Читать книгу: «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.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Bertram hurried away with a grunt. He was a kindly man in his sixties, always dapper in his waiter whites, but overworked by Walter.

As the band launched into one of the latest swing tunes, Max pulled his chair closer to Eva’s and began to tell her about himself. He described his parents’ bean farm out in Missouri, his little sister Pam and how she made sure to write to him every week he was away from home. Eva listened, charmed by his warmth and the expressive glint in his eyes. He wasn’t just good-looking, she thought. He was friendly and down-to-earth, too. And there weren’t many men like that about, she thought, instinctively drawn to him.

‘How come you’re in the RAF, then?’ she asked at last, curious. ‘I mean, you’re an American. Why fight for our country?’

‘I flew crop planes back home, so I decided to volunteer.’ His face sobered. ‘My grandfather was born an Englishman, from Surrey, and I could see how unhappy he was about these damn fascists. He wants America to join the war, crush them for good. But while I couldn’t do anything about our foreign policy, I was able to cross the border into Canada and volunteer my services as a pilot. They sent me over to England for training with the RAF, so here I am!’

‘How brave you are. I wish I could do something more useful.’

‘Oh, I’m no braver than anybody else.’ He winked at her. ‘You keep us entertained; I fly a plane.’ When she looked at him closely, wondering whether Max thought less of her for being a dancer, he said more seriously, ‘We all do our bit in our own way.’

Eva smiled. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. But yes, I suppose you’re right.’

‘And it’s fun, in a mad kinda way. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Even the damn air raids.’ Max met her eyes. ‘Being so close to death … It makes you feel more alive, don’t you think?’

She nodded, captivated by his charm. ‘Yes, absolutely.’

While they talked, the other pilots smoked and chatted among themselves, only casting the occasional sideways glance at her tight-fitting stage costume. She didn’t mind the attention though. Most men stared and didn’t care a jot if she saw them. It was nice not to be leered at for a change.

The champagne arrived, and everyone had a little in their glass. Eva knocked hers back without hesitation, and saw Max’s surprised look. Probably not the ladylike thing to do, she thought with sudden chagrin.

Since her mother’s death, she’d been brought up by her father, who was a military officer and often absent or too preoccupied to notice her. Eva loved him dearly, but instilling proper manners in his rebellious daughter had not been high on Daddy’s list of parental duties. And once war had been declared, and her father had been packed off to the back of beyond, somewhere down in Cornwall, she’d barely seen him.

Suddenly, the eerie, all-too-familiar whine of the air-raid siren rose above the swing music. The band stopped playing at once and began to pack away their instruments, and the singer slipped away backstage for her coat.

Once, the band might have carried on playing through the air raid, like the band on the Titanic was reputed to have done when the iceberg famously struck. But there’d been a near-miss the other week, completely demolishing a building a few doors away, and since then Walter had made the decision to call it a night whenever the sirens went off.

Eva jumped up too, straightening her skirt. ‘I’m sorry,’ she told the soldiers with genuine reluctance, for she did not often have a chance to talk to such interesting people, ‘but we have to head to the shelter now. It’s only a few hundred yards down the street. Will you come?’

She managed a smile, but could have screamed with frustration. They had been getting along so nicely. As far as she was concerned, the timing couldn’t have been worse. Drat those German bombers!

Flight Lieutenant Carmichael seemed to share her disappointment. But he was preoccupied, glancing doubtfully at his friends. ‘We should probably report back to base. It’s quite a drive away.’ He got up too, swiftly followed by the others. Around them, everybody was knocking back their drinks and filing towards the front entrance. ‘But I can walk you to the shelter first.’

‘Thank you.’

Outside on the dark London street, people were quickly making their way towards the shelter, some in dressing gowns and slippers, summoned from their beds by the siren. Above them, the night sky was lit up with criss-crossed searchlights and the frequent flash and crack of anti-aircraft guns.

Rather cheekily, Max took her hand as they hurried down the street together. Eva was surprised but decided not to pull away, even though it was a bit of a liberty for a man she had only just met. He had such an irresistible smile, after all.

But before they could reach the underground station where she had spent so many nights before, Eva heard the terrible whistle of a bomb descending.

‘Bomb incoming!’ someone shouted. ‘Run for the shelter!’

The whistle grew louder and louder as it hurtled towards the earth, almost directly overhead.

