Книга - Winter on the Mersey: A Heartwarming Christmas Saga

Winter on the Mersey: A Heartwarming Christmas Saga
Annie Groves


The dramatic story of a young woman’s war – full of heartache and triumph from the bestselling author of Christmas on the Mersey and London BellesKitty has seen her fair share of tragedy and instead of thinking about romance, is determined to do her bit for King and country. Her life as a WREN means she is kept busy much of the time, but when Kitty finds herself stationed back home on Merseyside, she meets up again with Frank Feeny, the brave young officer who has always held a place in her heart.Britain is on the verge of victory, but will Kitty embrace the future and learn to love again?



























Copyright (#u81caad04-3f66-5904-9b98-57eb3c24916b)







Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © Annie Groves 2017

Cover photograph of WRENS character © Henry Steadman; Mersey Skyline, spitfires©Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com)

Cover design by Henry Steadman © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Annie Groves asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007550869

Ebook Edition © October 2017 ISBN: 9780007550876

Version: 2017-09-08




Dedication (#u81caad04-3f66-5904-9b98-57eb3c24916b)


This book would not have been possible without Kate Bradley, inspiring editor, and the support of the wonderful Teresa Chris


Table of Contents

Cover (#ued90cd90-7f99-5f56-a70e-39c698e7a501)

Title Page (#ue81d8e42-05a6-5d38-95f6-beed1944bd7b)

Copyright (#u5b45040a-11aa-5828-abed-df2807c71583)

Dedication (#u1fff2499-4abc-55c9-b1ec-65a29646363b)

Chapter One (#u6cf6f402-273e-5769-808b-18ee3e709293)

Chapter Two (#u843e7384-829b-5c7d-a70a-36b18ff0a0f7)

Chapter Three (#u293b94ba-5c99-5bc9-87bf-c914dc2726b2)

Chapter Four (#u38e9f6f0-fd70-5ae5-8c55-c29c3e13446e)

Chapter Five (#uf3c93232-8d0f-5464-b66a-51d6f6d1fa25)



Chapter Six (#ue0b3f5a7-1cda-5637-b87e-570db27e415d)



Chapter Seven (#ua5ea2fe8-aa91-543b-ac4c-feed2a3cae74)



Chapter Eight (#ub9d116dd-55a0-5297-bc4d-2606e24d55f2)



Chapter Nine (#uebd03163-2e5c-5471-8bf3-54b4949d9af2)



Chapter Ten (#uad6bb87c-23d1-506b-bee9-1bdb7695111f)



Chapter Eleven (#u11e41f04-4401-54f6-bb06-8ae93609669e)



Chapter Twelve (#u1d3aab13-0d2b-54b4-92b3-ae2f5b5ac372)



Chapter Thirteen (#u13b839dd-3099-5b79-a79d-178857148bc5)



Chapter Fourteen (#u6e218793-c42d-5e55-8e9a-83280ab86707)



Chapter Fifteen (#ue7a2d390-13ce-5b95-a3a9-67f27df33279)



Chapter Sixteen (#u72ff5011-1e91-5c48-ab8b-3a6dc4429091)



Chapter Seventeen (#uac0ba1dd-a832-52bc-8878-43061de1f9f0)



Chapter Eighteen (#u734bce8e-2941-55b8-a319-30e70a929e31)



Chapter Nineteen (#u4267b5bd-9d34-5e75-8a80-b9a2b32b501a)



Chapter Twenty (#u69f087ae-6bd5-5fb4-aa9d-e8d30d0b69e7)



Chapter Twenty-One (#u847e5bbe-445a-54ce-8151-d95e08707b66)



Chapter Twenty-Two (#u698100ed-8c12-5aed-bacd-0ec535559e10)



Chapter Twenty-Three (#u92954dc7-3c11-526a-bf54-4418eb880dfb)



Chapter Twenty-Four (#u162f81c1-1a43-587e-b75a-82d3f0510915)



Chapter Twenty-Five (#u2d4610a9-8b21-50cf-a55d-27fa2cbc659d)



Chapter Twenty-Six (#u943af8ea-6867-5581-8485-5a87f2d2512e)



Chapter Twenty-Seven (#ubc2211c2-142b-5745-918e-595243da1f2b)



Chapter Twenty-Eight (#u4716bfc2-85a8-5c0f-8fa6-67ec6717f415)



Chapter Twenty-Nine (#uf7b5f113-e4c7-523e-b29c-5a62c1e0a17c)



Chapter Thirty (#uce48f2a4-eaf9-51d7-861e-a97f1f293d13)



Chapter Thirty-One (#u6d96c6bb-8032-56e1-964c-f8a93193bb41)



Chapter Thirty-Two (#u5431e9c1-3502-5dcf-8f6c-f3b1a34df234)



Chapter Thirty-Three (#ube0585ab-e7b6-5e3d-a9ca-0846187e6060)



Chapter Thirty-Four (#ue6a99d41-060c-53dd-9bdf-b0e55d364c94)



Also by Annie Groves (#u3a42759d-d58e-5781-a465-eee7b2dca918)



About Annie Groves (#u3c4c4ef3-a6d7-5b41-b4df-286b8f385bfe)



About the Publisher (#u6b5149ec-8bfd-51ed-bcae-9038a7fbcafd)




CHAPTER ONE (#u81caad04-3f66-5904-9b98-57eb3c24916b)


Early Spring 1944

Dolly Feeny tried to shut out the sound of her oldest daughter screaming.

The sound echoed around the small terraced house, seeming to go on and on. Probably the whole road could hear the noise – Empire Street wasn’t long, leading as it did down to the dock road in Bootle, with a corner shop at one end, a pub at the other and the Mersey beyond the dockyards. On a normal day Rita would be behind the counter in that shop, either before or after working her shift as a nursing sister at the nearby hospital. But today wasn’t a normal day. Besides, everyone would know the reason for the screaming and would be with Rita all the way. Dolly put the kettle on again for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. No, it wasn’t every day that she prepared to welcome a new grandchild into the world.

Pop, Dolly’s husband, came into the kitchen, his white hair bright in the gloom of the cloudy day. He’d been up half the night, thanks to his duties as an ARP warden. Even though the raids that had plagued Merseyside for the earlier years of the war had died down, there was still the threat of danger from the crumbling buildings, or streets that hadn’t yet been cleared, and last night there had been a fire in an abandoned warehouse. Try as he might, he couldn’t get the smell of burning out of his hair or from his skin. If it had been a normal day he would have had a bath, filling it right up to the four-inch regulation line they all had to adhere to nowadays, and staying in it for as long as the water retained any comforting warmth. Today, however, there were more important things on his mind.

