Kitabı oxu: «The Cornish Girls Series»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE
Dagenham, East London, April 1941

Violet had known since leaving the café that she was being followed. She kept glancing over her shoulder, but in the thickening dusk she couldn’t pinpoint her pursuer. The streets were dark, all lights out as usual, and whoever was on her trail was keeping furtively to the shadows. Not for the first time, she wished she’d accepted Fred’s kindly offer to walk her home, since it was Mum’s half-day at the café and she’d left work at lunch-time. But Violet hadn’t wanted to lead Fred on; he was a real gent and very attentive, but not her type, and it would be wrong to pretend an interest just to avoid trouble.

Besides, it was high time she gave these nasty lads a piece of her mind. Following her about, whispering behind her back, pointing in the street …

Nobody should have to put up with this nonsense.

People had even started avoiding their little café, through no fault of her mum’s. A widow now, Mum needed every penny she could get from her cakes and sandwiches, especially when rationing had made life so difficult.

Violet waited until she was nearly at the door to Number 27, then whirled, hands on hips, and glared into the shadows. She was tall for a woman, with a trim figure, and knew her height could sometimes be intimidating, so deliberately drew herself up and pushed her shoulders back.

‘Right, who’s there?’ she demanded, putting on the no-nonsense voice she used with Betsy’s two daughters, though they honestly didn’t need to be kept in line. Poor girls, they’d just lost their mum and could hardly lift their heads for weeping. And she’d lost a much-loved sister. ‘Come out and show yourself!’

To her surprise, it wasn’t one of the unruly youths from the neighbouring streets, come to taunt her again, but Fred who stepped out of the shadows.

‘Fred?’ She couldn’t hide the astonishment in her voice. ‘What are you doing, for goodness’ sake?’ She shook her head, her heartbeat slowing as she realised it had been no foe, but a friend following her. ‘Bloody hell, you gave me such a start!’

‘I’m s-sorry, Miss Hopkins,’ Fred stammered, removing his cap and turning it nervously between his hands. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten yer.’

‘I told you, I don’t need anyone to see me home from work.’

‘But after last time—’

‘I can handle meself just fine,’ Violet said stoutly, though in truth she had been deeply upset by her last encounter with their less pleasant neighbours, a small group of troublemakers who called themselves the Dagenham Daggers. ‘You’d best head off home now. I’m nearly at my front door, anyway.’

‘If you’re sure …’

In the far distance, there was the ominous drone of aircraft engines. They both glanced up at the darkening sky, knowing what that meant. Some poor soul was going to get it tonight, and you just had to hope it wasn’t you. A shudder of fear ran through her.

‘Of course I’m sure,’ she said briskly. ‘You shouldn’t be out this late, Fred. There’ll be another air raid tonight, like as not.’

‘Goodnight, then.’ Fred turned away, shoulders slumped.

But before he had taken more than three steps, a jagged stone came flying out of nowhere and hit Violet on the ankle.

‘Bleedin’ hell!’ she cried out, hobbling towards her front door as she fumbled in her purse for her latchkey.

Fred turned at once, staring at the shadowy street corner opposite. ‘Who’s out there? Who did that?’ His voice was suddenly strong and angry, and Violet could not help feeling grateful that he was still there. ‘You cowards! Throwing stones at a woman?’

‘She deserves it – she’s one of them,’ came the hoarse reply, and now she could see a grimy face in the shadows. Two or three grimy faces, she realised. Boys, not much older than her late sister’s girls. Bareheaded street lads in filthy clothes. ‘Gotta kick her out the street, see? Or she’ll have the lot of us.’

‘One of who? What are you talking about?’

The face came into sharper focus, a narrow chin with an even narrower body below it, but wiry, like a whippet’s.

Patrick Dullaghan, self-appointed leader of the Dagenham Daggers.