People started to scream and run all around her.

‘Quick!’ Max pushed her through the churning crowd towards the mouth of the underground station entrance, only a few feet ahead but packed with people. ‘You get to safety, honey.’

Eva protested and tried to turn around, but stumbled on her heels, pushed along by the crowd of hysterical club-goers on every side. She could hardly breathe, she was pressed in so tight. They were nearly there, nearly at the shelter.

Suddenly, she felt herself lifted off her feet as though flying …

Then everything went black.

CHAPTER THREE
Near Porthcurno, South Cornwall, June 1941

Hazel caught a glimpse of her curvy reflection in the small mirror over the mantel, and hurriedly pulled her long dark hair forward to hide the livid scar above her eye. The ugly bruise on her cheek had long since vanished, but the scar remained, an unsightly reminder of her husband’s famously short temper. No amount of face powder could entirely conceal it, though she had applied plenty this morning. But if she set her curls more loosely than usual, and left off her headscarf, it might do to draw the eye away.

She had been thankful when Bertie had left, nearly two months ago now, heading back to his regiment after a mercifully short leave of absence, during which time he had mostly been drunk, though not too drunk to insist on his conjugal rights. She still didn’t know where he was stationed, as he hadn’t been allowed to say where the regiment would be sent next, except to hint that it might be overseas.

Her husband would be back again one day though, unless the enemy finally did for Bertie Baxter. It was wrong even to think it, but some nights Hazel wondered what it would be like to get that telegram and know herself to be a free woman.

Pushing aside such unloving and downright wicked thoughts, Hazel carried the meagre breakfast of one fried egg on buttered toast across to the kitchen table, and put it down with a smile in front of her son.

‘There you go, Charlie,’ she said, doing her best to sound cheerful, though such a small breakfast was hardly enough to keep a strapping young lad going until lunchtime. ‘Get that down you. Then it’s off to school, you hear me?’

Charlie made a face. ‘I don’t want to go to school.’

She sighed, sitting down opposite him and pouring herself a cup of weak tea. She wasn’t hungry this morning, which was a blessing, as there were no more eggs anyway. But if their best layer, Henny Penny, could be persuaded to do her duty for King and Country, that would only be a temporary problem.

Thank goodness for having their own hens! There were folk in the big cities who hadn’t seen a real egg in months …

‘Come on, love, we’ve talked about this.’

Charlie stuck out his chin, only fifteen years old but already every bit as stubborn as his dad. ‘I want a proper job, Mum. All them sums and writing tests. What’s the point of them?’

‘So that you can do better than your dad,’ she replied sharply, then regretted it when she saw unhappiness cloud his eyes. She bit her lip, then leant forward and squeezed his hand. ‘Everyone has to go to school, love. Not much longer, eh? Then we can talk about jobs. Maybe the war will be over soon, and your dad can help you find work.’

‘As a brickie?’ Contempt thickened his voice. ‘No thanks.’

Bertie had been a brickie and a labourer before the war.

‘It’s a living,’ she told him defensively.

‘You call this living? There’s got to be something better than this.’ Charlie shovelled some of his egg into his mouth, then glanced about the small kitchen with its faded cabinets and dusty plasterwork, shaking his head. ‘If you ask me, that’s why Dad signed up so quickly. To get away from … all this.’

She flushed, knowing he had been about to say ‘get away from you,’ and had changed his mind to spare her feelings.

Only a few days ago, during a blazing row about their lack of money, Charlie had demanded to know why she had married his dad in the first place.

‘It’s not like you were in love with him,’ her son had said bitingly.

Hazel had wanted to deny that, but couldn’t.

She and Bertie had married for the oldest of reasons, and the worst too, she often felt.

Bertie Baxter had been a handsome brute as a lad of seventeen, and boldly charming where other boys – like George Cotterill, with whom she’d been good friends since they first started at the village school together – had been shy and tongue-tied. He had turned her head with his unflagging interest, even though her father, then a teacher at the local school, had declared Bertie ‘beneath’ her and forbidden their friendship.

Only just sixteen herself, Hazel had made a mistake in walking out with Bertie, and an even stupider mistake when she gave in to Bertie’s endless wheedling to let him have his way with her.

Her parents had been appalled when she admitted to being several months gone, earning her the strap from her usually mild father.