‘Do you think she’s all right?’ he asked anxiously. He very rarely admitted to being worried about anything; he was the rock on whom the whole family depended. But the cries from upstairs were enough to shake anyone’s confidence. He dearly loved Rita, as he did all his children, and couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to her.

‘Course she is.’ Dolly spoke warmly but firmly. ‘You weren’t in the house when I had any of our five. It sounds much worse than it is, and remember she’s had two already. She’ll be right as rain.’ She smiled reassuringly, hoping that what she said was true. Nine years had passed since Rita had last given birth and she’d lost weight since then, thanks to the wartime diet and her non-stop hard work. But she was fit and healthy and, even more importantly, was no longer married to that cowardly deserter Charlie Kennedy. Now she had finally married her childhood sweetheart Jack Callaghan, a pilot with the Fleet Air Arm, and as steady and loving a husband as any woman could ever hope for. Dolly knew that Rita wanted nothing more than to bear this baby safely so that Jack could come home on leave and meet the precious creature. This must be the most longed-for child in the whole of Merseyside. God knew both of its parents had been through hell and back before getting together.

Dolly’s ears pricked up. ‘Listen, Pop.’ She wiped her strong, reddened hands on her faded print apron. ‘That’s a different noise, that is. Won’t be long now.’ She lifted the boiling kettle across to where the teapot stood ready. ‘Best have a cup now, as who knows when we’ll get the next one.’

‘Are you sure? Sounds just the same to me.’ Pop looked doubtfully at his wife. He wanted to believe her but didn’t trust himself to do so. It seemed no time at all since Rita herself was a baby, a pale-skinned little beauty with deep red hair. Now here she was having her own third child. Where had all those years gone?

‘Mam! Have you got any more hot water down there?’ came a voice from the top of the stairs.

‘I’ll bring it right up, Sarah love.’ Dolly emptied the rest of the water from the kettle into a large enamel jug, and then set another lot to boil just in case. ‘Pop, why don’t you fill the biggest pan from the tap and put that on to heat up as well.’ She bustled to the door, all anxiety gone now that there was something useful to do.

Pop looked around uncertainly. They’d lived in this house for almost all of their married lives and yet he still wasn’t sure where all the utensils in the kitchen were kept. That was Dolly’s territory. Still, this was no time to complain. He opened every cupboard door until he found the pan he hoped she meant.

Meanwhile, Dolly raced up the stairs as quickly as she could, belying her fifty-something years, but careful not to spill a drop of water. ‘Here you are, love.’ She handed the battered jug to her youngest daughter, who swiftly turned back to the bedroom and the screams.

If anyone had told Dolly at the beginning of the war that just a few years later young Sarah would be supervising the birth of Rita’s child, she would have laughed them to the other side of the Mersey. But now she could think of no better person. Sarah might be only nineteen, but she’d started her nurse’s training with the Red Cross as soon as she could and had been thrown in at the deep end, tending injuries during the bombings, coping with all manner of indescribable horrors, as well as delivering babies in the most unlikely places – ruined buildings, air-raid shelters, and once in the middle of a deserted street. Overseeing a birth in the comfort of her own bedroom, with her patient an experienced mother who just happened to be a senior nurse, with the support of their own experienced mother, and endless supplies of hot water and all the necessities, was a comparative luxury.

Rita could have chosen to give birth in her own bedroom, above the shop just across the road from her childhood home. But Sarah had persuaded her to cross the narrow alleyway that separated the two buildings and have the baby here. That way the shop could stay open and their sister-in-law Violet could look after it, along with Ruby. Ruby was a strange young woman who scared easily and was, they all agreed, unlikely to cope with the grim reality of childbirth at such close range. She was better than she had been back when Rita had first brought her there to live, but her neglectful childhood had ill-prepared her for the world at large, let alone a world at war. She was wonderful with children, though, adoring Rita’s first two – Michael and Megan – and also little George, the toddler son of Dolly and Pop’s middle daughter, Nancy.

Dolly and Sarah looked at Rita now, as she lay whey-faced on the old off-white bed linen, her usually lustrous red hair dark with sweat, her face screwed up with effort. But her eyes were bright. ‘It’s coming,’ she gasped. ‘I remember this bit. Mam, hold my hand, will you? Help me through these last few pushes.’ Dolly immediately knelt down beside her and took her damp hand, just as another wave of contraction and pain broke and Rita’s face contorted as she let out a loud scream.

Sarah stood at the bottom of the bed, her eyes never leaving her patient. ‘Come on, Rita, that’s right, you’re almost there. One more push could do it.’

Rita lay back exhausted, drawing in air in painful gulps. ‘It’s taking ages, though. Is everything all right? You’d tell me if it wasn’t, wouldn’t you, Sarah?’

‘Everything is just right.’ Sarah spoke with authority, for all her young age. ‘It’s been pretty quick actually, Rita. It just feels like a long time but it really isn’t.’ Her eyes narrowed a little as they assessed her big sister, registering that she was tired but not dangerously so, and that the next contraction seemed to be building. ‘Right, here we go, give me a big, big push and …’

Rita let out a piercing cry and then fell back against the pillow, but it had done the trick. As her own cry faded away it was replaced by a higher, more penetrating one, the unmistakable sound of a new-born child. ‘Rita! She’s here, she’s here! It’s a girl!’ Sarah struggled to remain professional as she picked up her niece and wrapped her carefully in a towel, automatically checking her as she did so, while Dolly stood to admire her latest granddaughter.

‘Oh, Rita, she’s beautiful.’ She gazed at the little face, red and puckered and screaming, but a miracle all the same. ‘Are you ready to hold her? Can you sit up?’

Rita raised herself against the pillow and Dolly stepped across to slip another one in behind it so that her daughter could prop herself semi-upright. ‘Are you all right like that? Come on then, Sarah.’

Gently Sarah handed the little bundle to her sister. ‘You did all right there. Anyone would think you’d done it before,’ she smiled. ‘Made it look easy.’

Rita reached for her new daughter and gasped with joy at the sight of her. ‘Look at her hair. It’s dark like Jack’s.’ She bent in to give the baby a kiss. ‘If you turn out as good as your daddy you’ll never have to worry. He’s going to be so delighted to meet you. You’re perfect, you are. Look at your little hands.’ The baby’s tiny fingers curled around her mother’s thumb, gripping on tightly, as if her life depended on it.

‘We’ll send Pop to get a message to him,’ Dolly announced, standing up straight, easing her aching back. ‘He’ll be made up, so he will. Now, Rita, did you have a name or is it too soon?’