‘One of the Hun,’ he said darkly, and stooped to pick up another stone from the street, weighing it in his hand. Two of the houses further down the street had taken a hit a few weeks before, and the road was still littered with debris. ‘Hey, Fred, ain’t you heard what folk are saying about Violet Hopkins? Her brother-in-law’s one of the enemy. A bleedin’ German.’

‘What rubbish!’ Fred clapped his hands loudly, walking towards the lads. ‘Don’t talk such rot.’ He was speaking loudly enough to make Violet nervous. She peered up and down the dark street for any sign of the air-raid wardens who often patrolled the streets, but there was nobody about. ‘Off you go home, the lot of you. Before I report you to the police for assaulting a lady.’

The boys behind Patrick Dullaghan melted back into the shadows at that threat, but their leader hesitated. He threw the stone in a half-hearted fashion, missing her completely, before disappearing down the road while Fred glowered after him.

Shakily, Violet turned and struggled to fit her latchkey into the lock, groping about in the dark. Night had fallen while they were dealing with those nasty bullies. In the distance, she could once again hear the drone of engines high over London, but wasn’t sure if they were enemy planes or their own boys.

‘Ta, Fred.’

‘Goodnight, Miss.’

Violet nodded and slipped inside, closing the door on him. But not before she’d seen the look on his face and known he’d been hoping for more than a ‘Thank you’.

And something else, perhaps. The hint of suspicion.

Fred must have heard the rumours, though he had never mentioned them. But it looked as if he too was wondering …

In times like these, it only took a few whispers and most people would instantly assume guilt. No need for evidence, or a judge and jury. Not when the enemy was killing people in their beds every night.

She removed her coat and hung it up in the dark hallway, closing her eyes briefly as she remembered the vicious look on Patrick Dullaghan’s face, the sting of his words.

Gotta kick her out the street.

And what for?

Because her brother-in-law, a man who had bravely enlisted on the English side within days of the outbreak of war, was half-German.

He was also missing in action, presumed dead.

Not that any of that had stopped the whispers flying around Dagenham. Oh no, it had made him seem even more guilty. Not honourably dead. But missing.

Hurriedly checking her reflection in the hall mirror, Violet found she looked awfully pale, while her shoulder-length fair hair, swept off her face for work and set in a soft roll, seemed a little untidy. She patted her hair back into place and pinched her cheeks to bring the colour back.

‘Violet? That you?’

She pushed into the sitting room to find her mother in the armchair, a woollen blanket over her knees, knitting patiently as she listened to the wireless.

‘Who else would it be, Mum?’ Violet whisked the tea cosy off the china pot on the table. The teapot was cool. ‘Shall I make some fresh, or top it up?’

‘Top it up, Vi, love.’ Sheila clacked her knitting needles, her attention still half on the wireless, where a man with a plummy accent was droning on about the war effort. ‘We’re nearly out of tea leaves.’ Then she stopped and frowned. ‘You’re late back. Any trouble at the caff?’

‘No, all locked up for the night.’

‘Were you dawdling again?’

‘I had to do a stock-take. Time got away from me.’

‘That’s all very well, but what have I told you about being out so late?’

‘Sorry, Mum.’ Heading for the kitchen, Violet wobbled on her heels and winced at the ache in her ankle. ‘Ouch.’

Her mother looked down and gasped. ‘What’s that? Vi, you’re bleeding!’

Shocked, Violet glanced down too. Sure enough, the stone had hit her hard enough to break the skin. Luckily, she had not been wearing nylons – too expensive for work! But the small trickle of blood had been enough to alarm her mother.

‘Oh, it was only them blasted Dagenham Daggers.’

‘Language, Vi!’

‘Sorry, Mum, but really … They’re little better than thugs. Patrick Dullaghan threw a stone at me. I think they were lying in wait for me to come home from work.’

‘Those horrible beasts. They ought to be dragged off to prison!’ Her mother shook her head in angry disapproval. ‘But in heaven’s name, why throw stones at you?’

Violet hesitated, then said simply, ‘Because of Ernst.’

