A Girls' Guide to Winning the War

by Annie Lyons

Genres: General Fiction; World War II; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Can two young women, and one book, change the course of war . . .?

1940. Whip-smart librarian Peggy Sparks is determined to make sure that her brother Joe returns from the frontline to their London home, which they share with their beloved mother and grandmother. So when she is offered a once-in-a-lifetime job at the heart of the war effort, Peggy jumps at the prospect of making a real contribution to her country.

But when she finds herself working under the fanciful socialite Lady Marigold Cecily, Peggy discovers that those around her are more keen on dancing at the Café de Paris than on ending the war. Writing accounts of her daily life is the only thing keeping Peggy's hopes alive. But when she finds her inner-most thoughts accidentally published by the Ministry of Information, Peggy realises she needs Marigold's help to save her job, and to bring her brother home . . .

From the author of The Air Raid Book Club comes a powerful tale of unexpected friendship, community and two remarkable women who change the course of the war. Full of heart, emotion and drama, it is the perfect uplifting story for fans of Kate Thompson and Natasha Lester.

READERS ADORE ANNIE LYONS' BOOKS:

'So touching and heartwarming. What a beautiful novel this is. And as for that ending . . . get those tissues ready' - Jill Mansell

'A sweet and nourishing ode to books that historical fiction fans will love' - Kate Thompson

'A warm and tender tale about the power and healing of friendship and community and the magic of books' - Ruth Hogan

'A wonderful story of strong female friendship and found family . . . I absolutely adored it' - ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ Real reader review

'Beautiful and moving in a way that we need right now' - ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ Real reader review

'A beautiful depiction of a community striving to survive together' - ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ Real reader review

Release date: July 25, 2024

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 400

Sample

Prologue

London, 1917



‘Got yer nose in another book, ’ave yer?’

Peggy Sparks snapped her gaze up from the storybook dragon and his plume of impressive silver smoke to the bulldog-­faced expression of Sid Kemp, the meanest boy on the street. Panicked, she cast her eyes left and right, searching desperately for Joe. ‘I-­I . . .’

‘I-­I-­I . . .’ mocked Sid in a sing-­song voice, snatching the book from her hands. He peered at the pages with narrow-­eyed suspicion. ‘My dad said only sissies read books.’

‘Please don’t,’ begged Peggy as he carelessly held the volume by one page so that a minuscule tear began to snake from its edge like ice cracking across a frozen pond.

‘Don’t what?’ said the boy, giving the page a shake as the tear became a rip. He eyed her with triumphant glee, holding the torn page in his hand as the book fell to the floor. ‘Oops,’ he said. ‘I broke it.’

Peggy tried her hardest not to cry, but it was impossible today of all days. Her father’s funeral. Her mother had stroked her cheek that morning and told her to be brave. She had managed it, too, as her father’s coffin was carried to the front of the church. She noticed her gran squeeze her mother’s hand tightly and tried to mimic her expression, face fixed forwards, jaw set in fierce defiance whilst others around them sniffled and sobbed. Peggy had held everything inside throughout the service, like a jack-­in-­the-­box, but now she could bear it no longer. Her eyes brimmed with hot tears as she pleaded with Sid. ‘Please. Give me back my book.’

Sid considered the question like a cat casually observing a skittering mouse whose tail was trapped beneath its cruel paw. He sighed. ‘I don’t think so. I think I might rip another page,’ he said, picking up the book. ‘In fact, I might rip them all out, and you know the best part?’ Peggy shook her head forlornly. Sid grinned with malevolence. ‘You won’t stop me. And no one else will neither.’

‘I will,’ said a voice.

They both turned to see Peggy’s twin brother, Joe, standing in the doorway, with her best friend, Florence, beside him. Sid adopted a bored expression. ‘Oh, here we go. Peggy the bookworm’s stupid brother and stupid friend come to rescue her.’

‘Give her back the book, Sid,’ said Joe.

‘Yeah, Sid,’ said Flo. ‘Give it back.’

‘Meh meh. Meh meh meh,’ mimicked Sid, pulling a face at Flo.

‘Don’t do that,’ said Joe, taking a step forwards.

Sid sighed and raised himself to his full, not-­inconsiderable height. ‘Or what?’

‘Or I’ll knock your block off.’

