Bessie's War

by Pamela Evans

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

A moving and nostalgic saga from Pam Evans, set in London during wartime. Perfect for readers of Katie Flynn, Kitty Neale and Dilly Court.

It is autumn 1940 and, as the bombs rain down on London, a close-knit community struggles to survive.

Working at the local post office, Bessie Green does her best to keep her customers' spirits up, but when she receives a telegram addressed to her parents, there's nothing she can do to prevent the heartache that lies ahead.

Then Bessie hears that eleven-year-old Daisy Mason has been orphaned in a blast, and she's sure that taking Daisy into their home is just what her parents need to help them overcome their grief. At first, Daisy won't settle, then her handsome brother Josh comes back on leave and things look up for all of them. But the war brings further challenges for Bessie and her friends - with more hearts broken and loved-ones lost - before they can dare to dream of a brighter future...

Readers love Pam Evans heartwarming family sagas:

'A touching novel' Daily Express

'An unforgettable tale of life during the war' Our Time

'Nostalgia, heartbreak, danger and war: all the ingredients of an engrossing novel' Bolton News

'There's a special kind of warmth that shines through the characters' Lancashire Evening Post

'This book touched me very, very much. It's lovely' North Wales Chronicle

(P)2020 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: June 11, 2020

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 336

Sample

One morning in the autumn of 1940, a group of women were waiting outside Oakdene Post Office when counter clerk Bessie Green arrived for work with her colleague Joyce, whom she’d met on the way.

‘Well, I didn’t expect to see you lot here so bright and early this morning after the terrible night we’ve had,’ said Bessie.

‘Me neither,’ added Joyce.

‘I thought you’d have had a lie-in to recover from the awful bombing,’ remarked eighteen-year-old Bessie to the assembly of regular customers at the post office in a parade of shops in a side street of Hammersmith in West London.

‘With the old man and the family to make breakfast for? Don’t make me laugh,’ said Annie, a middle-aged woman with metal curlers sprouting from the front of her headscarf. As well as looking after a grown-up family, she also worked as a bus conductress and liked her hair to look smart for work, which meant the regular use of ironware.

‘We’re not free to lie in like you young girls are,’ added Winnie, another mother of a large brood who was well wrapped up in a red knitted hat and scarf. ‘We’ve our families to look after and we have to get up to make their breakfast.’

‘My family flew the nest long ago, but I still get up to make breakfast for my old man,’ said their friend Grace, a pensioner who had come out of retirement to help with the war effort and had a job in the nearby Co-op grocery store. ‘But, oh dear, what a truly shocking night that was. I thought it would never end.’

‘One of the worst we’ve had so far, I reckon, and we’ve had some real shockers just lately,’ agreed Winnie, a tall woman with a kind heart and plenty to say for herself. ‘But there were bombs raining down one after the other for most of the night, weren’t there?’

‘I certainly didn’t think any of us would be ’ere this morning,’ said Annie, who enjoyed her job on the buses and thanked the war for making it possible for her to go out to work. Her husband would never have allowed it before for fear it would have damaged his status as breadwinner. Now it was seen as the patriotic thing to do so they were both happy, especially as there was extra money coming in. ‘I still feel a little bit shaky now.’

‘It made mincemeat of my nerves and all,’ said Ada, who was in her seventies and a widow. The loneliness of her solitary state had been very much reduced by her job as a dinner lady at the school. She was needed there because so many women preferred to work in the war factories where the wages were high.

‘But here we all are again to tell the tale,’ said Annie. ‘During the course of every single air raid, I think my luck will run out but I’m still around the next morning.’

‘And long may it continue,’ said Winnie.

‘Not half,’ echoed Ada.

There was general agreement and more talk about the bombing that had lasted for most of the night. After such an ordeal, Bessie found it comforting to be out of the house and among such a friendly group of people and guessed that the others felt the same. Even though they had become used to the bombing, it was beyond frightening to be confined to the air raid shelter and under fire for such a long period of time, even with the family for company and everyone trying so hard to make the best of it.

‘Come on then, girls, get this post office up and running,’ urged Edna, a large, lively woman of advanced years who lived in a nearby block of flats and had a big family of grown-up children and grandchildren living nearby. ‘I’ve got a lot to do this morning and I want some postal orders to send to my grandkids, who have been evacuated to the country. Poor little mites. As a family, we made the decision to send ’em away to keep them safe, but it’s breaking our hearts having them so far from home. We miss ’em something awful.’

‘Yeah, I can understand that,’ said Annie.

‘You did the right thing, though, love. They’re safer where they are while these terrible raids are going on,’ said Winnie. ‘I know it’s hard for you and your family, but at least the kids stand more chance of staying alive there than here in London. We owe that to the youngsters who have their lives ahead of them. Our grandkids went away on the school evacuation scheme. The whole family were miserable about it, but we felt we had to do it. I’ll never forget seeing ’em off on the train with all the other kids. I thought my heart would break.’