Her mother’s eyes stretched wide. ‘They can’t still think that my own son-in-law would be a …?’ She stopped short of using the word ‘spy’, but a familiar horror was in her voice. ‘Mrs Chilcott told me what people were saying. But I thought that had all blown over. How can they make such mischief? Ernst is missing in action, for goodness’ sake. And his girls have just lost their mother. It’s too awful. My poor Betsy.’ Tears sprang readily to her eyes at the name of her late daughter, who had left the shelter at the end of the street to return to her house for something – nobody quite knew what – and was found later in the rubble of her bombed-out house. ‘Have they no sense of shame?’

Violet tried to imagine Patrick Dullaghan feeling shame, and failed.

‘I don’t think so, Mum.’

She sat to slip off her heels and rub her sore ankle. No lasting harm had been done, she was sure. But what about next time? And that wasn’t the only thing that worried her about tonight’s attack. Her nieces, young as they were, had started to get a few hard stares from those street boys too. Lily had even reported someone shouting, ‘Bloody Hun!’ after her a few days ago. Next time, Patrick Dullaghan and his cronies might be throwing stones at the girls too.

Or worse.

‘Perhaps we could talk again about Lily and Alice going down to Cornwall,’ she said persuasively. ‘You know your sister Margaret would take the girls if you asked.’

‘Of course she would. And she’d put them to work too, on that blooming farm of hers. Anything for unpaid labour! My pretty little granddaughters herding cows in Cornwall? I won’t allow it.’ Sheila shook her head. ‘I left the countryside behind when I moved up here, and trust me, it’s no life for anyone. Fresh air isn’t everything, you know.’

‘Lily’s a strong girl and so is Alice. And so am I, if push comes to shove.’ Violet shrugged. ‘If we have to go out herding a few cows in return for bed and board, so what?’

‘No, I’m not listening.’ Sheila clapped her hands over her ears.

‘Mum!’

‘Well, you know I couldn’t bear for them to be so far away from their family.’ Her mum dropped both hands into her lap again. She looked away, her lower lip trembling. ‘They’re still grieving, poor chickens. They need their gran.’

Thinking hard, Violet tried an argument she suspected might have a stronger effect on her stubborn mother. ‘But the bombing’s been so bad lately, surely it’s time to—’

‘We’re safe enough in the Anderson shelter.’

Violet bit back her instinctive retort. Those Anderson shelters weren’t worth tuppence in the event of a direct hit. Besides, some of the bigger shelters had been hit in recent weeks, and dozens killed. And what about when they were taken unawares and had no time to reach safety?

Young Alice was a clever girl with only a few weeks left at school; with brains like hers, she had so much potential. And although Lily was seventeen now, she was still as sweet as she was innocent, spending her time helping out at the local hospital while she waited for an official war posting at eighteen. She often said she’d be happy to do her share in a northern factory, if that’s what the Home Office chose for her, but would much prefer to work as a nurse.

Violet dreaded those lovely girls suffering the same fate as their mother had, blown apart and buried under rubble. The only thing for it was to take them both into the country, far from the bombs, and hope the war ended before Lily was old enough to be posted to a job away from her family. But their doting grandmother would take some persuading to part with her darlings.

‘Well, let’s not argue about it tonight. I brought some leftover liver and bacon back from the café. I’ll freshen up the pot and put it on to reheat.’ Violet got up and bent to kiss her mother’s cheek. ‘Please don’t fret about those boys. They’re bound to be shipped out to the country soon. If their parents can ever catch the little beggars, that is.’

She pinned a bright smile on her face for her mother’s sake as she carried the teapot out to the tiny back kitchen, but inside she was furious.

Furious for Ernst, who was not a German spy, whatever ignorant fools like Patrick Dullaghan might say.

And furious for her mum, who had been doing her best to keep the old café going since Dad’s death, and deserved better than whispers of ‘Traitor!’ behind her back.