Rita paused and then looked her mother in the eye. ‘It’s all right, we decided on Jack’s last leave. If it was a girl she’d be Ellen, after his mother. So this is Ellen.’ She turned her adoring gaze back to the baby.

Dolly found herself for once unable to speak for the lump in her throat. Ellen Callaghan had been her best friend in the whole world. They’d laughed together, done their housework together, raised their children together on Empire Street. But Ellen had died in childbirth when not so very much older than Rita was now. Dolly had looked out for the Callaghan children ever since – even though all but one were grown-up, and indeed the eldest was married to Rita. She could think of no more fitting tribute to her beloved friend.

‘That’s lovely,’ she managed to say. ‘We’ll tell the priest as well. You just lie there and get your strength back. Here, it looks as if the little one is hungry already.’

Rita shifted herself so she could feed little Ellen, and it was all Dolly could do not to cry – with relief for the safe birth, with the unexpected emotion of hearing her friend’s name spoken aloud after so many years and also with wonder at this miracle of new life. Somehow, despite the terrible hardships they had all endured since war broke out, and the atrocities that were going on still, she felt blessed to be in this world at such a marvellous moment.

‘So you’re sure you’ve got everything on your list, Mrs Mawdsley?’ Violet Feeny pushed her horn-rimmed spectacles back up the bridge of her nose from where they kept slipping. ‘Can you fit it all into your basket?’

The older woman pulled on her gloves, ready to face the bitter wind outside the small corner shop. ‘Everything that is available, anyway. Such a treat to find some Oxo. Thank you, dear. I know you do your best. I expect it’s even more difficult with your Rita so near her time, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, we manage all right, don’t we, Ruby?’ Violet turned to the shy figure behind her. ‘I put out the stock and serve the customers and Ruby does the books – she’s clever like that.’

Ruby raised her head, shaking her cloud of pale blonde hair which made her look so much younger than she was. ‘That’s right, Mrs Mawdsley.’ That was enough polite conversation for Ruby – she found it excruciatingly hard, so she turned back to the long columns of accounts spread out before her.

Violet kept her cheerful smile in place as Mrs Mawdsley left, banging the squeaky shop door behind her, and then she slumped down on to the hard wooden stool by the counter. She knew her customer meant well – she was one of Dolly’s best friends and had nothing but goodwill for the Feeny family. Violet herself had long since been accepted as one of them, as she’d married Eddy Feeny and come to live with her in-laws while Eddy was away serving with the Merchant Navy. She loved living with them and she enjoyed helping out in the shop, but her feelings about Rita’s new baby were plaguing her.

Violet longed more than anything for children of her own. Yet she and Eddy had been married for over three years and there was no sign of anything happening in that department. It wasn’t for lack of trying – Violet’s long face broke into a smile at the thought of that – but they hardly ever saw each other. His spells of leave were so rare, and so short when they did come, and then by the time he’d seen everyone he wanted to see and who wanted to see him, they had precious few moments on their own. Eddy was a quiet fellow – certainly compared to his more extrovert big brother Frank and middle sister Nancy – but he was very popular, and now he’d been doing his duty in the dangerous Western Approaches he was hailed as a hero every time he came home. Violet couldn’t argue with that – he was her hero, no doubt about it, and he’d already been a serving seaman when she’d met him, so it wasn’t as if she hadn’t known what their life together would be like. But it was so hard.

Violet knew her unofficial role was to keep everyone’s spirits up, and usually that suited her down to the ground, but today, knowing that Rita had gone into labour, she felt absolutely rotten. It wasn’t as if she didn’t get on with Rita – the two of them were thick as thieves and had worked together for years in the shop, helping the customers and putting on a brave face so that nobody around Empire Street went without. Violet didn’t like to admit it even to herself but she was filled with envy of her sister-in-law. Rita and Jack had had precious little time together either since their marriage just over two years ago, and yet here she was, about to give birth. It wasn’t fair. On top of that she had two children already. Violet knew full well that Rita had had to make an agonising decision as to whether to have Michael and Megan evacuated, and she missed them still even though they were relatively close out on a farm in Freshfield in Lancashire. Once the blitz had stopped, there had been talk about bringing them home, which Rita was desperate to do, and yet she had to acknowledge that farm life suited them both and they were flourishing in the fresh air, eating plentiful good food that they could never hope to get in war-ravaged Bootle.

Reluctantly Rita had agreed – with Jack’s backing – that the two children should stay away, at least for the time being, much to the delight of the farming couple, who had no children of their own and therefore spoilt them terribly. Michael and Megan had been promised that they could come back for a visit as soon as their new sister or brother was born. So Violet was steeling herself for the big family reunion, and while she knew it would make Rita’s joy complete, she dreaded the thought of it.

‘Violet, can you come and look at this?’ Ruby asked from behind her, and Violet jumped. How long had Ruby been speaking to her when she was lost in her agonising thoughts? She had to snap out of it, pull herself together, and not begrudge the generous Feenys their pleasure in the new arrival.

‘What’s wrong?’ Violet asked, bending her tall, willowy frame over the account books. She didn’t understand the figures; she knew Ruby was more than capable of sorting out any problem with them and was probably just asking her to make her feel wanted. That was a kind thing to do. But it didn’t come close to easing the longing that was eating away at her. ‘Oh, Eddy,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Come home soon, and let’s hope we can have the family we so badly want at last.’ But she didn’t breathe a word of this to Ruby. Instead Violet pitched up the sleeves of her moth-eaten cardigan and got back to the grind of keeping the little shop in business.




CHAPTER TWO (#u81caad04-3f66-5904-9b98-57eb3c24916b)


Kitty Callaghan pushed a dark curl out of her eyes as she squinted at the keyhole in the fading evening light. There was just enough brightness left in the sky to find it. Of course there would be no street lamps coming on as they hadn’t been permitted since the outbreak of war. In a big city Kitty would have felt happy to stay out longer, knowing that there would be other people about, even if it meant navigating the potholed pavements with a shielded torch. Yet here, in this small town on the south coast, she felt reluctant to come back after dark. She wasn’t a country girl and there was something about her billet’s isolation that made her uneasy. Not that she would admit that to anybody.