‘You definitely made the right decision, no doubt about it,’ added counter assistant Joyce, a redhead in her forties. She was one of the many women who had recently returned to work after a good few years as a housewife. Female workers were urgently needed to fill the vacancies left by the men away at the war. Many women had headed for the services and the high wages to be earned in the war factories. Some had trained for traditionally male trades such as welding and engineering, leaving plenty of shop jobs available. As terrible as the war was, it had opened up some interesting employment opportunities for women.

‘The kids are probably having a whale of a time, truth be told,’ suggested Bessie. ‘All that fresh air and open space will do them the world of good. I bet there’ll be plenty of larking about.’

‘Ours are very homesick, according to their letters,’ said Edna, looking worried.

‘Ah, bless ’em. Well, that’s only natural at first, I should think,’ said Bessie, hoping to reassure although, as she was only eighteen and single, she had no personal experience of such things. ‘But I’m sure they’ll be all right when they get used to it, especially as there are no bombs there.’

‘The kids may very well be all right,’ said Edna, who had warm brown eyes and dark hair mostly hidden under a woollen headscarf, ‘but their family won’t be until they’re back where they belong, at home with us. We miss ’em something awful and we’re going down to Dorset to bring ’em back as soon as the bombing eases up, war or no war. We ain’t waiting for the victory parade. It could be years away.’

‘I don’t blame you, luv,’ said Winnie. ‘We can’t wait to have ours home either. The place seems dead without them.’

‘Not half,’ agreed Edna.

‘Can you open up, girls, please?’ asked Mary, whose own children were grown up. She worked as a cashier at the butchers in the same parade. ‘It must be time by now.’

‘Still a few minutes to go,’ said Joyce, who had a cheerful disposition and was married with one son, Jack. He was nineteen and worked at the post office sorting depot, having failed the medical for military service, which he saw as a personal failure. After many years at home as a housewife, Joyce thoroughly enjoyed going out to work and was good at the job. ‘The boss never opens for business until the dot of nine.’

‘Tell him to let us wait inside then,’ requested Annie. ‘It’s bloomin’ nippy out here.’

Bessie and Joyce exchanged glances because the senior clerk, Mr Simms, wasn’t the sort of man you gave orders to. He was the boss around here and he never let anyone forget it, albeit in his own quiet, rather surly way. He wasn’t a local man; he lived in South London and took no interest whatsoever in the people or events of this area even though it was where he earned his living. ‘All right, follow us,’ said Bessie as she tapped on the door to be let in.

Mr Simms’s brow furrowed slightly when the women trooped in, but he made no comment, probably because it was almost opening time anyway. Once inside, everyone had something more to say about their night in the shelter and there was speculation about where the bombs had actually landed. The current nocturnal bombing of London, generally known as The Blitz, had been relentless since September.

‘Apparently, the East End is getting it a lot worse than us because of the docks,’ Winnie mentioned.

‘Yeah, the poor things,’ came a response from Edna. ‘I heard it’s been terrible over there.’

‘But knowing that someone else is taking more of a hammering than you don’t really help when you’re hunched up in the air raid shelter expecting to meet your maker at any minute, does it?’ said Winnie.

There was overall agreement then the conversation became general as Bessie and Joyce went behind the counter and through to the staffroom, took off their coats and tidied themselves before taking their positions beside Mr Simms. This busy post office was a popular meeting place for the locals, who were all on friendly terms.

Bessie thoroughly enjoyed the camaraderie. She had been brought up around here so knew a lot of the customers quite well. An attractive and intelligent brunette with large dark eyes and a ready smile, she found it easy to get along with people so was well suited to the job. The occasional customer could be a bit snooty and impatient towards anyone the other side of the counter, but they were few in this working-class area and Bessie took it in her stride. Her sunny nature made her popular with the clientele.

Her first customer of the day was Mabel, a talkative regular in full flow. Bessie could almost feel the disapproving glare of the man sitting beside her as she responded to Mabel’s chatter. Mr Simms, the chief clerk, rarely let them forget that he was in charge. A tall, upright man in his late fifties with thinning silver hair and watchful grey eyes behind his spectacles, he didn’t have much to say, but could make his feelings known with the slightest change of expression. He rarely smiled and never at the staff. An occasional stiff grin to a customer was about the limit of his communication. Naturally he wasn’t popular with the locals and Bessie got the impression that that was the way he liked it because he wanted to keep to himself. He was the most unsociable person she had ever met.

‘So, what can I get for you, Mabel?’ asked Bessie through the protective metal mesh near the edge of the counter.