Bertie had finally agreed to marry her, under pressure from his stern grandfather, who had once been a village smith and was still the size of a barn door. For a while, Hazel had been happy, with a new babe in her arms and a good-looking, hard-working husband to care for. But within a few years her husband had turned sour, perhaps resentful that his easy, carefree days were over, and that was when the drinking had started, and with it the debts they could ill afford to repay.

There had been other women too, of course.

But Hazel, listening to her mother’s advice, had decided to turn a blind eye to these strayings. ‘You’re his wife – he’ll always come back in the end,’ her mum had told her. ‘Least said, soonest mended.’

For once, though, Mum had not been right.

Things between her and Bertie had gone from bad to worse, and a few years back, he had moved from yelling at her in one of his drunken rows to slapping her. The first time it had happened, she had retreated in tearful silence, and Bertie had been shocked and apologetic the next day, promising it would never happen again. But, of course, it had. Often enough for his violent outbursts to have become almost normal.

‘Come on, I’ll walk with you to the crossroads,’ she told her son as he pushed his empty plate away, then unfastened her pinny and hung it up behind the kitchen door. ‘Put your shoes and coat on. Hurry now, or you’ll be late for the bus.’

Hazel took her bicycle from the shed, and wheeled it to the garden gate.

Together, they set off at a walk from the row of cottages for the crossroads, where they usually parted – her son heading for the bus stop a mile further on, and Hazel cycling the rest of the way to work.

Except that today would be different.

She had been offered work at Porthcurno’s Eastern House, where telegraph cables came ashore from America and around the globe, and where something connected with the war effort had been going on for months. It was all supposed to be hush-hush, but everybody in Porthcurno had known something unusual was happening as soon as strangers turned up and began digging into the cliff.

In this tiny Cornish fishing port, nobody could keep a secret for long. Or so it had seemed to Hazel before the outbreak of war in 1939.

Since the war though, something had changed in the very air of the place. For a start, the old communications station had been reorganised early on, with trucks of military personnel arriving in droves, along with fresh-faced trainees from the country’s top universities. Sentry posts and barbed wire fences had gone up first, meaning access to most beaches and cliff paths was impossible, and Ministry of Defence signs had appeared throughout the valley, mysteriously announcing, ‘Strictly No Entry By Order’. All winter, explosives had been laid and tunnels dug into the cliff to house the new equipment and personnel, because it was considered safer underground from an aerial attack. ‘A shortcut to the pub’ had been the official reason given for the sudden excavations, as though the locals would swallow such a tall tale!

But nobody said a word.

Whatever was happening at the old communications station, it was clearly connected to the war, and that meant top secret and not to be discussed.

Still, the idea that this sleepy little village was now a key bombing target for their enemies kept Hazel nervous in her bed at night. And she was not alone in her fears. These days, people went to work with grim faces, and came home tight-lipped.

To an outsider, Porthcurno might seem idyllic. But London – and indeed the whole of Britain – relied on this remote spot on the Cornish coast for the most vital weapon of all in this very modern war.

‘Information,’ she whispered under her breath.

‘Sorry?’ Charlie looked at her quizzically. They had reached the crossroads, where he knelt to retie one of his trailing shoelaces. ‘What did you say, Mum?’

She managed a breezy smile. ‘Nothing, love.’ She kissed her son on the cheek, and nudged him away down the lane towards town. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

‘Have a good day!’ he called back over his shoulder.

Hazel nodded, raising a hand. Only when he had turned away did she allow her smile to falter and slip. She waited until her son was out of sight before getting on her bicycle and cycling slowly towards Porthcurno.

She had not yet discussed her new job with Charlie. The truth was, she was afraid. Afraid of messing up, making a fool of herself, and possibly damaging the war effort. And she was afraid it would be beyond her skills. She had taken on occasional secretarial work for a local attorney once Charlie was old enough to go to school, until Mr Beddowes had retired. But nothing skilled.

Since then, she had done odd jobs here and there, whatever she could get, to make a little extra money towards the housekeeping. Bertie was notoriously mean with his wages, preferring to spend them in the pub or on a card game than hand them over to her. Now that he was away fighting, there were too many nights when the cupboard was bare, and she and Charlie had to dine on bread and cheese, if they had it.

Then last week, after she’d put a note in the local Post Office asking for work, George Cotterill had come to the house after dark, looking like an undertaker in his dark suit and hat, and offered her a job.