Sid squared up to Joe now. He was five years older and a good foot taller than him, with fists the size of meat pies. ‘I’d like to see you try,’ he said, shoving his challenger hard in the chest. Joe reeled backwards. Sid pulled a face. ‘You couldn’t knock down a daisy in the wind. You Sparks lot are all weak. Your sister’s a cry baby and your dad got his head blown off in France—’

It took Peggy a second to realise that the sharp crack was the sound of Sid’s nose breaking as Joe delivered a deft blow squarely to the centre of the bully’s face. Flo screamed, but more from delight, which in turn brought Peggy and Joe’s grandmother, Emily, charging through the door. ‘What the blue blazes is going on?’ she demanded.

‘Sid was picking on Peggy and said horrible things about Mr Sparks, God rest his soul,’ said Flo, crossing herself.

‘Is that right?’ said Emily, narrowing her eyes. Sid clutched a bloodied handkerchief to his wounded nose and stared up at her in terror. He may not have feared many people, but everyone was scared of Emily Marsh. She reached forwards and grabbed him by the ear. ‘Let’s see what your mother has to say, shall we, Sidney Kemp?’ she said, ignoring his piglet-­squeal protests. ‘Your father was a wrong ’un and it would seem that you are too.’ She glanced back at Joe. ‘Look after your sister, there’s a good lad.’

After she’d gone, Joe and Flo knelt either side of a sobbing Peggy. ‘It’s all right, Peg,’ said Joe, handing her back the book. ‘We can fix it.’

Peggy dabbed her eyes with the freshly pressed handkerchief her mother had given her that morning. ‘I’m not really crying about that. I’m thinking about Dad.’

Joe put an arm around her shoulder. ‘I miss him too, but you know what?’

‘What?’

‘You don’t need to worry because I’ll always be here to look after you.’

She gazed up at him, eyes saucer-­wide. ‘Always?’

‘Of course. I’m not going anywhere.’

Peggy linked her arms first with Joe and then with Flo. ‘We’ll always be together. Us three,’ she said. ‘And you two can get married and I’ll be auntie to all the children.’

Florence and Joe grinned at one another. ‘Now, come on, Peg,’ said Joe, pulling the book on to her lap. ‘Read this story to us. You know how the words go all blurry for me, but you always make them come alive.’

‘Yeah, go on, Peg,’ said Flo, snuggling beside her. ‘Is this the one about the dragon who doesn’t want to fight?’

Peggy nodded. ‘He loves making up poetry and is a very kind and gentle dragon.’

‘Read that bit where the boy takes St George to meet the dragon again, Peg,’ said Joe. ‘It’s so funny. I love the way the dragon talks.’

Peggy smiled as she leafed through the pages, smoothing the book open so they could see the pictures. As she began to read, she thought of her father, of how he used to read to her and Joe, and how much she missed him, but she also knew that as long as she had her books and her brother, everything would be all right.

Chapter 1

London, 1940



‘Got yer nose in another book, ’ave yer?’

Peggy Sparks looked up from the page in front of her into the disapproving face of Elsie Cooper, who had just boarded the busy morning train and was making a beeline for her. Peggy had known Mrs Cooper all her life and couldn’t remember ever seeing her smile or laugh, or do anything except look perpetually disappointed with the world.

‘As nosey as a crow, that one,’ her grandmother would remark whenever she noticed Mrs Cooper’s net curtains twitch, ‘and as sour as a bag of sherbet lemons.’

‘Oh, come now, Mum,’ Peggy’s mother would say with gentle admonishment. ‘She lost both her sons in the Great War. You know how that knocks a person.’

Emily folded her arms. ‘You lost your husband in the Great War, Alice. I don’t see you walking about the place with a face like a wet weekend in Clacton. I’ve known Elsie Cooper since she was a nipper. She’s always been a sourpuss.’

‘Perhaps, but it’s important to love your neighbour,’ said Alice. ‘She and Mr Cooper must be very lonely in that house without the boys.’

‘I don’t think Ted Cooper’s lonely. He’s always in the pub.’

‘Mum!’

Emily shrugged. ‘It’s true. It may be important to love your neighbour, but it’s also important to tell the truth,’ she said, winking at her granddaughter.

 

Peggy closed her book. ‘Good morning, Mrs Cooper.’

‘Not sure you can call it good,’ she said, sitting down beside Peggy and looking out towards the bedsheet-­festooned washing lines in the back gardens of the neat, terraced houses they were passing. ‘This weather’s playing havoc with my rheumatism. Where are you off to then?’

Peggy cast her gaze around at their fellow passengers. The carriage was packed with stern-­faced older men in hats and unsmiling younger women mostly of around Peggy’s age, all busy minding their own business. ‘I start my new job today. At the Ministry.’