Pushing open the door with its flaking paint, she listened for any signs of the other occupants, but the place was quiet. She shared this small house with two other Wrens and their landlady, who had been only too happy to let out her spare rooms after her husband had been called up. The rooms were small but clean, with comfortable if slightly battered furnishings, and Kitty couldn’t complain. She’d had much worse. When she’d first joined up, she had had to share a big dormitory with the other trainee Wrens, sleeping on a bottom bunk and with absolutely no privacy. Then there had been the filthy fleapit she’d been allocated when she’d been transferred to Portsmouth, which she’d managed to leave by claiming it was too far from her place of work. It wasn’t as if she came from anywhere grand either. Her terraced home on Empire Street was no bigger than this and certainly hadn’t been as comfortable, although she’d done her best. But having to run the household pretty much single-handed after her mother had died so young had been a struggle. Her big brothers had tried to help but their father drank away all the money that should have gone towards the housekeeping, and so it had been a matter of survival, with nothing left over for little extras. If it hadn’t been for their kindly neighbour, Dolly Feeny, they’d never have got through.

From Portsmouth Kitty had been transferred again to this small town hugging the coast. It was an ideal place from which to pick up signals from the continent, and in her capacity as a telephone operator she was much in demand. She had proved herself to be calm in the face of crises – when messages were arriving at an impossible pace, she was efficient in recognising which to prioritise, and unflappable when the callers were panicking or aggressive. Fortunately that didn’t happen often. But you never knew what or who you would be dealing with down the line and it was important to respond appropriately. Lives might be lost otherwise. Her exemplary work had led to her rising to the rank of Leading Wren, and everyone could see that this was well deserved.

The door to what had once been the sitting room opened and a young woman poked her face out into the corridor. ‘Oh, it’s you, Kitty. I thought I heard something. Fancy a game of cards?’

‘Sorry, did I disturb you, Lizzie?’ Kitty smiled at the young Wren who now used the ground-floor front room as her bedroom.

‘No, I was just writing a letter home … You don’t fancy playing cards for a bit, do you?’ Lizzie looked wistful, and Kitty remembered how homesick the girl had been when she’d first arrived. Maybe she should make the effort and play cards with her to try to cheer her up. But the truth was she really didn’t feel like it.

‘Maybe just one round, and then I think I’ll go up, if you don’t mind,’ Kitty said apologetically. ‘It’s been a long day.’

Lizzie nodded. ‘That would be nice; I need to finish my letter afterwards anyway. Mum and Dad are always going on at me for not telling them enough of my news.’ She opened the door to her room a touch wider and Kitty went in, sat at the little wooden table in the small bay window, and prepared to play. But her mind wasn’t on it and Lizzie beat her easily.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t much competition there, was I?’

‘It’s all practice,’ said Lizzie, not hiding her delight at beating her housemate, who was usually a sharp player. ‘Better luck next time.’

Kitty pulled a rueful face and stood, going through into the empty kitchen. Carefully she drew the blackout curtain before putting on the light and reaching for the tea leaves. She took a small scoop, mindful that there was only ever just enough to go round. She wondered whether to turn on the Bakelite wireless but decided against it.

The other Wrens in the house were lively and meant well, but Kitty found it hard to be anything other than superficially friendly with them. It wasn’t just because of the age difference; although she was older, it wasn’t by much. She just didn’t have a lot in common with them. Technically she was their superior in rank, which set her a little apart, but it was more than that. They were keen to go out, have fun, make the most of what little entertainment this place could offer. She wasn’t.

Once she had been, but that was before Elliott had died. It had been over two years now, but Kitty knew she would never again be that young Wren eager for adventure. Dr Elliott Fitzgerald had shown her a side of life that she had never thought would be open to her when she’d first met him. He’d been working in the hospital where two of her brothers were being treated, and she had found it hard to believe that he’d preferred her company to that of all the many pretty nurses he saw day and night. Yet he had, and their courtship had stood the test of separation, with him remaining in Liverpool while she began her training in north London. He’d given her confidence, stability, faith in herself and hope for a shared future – until he’d been killed in one of the final raids of the blitz over Bootle. After that she had hardened her heart and directed all her time and energy into her work. There seemed little point in going to nights out at the local hall or nearest air base. Elliott had been a wonderful dancer – even a champion when at medical school – and once she’d had him as a partner and tutor, there was little chance anyone else would come close. She didn’t begrudge her co-billettees their evenings with the airmen, but had no wish to join them.

Slowly she made her way upstairs, carrying the tea, relishing its welcome warmth in her hands. Her bedroom faced the back garden and she stood at the sash window, looking at the vegetable beds in the last of the daylight. Her landlady had dug over her lawn and taken to supplementing the rations with home-grown produce. Soon it would be time to start spring planting, and Kitty had offered to help. Whenever she was home on leave she would be roped in to help in Dolly Feeny’s victory garden, so she knew a little of what she was meant to do. She’d never begrudged helping Dolly on her precious few weekends back home, as it was largely thanks to the Feenys that the young Callaghans had survived their childhoods. It had made the two families particularly close. At one point Kitty had fancied herself falling for the oldest Feeny son, Frank; but now she knew better. He saw her as another little sister, and there had been no more to it, no matter how fast her heart had pounded at the sight of him. These days he was walking out with one of the young women based at his place of work and that was much more suitable all round. She forced her mind away from the image of them together.

Turning back to her room, she sat on the narrow bed with its rather worn candlewick spread, setting down the tea on a little wooden table that the landlady’s husband had made. Kitty sighed. The other reason she wasn’t keen on spending the evening playing cards with Lizzie was that she couldn’t help contrasting her with the two friends she’d made when they had all been trainee Wrens together. Both of them had known and liked Elliott and had helped her through the bleak time after he’d died. Then they’d all gone their separate ways, but had resolutely stayed in contact, mostly by letter, meeting up if their work allowed.

That was what Kitty had been doing today. Marjorie was someone she would never have met if it hadn’t been for the war: a teacher, who had moved in very different circles to those of Empire Street. Kitty had been overawed by her cleverness to begin with, but then again Marjorie had been shy, ill at ease with the opposite sex, unsure of herself in social situations. Kitty had grown up with three brothers and had then managed their local NAAFI canteen, and so was completely at home with young men and their teasing banter. Gradually she had realised her humble beginnings didn’t matter now they were all throwing themselves into the war effort, and Marjorie had relaxed enough to enjoy dancing with the young men from the Forces they’d met in the clubs Elliott introduced them to whenever he’d managed to visit London. She’d always been deadly serious about her work, though. She had been picked out for her brains and aptitude with languages, and was now stationed not far from her own home in Sussex, where she’d been working in signals. That was the official version, anyway.

When they’d met for lunch today, Marjorie hadn’t exactly contradicted that idea. However, she’d insisted on taking the corner table in a quiet little café, far from where anyone could overhear them, staring at the chequered cloth as if trying to decide what to say. Finally she had looked at Kitty and given her a small smile. ‘Look, you know how it is,’ she said. ‘I’ve been given a new posting and thought we should meet up before I left. I can’t say when I’ll be going, but it’ll be sooner rather than later.’