‘Sorry for holding you up with all the nattering, love,’ she said, smiling and not looking particularly apologetic. ‘I can’t seem to stop yapping lately. Must be these bloomin’ awful air raids. They play havoc with my nerves and I talk to calm myself down.’

‘That’s all right, my dear,’ said Bessie kindly. ‘We all enjoy a chat, especially in these dangerous times.’ She knew she had to speed things up with Mr Simms breathing down her neck. ‘So, what can I get for you this morning?’ she asked again.

‘Three one shilling postal orders and some stamps, please.’

‘Certainly.’

Bessie completed the purchase and worked her way through the queue, dealing with a diverse array of business including postage stamps, registered letters, pension collection, a wireless licence and National Savings stamps.

‘I would appreciate it, both of you,’ began Mr Simms, frowning at his two underlings when the queue had cleared and they had a few quiet moments on their own, ‘if you could be less chatty with the customers. All this gossiping holds things up.’

‘But being friendly to the customers is part of the job, surely,’ suggested Joyce.

‘And it’s always them who start chatting to us,’ added Bessie. ‘We just respond. It’s the polite thing to do.’

‘Then you should discourage them,’ he said sternly. ‘It slows everything down and people in the queue are kept waiting longer than necessary. We are in charge of this post office, not the customers.’

‘This is a community post office, Mr Simms, and without the customers it wouldn’t exist,’ Bessie reminded him, in a polite but firm manner. ‘People come here in the hope of seeing their neighbours, especially after the night we’ve just had. They need company in these terrible times. We all do.’

‘Even so . . .’

‘If it’s too dismal in here they can easily go to one of the other post offices in the area,’ she pointed out.

‘This is a place of business and should be treated as such by the staff to set an example,’ he went on. ‘By all means let the customers have a chat if they feel they must, but keep it brief and don’t let it slow you down. You are here to serve, not socialise. As you are both very well aware, we have to maintain a certain amount of business going through this office to justify its existence.’

‘We more than meet our targets,’ Bessie reminded him. ‘You told us that the other week.’

‘And we always work while we’re talking,’ added Joyce, respecting the fact that he was her boss even though she didn’t agree with him and couldn’t bear the man, who made it abundantly clear that the feeling was mutual. ‘But we can try giving the customers the silent treatment if you want to lose their custom.’

‘We wouldn’t lose their custom because we are very convenient for them.’

‘This is a busy part of London and there are several post offices not too far away,’ Bessie reminded him.

‘All right, be friendly but within limits. Keep it professional and cut down on the gossip,’ he persisted.

‘We’ll try, Mr Simms,’ said Bessie, and Joyce muttered a half-hearted agreement.

But when a customer came in a few minutes later in floods of tears because she had just heard that a relative had been killed in last night’s air raid, Bessie couldn’t help but offer her heartfelt sympathy and allowed the woman to unburden herself. She’d have given her a cup of tea and a shoulder to cry on if she hadn’t known it would probably send Mr Simms over the edge.

‘Poor soul,’ said Joyce when the distressed customer had left, still quite tearful.

‘Yeah. It’s terrible how people are suffering,’ agreed Bessie with feeling. ‘It really gets to me.’

‘Me too,’ said Joyce.

One of their regulars, Maisie, was looking gloomy as she took her turn at the counter.

‘Air raids getting you down, Maisie?’ asked Bessie. ‘You don’t look your usual cheerful self.’

‘I’m not,’ said Maisie, who was a pale woman in her thirties with straggly fair hair and a worried look about her. ‘But it has nothing to do with the bombing.’

‘Oh, what’s the matter then?’

‘I’m in the family way again and I’m not happy about it,’ she said. ‘Not happy at all. I’ve got four lively boys and that’s quite enough for any woman.’

‘Oh dear,’ sympathised Bessie. ‘Perhaps you’ll be pleased when you get more used to the idea.’

‘I expect I will and I’ll love it when it comes, of course,’ she said. ‘But I was looking forward to a bit of freedom. I was even going to look for a job when my youngest starts school in the spring. No bloomin’ chance of that now.’

‘Is your husband pleased?’

‘He doesn’t know yet. It happened on his last leave and he’s away again now. In the army. But he’ll be thrilled to bits when he gets my letter. He loves kids and would like a houseful, but he doesn’t have to give birth and stay at home to look after them, does he?’ she said. ‘Not to mention the flamin’ morning sickness I’m plagued with at the moment.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Bessie sympathetically.

‘Don’t get me wrong, I love my boys to bits and I’d give my life for any one of ’em. But I didn’t want any more children because I think four is quite enough for us,’ she said.

Bessie nodded politely.

