Читать книгу The Cornish Girls - Betty Walker - Страница 6

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?’