‘It’s at the communications station,’ he’d said, rather unnecessarily, for George more or less ran the place. ‘Eastern House. We’re short-handed at the moment, and could do with someone like you.’

Hazel had been amazed. ‘Like me?’

Whatever could he mean?

‘Someone discreet,’ George had said softly. ‘Someone who can keep a secret.’

Hazel had blushed, for she knew what he was referring to.

One time, when they were both teenagers, she and George Cotterill had exchanged an ill-judged kiss after a local wedding. Ill-judged, because he’d been dating her older sister at the time, not because Hazel hadn’t liked him. She had always liked George. But then she and Bertie had started seeing each other, and after that it was too late to go back. Not even when her sister had moved away for work, never to return to Porthcurno.

One kiss, that was all.

But ever since that night, Hazel had averted her gaze whenever she passed George in the street, and had never spoken a word to anyone about that strange, exhilarating moment.

She had accepted the job, no questions asked. They needed the extra money.

But she was worried.

Unlike her, George Cotterill had never married, and she had often lain awake at night wondering how different her life might have been if only …

If only.

Two of the stupidest, most wasteful words in the English language.

‘If ifs and ands were pots and pans,’ her gran used to say, quoting an old saying she loved, ‘there’d be no work for tinkers’ hands.’

She clearly remembered swimming in the River Camel with George and some other kids during the school holidays when they were all about ten years old. George had seemed so clever, telling her how river currents and estuaries worked, while the other boys skimmed stones or splashed about in the shallows, making the girls shriek in horrified delight and run back to the bank.

She had even had a little crush on George around that time, she recalled with a blush. But it had never seemed like the right moment to say anything.

All the same, she hadn’t waited for George to be free when they were teenagers. She had married Bertie instead, and given birth to dear Charlie, the most precious person in the world to her. And she was still married to Bertie, for better or worse.

Those were the only things that mattered now.

She freewheeled for a while, bees buzzing about her in the sunshine. Then she began to climb a steep hill, pedalling hard until she had to get off and walk. In a few minutes, she was within sight of the guardhouse beside the new fence of barbed wire that encircled the valley, keeping locals out.

‘Good morning, Miss.’

She showed her ID card, feeling a little awkward under the curious gaze of the guard, but was allowed through after answering a few questions.

She walked on through the heavily fortified grounds and began the climb up to Eastern House. Once beautifully white, the familiar façade was now camouflaged, draped with green and brown netting to blend into its background. She barely recognised it. And it was so busy. There were soldiers everywhere, more than she had ever seen in one place in her life, smoking in the sunlight, marching to and fro, or shouting coarsely to one another as they unloaded equipment from covered trucks.

Several men paused to stare at her as she passed. One even pushed back his cap and wolf-whistled, giving a loud guffaw when she turned to glare at him. Blessed with a curvaceous figure, she often garnered male attention. But fear of antagonising Bertie had made her wary of even looking sideways at a man, and though her husband was away, she still found it uncomfortable to deal with.

Eventually, she came to the entrance to the new communications station, hidden safe underground behind Eastern House, where the enemy’s bombs could not reach it.

As the hill steepened for the last few hundred yards, Hazel wheeled her bike more slowly, studying the gated fence of barbed wire curiously. She had never been inside Eastern House before or its newly fortified compound.

There was a soldier lolling on the gate, rifle slung over his shoulder, not much older than her Charlie. He straightened, watching as she approached.

Hazel’s nerves worsened.

She didn’t know the soldier and he didn’t look very friendly.

Yet why should he?

Ahead of her, the Atlantic glittered in a long blue swathe stretching as far as the eye could see. Birds sang in the hedgerows, and in the fields butterflies danced among the bright gorse bushes. It seemed impossible in this remote spot, only a short distance from Land’s End, that a careless word could cost the lives of thousands. But she knew it to be true. For if Porthcurno Station was compromised, the information channelled through it every day would be too. Messages between Britain and its allies, for example.

A droning noise made her stop dead.

Both she and the guard looked up at the same time, squinting into the sunshine. A small plane was high overhead, light glinting off metallic wings. As it turned, banking further west, she saw the familiar red, white and blue round insignia of the RAF.

One of ours, she thought, with a quick stab of relief.