Kitty had raised an eyebrow, desperate to know more but only too aware that you didn’t ask questions.

Marjorie shifted in her seat. She was still birdlike, seemingly tiny enough to be blown over by the first hint of a strong wind. But Kitty knew inside she was made of sterner stuff. ‘So, I realise I can’t tell you what I’ll be doing but – well, this one I really, really can’t tell you.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘You’ll just have to put two and two together, Kitty, like I know you’re good at doing. Who knows, one day you’ll be putting through a call that’s a result of what I’ve been up to. That’s as much as I can give away.’

Kitty had sat up straighter. Adding that to Marjorie’s crammer courses in French and German, this was a strong hint that her friend was going to be sent abroad – and that must mean it was very hush-hush. There were rumours of young women being sent on secret missions into enemy territory. Now maybe her friend was to be one of them.

‘Really?’ Kitty was impressed and filled with trepidation on Marjorie’s behalf. ‘And you are happy about it?’

Marjorie’s chin went up and her eyes were alight. ‘Yes, absolutely,’ she’d said. ‘I can’t tell you what I’m doing, Kitty – but I can tell you I’m pretty darn good at it.’

Kitty nodded. Coming from someone else it could have sounded like boasting, but Marjorie had never been like that. For all her social awkwardness to begin with, she’d never had any doubts about her academic abilities. She’d had to fight her family for the chance to use those talents as a teacher and now she was turning them to good use in the service of her country.

Kitty had grinned. ‘Well, good luck then.’ She’d raised her tea cup. ‘And let’s hope wherever it is there’ll be some dishy airmen to fill your leisure hours.’

Marjorie beamed. ‘Suppose there might be. It’s hard to say – they never brief you on all the really important things like that. If I’m really lucky there’ll be some fair-haired ones. That’ll take my mind off work very nicely indeed.’

‘Marjorie!’ Kitty pretended to be shocked, but she knew there was nothing Marjorie liked better than being whirled around the dance floor by a fair-haired pilot, particularly if he’d promised her a martini. It didn’t hurt to dream. Though there might not be many cocktails for her friend in the near future.

They’d parted shortly after, with hugs and promises to keep in touch if possible, and neither had given in to the thought that Marjorie was going into danger and they might never see one another again. Kitty picked sadly at the bedspread now, wondering what was in store for her friend. She didn’t doubt she had reserves of courage and resourcefulness, but she had seemed so small as she’d waved her goodbye on the train platform. ‘I haven’t been able to see Laura,’ Marjorie had said. ‘I’ll write of course, but if you see her, will you tell her I was thinking of her?’

‘Of course,’ Kitty had promised. Laura was the third of the group who’d bonded so closely during the initial weeks of training. She was still in London, working as a driver, horrifying her very well-to-do family with her willingness to get her hands dirty fixing engines rather than sitting in their ancient pile in Yorkshire making polite conversation.

Clearly Marjorie was so close to being sent off to do whatever it was that she couldn’t even make it up to London; if that was the case, perhaps Kitty could go in her stead. She brightened at the thought. She’d see when she next had leave and if it coincided with Laura being able to take some time off. That would be something to look forward to.

Danny Callaghan drew the rickety wooden chair closer to the fireplace. He had lit the kindling when he’d got in from work, and now he poked it and added a few pieces of coal, just enough to take the chill off the room which had been empty all day. He warmed his hands and then reached into his pocket for the letter he’d picked up off the worn doormat. The writing was familiar, scrappy and uneven, clearly done in a hurry.

Ripping open the envelope he was curious to see what his young brother Tommy had to say for himself. Tommy wrote often but never at great length. He had been evacuated to the same farm as their neighbour Rita’s children, where he’d soon taken to the life. Seth the farmer had been delighted as, having no son of his own, he had begun to struggle with all the daily tasks once his young farmhands had been called up. Tommy had become a real help. The arrangement suited everyone. In the past Tommy had been a proper handful, and had nearly got himself killed in a burning warehouse down at the docks, where he had had no business being in the first place. His older siblings had been at their wits’ end trying to work out how to keep him safe at home, and so sending him to the farm had been the best solution all round.

Danny drew out the single sheet of paper and scanned it quickly, then looked again more carefully. He’d been expecting more of the same sort of news that Tommy had been sending for the past couple of years: what fences he’d helped to mend, if the fox had managed to get into the hen house, what treats Joan, Seth’s wife, had baked. There was some of that, but the main reason Tommy had written was he wanted to come back to Bootle.

Danny groaned. Of course his little brother was growing up. He was thirteen now and would soon turn fourteen. It hadn’t escaped Tommy’s notice that this meant he could leave school. So he thought the best thing would be for him to move back in with Danny and then see if he could help the war effort in any way – he had heard that boys of fourteen could join the Merchant Navy.

‘Oh no,’ Danny breathed, knowing full well the sort of life that would mean. Plenty of the men and boys he knew who’d grown up around the docks had joined the Merchant Navy, and of course Eddy Feeny would come home with tales of what it was like, so Tommy knew all about it – or at least the tales of adventure, dodging U-boats, mixing with seamen of all nations, all working for a common cause. It would appeal to any boy. But Danny didn’t want his little brother to be in danger like that. He groaned aloud once more.

‘Danny! Whatever’s the matter?’ Sarah Feeny pushed open the back door and set down a scratched enamel pot on the hob in the back kitchen. ‘Mam made extra stew and thought you might like some. Don’t get your hopes up; it’s nearly all potato and beans, hardly any meat in it. Seriously, what’s wrong? You haven’t taken bad again, have you?’ Her animated face was etched with sudden concern.

‘No, no, nothing like that.’ Danny shook his head and his thick black hair glinted in the firelight. ‘You shouldn’t have.’ He nodded at the pot. ‘Thank your mam for me, she spoils me.’

‘She likes to,’ Sarah said with a grin, pulling up another chair. ‘So, tell me what’s happened.’ She shivered and drew her nurse’s cloak more tightly around her.

Danny let out a long sigh. ‘It’s our Tommy. This arrived today. He’s reminding me that he’s going to be fourteen soon and won’t have to go to school any more. He says he wants to join the Merchant Navy.’

Sarah gasped. Like Danny, she thought of Tommy as the young tearaway who’d settled down once he was given responsibility on the farm, and although if she’d added it up rationally she would have known how old he was, it was still a shock to realise he was well on the way to becoming a young man. ‘It doesn’t seem possible, Danny. Surely you don’t want that.’ She tried not to let her anxiety show, not only for Tommy but for Danny too. She knew better than anyone what he struggled so hard to keep hidden. Although technically now part of the Royal Navy, Danny had never gone – and could never go – to sea. All of the armed forces had turned him down, despite his obvious courage and willingness to sign up, as rheumatic fever had left him with an enlarged heart. Any extreme physical activity would put him at risk. They’d only found out when he’d stood in for a fallen fireman at a vast blaze down at the docks. Danny had taken the man’s place without hesitation but had collapsed afterwards. Sarah had rescued him but the news had got out. When it came to fighting for his country, Danny Callaghan was damaged goods.