Mum and Dad had warned Betsy what people might say when she first announced that she was marrying Ernst Fisher, with his English father and German mother. The Great War had not long been over when they tied the knot, and people had tutted. But everyone had wanted to rebuild their lives, not dwell on the past. Or so Mum was always saying. So Betsy had married Ernst, both of them fresh out of school, and any bad feeling about his German heritage had been pushed out of sight. Until war broke out with Germany again.

Betsy had begged Ernst not to join up, terrified of losing him. But he had been adamant. ‘I speak the language; I could be useful,’ he told them all at a family meal, having packed in his job as factory foreman to join up. ‘Besides, you think I want to see the look in people’s eyes when I walk past? My surname may be English, but my Christian name is Ernst, and they all know it, even if you lot call me Ernest in public.’

‘Only to help you fit in,’ Betsy had said, clinging to him tearfully.

‘I’ll fit in better by fighting alongside these men,’ Ernst had insisted, putting her aside and smiling bravely at Lily and Alice. ‘I’ll miss you all. But I’ll write as often as I can. This will be for the best, you’ll see.’

Ernst had left a few days later, and never come back.

He had been reported missing in action a week before Betsy was killed, and so there had been no chance to tell him of his wife’s death.

Lily, and her sister, Alice, a precocious just-turned sixteen, had both been bullied horribly over their father’s German connections. But the teasing had stopped after their mother died, presumably out of a sense of compassion.

And that should have been an end to it.

But it seemed Patrick Dullaghan and his blasted Dagenham Daggers were now turning their spite towards Violet instead. How long would it be before the little brutes returned to taunting the so-called spy’s daughters?

‘I have to get those girls out of here,’ Violet muttered, filling the teakettle and putting it on the gas ring to boil. ‘But how?’

CHAPTER TWO
The Upside-Down Club, Central London, May 1941

‘He’s out there again tonight!’

Eva twitched back the curtain and gasped, her heart thumping.

Sure enough, the dark-haired RAF pilot with the Hollywood good looks was seated at one of the front tables, surrounded by his usual gang of uniformed friends, all chatting noisily over the band’s playing. She had tumbled head-over-heels in love with him two weeks ago, when he first turned up and sat smiling directly at her throughout their number. To her delight, he had returned with his companions a few nights later, and this was now his fourth time at the club.

‘Perhaps tonight’s the night,’ Karen said, and nudged her with a grin. ‘Look, now he’s going over to Walter. I wonder what he wants.’

Eva stared, her hand clutching the edge of the curtain. The good-looking young pilot had indeed wandered over to the manager of the Upside-Down Club, and was now talking in Walter’s ear. It was all very mysterious.

Suddenly, Walter looked over to the backstage area, his eyes sharp and watchful.

‘Oops!’

Hurriedly, Eva let the curtain fall back into place. They weren’t supposed to peek out at the audience between acts; it was a serious offence and could lead to the docking of pay. Not that Walter was that strict. His bark was worse than his bite, as Karen regularly remarked. Sometimes he reminded her of her kindly Uncle Teddy, who had been charged with her care since her father left London.

Poor Uncle Teddy, she thought with sudden remorse. She had grown bored of working in a typing pool at his stuffy offices and had given him the slip one day, escaping to find work as a dancer. That had been about six weeks ago. She had left a note, telling him not to worry, she could take care of herself, and would be back in a few months. But no doubt Uncle Teddy would have fretted anyway. But really, he ought to have let her get a more exciting job. Didn’t he know there was a war on and girls like her were determined to take advantage of the new freedom this brought?

Shirley, the backstage manager, was calling the girls together, clapping her hands. ‘Five minutes to curtain up!’ she kept saying as she checked everyone’s hair and costumes.

A moment later, Walter appeared backstage, a folded piece of paper in his hand. ‘Eva,’ he said in his gravelly voice, roughened by years of cigar-smoking. ‘There’s a note for you. From some Yank out the front. Though I shouldn’t really give it to you.’ He shook his head at her. ‘You know I don’t like you girls getting too friendly with the clientele.’