‘Ooh, yes,’ said Mrs Cooper, eyes sparkling. ‘I heard about that.’ Peggy’s grandmother’s voice rang loud and clear in her head. Listening in on the party line, no doubt. ‘Your mother’s very proud of you and your dear brother Joe, away with his tank regiment. And now you’ll be working for the government. You’ll be having tea with Churchill soon, no doubt.’

Peggy smiled. ‘I just hope I’ll be good enough for them.’

Mrs Cooper patted her hand. ‘They wouldn’t have asked you to do the job if they didn’t think you were capable, dear.’

Peggy hoped she was right, remembering the day she’d found out about the position. She hadn’t been home long after her shift at the local library when the front door opened and there was a familiar skittering of paws as Badger, the family’s teddy-bear-­faced terrier, shot down the hall.

‘Get that kettle on, will yer, Peg?’ called her grandmother from the doorway. ‘Two hours in the ration queue gives you a thirst.’

‘Right-­o,’ replied Peg, seizing the kettle from the range.

‘Hello, dear,’ said her mother, appearing in the kitchen with Emily close on her heels, each carrying a large wicker basket.

‘How did you get on?’ asked Peggy, leaning over to kiss her mother.

‘All the usuals, but your mother came up trumps,’ said Emily.

‘Three herrings for ninepence,’ confirmed Alice proudly.

‘Well done, Mum,’ said Peggy, smiling at them both. She dearly missed her father and longed for her brother’s return, but in their absence, Peggy basked in the presence of these two women.

Emily Marsh had been as constant as the night sky in Peggy’s life. She had been too young to recall the tiny cottage where her grandmother had lived with her grandfather, Charlie, and a blind, three-­legged dog called Silver, but she could picture it from her mother’s description: ‘Spick and span, warm as toast and full of the smell of baking.’ The day after Charlie died, Emily had packed up her things and arrived on their doorstep with Silver in tow. To his credit, Peggy’s father had welcomed them both with open arms. Emily had always been able to make him laugh, and they had a common bond in that they both adored Alice. Emily was stubborn, opinionated and made the best Victoria sponge Peggy had ever tasted. Alice Sparks, on the other hand, was a gentle soul. Peggy always suspected that Emily offered enough opinions for both of them, but this didn’t mean her mother lacked grit. She had received a widow’s pension but it was barely enough to make ends meet. She worked by day at the greengrocer’s in town and by evening at the local White Bear pub, whilst Emily cared for Peggy and her brother. Certain people muttered about the propriety of a lone woman working in a pub full of men, but if they ever uttered it in Emily’s earshot, they never dared again. The family had little to show for their efforts, but Peggy couldn’t imagine a happier childhood.

‘Mr Harris reckons they’ll be rationing tea next. And then we’ll definitely lose the bloomin’ war,’ declared Emily as they unpacked their baskets.

‘Don’t say that, Mum,’ scolded Alice.

‘Sorry, dear,’ said Emily, looking mildly chastened. ‘The poor man had to count over seven thousand coupons last week. Said his fingers were red raw by the end of it.’

‘Where are Flo and Nancy?’ asked Peggy. ‘I thought they’d be home by now.’

‘Gone to the park after school. Trying to wear the littlun out. She’s got more energy than a box of frogs,’ said Emily.

‘Flo does look tired,’ said Peggy.

‘She’s about to drop at any second,’ said Emily. ‘I give it a week before that baby makes an appearance. Unless it’s a boy. Then he’ll be late. Boys are lazy.’

‘At least yesterday’s letter from Joe put a bit of colour in her cheeks,’ said Alice.

‘I’m not surprised she’s tired,’ said Emily. ‘That nipper doesn’t stop talking. Question after question. It’s never-­ending. All those ideas and opinions.’

‘I wonder where she gets it from,’ said Alice, firing a knowing look at Peggy. Emily huffed but without much vigour.

Peggy smiled. ‘Shall I pour the tea?’

‘Please, and let’s have three of those raspberry buns I made,’ said Emily, plonking herself in her sage-­green armchair and putting her feet up on the rose-­coloured footstool.

Her tea-­making was interrupted by a rapid succession of barks as Badger leapt up and scampered out into the hall at the sound of three purposeful raps on the door knocker.

‘Saints preserve us!’ cried Emily, as the dog’s persistent barks gave way to growls. ‘You’d think Hitler himself was at the door. See who it is, would you, please, Peggy dear?’