‘It’s my husband’s fault,’ Maisie went on. ‘He doesn’t like taking precautions and I think that is plain selfish. I keep telling him we’re not living in the dark ages now. Well I’m gonna make sure he’s more careful after this one, I can tell you that.’

‘Quite right too,’ approved Annie. ‘You could end up with a ruddy football team.’

‘There is one thing that would make me happy about this pregnancy, though,’ Maisie mentioned.

‘What’s that?’ Annie enquired.

‘If I was having a girl,’ she said pensively. ‘I really would love a daughter. But you can bet your life it’ll be another boy. That’s all I seem able to produce.’

‘It might be different this time,’ said Bessie hopefully. ‘And we’ll all be keeping our fingers crossed for you.’

‘Thanks, love,’ said Maisie. ‘I feel a bit better now I’ve told you lot about it. This post office has a soothing effect.’

‘I’m glad,’ said Bessie with a warm feeling inside. They must be doing something right. Birth, death, pregnancy, sadness, joy and everything in between; it was all discussed here. She had yet to experience many of the things the women talked about; the trials and tribulations of marriage and motherhood mostly, but she took an interest to be polite and because she was fond of them.

‘Morning all,’ said Stan, one of the local postmen, a tall man in his forties with beer-brown eyes and a ready smile. ‘I’m just checking that you’re all still here after the night we had.’

‘All present and correct,’ replied Bessie, but she knew his main concern would be Joyce, whom he obviously had a soft spot for.

‘Nice of you to think of us,’ said Joyce, smiling at him in that special way she had when she spoke to him.

Stan had been a widower for several years and his children were grown up. He was well known and popular in the area with his easy-going charm and dry sense of humour. Not bad looking either for a mature man and his job delivering the post kept him in good shape as he walked miles every day. Past the age for the services, he did a lot of voluntary work for the war effort in his spare time. He and Joyce were very friendly and indulged in a lot of banter, but Bessie assumed it was all just in good fun because Joyce was married and she wasn’t the type to play around.

‘I’ve always got my friends at Oakdene in mind,’ he was saying, giving her a friendly look as he replied to her.

‘Ah, that’s nice to know,’ she responded.

‘Glad that you’re pleased, Joyce,’ he said, smiling so warmly at her that if Bessie didn’t know better she might have thought they were more than just friends.

‘Anything good on the wireless tonight, Mum?’ asked Bessie of her mother, Doris, over dinner that evening.

‘Yeah, there’s a variety show on later which might be worth a listen,’ she replied. ‘There’s bound to be a comedian on the bill and we could do with a good laugh.’

‘We’ll probably be down in the shelter so we’ll miss it,’ said Bessie’s brother Tom, who was eleven, nearly twelve. ‘The siren’s bound to have gone off by then.’

‘Ooh, hark at you, being so cheerful,’ said Bessie in a jokey sort of manner.

‘I’m only saying what’s true,’ said Tom, at an age to be tall, long limbed and cheeky, but often in a comical way because he was a warm-hearted boy despite his tendency to lark around. He had blue eyes and a mop of fair, floppy hair that was usually untidy. ‘It’ll probably start wailing any minute now.’

‘Let’s hope we have a break from it tonight,’ said Bessie’s father, Percy, a man of stocky build with brown, receding hair. ‘I’m on ARP duty so I’ll have to leave you again. In fact, it’s time I was off so I’d better get a move on and be on my way.’

‘On duty again?’ said Doris with an air of disapproval. ‘You do much more than your share.’

‘I have to at the moment, love, because there aren’t enough volunteers,’ said Percy, who belonged to the Air Raid Patrol and was out on the streets most nights in all conditions after a long day in his regular job as an engineer in a factory.

‘It’s time you had a night off,’ said Doris, protective of her man.

‘When the raids ease off a bit I’ll stay at home more,’ he said, ‘and that’s a promise.’

‘I wish I was old enough to join up,’ said Tom.

‘Your turn will come soon enough,’ said his mother. ‘And you’ll have to go in the full-time army.’

‘I know and I can’t wait, but the war will be over by then so I’ll miss all the action,’ said the boy, sounding regretful.

‘I bloomin’ well hope so too,’ said his mother. ‘I’ve got two sons away fighting, I don’t want all three of you at it.’

‘I wonder how Frank and Joe are getting on,’ said Tom, referring to his older brothers.

‘All right, I very much hope,’ said Doris. ‘We haven’t heard from either of them for a while so I hope nothing has happened to them.’

‘I don’t suppose they often get the chance to write letters, but I expect we’ll hear from them soon,’ said Bessie with her usual optimism. ‘They’ll be thinking of us, that’s for sure.’

‘Yeah. ’Course they will,’ said Doris.

The conversation was interrupted by the air raid siren so the family quickly finished eating and made their way to the shelt. . .