transpired that one of the HHT veins had burst in the back of the eye, and there was nothing that could be done about it.

Anyway, I recall I came out of that hospital very dismayed. Apart from a little peripheral light in my left eye, I had only one eye. The effect was strange, to say the least. I felt for a time that I was only half the person I had been. I was finding that the peripheral light from the dead eye was interfering with the good one. The wearing of an eyeshade was suggested, but I couldnt take to it. I could still see: that was the main thing.

I was writing more than ever now, publishing two books a year and stockpiling others. My brain was a machine that had to be constantly oiled with words.

I may say here that I was only able to work at this pace because of the invaluable assistance given me by my husband in all ways. He nursed me, he cooked, he advised and, if possible, he wouldnt allow anyone but himself to do anything for me. It has always been like that. So he went on unselfishly giving me his life, and I went on working it off and coping.

During this period, constant bleeding was lowering my resistance, so when one day the peripheral light from the left eye seemed to take over and mix the print on the page, it was time to pay yet another visit to my optician.

He was a kind man, my general optician, and did not inform me what was happening, but instead took the course of giving me stronger glasses: four pairs in a short time. Then, one terrifying day, the print on the page was obscured by a light fog. It was as if someone close by had been smoking.

Again the specialist was at my bedside. He was kind but frank.

Youre eighty-four, Mrs Cookson, he said. And Im afraid you have what age brings: macular degeneration.

Then his next words nearly caused me to vomit in front of him. You wont actually go blind; youll still be able to make out shapes, he said.

Oh God, Im going to be blind. The word blind screamed in my head. I, Catherine Cookson, the writer whose life depended upon her writing at least her mental stability depended upon her using her brain and the only way she could do that was to write was going blind.

Oh God!

The specialists voice came to me as if from a long tunnel, saying, You can get all kinds of magnifying glasses that will help you to read, at least for a time.

At least for a time.

You wont actually go blind; youll be able to make out shapes.

How soon will it come, I mean... ?

He knew what I meant and he said, Oh, in some cases, its a gradual process; in others... Well, you cant tell. But dont worry, youll find ways of coping...