By a stroke of luck, Danny had shown an uncommon aptitude for solving puzzles and crosswords while recuperating, and this had led to him being recruited to join Western Approaches Command, as they were in desperate need of that rare kind of skill to help decipher enemy signals. Frank Feeny worked there as a naval officer, and had recommended his old friend, against some opposition from the more traditional superior officers. Danny had only ever worked down on the docks up till then and had been a tearaway himself when in his teens.

This was exactly what was on Danny’s mind as he reread his little brother’s letter. He recognised that feeling of wanting to join up, do his bit, and also see the world and test himself against the odds, take a risk and worry about the consequences later. It was precisely why he wanted to protect Tommy from it. Now he was older, he wished he’d paid more attention at school, but at the time he couldn’t be bothered, couldn’t wait for it to end so he could get out and live his own life. It had meant that his work at Derby House had been extra hard to begin with as he’d had to learn so much from scratch. He could see with hindsight how he would have benefited from listening to his teachers when they’d insisted he could have gone further. All right, the family had needed him to go out and earn his keep – but he’d wasted the last year in the classroom. He wanted better for Tommy.

Now he looked across at Sarah, with her sleek brown hair pulled back away from her caring face, knowing that she’d be worried for him. He didn’t want his anxieties to burden her. ‘No, I’d much rather he stayed where he is. At least we know he’s safe there, and well fed.’

‘And Michael and Megan look up to him,’ Sarah said. ‘They’d miss him if he came back.’

‘It’s been good for him to be like a big brother to them,’ Danny agreed. ‘The trouble was, we all let him get away with murder because he was the youngest and he could wind us round his little finger. Now he’s had to grow up a bit.’

‘Sounds like he’s started to grow up a lot,’ Sarah said ruefully, getting to her feet and opening a cupboard. ‘Here, Danny, I’ll put this on a plate so you can have it now while it’s still warm. News always feels better after a full meal.’

She knew her way around the Callaghan kitchen as well as her own, as – ever since Kitty had left – Dolly would often make a bit extra for Danny and have Sarah take it across the street. ‘There you are.’ The delicious smell filled the small room, and Danny tucked in gratefully.

‘Thanks, Sar.’ Finally he pushed the plate away. ‘You’re right. You can’t make good decisions on an empty stomach.’

‘I wonder what Kitty thinks?’ Sarah replied. ‘Do you think he’ll have written to her as well? It’s not up to just you, is it?’

‘She’ll have to know,’ Danny said. ‘Even if he hasn’t asked her, I’m going to tell her. Sometimes he listens to her. She can persuade him to stay at the farm better than I can.’

‘Not much she can do about it from wherever it is she is down south,’ Sarah pointed out. ‘All the same, you’d better write to her. And she’ll want to know all about the new baby. Mam sent everybody a letter to say Ellen had been born but didn’t have time to give any details.’

Danny looked sceptical. ‘That’s more your sort of thing, isn’t it? I don’t know what Kitty will want to know. I’m glad for Rita, of course I am, but all babies look the same to me.’

‘Danny!’ Sarah gave him a straight look. ‘That’s your niece you’re talking about. Honestly, you men, you’re hopeless sometimes.’ Her expression was affectionate though. She could never be truly cross with Danny. He was too good a man for that. She knew he was just teasing – in that special way he seemed to reserve just for her.

‘You tell me what she’ll want to know, then,’ he grinned. He had realised long ago that Sarah knew him better then he knew himself. ‘Better still, write a note and I’ll put it in with my letter about Tommy. That’ll sweeten the pill.’ He grew serious again. ‘Sar, just think of it, young Tommy wanting to put his life on the line like that. I can’t have that. It’s too much. Somehow, we have to stop him.’




CHAPTER THREE (#u81caad04-3f66-5904-9b98-57eb3c24916b)


Frank Feeny held the heavy door open for Wren Sylvia Hemsley as they made their way out of Derby House at the end of their shifts. It was unusual for them both to finish work at the same time and he thought they should make the most of it, so earlier when they’d met at tea break he’d suggested going to the cinema. She had said she’d think about it, but wasn’t sure if she would have to stay late to cover for a sick colleague.

Now, though, luck was on their side. Sylvia had been able to get off on time, and they emerged into the early spring evening. Liverpool city centre had taken a pounding earlier in the war and the ruined buildings stood testament to the bombing raids, but also to the indomitable spirit of the people, who had refused to be cowed. At first everyone had been hesitant to walk through the damaged streets, and there had been real danger from falling debris and potholes opening up, especially as there could be no street lighting. They’d got used to it now, though, and the area was beginning to come to life again. The evenings were slowly lengthening and a feeling of optimism was in the air. There had been no major raids over the city for some time, and there was a tangible sense of the tide of war being on the turn. The Allies had won the battle at El Alamein in North Africa and were making inroads into Italy. The attacks by U-boats on vessels in the North Atlantic had dropped considerably, much to the relief of many in the city, whose fathers, sons and brothers sailed that route, as members of the Royal Navy, Merchant Navy or Fleet Air Arm. Frank knew that many of the gains in the North Atlantic were down to what went on in the two levels of basement rooms in Derby House and the nearby Tactical Unit, all plotting the enemy’s positions, working out the best way to intercept and destroy them.

He looked at Sylvia and grinned. They deserved their evening off. ‘What do you fancy seeing?’ he asked.

Sylvia smiled back. ‘How about Casablanca again?’

Frank shrugged. He’d have preferred to go to something new, but Sylvia was a big fan of Humphrey Bogart. ‘I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘It’s on near your billet, isn’t it?’

Sylvia beamed at him. ‘Yes, and we’ll just have time to get there. I’d love to see it again.’ She began to sing as they walked along. ‘Ta da ta da ta … as time goes by …’

Frank raised an eyebrow. Sylvia was a dedicated Wren and highly skilled at her job, very pretty and great company, but even her nearest and dearest couldn’t claim she was musical. She couldn’t hold a tune to save her life. He told himself not to be so judgemental – she had plenty of other fine qualities. But he’d been brought up with music in the house, as Pop was always playing his accordion as they grew up, and many a time he’d taken it down to the Sailor’s Rest and joined in when someone else was on the piano. The children would gather outside and join in the words of any songs they knew. Frank couldn’t remember how old he had been the first time he’d gone along, it was so much a part of his childhood. He had never questioned it – keeping in tune was just what you did. He realised he should count himself lucky that he could hold a note without thinking about it.