‘On my way.’

Peggy dragged the reluctant dog back to the kitchen before opening the door to be greeted by a tall, debonair man sporting a neatly trimmed moustache and a Savile Row suit. ‘Sir James. This is a surprise,’ she said, glimpsing the sleek black chauffeur-­driven car behind him.

He lifted his homburg hat in greeting. ‘Good afternoon, Peggy.’

Peggy had been seven years old when she first met James Miles. He was the officer in charge of her father’s regiment and had been deeply affected by the fact that many of his men didn’t return from the Great War whilst he survived. He had assumed something of a guardian angel role within these families. Peggy could remember trips to the zoo and holidays in Clacton all paid for by this benevolent man. Now in his sixties, he had lost nothing of his charm or influence. He held a senior position in government but never divulged exactly what he did. Peggy relished this air of mystery. He was like a character from a John Buchan novel.

‘Well, if it isn’t the Lord of the Manor himself,’ declared Emily, appearing behind Peggy, closely followed by Alice with Badger on her heels.

‘Always a pleasure to see you, Mrs Marsh, Mrs Sparks,’ he said, his moustache twitching with amusement. The dog stopped in its tracks as the man held out his hand in greeting. ‘Hello Badger, old boy,’ he said and was promptly rewarded with feverish licks and tail wags. He straightened up, smoothed his emerald silk tie and smiled at them all, resting his gaze on Alice. ‘Pardon the intrusion, but I wondered if I might have a word with Peggy?’

‘Of course,’ said Alice. ‘Come through. Peggy was just making tea. You’ll have a cup?’

‘That would be most agreeable. Thank you.’ He followed them through to the kitchen. ‘How are you, Mrs Marsh?’ he asked, as Emily settled back in her armchair, regarding him with a critical eye.

‘When’s this war going to be over then, young man?’ she demanded.

‘Mrs Marsh, you know I always enjoy my visits. You make me feel twenty years younger than I am.’

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘Mum,’ warned Alice. ‘Sir James is our guest. Could we at least have our tea before you start your interrogation?’

‘He enjoys it. Don’t you, dear?’

‘I do. When you spend your day dealing with the double-­talk of politics, it’s extremely refreshing.’

‘You be sure to let Churchill know I’m waiting for his call,’ said Emily.

Peggy held out a cup and saucer to Sir James. ‘Milk, one sugar.’

‘I’m touched that you remember. Thank you.’

‘Raspberry bun?’

He glanced at Emily. ‘Made by your fair hand?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then I accept with gratitude. My wife has me on some terrible eating scheme at the moment. She has seized upon rationing as a way of weaning me off all sweet treats.’

Emily snorted. ‘Ridiculous.’

Sir James accepted the plate, holding the cake under his nose and inhaling its sugary scent. ‘I couldn’t agree more, dear lady. Now. To business. If it’s not too indelicate of me, Peggy, may I ask how old you are?’

‘Twenty-­nine.’

‘And still working at the library?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Sir James gave a nod of approval. ‘Our esteemed leader always asserts that books have the means to carry civil­isation triumphantly forwards, and I’m inclined to agree with him.’

‘Are you going to start dropping copies of the King James Bible on Hitler’s noggin, then?’ snorted Emily.

‘Mum. Please,’ said Alice, taking a sip of tea. ‘Sorry, Sir James. You were saying?’

He turned to Peggy. ‘And you’re still writing your Mass Observation diaries?’

‘Yes, she bloomin’ well is,’ said Emily. ‘Makes me nervous every time I see her writing in that notebook. I don’t want every Tom, Dick and Harry knowing my business.’

Alice turned to her. ‘Mum, we’ve talked about this. Peg, explain it to your gran again.’

Peggy smiled. ‘They’re accounts of what ordinary people like us think and feel, Gran. It was started as an experiment by three Cambridge students and means that our voices are heard.’

‘Hmm, well. Maybe it’s not so bad when you put it like that,’ said Emily.

Peggy turned to Sir James. ‘But how did you know about my writing, sir?’ she asked.

‘Your diaries have come to the attention of the powers that be at the Ministry of Information. They think you might be a welcome addition to the staff.’

Peggy and Alice stared at him in astonishment. ‘Our Peggy working for the Ministry of Busybodies?’ said Emily, folding her arms.

‘I can assure you, dear lady, that the Ministry has been established with the most laudable of aims.’

‘Like telling us working people what to do all the time.’

Sir James looked amused. ‘I’m sure the authorities would never presume to tell Mrs Emily Marsh what to do.’