Eva looked at him pleadingly. ‘Please, Walter? Just this once?’

He handed it over but watched in disapproval as she opened it with shaking hands. ‘What am I going to do with you? Shirley, can’t you keep these girls in line?’

Shirley turned, hands on hips, her heavily made-up face crinkled in lines of disgust. ‘I’ve told them, no boyfriends, or they’re out. But I can’t watch them every bleeding minute of the day, can I?’

Head bent, Eva read the note with mounting excitement.

Dear Miss Ryder,

Forgive my impudence in writing this note, but I have admired you from a distance for too long, and one of the staff was so kind as to furnish me with your name. May I beg you to join me in a glass of champagne after your act?

Your smitten admirer, Lt. Max Carmichael

‘What does it say?’ Karen tugged at her sleeve, her voice a high-pitched squeak. ‘Tell me, tell me!’ Wordlessly, Eva passed her friend the note, then laughed at Karen’s wide-eyed expression of awe. ‘Oh, doesn’t he write lovely? Furnish me with your name … And a glass of champagne? With a pilot? My word, Eva, you lucky thing! You always get the good ones.’

Shirley grabbed the note and crumpled it up. ‘That’s enough of that nonsense,’ she hissed. ‘The curtain’s about to go up. Into position, girls, quickly now!’

Everyone jostled into line behind the thick red curtain, seven girls in tight-fitting white uniforms and pillbox caps, listening for their cue as the band began to play their opening number. Eva was at the centre, as the tallest of the troupe, and arguably the most attractive, if you ignored the too-generous mouth and the upward tilt of her nose. But attractiveness, as she knew only too well, was not what ultimately mattered. Not with men. A pretty face was how you caught them. But not how you held on to them.

The good ones …

Eva said nothing, but she was thinking back over her past boyfriends with a flicker of chagrin. None of them had been ‘good’. Or at least, not to her.

In fact, the men she seemed to attract usually turned out to be out-and-out bounders. They were only ever after one thing. And when she turned them down flat, they simply disappeared, running off to the next potential conquest. Leaving her broken-hearted and alone, wondering what she’d done wrong.

Though she was rarely broken-hearted for long, it was true. Her nature was too bold and resilient for feelings of angst to last much longer than a few dismal months. Sometimes only a few weeks, depending on how much the man in question had turned her head. Then she would be back on form, smiling and batting her eyelids, and hoping for the best from whichever young soldier had caught her eye this time.

Maybe she was a bit flirty at times. But, at only nineteen, she didn’t feel she needed to worry too much about that. It wasn’t time for her to settle down yet. And everyone said you had to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince. Eva was intent on kissing as many potential princes as possible before the marriage trap closed about her. Though kissing was as far as it ever went, because she knew better than to encourage wandering hands.

The curtain rose, and they danced out together, arm in arm, singing and kicking their legs as high as their tight skirts would allow. Eva avoided looking at the front table where the RAF pilots were sitting, focusing instead on getting through the complex routine without any mishaps. But towards the end, she risked a quick glance in their direction.

Gosh, he was rather dishy!

Backstage again, Eva checked her reflection in the big bulb-lit mirror that all the performers shared, elbowing each other for more space. Her face was glowing and needed a quick dab of powder before she was satisfied.

The band was playing a slower number now, as the evening drew towards its official close. She checked the clock on the wall. It was nearly half past eleven. The club was only supposed to stay open until midnight, but few people regarded the rules these days. So long as there were no lights showing, nobody seemed to care. Some nights Walter kept the place rocking until the early hours.

Suddenly nervous, she caught Karen’s eye in the mirror and guessed what her curious expression meant. ‘Five minutes,’ she told her friend, ‘that’s all. He’s probably just the same as the rest.’

‘Aren’t they all?’

‘But he is offering champagne …’

‘Yes, fair play to him.’ Karen grinned. ‘And he has the bluest eyes, don’t you think?’