Involuntarily his mind flashed back to one occasion when Kitty had been there, singing along in her schoolgirl voice, perfectly in rhythm and in key. She was another one who’d never had to work out how to sing, she just did it naturally. He wondered where she was now – somewhere down south, Danny Callaghan had said, living out in the sticks. Frank gave a small smile. She would hate that.

‘What are you laughing about?’ Sylvia demanded, catching sight of his expression. She turned to face him. ‘Are you making fun of my singing? It’s all right, I know you do that; you’re not the first.’ She sighed. ‘We can’t all be Vera Lynn, or what’s her name, your friend from round here? Gloria Arden. Some of us have to make do with the talents we were born with.’

‘Of course I’m not making fun of you,’ Frank assured her hurriedly. He didn’t want to have a row on this rare occasion of sharing an evening off. ‘One Gloria in the world is quite enough. All right, she’s got a great voice, but she can’t bake a Woolton pie like you can. She never was keen on spending time in the kitchen.’

Gloria Arden was now one of the country’s best-loved singers, riding high in the public’s esteem, her golden voice offering entertainment and comfort in equal measure, and was often to be found touring with ENSA, the Entertainments National Service Association. She’d started her life in Empire Street, though, daughter of the landlord and landlady of the Sailor’s Rest, and had been his sister Nancy’s best friend – still was Nancy’s best friend, in fact, and whenever a tour brought Gloria back to the north of England, she would make a point of seeing her. Even before she made it big, Gloria had never had any domestic inclinations. She’d worked in a factory before she got her lucky break, singing at the Adelphi in the city centre when they had a vacant slot.

‘Bet she can’t mend a uniform jacket like I can either,’ Sylvia went on. ‘Or type as fast.’

‘Or type at all, as far as I know,’ Frank added dutifully. He carefully put his arm around Sylvia’s shoulder – not because he thought she might object, but because he had to be mindful of his balance. He’d lost a leg back in the early days of the war and had used a false one ever since. He could manage most day-to-day things, although his reign as a boxing champion was over, but any sudden movement could be a problem. It meant he couldn’t be as spontaneous as he’d like to be. He’d met Sylvia long after the accident and she’d always said she didn’t mind, but sometimes he wondered. While they were very fond of each other, if pressed he would have to say they were ‘in like’ and not ‘in love’. Then again, he reasoned that the war distorted all relationships. Some couples flung themselves at each other, in case one or both of them weren’t here tomorrow. There had been plenty of over-hasty affairs and marriages, some of which were lasting and others that had already crumbled. Other couples chose to tread much more cautiously, wary of enforced separations or the heightened emotions that inevitably came with prolonged fighting conditions. He suspected that was what had happened to them. Before his accident he had been anything but cautious, but that and the war had matured him, and now he had the added responsibility of being a lieutenant, responsible for training many of the new recruits at Western Approaches Command. He couldn’t be seen gadding about in the streets, even if it was with a highly respected young Wren.

‘Glad to hear it,’ said Sylvia sparkily. ‘I like to know I’m appreciated.’

‘Oh, you are,’ said Frank warmly, and meant it. He brushed her dark curls where they were coming loose from the base of her uniform cap. ‘I’m a lucky man and I know it. It’s not every old crock who has a beautiful young woman on his arm.’

‘Old crock – get away with you.’ Sylvia punched him on the arm. She’d known about his leg from the start and it had never bothered her, though she sensed it still troubled him far more than he let on. All she could do was carry on as normal and hope that one day he’d believe her that it really didn’t matter. He was devastatingly good-looking, he was widely respected at work, and she knew she was the envy of most of the female members of staff at Derby House to be walking out with him. Fair enough, he might not be able to take her dancing at the Grafton, but in all other respects he was just what she’d always wanted. If only he could believe that. Sometimes she wondered if he ever would.

‘Let’s get the bus,’ she suggested, rounding the corner and not even registering the damage to what had once been the large John Lewis department store, so familiar was it in its wrecked state. ‘We don’t want to miss the beginning. That’s the moment I like best – when the lights begin to go down.’ She looked up at him brightly, and winked.

Frank squeezed her shoulder. They halted by the bus stop, busy with workers returning to the outskirts of the city, many in uniforms of the various armed forces. There was a hum of chatter, and Frank thought for a moment how much he loved his home city, with everyone pulling together and getting on with what needed to be done, despite the horrendous bomb damage all around. The people of Merseyside were bigger than the attacks of the Luftwaffe. This is what they were fighting for – the spirit of the place and the people who lived there. He was proud of his uniform, and Sylvia’s, and could see that other people were looking at them approvingly. His earlier qualms seemed unjustified and silly now.

‘Come on, this is ours.’ Sylvia stepped onto the bus and Frank let her choose where to sit. Miraculously there were two seats together, but this was near the start of the route, and later on it would be standing room only. He was secretly glad – he’d of course get up and offer his place to anyone who needed it, but standing for any length of time in a moving vehicle was something he’d rather avoid. As more passengers got on he was pressed closer to Sylvia and he noticed yet again how her cleverly altered uniform jacket curved around her shapely body. No wonder the men in the bus queue had looked at him with envy.

‘What shifts are you on this weekend?’ he asked, his mouth close to her ear as yet another group of passengers squeezed inside. ‘I’m off on Sunday. Shall we make a day of it?’

Sylvia sighed and turned towards him. ‘Oh, Frank, I’d love to, but I didn’t know you’d have any free time. I’ve got both days off for once and I promised I’d go to see my parents. It’s been ages, and they worry if I don’t visit them now and again. They think I’ve wasted away or something.’

‘Ah well, never mind.’ Frank knew that was true. Sylvia came from the Lake District, and even though it was in theory in the same corner of England, the journey was often complicated and took ages. He couldn’t blame her for grabbing the chance to spend some time at home. He was lucky – he only had to travel along the Mersey to Bootle to see Dolly and Pop. He couldn’t begrudge her this opportunity to see the parents he knew she missed dearly, even if she rarely admitted it. He reached down and squeezed her hand. ‘You’ll enjoy that. Give them my best.’

‘I will.’ Sylvia had been nervous at first to introduce Frank and her parents, never fully sure how he felt about her, but after they’d officially been a couple for six months she’d taken the plunge. Of course, they had loved him, and now they never stopped asking her when he was going to pop the question, but Sylvia couldn’t answer that one. If these had been normal times, things might have been different – and yet without the war, she and Frank would never have met at all. ‘Mum will probably load me up with her home-made jam for you.’