‘You can’t come in here,’ the guard said lazily as she reached the gate, eyeing her legs with vague interest. He had a Welsh accent. ‘So off you pop, before you land yourself in hot water.’

Hazel didn’t like the way he was looking at her. ‘I was told to report here this morning,’ she said firmly, secretly wishing she could just turn around and cycle home. But they needed the money. And she certainly wasn’t going to leave before she had seen George Cotterill. Otherwise he would think she had bottled it.

‘Oh aye?’ He lit a cigarette, his manner unhurried. ‘What’s your business, then? Come to mop out the ablutions, is it?’

‘I’m to report directly to Mr Cotterill.’ Hazel spoke with the no-nonsense tone she used with Charlie when he was being difficult, and saw from the way the soldier’s eyes widened that it was having an effect. Either that, or George’s name had been enough to put the fear of God in him. ‘So you’d better let me in straightaway. Or I promise it’ll be you in hot water, not me.’

The young man took a quick puff of his cigarette, studying her more closely, then nodded and unlocked the gate. ‘In that case …’ He gave her an unexpected wink as she walked past him, still pushing her bicycle. ‘Mr Cotterill, eh? Should have said so at the beginning. George has got taste, I’ll give him that.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

But he had already turned away, saluting the men who were emerging from the station entrance. Two were soldiers of senior rank, from the pips on their shoulders, and the third was George Cotterill himself.

George was talking, but stopped when he saw her. ‘Mrs Baxter,’ he said at once, and came forward to greet her. They shook hands awkwardly over the bicycle. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ He hesitated. ‘Look, I’m a little busy right now. But if you leave your bicycle here and head that way, someone will show you to my office. Then we can discuss your duties.’

‘Whatever you say,’ she replied shyly.

George left her and escorted the two soldiers through the gate, where they headed towards a parked vehicle, all talking in low voices.

Catching the young soldier’s eye, Hazel stiffened at his insolent smile and turned away. She propped her bicycle against the wall and headed in the direction George had indicated.

She only had to wait about ten minutes in his private office, standing in front of George’s desk because nobody had told her to sit, before the door opened and he came in, smiling, seeming to fill the space with his tall frame.

‘Hazel,’ he said, then corrected himself with a wry smile, ‘I mean, Mrs Baxter … I’m very pleased you chose to take the job.’

‘Well, it’s good money,’ she said bluntly.

She saw an odd flicker in his eyes, and knew her too-quick response had offended him. But that had to be the way of it. Best George understood from the start that she was not here for him. That what had happened between them as kids was ancient history, and this now … This was purely business.

She was a married woman, after all.

‘Of course,’ he said, as though she had spoken those last words aloud. ‘Your husband came home in the spring, didn’t he?’

‘Just for a few days, on official leave.’ She felt awkward, unwilling to discuss Bertie with him. It felt too much like disloyalty. ‘He’s gone back now,’ she said starkly, and some devil prompted her to add, ‘to do his duty.’

‘Quite right too.’ George sat down behind his desk and gestured her to sit too. ‘If it were up to me, I’d gladly join a regiment and do my bit too. But I suffer from a mild hearing problem, called tinnitus, so they turned me away at the recruiting office. Perforated my eardrum as a boy, you see, and my hearing never really recovered.’ He shuffled some papers on his desk, clearly embarrassed by having to reveal this failing. ‘Luckily, I’m good at paperwork. Organising things. This is the kind of war work I can do.’

Hazel could see that she had nettled him. And she felt guilty. She hadn’t known about his hearing problem.

‘It all counts,’ she said firmly.

‘You’ll be given a uniform. White blouse, buff skirt and matching jacket. It will be your responsibility to keep them in good condition, and make any necessary repairs. You can see Mr Frobisher about that tomorrow; he has the keys to the staff wardrobe.’ He handed across a few sheets of paper. ‘Could you read and sign these? Then pass them back to me. I can’t proceed until that’s done.’

‘Sorry?’ She glanced down at the sheets, confused. ‘Wh-what are these?’

‘You’ve heard of the Official Secrets Act, I suppose?’ When she nodded, George passed her a pen and then sat back in his chair, watching her. ‘That’s what you need to sign if you want to work here. You have to swear never to reveal anything you see, hear, or do at Porthcurno Station, for the rest of your life.’ He paused, holding her startled gaze. ‘Not even to your husband.’