‘I’m sure I didn’t notice his eyes.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Though I do love blue eyes.’

‘Me too,’ Karen said dreamily.

‘Especially when they belong to a gorgeous pilot.’

They both giggled, much to the annoyance of Shirley, who had appeared in the doorway tight-lipped and with folded arms.

‘That’s quite enough noise in here,’ she grumbled. ‘Settle down, would you? The punters will be able to hear you.’

Karen made a face at Eva, but said nothing.

Eva deliberately snatched up a scarlet lipstick and leant forward, artfully applying it to her lips while the other girls stripped off their costumes around her. Shirley’s eyes widened.

‘Walter shouldn’t allow it.’ She tutted loudly. ‘You younger girls are under our care in this establishment.’

Her patronising tone made Eva’s blood boil.

‘I’m not under anybody’s care,’ she declared, and thrust the lipstick into her handbag before waltzing past the older woman with a defiant look. ‘I’m nineteen, not nine, thank you very much.’

‘Well, I never!’ Shirley shook her head, lips pursed. ‘You’d better watch out, young lady, with that attitude. Walter will give you the sack if you bring this club into disrepute.’

‘Oh no, he won’t,’ Eva retorted.

‘Is that right?’

‘I’m his favourite. Walter would never sack me.’

A gasp from Shirley and a stunned silence followed that bold statement. But at least Shirley didn’t bother to dispute it. Everyone knew Walter had a soft spot for Eva, and always gave her more leeway than the other girls.

Eva walked off without looking back, hands on hips, walking daintily on her high heels. She wasn’t a big-headed girl, and she knew her luck was bound to run out one day. Luck had a nasty habit of doing that at the worst moments, she found. But for now, she intended to make the most of her natural advantages. Whatever the likes of Shirley might think of her.

The handsome young RAF pilots all stood up as a group, hastily scraping back their chairs and smiling as she approached the table. A little breathless, amazed at her own daring, Eva slid into the seat one of the pilots had pulled out for her.

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m so glad you could join us, Miss Ryder.’ To her delight, she realised that Walter was right: the flight lieutenant was not English, but American! He had a marvellous twang to his accent, soothing as honey and like something out of the pictures. ‘I’m Max,’ he added, his eyes smiling, ‘and yes, I’m from across the pond. But don’t worry, I’m the only one. These other chaps are British.’ He then introduced her to his friends, starting with the young man next to him, who winked. ‘This is Mike, and that there is Eddie. The one with the stupid grin is Tommy, and the handsome devil on your other side is Mac. He’s Scottish, you know?’

‘Pleased to meet you all,’ she said politely, looking round at them all. ‘But do call me Eva. Miss Ryder sounds so stuffy.’

The flight lieutenant sat down, and all the other airmen copied him. ‘A gal after my own heart, eh?’ He held out a tanned hand and she shook it, thrilling at the way his lean fingers curled about hers. ‘It’s a real pleasure to meet you too, Eva. I’ve got to say, I couldn’t take my eyes off you up there on the stage.’ He shook his head, still clasping her hand. ‘The routine was swell, and you’re a real knockout.’

The other pilots agreed, grinning and banging the table enthusiastically.

Eva smiled too, a little breathless. ‘Thank you.’

Max released her hand at last, looking round for a waiter. ‘We were just about to order some more drinks. Would you care for a glass of champagne, Eva?’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

He laughed and waved a hand at a passing waiter, who happened to be Bertram, an old sweetie and one of Eva’s favourites at the club. He threaded his way towards them with a harassed expression, balancing a tray of empties on one hand.

‘Sir?’

‘We’d like a bottle of champagne.’

‘Which kind, sir?’

Max stared at him, taken aback. ‘There are different kinds of champagne?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I see.’ Max hesitated, glancing awkwardly at Eva, who carefully said nothing but examined her nails for chips in the varnish. There were always a few at the end of a long night at the club. ‘Well, bring us whichever champagne is the most popular. And six glasses.’