‘I’ll use it to sweeten my landlady,’ Frank laughed. ‘It’s about the only thing that works.’ He’d chosen to live in a service billet rather than go back to the little house on Empire Street, as that was already full to bursting, but his landlady was taciturn at best and mostly plain sour. He didn’t complain – he wasn’t there for entertainment.

‘Excuse me,’ said a trembling voice from behind his shoulder, ‘I hate to ask but …’

Frank swivelled round in his seat and saw an old woman, leaning on a walking stick, making her way unsteadily along the aisle. He stood up immediately. ‘Please. My pleasure.’ He took a firm grip of the well-worn metal pole so he wouldn’t embarrass himself by falling as the bus jerked back into action along the potholed road, and the lady sagged in relief as she sat down. Sylvia shuffled along the seat a little to make room.

Frank noticed that slight movement and reminded himself how caring she was and how little fuss she made about it. Some women might have made a song and dance about having to share a seat with someone other than their boyfriend, but not Sylvia. She was simply good-natured like that. She was kind, and very attractive, and she wanted to be with him – so why was he hanging back from committing himself more fully?

‘Is she sleeping?’ Violet leant over the little cot to see Ellen’s tiny face. ‘What beautiful eyelashes she has, Rita. She’s going to be a model in a magazine when she’s grown up.’ She straightened again and tugged at the sleeves of her old cardigan. They must have shrunk again in a too-hot wash, but it was one of the very few she had left.

Rita sat up on the couch, gazing adoringly at her new daughter. ‘She’s been like that for half an hour. I managed to nod off myself, just for a quick nap. I ought to be getting ready for tea but somehow I needed the rest.’

‘Don’t you worry yourself about that,’ Violet tutted. ‘I’ll see to it. You put your feet up while you can. You’ve a lot of rest to catch up on, running round like you did practically until that child was born. Is Ruby minding the shop?’

Rita glanced towards the internal door that led to the shop. ‘Yes, she’s getting better all the time. I think it’s because beforehand she always knew that if things went wrong you or I would be there to sort it out. Now I’ve got Ellen to see to, and you’ve been over at the victory garden, it’s all been down to her. I stick my nose in now and again when you aren’t around, but she’s been forced to speak to people and she’s found they don’t bite after all.’

Violet shook her head in disbelief. ‘It’s been a long time coming, that has. I’ll just put my nose round the door and see if she’s happy with Spam fritters.’ She carefully shut the door to what used to be Winnie Kennedy’s breakfast room, which Rita had turned into a cosy sitting room now her ex-husband’s mother was dead. The once stuffy, over-formal space was now warm and inviting, as Rita had collected scraps of fabric and made patchwork cushions and rag rugs, even if there was no new furniture to be had. She had stored away Winnie’s favoured dark, heavy pieces and kept only the softer, lighter ones, and had begged some tins of paint off Danny Callaghan to brighten the walls and woodwork. Danny, in his former occupation down on the docks, had been able to get hold of the most surprising items, and he still had the odd few tucked away. Usually Rita disapproved; but for this – making a home fit for her new baby – she’d made an exception. Ruby had as much of a claim to the place as she did, but hadn’t objected. Hardly anyone knew but Ruby was actually Winnie’s unacknowledged daughter, but the mean old woman had gone to her grave keeping the secret of who the father was. Charlie had never so much as indicated he’d known this was his sister, either. He’d gone to his own grave despising Ruby as much as Winnie, their mother, had.

Violet pushed open the door to the shop and saw Ruby was out in front of the counter, not hiding in the account books for a change. There was a man there, not young but not elderly either, in a faded brown overall and peaked cap. He looked familiar but Violet couldn’t place him.

‘Oh … oh, hello, Violet.’ Ruby jumped back. She was a little red in the face. Violet supposed it had taken a considerable effort for the shy young woman to talk to the customer, and forgave her the nervousness.

‘Ruby, I’ve just come to see what you’d like for your tea,’ Violet said directly. She turned to the man. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t quite place …’

The man stepped forward and she could now see that he must be about forty. His hair, or what was visible of it, was beginning to grey and he had wrinkles around his eyes, but his expression was friendly. ‘James. Reggie James. It’s Mrs Feeny, isn’t it? My dad told me about you.’

Violet nodded as the penny dropped. This must be the son of old Mr James who’d been so helpful when they’d first started work on the victory garden and hadn’t really known what they were meant to be doing. There behind him were some boxes of vegetables. He must have brought them to be sold in the shop. ‘Very pleased to meet you,’ she said. ‘Your father was very kind to us, you know. We would have been stumped without him. Has Ruby been sorting you out?’

‘Oh … yes. Yes, she has.’ The man seemed suddenly at a loss for words and Violet wondered if he was one of those men who didn’t know what to say to women – some didn’t like to see women running a business, even if it was a corner shop and all the men had been called up or kept in reserved occupations like down on the docks. She noticed he didn’t stand quite straight and wondered why that was. He saw her looking and got in his explanation before she could ask.

‘I was wounded at El Alamein,’ he said, slightly self-consciously, rubbing the top of his leg like a reflex. ‘Some folks think I took a Blighty, but it wasn’t like that. I’d never have dodged my duty by deliberately injuring myself, but it means I can’t go back into active service.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘I wasn’t as young as most of them and it takes that bit longer to heal at my age, you see. Anyway, now I’m up on my feet again I’m going to help Dad out on the allotment, and do a little sideline in vegetables when I can.’

‘Oh, I’m sure that’s a good idea,’ said Violet hurriedly, a little embarrassed to have been caught staring. She couldn’t imagine for one moment that any son of trustworthy old Mr James could have hurt himself on purpose to avoid further action in the war. ‘We can always sell fresh vegetables, can’t we, Ruby?’

Ruby nodded mutely, seeming to have regressed now that there was someone else to do the talking.

Violet remembered why she’d come in the first place. ‘So, Ruby, Spam fritters for your tea tonight?’

Ruby looked at her feet and then appeared to snap out of it. ‘Yes please. Thank you, Violet.’

‘I’ll leave you two to it then,’ said Violet, turning back towards the living quarters, but not before registering the glance that Ruby exchanged with Reggie James. Then she told herself not to be silly. Ruby had hardly any friends, and sometimes could scarcely say hello to people she’d known for years, she was so withdrawn through sheer habit. She would be far too hesitant to make a new friend of an unfamiliar acquaintance. It must just be that she was pleased with the new business arrangement. Ruby liked the numbers to be in order. That could be the only explanation.





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