‘It’d be a brave man who tried,’ muttered Alice into her teacup.

‘Cheek,’ said Emily.

‘So, Peggy, what do you think? You don’t have to decide now.’

Peggy glanced at her mother who raised her eyebrows in encouragement. ‘Well, I’m not sure. I enjoy working at the library. I don’t know if I’d fit in a place like that. I don’t know anything about the government.’

‘It acts separately from the government and really deals with the flow of information to the public. Your job would be working in the Publications department where all the books and pamphlets are produced. It’s not been established for long, but I have high hopes for the impact it could have on the war effort.’

‘Really?’ said Peggy, her mind diverting immediately to thoughts of Joe and anything that could be done to bring him home sooner.

Sir James nodded. ‘Never underestimate the power of words, Peggy. Although I know I don’t need to tell you that, given the power of the words you produce. Why don’t you give it some thought, talk it over with your mother and grandmother and let me know.’

‘All right. Thank you, sir.’

‘Jolly good,’ said Sir James, taking a bite of his bun. He closed his eyes for a moment before exclaiming, ‘It’s as if a thousand angels are dancing a sweet jig on my tongue. Exquisite, Mrs Marsh.’

Emily fixed him with a look. ‘And now, tell me when this war’s going to be over so that my grandson can come home. There’s a baby about to be born who needs a father.’

 

It had taken the birth of the baby, Charles Reginald Sparks, or Charlie as he would forever be known, to confirm to Peggy that she had to accept Sir James’s offer. He arrived the day before his father came home on leave, entering the world without a wail or a whimper. In fact, the midwife was so concerned by his casual indifference to being born that she gave him a firm pat on the back, resulting in a plaintive wailing, which was only calmed when he was reunited with his mother. As soon as Joe arrived home, he rushed upstairs to find Florence sitting up in bed with Charlie in her arms and Nancy by her side. Peggy, Alice and Emily followed behind.

‘Daddy!’ cried Nancy, leaping into his arms.

‘Hello, sweet pea,’ he said, kissing the top of her head before leaning over to embrace his wife and stroke his son’s downy hair. ‘Well done, my love,’ he whispered.

‘Would you like to hold him?’ she asked.

‘More than anything.’ Flo passed the bundle to Joe with tender care and he perched on the bed. Nancy put an arm around her father’s shoulder and planted a kiss on his cheek. ‘What do you think of your new brother then, Nance?’ he asked.

‘I like the way he smells.’ She threw a wide-­eyed look towards Florence. ‘Most of the time.’ Everyone laughed.

Peggy stood arm in arm with her mother and grandmother, watching the new family with a mixture of soaring joy and plunging sorrow. She saw the way Joe looked at his son, how he encouraged Nancy to trace a gentle finger along his soft cheek, how he curled his arm around Flo, blanketing them all with love.

She had telephoned Sir James that very afternoon. ‘I’ve made up my mind, sir. About the job. If you’ll still have me. I’d like to accept your offer, please.’

She could hear the delight in his voice. ‘I’m very glad you’ve decided to accept, Peggy. I think you’ll be splendid.’

I’m going to be more than that, thought Peggy, her body pulsing with secret determination. I’m going to help bring an end to this war. There’ll be no children left without fathers in my family this time round.

‘Peggy. Peggy.’ Peggy blinked back to the present and the frowning face of Mrs Cooper. ‘Dearie me, you were in a proper brown study there. We’re here.’

‘Oh. Sorry, Mrs Cooper,’ she said, rising to her feet and following her and the rest of the crowd as they dispersed across the concourse, its ceiling hung with Union Jack flags, its walls with posters insisting that ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives’.

‘Well, goodbye and good luck, dear,’ said Mrs Cooper, waving over her shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

‘Bye,’ said Peggy. After the quiet routine of Edenham library, London seemed so vibrant and alive that she had no choice but to keep walking.

Sir James had assured Peggy that she wouldn’t be able to miss Senate House where the Ministry was housed. ‘It’s a huge, ugly brute of a building,’ he’d said. As it appeared before her half an hour later, a towering incongruity beside the Bloomsbury grandeur, she realised he was right. The forbidding stone and brick structure was certainly awe-­inspiring. It loomed above Peggy as she approached, reaching hundreds of feet into the sky. The small grey windows which studded the outside did little to soften its appearance.

A serious-­looking man with bushy eyebrows emerged from the front gate whistling to himself. He touched his hat when he saw Peggy. ‘Like an art deco prison, isn’t it?’ he said, glancing up towards the Union Jack flag fluttering half-­heartedly on top of the building. ‘The architect, Holden his name was, wanted to blend the modern with the classical.’ The man shook his head. ‘It’s like asking Glenn Miller to play Mozart.’ Peggy wasn’t sure how to answer. The man didn’t seem to require her input as he sighed. ‘Dreadful waste of Portland stone.’

‘Excuse me, but do you work here?’

The man looked at her. ‘I did, but I have recently been relieved of my duties.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ he said, studying her face. ‘First day, is it?’

Peggy felt her cheeks burn. ‘Yes. Do you know where I should go?’

‘If I were you I’d turn round and go back to where you came from.’ He gave a barking laugh before glancing towards a sentry box by the front door. ‘Jarvis, could you show this young woman where she should go? The poor thing has a job here.’

A uniformed man with greying hair and kindly eyes emerged from the box. ‘Certainly, Mr Greene. It’s this way, miss.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ said Peggy.

‘Good luck,’ called the man over his shoulder.

Peggy glanced back at him before following Jarvis. ‘Excuse me,’ she asked, ‘but that man. Was it . . .?’

‘Graham Greene,’ said Jarvis. ‘The very same. Terrific writer.’

‘Goodness,’ said Peggy, her heart thumping in her ears. She knew the Ministry of Information was the workplace of several famous writers but hadn’t reckoned on one of the authors of the books she stacked on the library’s shelves greeting her on her first day.

Peggy followed Jarvis into the entrance hall, which reminded her of a Roman temple leading to a gladiatorial arena where no doubt the lions would be released at any moment to devour her. ‘It’s just through there, miss.’

‘Thank you,’ said Peggy, feeling in her coat pocket for the letter her gran had given her the night before, willing it to give her the courage she needed to walk through the doors.

 

February 1940

Dear Peg,

I asked Gran to give this to you for your first day as I can’t be there in person to wish you luck. Hopefully they’ll put us on a slow boat to China after our training, drifting away from the fighting. You know me. I’ll do my duty but I’m a bit like the reluctant dragon from that book you used to read to Flo and me. I’d rather not fight. Not that I can say that aloud these days. England expects and all that. Saying goodbye to you all was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I still picture Nancy’s sad face every night when I close my eyes and I’ve got the picture she drew of us all in my jacket pocket. I’ll take it out from time to time for courage. I don’t know what lies ahead and maybe it’s better not to think about it. Maybe it’s better to just get on with it like Gran would. I’m scared though, Peg. I know I can admit this to you. I want to make you all proud and I want you to know how proud I am of you. You’re clever, Peg. Cleverer than all of us put together. Like I told you when we went for that walk with Badger and Nance before I left, you’re wasted working at the library. You’ve got to grab your chance. I know you’ll show those blokes at the Ministry a thing or two. I was tickled pink when you said you’re going to make it your job to get me home again. The thought of that will keep me going. Knowing that my sister is fighting for me while I’m fighting for her. Write and tell me about it soon. I promise to write as often as I can and be as honest as I can in my letters like you told me to. I’ll always sign off with we’ll meet again because then I know we will.

Love, Joe

Chapter 2

 



As Peggy stepped into the echoing marble hall, she did her best to display more confidence than she felt, breathing deeply in an attempt to slow her thumping heart. Luckily, the buzzing throng of suited men and smart young women paid her no notice. They were too intent on hurrying towards the grand stone staircase or disappearing into lifts. Peggy couldn’t imagine ever walking these corridors with such purpose. She approached the wide marble reception desk where a woman, who was at least five years younger than Peggy, regarded her with an icy expression.

‘Yes?’

Peggy heard her grandmother’s voice very loud and very clear in her head. She’s no better than she ought to be. Peggy swallowed her nerves and spoke with similar clarity and volume, her words resounding around the hollow chamber. ‘My name is Peggy Sparks and it’s my first day working in the Publications department.’

‘All right, there’s no need to shout,’ said the receptionist, throwing a glance towards another woman beside her, who snorted with laughter.

It’s like being back at school, thought Peggy. It’s Sid Kemp and his like all over again, except there’s no Joe to fight my battles any more. ‘Sorry,’ she said more quietly, hoping that her cheeks weren’t as flushed as they felt. ‘Here’s my letter of introduction.’

The woman snatched the document from Peggy, lifting her eyebrows slightly when she spotted Sir James Miles as the signatory. She plucked her telephon. . .